ohjoelmiller

[ohjoelmiller]

breathe, hold, release (pt. 2)

joel miller x f!pilates instructor reader 

part one here

summary: joel comes to fix the sink and you both finally stop avoiding what's between you.

tags: mdni (18+ only), no outbreak au, no use of y/n, reader is afab/able bodied, has long hair, no other physical descriptors, age gap (joel is 40, reader is 28), catch the mr. darcy reference, kind of a slow burn bc i love tension, dom!joel, praise kink, fingering, mirror activities, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, unprotected piv (be smart), slight voyeurism ig?, creampie (reader is on bc cause i’m nasty), joel is a freak in this omg, please DO NOT attempt sex on a reformer, if anything is missing pls let me know!

word count: way too fuckin long 10.3k 

a/n: first of all, thank you SO much to the response to part one. it warmed my little heart that so many people enjoyed it. i hope this makes up for the long wait! thank you to my three pookies (@naiadonis, @tmpestuous, & @imaginesbymonika) for beta'ing and feeding my delusions. this will be the last part but i would love to write some drabbles for these two, so please send in requests if you have any! also, i'm on twitter! come say hi :) enjoy ♡

Your mornings always started the same: shades up, door open, music low. The soft hum of downtown Austin stretched itself awake in time with you, the city exhaling with the same slow rhythm you followed to start your day. Even the most mediocre sleep melted away when you clasped your hands together and pressed them toward the ceiling, arching your back, breath spilling from deep in your abdomen. 

You weren’t a Texas native – that much had been obvious the second you stepped on the plane. Southern drawls of varying intensities filling your ears, the heat coating your skin with a wrathful flair. California still lingered at the edges of your thoughts, sun-warmed pavement and salt in your hair. You’d built a life there; mornings guiding people through movement, regulars who felt like old friends, a humble studio tucked between your favorite bagel place and a long-abandoned repair shop.

You’d memorized the ebbs and flows of that neighborhood like the back of your hand. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. And for a while, it felt like enough. But comfort has a funny way of turning stale the moment you let your guard down. In the middle of all that comfort, a crack had started to form – subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

The breakup didn’t knock the wind out of you – it eroded you slowly. You and him lived parallel lives for months before either of you said anything; passing the coffee creamer, taking turns with laundry, showing up to mutual plans like clockwork. He wasn’t cruel, just tired in a way that made everything feel like effort, including you. Eventually you stopped trying, learned to keep your heart tucked behind a smile. It was safer.

When it ended, it wasn’t explosive. It was practical, like canceling a subscription. You moved out quietly, took on more classes at the studio, pretended you were unbothered. Clinging to your routine made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t fall apart.  But the spark was already dimming, and maybe deep down you’d known it was time for something new long before you let yourself admit it. A couple of months passed in a blur. You picked up more classes, then lost them. By the time the text came in, you were already half-unraveling.

It came through late at night, and you had stared at the blinking cursor of a blank calendar where you’d been drafting next month’s schedule far too long. Of course. Your studio’s owner, who’d always joked that she’d die with a foam roller in her hand, announced that she was retiring with her family. The space sold faster than you thought possible, and within a week, the foundation you’d built everything on was gone. You tried to patch things up with rec rooms, park sessions under swaying palms, but the roots had already loosened.

When Nia called from Austin, practically buzzing through the phone with excitement, the last of your resistance crumbled. Unlike you, Nia had discovered her need to get the hell out of dodge much earlier. She’d always been more adventurous, brave enough to step foot in a new place and carve a spot for her regardless of anyone’s opinion about it. You’d met in training years ago, the kind of instant bond that felt more like a reunion than an introduction. 

She’d caught wind of a space opening downtown, and somehow decided you were the perfect person to take it over. At first, you dismissed it. You’d never been one for cowboy boots or country music, and the thought of leaving everything familiar behind made your chest ache. The more you sat with it, the emptiness of your space, the fading glimmer of your routine, the exhaustion – her offer sounded less like risk and more like possibility. 

So, you said yes. You packed up your life, let go of the familiarity, and tried your best to embrace the unknown. You said goodbye to the Pacific, but most of all to the version of you who thought she'd never leave. You started again from scratch; introduced yourself to strangers, tried to find your new normal, and smiled so much your cheeks hurt. For the first month or so, the smiles were fake. You spent your days rebuilding what you’d lost, piece by piece, and your nights wondering if you’d made a mistake.

But soon enough the days stopped feeling so foreign, and all the things from home that you thought were irreplaceable began to lose their appeal. You built up rapport with new clients, had a new favorite lunch spot, and the barista a few doors down memorized your name and regular order. Week after week, familiar faces returned to the studio, fulfilling your purpose. Your first classes of the day were usually quiet, made up of older clients who enjoyed waking up hours before the sun. They liked your calm and the way it seemed like you were a morning person just like them. You knew who was rehabbing a bad hip, who didn’t like too much tension, who needed extra encouragement. 

It wasn’t about doing a hundred perfect reps or getting people’s stomachs as flat as possible. It was about watching someone walk taller after six weeks, saying they’ve never felt stronger. About a woman thanking you because her back didn’t hurt for the first time in years. That mattered to you, it always had. That’s why you’d started teaching, to show the ways movement could soften even the hardest parts of someone’s day. Pilates was precise, yes, but it was also gentle in a way the world often wasn’t. You’d had students cry during classes before. You never asked why – just helped them breathe through it.

Saturday mornings became your favorite. You weren’t held to the five a.m classes like you were on weekdays, accommodating teachers and early risers who started their day in the quiet of the studio. Saturdays moved slower, giving you time to relish in each stretch, each song, each thought. You had time to sip your coffee between check-ins, time to let your voice warm into the room instead of launching straight into the rhythm of cues and counts. 

Then, you met Joel. 

Met was a generous word – you were more so acquainted with him. His jaw tight, hands stuffed into his pockets nearly the entire first interaction. Clearly he’d be more at ease with those boots in dirt rather than on the pristine tile. You’d thought, at first, he was just being a dad – maybe irritated he had to wake up on his day off to drive her, maybe just tired. 

You greet him the way you greet everyone, with warmth that borders on effortless. It’s second nature by now, this instinct to disarm. You lead with brightness, offer softness in your tone, a joke curled lightly at the edge of your mouth. And it usually works. You’d encountered your share of prickly people around Austin, but most of them put on a performance: a polite smile or a stilted joke. Everyone yielded to it eventually. 

But not him.

Not when you beam at his daughter. Not when you hand him the clipboard with the sunflower pen that you’d made during your lunch break yesterday. What you get is a squint and a dry, unimpressed “Really?” Like you’d just offered him a glittering child’s toy instead of a waiver. He doesn’t play the part, doesn’t pretend to be someone easier to be around. His face is unreadable in a way that feels unintentional – like he’s so accustomed to his indifference that it’s not even spiteful anymore. 

You try – gently, playfully to pull something out of him. A smirk. A single syllable of amusement. Anything. You laugh, easy and unbothered. “I know. But everyone seems to like them.”

Still nothing. His shoulders stay locked in place, pen aggressive on the page like the words themselves are offensive. His handwriting is slanted and uneven, rushed like he can’t get out of there fast enough. 

Sarah is the complete opposite, it seems.

She’s light – bright-eyed, curious, open in a way that feels rare in teenagers these days and even rarer in the people who raise them. You take to her instantly, eased by the amiability in her voice, the bounce in her step. You can’’t help but wonder where it comes from – because it’s certainly not him. You follow the movement of his hands, rugged and large. 

No ring.

You shouldn’t be curious, but you are.

You take the clipboard back, eyes scanning to the bottom of the page. “Thanks… Joel,” you say, softening the syllables like you might smooth over rough fabric. He grunts in response, a low, noncommittal sound. You get the sense he’s not used to taking people up on kindness. Like it costs him something. You invite him to stay, watching him struggle to look for a response. For a moment you think he’s going to say something. 

He doesn’t.

You feel his eyes on you the entire class. At first, you tried to explain it. Maybe he was zoning out like other parents did, counting down the minutes until they could beat the traffic back to their neighborhoods. But Joel wasn’t checking his phone repeatedly, wasn’t tapping his foot, didn’t look around. He just… watched. Not an ambient glance or idle observation. It was intentional. Trying not to notice was futile. You were trained to read bodies; breath patterns, posture, hesitation. And you see all of it in Joel. 

The restraint that lived in the corners of his mouth, the divet between his brows each time you moved. You catch the way his jaw locks and releases when your spine curves, the faint twitch of muscle beneath his cheekbone as your voice dips into instruction. The way his hands, broad and calloused, strained and flexed against his knees like he was holding something back.

It took a lot to throw you off balance, but the autopilot you’d relied on all these years began to short-circuit. You roll your shoulders back a little straighter, suddenly being extra mindful of your posture, paranoid that you’ll trip over a mat, or hit the carriage against the board with too much strength. The weight of his stare clings to you like humidity, slick and unrelenting. It prickles at your neck, curls low in your belly. You keep moving, voice steady, but inside, everything is fraying. 

You blink, adjust a client’s foot bar and try to refocus, fighting the urge to look over. Just once, that’s all you needed. Just a second to confirm if you were making it all up. You were not new to attention. You’ve been watched before, admired even. But this was something else entirely. Joel watches you like he’s trying not to break. Like there’s some quiet part of him that doesn’t believe he deserves to look, but can’t help it anyway.

You’re pulled from the fantasy as you check on each student, moving down the line until you get to Sarah. With your fingers on her ankles you guide her through, encouraging her as she starts to get the hang of it. She looks towards the bench, a hopefulness in her eyes that makes you melt. You follow her gaze instinctively – and see how Joel’s expression softens the moment their eyes meet. Pride blooms across his face and tugs at something in you, and you have to push down the guilt that starts to creep up your throat. 

You don’t mean to look directly at him, you just wanted a glance. A peek into his true nature, not the barricade he’d placed around him. His head turns before you think it will, and you both seem to go rigid. The right thing would be to turn around, check on someone else – anything. But you’re held there.

His eyes move over you with slow precision, and you welcome it. They seem to be mapping your body, the slope of your throat, the line of your shoulders. While he inspects you, your head is fueled with images of him taking you apart with his hands. You wonder what he sounds like when he groans, what his mouth would feel like against your skin. Wonder how many times he’d make you come before showing mercy, or would he? Would he be as merciless as he looks, ruining you and apologizing for none of it? 

You let him see that you see it; let him feel your curiosity inch toward want. Let him know you’re not innocent to it. You blink slowly and pull yourself away like it hurts. You turn your attention back to the class and pretend that he didn’t just strip you bare with a single look.

With each passing Saturday, the two of you moved in a quiet orbit. It stayed innocent enough for your guilt to dissolve under layers of niceties and easy chatter. Joel never volunteered much information, but the little he gave felt like something hard-won. Over time, you both softened. A brush of your fingers against the firm curve of his bicep. Smiles that lingered in the space between you, unhurried and a bit too long. But Joel never crossed the line, and neither did you. 

Some days, you wondered if you'd imagined that first flash of heat. A byproduct of a lonely year, a new city, a fresh start. But then he'd show up again, every Saturday, planted on that bench watching you and Sarah. Sarah. She slipped into your life like she’d always belonged there. There’s a quick intelligence behind her humor, a deep-rooted enthusiasm for life you definitely didn’t have at her age. You take to her immediately, starting to look forward to seeing her just as much as seeing Joel. 

You didn’t ask her to help around the studio, she just started doing it. She’s unfiltered in the best way, and underneath all of it, achingly sincere. She asks questions about your day, offers commentary that makes you laugh from the gut, and more than once, makes jokes about her dad being single. 

Today was no different. The 11:30 class wrapped right on schedule, and Sarah darted to the back to fold towels, unprompted. Joel waited at the front, leaning casually against the desk, ready to talk to you. Today the exchange between you, once cushioned civility, stretched into something charged. You saw it in the way his smile faltered, like he'd strayed too close to a thought he wasn’t supposed to have. In the drawl of his voice, the dry wit, the way his eyes dipped to your mouth and quickly back. You pushed a little further, let your words flirt with implication, and watched the color rise in his face.

“And here I thought you were sitting in here cause you liked the view.” 

He hesitates and you see the moment the mask slips. You let the silence stretch, not to punish him, but to watch him squirm beneath the weight of his honesty. There’s something tender about the way he tries to walk it back, like a man afraid of his own shadow. He offers a stammering apology, but you give him a way out with a smile. Make it clear he hadn’t misread you. His name tastes good in your mouth. 

When he pivots to the sink in the men’s room and offers to take a look, you catch the flicker of something behind his eyes. It’s cute, the way he tries to pass it off as nonchalant. Like it’s not a thinly veiled excuse to stay close – and you say yes.

Not just because the sink needs fixing, but because the thought of him here on a Monday, with no Sarah and no audience, pulls something tight in your chest. Sarah clocks the shift immediately, the shared glance and unpulled string taut between you and her father. Her smirk is sharp and knowing as you offer her a pin, a feeble attempt at distracting her. Joel groans like it physically pains him to be perceived and you know there’s no avoiding it anymore. After that, Joel barely meets your eye. He stumbles over a “See you Monday,” and follows Sarah to the door. 

Your heart thuds with something warm and bright that you haven’t felt since California. You exhale slowly. The studio falls quiet again, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning.

The thing you’d been tiptoeing around was no longer unknown. It had a name now – Monday. 

The air is thick with the beginnings of Austin heat when you step outside of the coffee shop, keys jingling between your fingers and you grasp onto two, not one, cups this time. In your left, the usual overly-sweet latté that you made no exceptions for, and in your right – hot, no cream or sugar. Just bitter and bold. It was a hunch, but Joel didn’t seem like the type to ask for his cup to be drizzled with caramel sauce and topped with sweetened cream. Weeks of him sitting in your studio, gruff and unreadable informed your guess. The barista, knowing your usual, couldn’t help herself as she asked if it was for a special someone. You’d laughed as if it was silly, but it wasn’t. 

The way your body anticipated waking up kept you from getting any meaningful sleep. That, and the fact you’d spent a couple hours imagining Joel’s voice in your head; gravel-worn and measured, your fingers easing yourself open. It was scary how easily you’d pictured it. His weight on top of you, the ache in the pit of your stomach, his lips forming the filthy things you wanted to hear him say once he let go of whatever had him wound up so tightly. There was too much of him beneath your skin.

The door to the studio groaned as you pushed it open with your shoulder, and you set the drinks down on the front desk with care. You busied yourself next, giving your hands something to do until Joel showed up, if he even did. Maybe you had been too forward and scared him away. Maybe he was being polite, appeasing your ego so as not to embarrass you in front of his daughter. 

The soft jingle of the bell sends a jolt through your body and you emerge from the back with too much excitement in your limbs, smoothing your beige tank top like it mattered. Joel stood just inside the door, a heavy tool bag hanging from one hand, the other raking through his hair in that nervous, unconscious way he did when he didn’t know what to say. You had picked up on that, too. 

“Mornin’,” he says, his voice low, roughened with what you assumed was sleep. You looked at him and every line looked the same, but it felt… warped. Like a song you knew well played a few keys too low, breath baited while you tried to figure out what was off. 

“Good morning,” you replied, offering a soft smile.”You’re right on time, that’s good for business.”

He gives a small nod in response. Not unfriendly, but definitely distant. No trace of the quiet fondness you’d seen Saturday. No lingering look, no hush of amusement curling up at the corner of his mouth. Odd, you think. Still, you press on and gesture toward the front desk, the coffee waiting there.

“I got you something, no cream or sugar. I took a gamble,” your fingers grasp the cup and you extend it out to him. His eyes flick to the drink, then to you. There’s a beat of hesitation before he steps forward, his fingers brushing against yours to take the offering. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, unreadable.

You shrugged, smile unwavering as you try to keep it light.

“I know. Dinner might need a little more planning,” you reply, half a shrug rolling through your shoulder. That earned you something. His mouth twitches slightly, almost a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s better than nothing. 

Joel shifts his weight to his other leg and jerks his chin towards the back. “I should get started, get outta your hair.” 

Your heart sinks into your stomach, but you nod without protest. He doesn’t wait for you to follow, or respond. Just turns and walks down the hallway like it made him ill to be in your presence. You swallow hard, the anticipation you’d felt all day yesterday subsiding. It felt more like dread now – your worst fears starting to be confirmed. You take a deep breath and let your head fall back, willing away the stress building with little accomplishment. 

Unwilling to let the distance, physical or otherwise, settle too thickly between you, you follow him a few moments later. He’s already crouched by the sink, sleeves pushed up and wrapped around his elbows a bit too tight, not that you were complaining. His tool bag lay open at his side, the cup of coffee sitting to the left of the faucet. He doesn’t look up when you settle in the doorway, just keeps fidgeting with the knobs and studying the sluggish flow. You try not to let your disappointment come through your voice. 

“So, gotta toss the whole thing out or can it be saved?” You ask, trying to get a peek at whatever it was he was doing. 

“Pipe’s just backed up with debris. Gotta pull it apart, clean the whole thing out.”

You don’t respond, caught up in watching his hands reach for whatever tool he was looking for. Joel sits back on his heels and starts unscrewing the pipe beneath the basin with a practiced ease. The muscles in his forearms flex with each turn, veins taut beneath sun-warmed skin, and you can’t help but follow the motion, mesmerized by the quiet focus. His knees brace on the tiled floor as he leans in closer, the worn cotton of his shirt pulling taut across his back. You can hear the faint grunt of exertion as he loosens something stubborn, followed by the hollow clatter of old water draining through rusted metal. 

Joel grunts something under his breath, more to himself than to you, and reaches for a cloth, wiping his hands absently before adjusting the trap. He’s all concentration; jaw set and brows drawn. Despite the task in front of him, he knows you’re watching. He can feel it. 

“Don’t know how anything was getting through this,” he says without looking up. He dives into an explanation of what was keeping the drain moving so slow, but your brain is turning to mush the longer you stare. You hum in acknowledgment, but the words barely register. All you can think about is the way his fingers move, capable and deliberate. 

Joel finally glances up at you, but you’re unaware. His eyes linger, still no smile on his lips as he tracks your gaze down. He clears his throat and your eyes snap up, like a camera flash freezing you in the act of wanting.

There’s no teasing in his expression – no smug lift of his mouth or arch of his brow. Just… quiet. You try to speak, some flimsy defense, a redirect. But your throat is dry, your mouth clumsy with words you don’t trust yourself to say aloud. Suddenly you realize how he must have felt on Saturday. He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing as if trying to make sense of it. Of you. Then his head is shaking and he turns back to his work, but his hands aren’t as steady now. 

“Just here to fix the sink,” he mutters. It sounds like a rehearsed mantra he’d created to keep himself in line. 

“What?” you say softly, watching his brows furrow. 

“You’re not makin’ this easy,” he says louder this time. You exhale slowly. 

“Did I –” The words stick for a moment, and you try again. “Was I too forward? If I made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.” 

He shakes his head, slow and almost imperceptible. “No, it ain’t that.” For a moment, it seems like that’s all he’ll give you. He sets the wrench down with a quiet clink. "Thought if I kept my head down, didn’t look too long, it’d go away."

You blink, caught off guard by his honesty. “I didn’t mean to push,” you say quietly, unsure whether you’re trying to reassure him or justify yourself.

“You didn’t, it was easier to pretend I was just passin’ time staring at you from that bench,” The words weren’t bitter, but they weren’t easy, either. They landed with the weight of confession, like he hated admitting it almost as much as he needed you to hear it. 

“Sarah knew, can’t keep shit from her. Knew the very first day when I shelled out that money like that.” His thumb twitches on the edge of the counter, a small sign of Saturday Joel, the one who did let himself look too long, who smiled when you caught on.

Joel takes a breath and keeps fiddling with the sink. “And now, I’m here fixin’ a sink for a woman I can’t stop thinking about, trying not to say somethin’ I’ll regret.” 

The words fold into the stillness between you. You don’t move, don’t breathe either, it felt like. You’re not sure how much time passes before Joel pushes to his feet, still not meeting your eyes. You wish he’d just look at you, give you any indication as to where this was going. 

Joel turns his back to you and twists the faucet open, letting the water rush against his palms as he washes his hands. His focus stays on the steady stream, testing the pressure and checking his handiwork. Anything to avoid looking at you too soon. The running water stops and he stays there, both palms braced on either side of the sink. Then, he straightens, his shoulders rolling back as he turns to face you. When he does, there’s no mask left. His eyes have softened, and you’re standing face to face with the Joel you’d become fascinated with. His hands settle on his hips and he looks at you expectantly. 

“So tell me what you want me to do. ‘Cause I can’t keep standin’ in front of you like this if it’s not gonna mean something.” 

You don’t answer right away. Your throat is tight, heart knocking against your ribs like it’s trying to get free, and the air between you has taken on a weight you don’t know how to carry. But you feel the shift – the choice he’s making, the seemingly timid and hesitant version of him long gone. You’re yelling at yourself to say something, to not throw away the fact he’s willing to present himself so openly to you.

You blink at him, pulse thrumming like a struck wire. “I don’t…you can do whatever you want.”

He shakes his head, not in dismissal, but refusal. Refusal to let you duck behind hesitation like you’d both been doing the last month. He needed a clear answer. Your weight shifts to your other leg as you take a shaky breath, stepping closer with quiet bravery. 

Your voice cracks a little when it comes. “I want you, Joel. But I don’t want you to regret it.” 

No flourish, just fact. 

He exhales hard, like you knocked the wind out of him. “No way in hell I’d regret this,” his voice dips lower. “But there’s no going back after this, no more pretending. You okay with that?” He lifts a hand and lets his fingers brush your jaw, slow and tentative, like he's still restraining himself. 

You were trembling, not visibly, but deep inside – where his words struck chords you’d kept hidden. Where all your what-ifs and daydreams had lived quietly until now.

You meet his eyes without flinching, and you nod.

His thumb grazes your cheekbone, then he leans in, and you can feel your heartbeat throb between your legs. When he kisses you it’s not rushed. His mouth meets yours, warm and sure, a slow press of lips that steals the air from your lungs. 

He pulls back just an inch, his forehead pressing against yours. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint.

You don’t. You can’t. You shake your head, small and certain. “I don’t.”

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and his palm presses to cradle the small of your back. You arch into him, realizing the room feels too small now. His body crowds yours as you feel him take a step forward, trying to guide you out of the bathroom. 

Joel pulls back just enough to speak before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick. “Not here.”

You both stumble a little in your own urgency, breathless as he leads you through the hallway into the open space. Your legs bump against one of the machines, but he never wavers. You get a bit paranoid, wanting to peek and make sure you were, in fact, alone. You wouldn’t survive something interrupting this. One part of the studio is cast in gold from the completed sunrise pouring through the window, the rest of the blinds pulled down. The cold from the mirror’s glass meets your back, sharp and startling – but Joel is there, warm and inviting.

Joel’s hands slide up under your tank top, the compressive material molding to your body. You feel his thumbs dig into your hips as he pulls away. Your eyes are closed as you relish in the fact you now know what he tastes like, a tinge of bitterness mixed in. You take it you were right about the coffee. 

“Take this off f’me,” he requests.

“Gonna need help,” you laugh softly, no time wasted as you move to pull it up, the stubborn fabric unforgiving in your haste. 

“Relax, baby,” Joel steadies your hands, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time all morning. You huff and shake your head, heat rising to your face. You let him take the lead and lift your arms up, momentarily blind as he pulls it up over your head. Joel tries not to stare, but like every time before, he fails. His touch grows more confident, more consuming. You feel it in the way his lips press in a pattern over your neck, the way his fingers deliberately press through your leggings right where you’re aching for him.

“These off too,” he mumbles, already peeling away at your matching leggings. He’d imagined taking these little outfits off of you so many times, and he wanted to take his time, but god he’d been waiting for what felt like years. 

Your breath hitches as he traces his fingertips over your back, body shuddering from the chills he left behind. The fact he’s still completely clothed doesn’t escape you, but a part of you likes that. The fact he’s here, in your space, staking his claim and undressing you. 

“Joel, wait –” You interrupt him, his eyes flickering up at you in confusion. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks, about to stand back up and help you with your clothes. 

You lick your lips, hyper-aware of your heart pounding. A few seconds of silence pass before you’re shaking your head. “No,” you whisper, “I just… I want to see you too.”

That earns a pause.

Joel’s gaze softens, something tight in his expression releasing as his hands still at the curve of your hips. He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. 

“Yeah?” he asks, voice warm. You nod again. 

You reach for him as he moves, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt. The fabric drags up over rigid muscle and sun-kissed skin. Your eyes rake over him – the strength in his chest and arms, the scattered scars, the way his shoulders stiffen with your eager eyes drinking him up. 

You press your palms to his bare chest and feel his heart kick. Then, he takes your wrists and turns you towards the mirror, hovering behind you. His hands trail down your sides, thumbs tracing the skin just beneath your ribs before they settle on your hips. You try not to squirm when you feel his hand dip lower. One is running down the length of your back, the other nestling between your legs. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing small circles as your body tenses. He feels it, and glances up at you like he knows you’re in your head. 

You hear your name and look at him through the mirror, lips parted in awe that he was touching you. “I’ve got you, okay? Just relax,” he tells you again. His voice is rough, breath warm against the back of your neck. The rough denim of his jeans scratches against your bare skin when he ruts into you, and you feel all of him – even through the thick fabric. You’re unprepared when you feel his fingers circle your entrance before they’re slipping in up to his knuckles, slow and brushing over every ridge. You gasp and dig your palms into the wooden barre. 

“Look how fuckin’ beautiful you are,” he murmurs behind you, his hand steady at your hip.

His words aren’t lost on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look; can’t watch the way your mouth parts with every stuttering breath as he works you open after months of being touch starved. You squeeze your eyes shut and dip your chin down, flustered, but he notices.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, the hand at your hip shifting to your jaw, moving your chin back up to center. “Let me see that pretty face, wanna see you feel it.”

It’s not a demand – it’s a plea. Joel thinks he should slow down, ease up and let you process what’s happening. But you’d stirred something in him that he thought had gone dormant for the foreseeable future, and he just couldn’t get enough of you. 

A noise of protest sounds from your lips but you listen anyway, looking at yourself and taking in your already disheveled appearance. Then, you look at Joel. Your eyes meet again, and despite his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, he looks back at you with a tenderness you’ve never received. 

“Fuck, Joel –” you whimper, hips rocking helplessly against his fingers. “Feels so good…” Your hips stutter, back arching as you start to match the push and pull of his fingers. Each stroke is measured, not hurried, like he’s trying to memorize how you come undone. 

He feels your pussy clench around his fingers and groans, unable to stop thinking about how much he wishes it was his cock. But this was about you, not him. He listens for every catch in your throat, every tiny twitch of your hips, adjusting his touch like he’s tuning an instrument.

And God, do you feel it – the dragging weight of his fingers as they bury inside you. The nights chasing this feeling felt ridiculous, your own fingers no match for his. Your grip falters on the barre as he moves with unshakable focus. Not a single part of you feels untouched; not with his breath ghosting over your ear, his hand buried between your legs like he belongs there. 

Your thighs clench and Joel can feel it before you say anything, the sound of your moans like music to his ears. Two thick fingers stay buried inside you, curling with maddening precision. They move just right, pressing into the soft spot so deep in your pussy it makes your whole body lurch forward. He tightens his grip on you and chuckles in realization. 

“Shit – there, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself, and the pads of his fingers rub slow, earnest circles against that soft spot inside you while his thumb finds your clit again. He watches you unravel in the mirror, lips parted, skin flushed, straining toward every stroke. 

Your breath stutters when he curls his fingers again, his name leaving your lips like a prayer. “You’re crazy,” you say with a weak laugh, and Joel shakes his head in amusement. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “‘Cause of you.” His fingers go impossibly deeper, like he’s carving his name into you. The mirror captures everything: your parted lips, the desperate crease in your brow, the flushed skin blooming over your chest. His hand never falters, fingers relentless now, faster, messier, wetter – until you cry out, your whole body seizing against him.

Your knees buckle but he’s already there, holding you up as your orgasm rolls through you, wave after wave. Your walls clench around his fingers, and he groans into your skin, biting down gently as if to anchor himself through it.

“Attagirl,” he growls, helping you through the end of it, slower now. “Jesus, baby. Feel so fuckin’ good, makin’ a mess all over my hand.” You sag in his arms, panting, skin damp and shining in the low studio light. Joel doesn’t let go, holding you to his chest.

You’re in a haze, acutely aware of Joel guiding you to sit on the nearest reformer slowly, letting you catch your breath. The carriage shifts under your weight, none of the springs keeping it steady, making you brace yourself on the frame. Immediately, his brow knits.

“How the hell d’you keep this thing from moving?” he mumbles, frowning down at the machine like it’s insulted you.

You let out a faint, dizzy laugh. “You’ve gotta put the springs on, all of them keep it pretty still,” you explain.

Carefully, he reaches under the carriage, fingers brushing over the cold metal until they find the spring hooks. One by one, he pulls them forward with quiet effort, securing them into place until the carriage holds steady. 

“What about you?” you ask, reaching out to latch your fingers into the top of his jeans, wanting to return the favor. Before your hands make any progress, he catches your wrist firmly.

“I’m okay, don’t need that from you, sweetheart.” Joel shakes his head once, his eyes scan over your body like he’s already thinking about what to do with it next. You open your mouth to insist, but the moment falters when he interrupts you.

“Lie down for me.” 

You blink at him, still swimming in the aftershocks. “What?”

He says it again, more pointed this time. “Lie back, on the machine, baby.” 

There’s no edge in his voice – just heat, thick and steady, anchored by the quiet rasp of someone who’s holding back far more than he’s letting on. His palm slides to your lower back, coaxing you down gently until your spine meets the carriage. He moves then, straddling the machine and pausing when it groans under his weight. 

“This thing gonna hold me?” he asks, and you roll your eyes. 

“It’ll hold,” you reassure him. He hums skeptically, but settles down anyway, his back to the footbar. You watch him adjust, and it wrecks you a little. Because you’re not sure when this stopped being about flirting, or power, or just the thrill of wanting someone impossible. You want him. Want him when he’s steady and quiet and full of things he’ll never say out loud; and also like this, in power and unafraid.

“What’s that move you do?” he asks suddenly, interrupting your thoughts. He asks like he’s been saving the question. You blink, caught off guard and he clarifies. “The one with your ass up in the air.”

You lift your head from the headrest and laugh, eyebrows arched up. “You mean bridging?” 

“That’s the one,” he drags out the first word, his hands running up your calves. You smile knowingly. 

“Knew that one would stick, you liked that move, huh?” you ask, and Joel smirks. 

“Couldn’t get it outta my fuckin’ head,” he admits, laughing with you. You both trail off and you meet his eyes, a suspicious glint in them. His gaze lingers, heavy and fixed – and that’s when you realize where he was going with the line of questioning. His thumbs skim the soft crease behind your knees, pulling up gently and you feel your breath hitch. 

“Do it for me,” he says, almost pleading. He guides both of your legs up on top of his shoulders, and you’re completely stunned. How can you say no to him? 

You breathe a little hard from your nose amusedly and lift your hips from the platform with slow precision. You shake a little this time, legs still aching from your first orgasm, but anything Joel wanted – you would give it to him. Your spine peels from the carriage in a slow roll, just like you’ve done a thousand times. You remember when you did it in class, intentionally putting on a show for him while he struggled with his own desire in the corner of the studio. 

His mouth parts slightly, eyes dragging over the new shape of you; exposed, tilted, perfectly on display for him. He’d seen it from that bench in the corner, but now up close, he was losing his mind. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. You go silent, every nerve pulled tight like the springs beneath you. 

And then he leans in, no more hesitation, like he’s got something to prove – with his mouth, this time.

The first brush of his tongue is featherlight, but it’s enough to steal every thought from your head. When he hears you whine, he flattens his tongue and licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, slow and considerate, like he’s memorizing the taste of you in case he never gets to have this again. He stays there, focused, with one hand steady at your hip while he wraps his lips around your swollen center, a soft cry echoing this time. 

“Jesus, Joel –” you choke out, head thrown back, both hands clutching the side rail. 

He pulls back just a touch, teasing now, cruel in the only way Joel can be, with praise that tears your heart open. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good, baby,” his voice is thick and guttural. “Knew you’d sound pretty like that when I finally got my mouth on you,” he tells you between soft kisses to your thighs, his beard scratching the skin.

Before you can reply, he lowers his mouth to you, his tongue parts you, warm and searching. Your hips twitch under his hold, toes curling as he pulls you tighter against his mouth. Thankfully he knows you can’t hold yourself up, one of his hands gripping your hip and the other supporting you just under your tailbone. Your body bows, thighs tensing around his neck. 

You say his name repeatedly, chest heaving, and that only seems to drive him deeper. His hand brushes behind your knee and he grunts, sending a vibration through to the pit of your stomach. He draws circles, then suckles gently, alternating pressure until your grip on the frame turns white-knuckled. He hums low in his throat, pleased with the way you respond, the way you buck your hips towards him. Joel’s in a trance, his brows furrowed with concentration while he devours you. 

“Oh my god,” you whine, the air in the studio starting to feel stuffier. His only reply is a soft growl of encouragement and the tightening of his grip as he pulls you closer, lapping up your wetness like he’s been waiting his whole damn life for the chance. Like you’re the center of the fucking universe. 

He pulls back just enough to talk, his voice rough as gravel and thick with praise. “So fuckin’ good, can’t get enough of you.” The sound of his voice alone makes you whimper, head tilting back. 

“Please don’t stop,” the words tumble out before you can catch them, raw and aching with need. They crawl under his skin and burrow there, hopefully for a long time, he thinks. Hopes. The coil in your belly tightens with every pass of his tongue, your body beginning to shake for the second time. He hums, hungrily and intentional, sending a pulse through you that makes your vision blur. You’re back on that ledge faster than you anticipate. 

“Joel,” your voice breaks, a warning more than anything. 

He doesn’t let up, doesn’t pause. If anything it only fuels him. His mouth seals over your clit while two fingers slide into you again, immediately finding your sweet spot after memorizing it like scripture. 

Your hips jerk, thighs trembling around his head, but his grip holds you firm – one hand on your ass now, the other working in time with his mouth, and it’s too much. Too good. The pressure builds fast, white-hot and blinding. He groans again, savoring it, and the vibration is what does it.

Even when your cum coats his tongue he doesn’t stop, holding you through it, mouth and hands steady, guiding you through each convulsion until all that’s left is the soft, trembling aftermath. Your leg threatens to slide from his shoulder, but he steadies it, finally pulling back only when your head falls back onto the headrest with a thump. 

When your eyes flutter open, he’s already there; watching you like you’re the only person in the world. Lips glistening, eyes dark and endlessly soft. There’s nothing cocky in his expression, just something reverent – like he’s grateful to have been the one to bring you there. You force yourself to sit up, dabbing at your forehead with the back of your hand. Joel’s hands are there at your sides, helping you up. 

There's too much to say, too much swelling in your chest that you’re not ready to name. So instead, you let your fingers curl around his shoulder, dragging him in close, and kiss him. He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth meets yours hungrily, tongue pushing past your lips so you can taste yourself on him. You groan against his mouth, and Joel grunts, like it’s taking every ounce of control he has not to press you back down and fuck you right there on the reformer – if that was even possible. 

“You with me?” he asks, voice low, hands cupping your face now.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Fuck – I mean, yes. I’m with you.” You correct yourself with a shake of your head, and Joel smiles. 

“Good,” he says, and his eyes don’t leave yours, not even when your fingers trail to his waistband again. This time, he lets you pop the button free and his shoulders relax when the zipper follows. His breath catches when your hand brushes against him through the fabric, warm and straining – waiting for you. The sound he makes is nothing short of wrecked.

“Lift a little,” you whisper, and he does without question, just enough for you to ease the denim down his hips. His legs spread slightly for balance and you move to straddle him, calves pressing against the wooden frame. 

You shift forward on your knees, reaching between your bodies until your fingers graze his cock. He’s already hard, sucking in through his teeth when you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze. With your hips lifted you guide him to your dripping core slowly, pushing only the tip through your slick folds. 

Joel’s hands wander; up your back, on your waist, to your thighs – like he doesn’t know where to touch first. They only settle with his fingertips digging into your hips the moment you begin to sink down, lips parting as you relish in the stretch. It isn’t too uncomfortable, thanks to Joel’s incredibly thorough services. His hands are there, guiding you not to take too much at once, letting you go at your own pace despite the overwhelming temptation to fill you up the rest of the way. 

“Here,” he mumbles, helping you angle your hips. You wrap your fingers around the footbar behind him for balance, eyes locked on his as you take the rest of him. He’s big, thick and hot and perfect. You both exhale like it’s a relief to finally, finally feel this. The moan he lets out is guttural and desperate. You grin, teeth dragging lightly across your bottom lip as you start to move. A quick drag up, a slow slide back down onto his cock. His breath shudders out, and you feel that he’s still tense, like he's holding himself back. 

“Christ,” he rasps, and you can feel his thighs tense under yours. “You feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Like you were made for me.”

The words make you clench around him, his head tipping back for a second before he’s looking at you again, unable to miss another second of it. “Don’t stop,” he begs, and you don’t – you can’t.

Your rhythm stays steady; a slow grind that leaves you gasping each time you take him a little deeper. Your grip tightens on the footbar, the metal cool under your palms, grounding you as the pressure builds. He lets you take what you need, lets you move at your own pace, but his hands never stop roaming; thumb stroking your thigh, palm sliding up your back, hands guiding you  while you tuck your face into his neck. The closeness allows you to feel every breath he takes, hear every strained noise he makes. 

The reformer creaks beneath you with each rise and fall of your hips, the tension cords beneath the frame stretching in tandem. His mouth grazes over your collarbone, warm and wet, and then without warning, he starts to fuck up into you. It makes you sit up straight, and Joel’s hand comes up to your neck, his fingertips grazing your throat. He’s all concentration as he looks between your bodies, watching you take him like it’s his last chance. 

In his fervor, you feel his fingers dig into the side of your neck, but he’s so absorbed in you he doesn’t notice. His fingers flex softly at your pulse like he’s feeling how hard your heart’s racing. Your legs work to meet his thrusts, one of your hands leaving the bar to rest on his shoulder. The muscle contracts each time he moves, and the sight of him so focused, jaw tight and brows tense, makes you melt. Your pace quickens, the sound of your skin slapping together echoing in your ears. 

And then, his fingers tighten. Your breath catches in your throat, and your pussy clamps around him even tighter like it’s been waiting for it. Joel feels it instantly. His eyes rip up to look at you, catching the pleasure written in all of your features. 

“Oh, you like that, baby?” he asks, brow ticking up in amusement at yet another discovery. You can only nod in response, breath slipping out in a fractured moan.as he continues bucking up into you, deep and sharp. 

The pressure in your belly builds fast again, molten and consuming. His hand tightens, just holding you there and squeezing the sides in a way that makes your mouth practically water. A firm reminder that he’s the one guiding you now, that he’s been controlling you this whole time, bending you to his will. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel speaks up, voice rough at the edges. 

“Gonna cum for me again?” he whispers, voice rough at the edges. Your hips stutter, thighs shaking, and Joel keeps his grip on your throat secure. 

“I can’t –” you whine, the words fragile and disbelieving, more plea than protest. Your body is heavy with the weight of sensation, the sharp edge of overstimulation skimming close to pain, but it only winds you tighter.

“Yes, you can.” His lips brush your cheek, his words sounding more like a demand than encouragement. “Ain’t so easy when someone else is in charge of your breath, is it?” His voice is thick with satisfaction, power lacing every syllable, and something about the way he’s so in control, so certain – it only makes you burn hotter. 

You laugh, breathless and wild, but it turns into a whimper as he bucks into you again, perfectly timed with the curl of his fingers at your throat – and the tension snaps. Your head falls forward against his shoulder as your body jerks in his lap, thighs shaking uncontrollably. A third orgasm rips sharp and stunning through you, a strangled cry lost against his skin. Your remaining grip on the footbar slips, both hands squeezing his shoulders instead, clinging to him. 

Joel holds you through it, easing the pressure at your throat immediately, his other hand stroking up your spine as he murmurs against your neck. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers. “So good. So fuckin’ perfect.”

Your whole body sags into his, boneless and raw. He cradles your back like you’re something precious, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. You can feel he’s still inside you, still hard – but he makes no move, doesn’t chase his own release. He just holds you. You lift your head slightly, eyes fluttering open to find him already watching you with something that guts you. .

“Still with me?”

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… need a second.”

“Take all the time you need,” Joel says earnestly. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You smile, heart hammering, breath still shaky. You press your forehead to his, grounding yourself. His touch never falters, just warm and steady like an anchor. He notices you’re still shaking and traces shapes on your back, trying to assist. 

“Gotta breathe, darlin’," and you do, letting him coax air back into your lungs one breath at a time. His thumb strokes your cheek in soothing circles. His cock is still pulsing inside you with need, begging for something he’s ignoring. 

You shift slightly in his lap, your thighs still trembling but pliant now. You feel the way his breath stutters when you clench around him, slow and gentle. It makes him grunt softly in disapproval, his head shaking once. 

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You don’t gotta do that.”

“Let me,” you whisper, insisting. Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, forehead creased with something deeper than pleasure. He cups your face like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth. 

Your hips roll forward with care, not rushed this time, but steady; giving him what he wouldn’t take for himself. His hands twitch on your hips, not guiding anymore, but bracing. He buries his face against your neck like he’s trying to hold on, trying not to break too fast.

“Took such good care of me, you deserve it too,” you say, barely audible above your shared breath. That undoes him. He finally lets go, hips thrusting up into you again in slow, devastating strokes. You meet each one, nails digging into his shoulders as you let him bring himself to the edge with your pussy. You're still reeling from your own high, breathing through it the best you can.

You feel the tension winding tighter in him, the way his breath falters, each sound caught between a groan and a prayer. His hand trails down, settles at the base of your spine, pressing you down to meet each thrust.

“Fuck, baby, I’m –” His voice breaks off as his head falls back, jaw slack. You ride him through it, holding him steady, giving him the same patience he gave you.

“Give it to me,” you whisper against his mouth. 

It’s a full-body thing; a shudder that takes him over completely, pulling him under in waves. He lets out a broken moan as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, one arm banding tight around your back while the other cradles the side of your face. You stay with him through it, stilling only when he does, pressing your lips gently to the line of his jaw, then his cheekbone, then his temple. 

His heart is racing. So is yours. Joel lets out a long, shuddering exhale, forehead dropping to yours again. His voice is soft, breathless. “Fucking hell,” a shaky laugh catches in his throat. “Can’t believe you’re real.”

You smile, stroking a hand through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “The feeling is mutual.” 

His arms still holding you close, bodies still joined and glittering with sweat. 

“Was that three?” he asks after a beat, eyes fluttering open. You nod with a faint, dazed grin, and he groans, like that knowledge alone is enough to destroy him all over again. “Shit, I’m sorry.” 

It makes you pause, your forehead touching his. “Sorry?” you echo. “If that’s what sorry looks like, I hope you mess up more often.”

He smiles, corners of his eyes scrunching and you can’t help but stare. For just a moment, the world outside of the studio doesn’t exist. There’s only this. Neither of you moves, not wanting to be anywhere else. 

Joel breaks the silence with a tap on your thigh, motioning for you to stand up. He helps you, steadying you until you find solid ground again. You’re still dazed, but start to pull your clothes back on – the thought of his cum filling you makes your heart soar. You catch him watching you like he’s half expecting you to disappear.

He dresses himself while you spray down the machine, unable to bite back the smile on your face. Every damn class, he’d be imprinted on your mind, the machine taunting you with reminders and flashbacks. Then, as you toss the towel in the bin, you hear him speak behind you.

“I ain’t good at this,” he says. “Talkin’ like this, feeling like this. But I swear, it’s been damn near impossible to think of anything else lately.” His brows twitch like he wants to smile more, but something vulnerable tugs at the edge instead.

You close the distance, instantly reaching up to caress the edge of his jaw, catching the coarse stubble there. You can see something hovering over him, almost like he’s still waiting for permission from you, to have you outside of the studio walls. 

“I’m not asking you for anything you can’t give,” you say reassuringly. “I just didn’t want to pretend like it wasn’t there. And… I really like you.” You admit it out loud, and he lets out a stunned chuckle. He’s floored, not quite able to believe you’re equally as fascinated with him as he’s been with you. 

“I really like you too,” he says, quiet but sure. “More than I probably should.”

That earns a real laugh from you. “We’re way past shoulds, don’t you think?”

He huffs, amused but in agreement. His head dips just enough to brush his lips against your forehead. 

“Should’ve said this before I had you ridin’ me on that damn machine,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely toward the reformer, like the memory alone short-circuits his brain a little. “You maybe... wanna get dinner sometime?” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but your face for a second.

You smile so wide it hurts. “Joel Miller,” you chide, tilting your head, “Are you asking me on a date?”

He smirks, eyes crinkling in that way that already feels like home. “Think I might be.”

You lean in close, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Then yeah, I’d like that.”

That charged, delicate silence that always hummed between you two is still there, but neither of you feels strange about it now. He squeezes your hand once reluctantly before stepping back, going to the bathroom to collect his tools – but not before you give him your phone number. 

As he opens the door, sunlight spilling into the quiet studio, he pauses with one hand on the frame. He glances back at you, lighter now, like the weight he’s been carrying finally lifted.

“See you Saturday?”

You meet his eyes, warmth blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you say, light but certain. 

“See you Saturday.”

Joel steps through the front door just after lunchtime, toolbox in hand, shirt wrinkled and clinging faintly to his back. He’s quieter than usual, like he’s moving through a dream he hasn’t quite woken up from.

Sarah doesn’t look up from the couch right away – she’s mid-scroll, headphones half on, but her eyes flick toward him when the door shuts.

“How’d fixing the sink go?” she asks, one brow arched.

Joel sets the toolbox down on the floor with more care than necessary, grunting as he stands up straight. “Went fine,” he says plainly, avoiding her eyes. 

Sarah’s eyes narrow, and before she can comment back, they zero in on the back of his shirt: the tag sticking out and wiggling as he walks past the air conditioner to the kitchen. A slow, knowing smile takes over. 

“Your shirt’s inside out,” she remarks, smirking triumphantly when Joel freezes mid-step. 

His hand lifts automatically to the back of his shirt, fingertips brushing over the telltale edge of the tag. He frowns, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “God damn it.” 

Sarah watches him retreat toward the stairs, his inside-out shirt like a billboard for guilty as charged. His boots thud heavily against each step, and before disappearing, he throws a glance over his shoulder; a sharp look that’s more of a warning than denial.

“Don’t start,” he mutters gruffly. 

“I didn’t say anything!” she chirps, clearly enjoying herself. The bathroom door clicks shut a second later. Sarah barely holds in her laughter as she pulls out her phone, putting the other headphone back over her ear. She opens her text messages and clicks on the thread with Vic. 

dude... i think my dad just hooked up with our pilates teacher.

[ohjoelmiller]

oh i need him

Beck and Call

18+ MDNI!

Summary: You’ve been divorced from Joel for a little while, now. But when your sink breaks and threatens to flood your house right before a date, you have no one else to call but him. Why does he come? You don’t know. Why does he look so fucking good? You don’t know, either.

W.C: ~6.2k

TL;DR: Rule number one of getting divorced: don’t fuck your ex-husband. (Optional).

Warnings: ex-husband!joel x ex-wife!reader, sappy love confessions, improper use of a sink, praise, oral f!receiving, mirror sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, (no outbreak!)

Note: as a child of divorce, i am allowed to touch upon this matter. anyway, happy fucking i mean reading

One-third. A married couple’s least favourite fraction. 

It was (and is) a well-known fact that one in three marriages ends in separation. And of course, you—being the lucky duck you were—found yours rapidly accelerating toward that destination.

You and Joel had agreed that you’d be better off apart. Joel got his own place while you kept the house. And Sarah lived with you every other week.

All you needed to do was send your attorney the signed divorce papers.

Outside of the sympathetic comments you received from acquaintances and relatives almost daily, you were doing just fine.

In fact, tonight you had a date.

A date. The kind that made you choose a tight-fitting dress that hugged your curves just right. The kind that inspired you to wear your hair in something other than a claw clip. The kind that provoked you to shave places you haven’t shaved in a long time.

The lucky bachelor was a fellow divorcee named Mark, whom you had met on a single-parent dating app. He had a full head of hair, a decent sense of humour, and two rescued Labradors. He offered to bring you to his favourite Italian restaurant, bringing up the fact that he’d pick up the bill no matter what, much to your protests. Needless to say, you had a good feeling about him.

After one last check in the mirror, you grabbed your coat and slung your purse over your shoulder, ready to head out the door.

Then, you heard it.

A faint gurgling. 

You blinked twice, trying to zero in on the sound. Proceeding a few moments of intense concentration, you followed the sound into the ensuite bathroom.

The faucet was running. Had you forgotten to turn it off?

You reached for the handle. Twisted it. It spun freely, and nothing happened. 

You tried and tried again, but all your efforts were in vain. You could only watch the tap stubbornly defy you as the handle jutted uselessly, loose in its socket.

“Shit.” You breathed.

The faucet sputtered out a particularly heavy spurt of water as if to say: shit, indeed.

You sighed, staring helplessly at the sink as it stared contumaciously back, water that couldn’t be swallowed by the drain toppling over the edge of the sink.

A quick Google search informed you that you needed to turn off the principal water pipe—the mains. Which you didn’t know how to do. 

So, you resolved to delegate the problem to more capable hands. Like, a twenty-four-hour plumbing service. No, they could easily overcharge you. You could call your dad? No, he was too far.

Or…

Sighing, you dug out your phone from your purse and called your only remaining option. Someone who was a seasoned contractor, someone who dealt with this sink before, and someone who you just so happened to be divorcing. 

He answered on the third ring.

“Hey—everything okay?” Joel’s concerned voice filtered through your phone.

“No.” You inhaled. 

“No?” Joel echoed hesitantly, then waited for elaboration.

When nothing came, he cleared his throat.

Slightly confused, slightly wry, he continued, “This is the part where you tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Um, my sink’s busted.”

“Your sink… is busted?”

“Yeah. Faucet won’t turn off. It-It’s a lot of water.” You bit the inside of your cheek, leaning on the wall. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

A moment of silence, then:

“You need me to fix it?” 

Was that annoyance? Exhaustion? It definitely wasn’t exhilaration at the prospect of doing manual labour at eight o’clock on a Friday evening.

“You know what? Forget I called. This was stupid. Sorry to bother you—”

“I’m on my way.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, after he hung up, the smallest of smiles began forming on your face. 

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came from your front door.

You swung the door open, and there he stood. Tool bag in hand, flannel shirt stretching tightly over his broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair just a little bit unkempt.

It had been a good few months since the two of you went your separate ways, but there he was—still at your beck and call. What that meant, exactly, remained to be seen. 

But you were glad to see him, nonetheless.

“Hi,” You said breathlessly.

Upon seeing you, Joel’s brows shot up, and he blinked a few times.

“Hi.” He said back slowly, then cleared his throat. “Am I… interruptin’ something?”

You glanced down. Right. Tight dress and makeup.

“I have a date in…” You raised your left wrist and winced as you looked down at your watch. “Five minutes ago.”

“A date.” He clicked his tongue, nodding to himself. “Well, I’ll try to make this quick, then.”

You hummed a noise of agreement, pivoted, and, with a wave of your hand, invited Joel inside.

He stepped through the doorway with a quiet grunt. And, as he bent down to undo his boots, his coffee-brown gaze landed on a pile of unopened mail by the entryway table. A few envelopes had slipped to the floor, and he crouched to gather them without thinking. 

But, as he straightened up to his full height, his eyes lingered on the recipient line.

“Mrs Miller?” Joel read aloud.

“What?” Your breath caught in your throat, and you spun around to meet his stare.

Joel wordlessly held the envelope up with two fingers, the corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Oh.” You cringed inwardly. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t, uh, realise that you were keepin’ the name.” He shrugged offhandedly, tossing the stack of mail onto the entryway table.

“I’m not. I just…” You ran a hand through your hair. “Paperwork isn’t final.”

For the divorce.

Joel’s eyebrows pinched together. “I sent you my signed copies, if—” 

“I know you did. I just haven’t sent the papers to my lawyer yet.” You pressed your lips into a thin line and avoided his gaze. “Just got a lot on my plate, recently.”

That was very unconvincing.

Joel hummed a noncommittal noise.

“Well…” He huffed sheepishly. “You know I always liked my name on you.”

You swallowed, feeling your stomach do a funny flip and your ears burn up. Why were your ears burning up?

“C’mon. The problem is upstairs.”

The faucet, to your dismay, hadn’t stopped. It was worse now, if that was even possible, spitting little rogue sprays of water alongside the main stream. Great.

You checked your watch again. Fifteen minutes late. You would no doubt have a few missed calls from your poor suitor if you had the guts to check your phone.

Joel sank to one knee as he inspected the sink, squinting at the appliance and shaking his head. Miraculously, he reached in and, a few rusty squeaks later, the water stopped.

“You fixed it.” You blinked.

“Far from it,” He muttered, frowning. “The cartridge’s shot. And the valve stem’s stripped. Who installed this?”

Without missing a beat, “You did.”

“…Right.”

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest. “So?”

“So, this isn’t a quick fix. I need to pull out the whole assembly. Maybe replace the handle, too. And judging by the corrosion around this nut—” He held up a discoloured metal hexagon like it had personally offended him—“you’ve probably had a leak back here for a while.”

You blinked. “And you didn’t notice that when you lived here?”

Joel turned to shoot you a look. “I was your husband, not your handyman.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I married you for that toolbox of yours.”

“And here I thought it was ‘cause of my radiant personality.”

“Definitely not that.” You huffed out a laugh.

Despite his back being turned to you, you could just about make out a reluctant smile forming through his slightly greying stubble.

You watched as he rolled up his plaid sleeves, exposing tanned forearms that were entirely too bulky for someone in his mid-forties. He then dug into his bag, fishing out an Allen Wrench.

“You can go on your date,” Joel added, not looking at you. “I’ll be out of here in an hour. Two, tops. But… if you feel like gettin’ frisky, maybe do it at his place. Just in case.”

Right, your date.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you took out your phone. Six missed calls and a flurry of concerned texts.

Decidedly, you typed out an apologetic message mentioning a water-related emergency and stuffed your phone back in your purse.

“I’m staying with you.”

Joel froze and turned to look at you from over his shoulder. “No, you ain’t. I’ll take too long.”

“Well, I can’t leave you to fix my problems while I’m out eating overpriced ravioli.” You shrugged and, with a soft grunt, took a seat against the wall near him. “You’re not a plumber, you’re a… you’re my…”

Ex-husband.

You cleared your throat, then emphasised, “You’re not a plumber.”

Joel let out a slow exhale. “Do whatever you want, but I doubt watching me fix your sink is gon’ be as fun as your date.”

“I’ve got a full bottle of Pinot Noir in the fridge.” You tilted your head. “We can make it fun.”

Joel’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not—not in that way.” You rubbed a clammy hand down your face.

To your surprise, that earned you a small, gruff laugh from Joel, his eyes crinkling momentarily the way they only did when he was truly amused.

His voice was soft when he responded. 

“Go on and get the wine, then, sweetheart.”

Two crystal glasses and a little while later, Joel had put down his wrench and opted instead to sit beside you on your tiled bathroom floor, his shoulders brushing up against yours in the cramped space.

Efforts to tame the defiant sink had long since been forgotten. He did the best he could, but retired upon discovering that you had no spare sink handle lying around—how very unprepared of you.

The bad news was that you weren’t going to be able to wash your hands in the master bedroom ensuite tonight. The good news was that you were having a surprisingly good time with Joel. The conversation evolved from discussing your stood-up date (you showed Mark’s profile, Joel was convinced he was lying about his dogs being rescues), then to how his company was going, and then, reminiscing about the good ol’ days.

“All I’m sayin’,” Joel continued through a laugh. “Is that she did it on purpose.”

“My mom has always been bad with names!”

“Bad enough to still call me ‘George’ after a year of us datin’?” He scoffed.

You stifled a giggle. “In her defence, it’s a very similar—”

“Like hell it is. And your dad? He was worse.” Joel chuckled, finishing the last of his wine. “How is he?”

“Fine. Just called him yesterday, actually.”

“He still callin’ me–?”

“He still calls you ‘porn stache’, yes.”

Joel snorted into his hand, his shoulders bobbing up and down with laughter. Real, genuine laughter.

You smiled and turned to steal a glance at his profile.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his hooked nose scrunched mid-chuckle, and his laugh was exactly as it was before—low and rough, but somehow boyish and unguarded.

You had almost forgotten how his whole face lit up when he laughed.

And, you didn’t mean to stare. But you did. 

God, you missed this.

“I think I prefer George.” Joel ran a hand down his face, still smiling.

You cleared your throat and leaned over to retrieve the almost-empty wine bottle, refilling your glasses.

“Sarah told me to say hi to you, if I got the chance, by the way.” You said, pouring the Pinot Noir into his glass. “She’s with my parents in the lake house.”

“The lake house?” Joel hummed, taking another sip of his drink. “Still disappointed I didn’t get that in the settlement.”

You snorted, amused. “You don’t even like lakes.”

“No, I don’t like the mosquitoes that come with the lakes.” Joel corrected you, pointedly. “But, I don’t know, I guess I just miss it. A lot of good memories there.”

You felt yourself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, there were.”

A beat.

“Hey, at least you kept the cars. And the boat. And the frequent flier miles. And, well, you see Sarah every other week.” You turned to look at Joel, but he was already looking at you.

A certain vulnerability swam in the brown of his eyes. Something you hadn’t seen in a very long time.

“Yeah, well… there were more important things I couldn’t keep.”

The air thinned. The wine, the laughter, the conversation—everything dissolved in the quiet admission, hanging thickly in the space between you.

And suddenly, there was only you and Joel and the mistakes that had wedged you apart yet somehow brought you back together again; on a random Friday evening on the floor of a bathroom you used to share.

“Joel…” You swallowed, your hand falling from your lap onto the tiles.

But you couldn’t form any semblance of a sentence. How could you? 

There was nothing to say. Yes, you missed him. ‘Missed’ was an understatement. 

Sometimes you’d roll over in the night, wishing to feel the weight of his arm resting on your waist, reassuring you that these past few months had only been a bad dream. Sometimes you came to pick Sarah up early, just to get a few more minutes with him. Sometimes—no, a lot of the time, memories of him came rushing back, cleaving your heart into two, further and further each time.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t let go of the man you spent so many years loving. 

Joel’s eyes still bore into yours. And nothing in the world could have torn you away.

He exhaled slowly, then set down his glass with care. His hand barely brushed yours, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.

“I think about it,” He said softly. “More than I should.”

“Think about what?”

A quiet, almost sad laugh escaped from his throat. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“How things used to be.”

“Oh,”

A moment passed, marked only by the metre of your incessant heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then, “Do you ever miss us?” Joel asked.

You faced him once more. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Because that was too complicated. Because that would break you.

Joel didn’t need you to say it. He found the answer in your eyes.

All the time.

Instead, you asked, “Do you? Miss us, that is.”

“Of course, I do.” He said softly. “More than you can imagine.”

You held your breath.

Joel heaved a sigh.

“I think about calling,” He added, voice low. “Just to hear your voice.”

“I’d answer,” You said, barely above a whisper.

He smiled in a bittersweet, melancholic sort of way and leaned in just slightly. Unconsciously, you mirrored him.

And then his eyes flickered down to your lips. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

This was dangerous. You should’ve told him to leave ages ago. Or, maybe you should’ve left yourself and gone on your date.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” You whispered.

Joel whispered back, “Always.”

“Do you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

“Do I what?”

“Do you—does even a part of you… want what we had back?” 

You knew what he was going to say. You just wanted to hear it for yourself.

And you did.

“Yes,” He admitted earnestly.

You searched his face for any sign of deception, but found none. The only thing in his coffee-brown eyes was regret. And, maybe, something else, too. Something softer.

Your eyes widened. “We fought a lot.”

“We did.”

“And we probably said some shit.” You sighed, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the answers were written there. Joel did, too.

His voice came softly, sadly, “We did.”

Silence again. Thick and fragile and charged with so many unspoken words.

Joel’s knee brushed yours, neither of you pulling away. It was nice to have him close, to feel his familiar warmth, to see him—really see him. Bare and raw and vulnerable. No facades of indifference. No hiding behind closed car doors. Just Joel, your Joel, there beside you; soft-eyed and quiet, like maybe he was seeing you, too.

Your fingers twitched on the floor beside his. You wanted to reach for him, but you wanted him to reach first. 

He looked at you then. Not a glance, but a full turn, slow and deliberate. His dark eyes searched your face, pausing on your mouth, your cheek, your lashes, then settled on your eyes again. He looked at you like you were something he’d spent months trying to forget, and only just now remembered why he couldn’t.

You held your breath.

Joel’s voice, when it finally came, was low, cracked around the edges.

“I know it was bad in the end, but I meant what I said.” He breathed. “I miss us. I miss you.”

Your heart twisted. And there went that cleaver again, slicing further.

“I miss seeing your keys on the kitchen counter and knowing you were home. I miss kissing you before work and smudgin’ your lipstick. I miss watching stupid movies with you that we’d fall asleep to halfway.”

His throat bobbed. He leaned back against the wall, like it hurt to say it out loud.

“Yeah, we fought and said some real mean shit. But God help me, I’d give anything to go back in time and fight for you like I should have. Because you were it for me. You were everything. Still are.”

His eyes glistened as he held your gaze, fierce and unflinching.

“Because, no matter how hard I try to ignore it,” He smiled to himself, shaking his head like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

He loves you.

Those three simple words rang in an echo in your mind. He loves you, he loves you, Joel loves you.

“You love me?” You could barely hear your voice above the deafening thrum of your pulse.

Your faces were barely an inch apart, now. You could smell the familiar scent of his laundry detergent, and traces of his cologne, and wood, and tobacco, and something that was so uniquely him.

Joel nodded.

“I never stopped.” He whispered.

Without thinking, you closed the remaining distance, smashing your lips against his. Joel grunted in surprise, but quickly gave in, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding a breath in for years. 

He returned the kiss with equal fervour, reaching out to cup your face and pouring all his pent-up emotions against the haven of your lips—longing, relief, desire.

You pushed yourself closer against him. Closer, impossibly closer, until you were straddling his lap, moving against the tent in his jeans, feeling his big hands instinctively settle on your hips, and tasting the Pinot Noir on his lips.

Shit. Was this even a good idea?

You pulled away suddenly. A tiny whine came from Joel, who tried to chase your mouth, but you were insistent.

“Wait,” You panted.

His eyes opened fully. His brows were knitted, his lips were kiss-swollen, and his chest was heaving slowly.

“What?” Joel asked quietly, his thumbs idly tracing circles on either side of your hips.

“This…” You breathed. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing. I don’t want it to mean nothing.”

Joel smiled softly at your words.

“Means a whole lot to me, sweetheart.” His hand went to gently tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, caressing your cheek in his wake. “We can talk about what this means, if you w—”

“Okay, good. Means a lot. Talk after.”

“After?” His eyebrows rose.

“After you fuck me.”

A breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ slipped from his throat, but Joel didn’t spend a second refusing your bold assumption.

With a hand on your nape, he leaned forward to capture your lips in another searing kiss, which you happily accepted, sighing against him.

His big hands then travelled to the back of your thighs, and the next thing you knew, he carelessly swept away whatever was decorating the base of your faucet, and carried you with ease to perch you atop the sink.

“Joel.” You mumbled urgently into his lips.

“Mmm?” He hummed back, not wanting to break your mouths apart for even a second. 

“Might break the sink again.”

“Don’t care. I’ll fuckin’ fix it again, then. Just… need you,” Joel groaned. “Look too fuckin’ good,”

And he pulled away. His half-lidded, cloudy gaze drank you in, sweeping down the snugness of your dress, and lingering on the generous amount of cleavage it revealed. His hands drifted higher and higher up your thighs, until they reached the hemline—dipping under just slightly.

“Too fuckin’ good,” He snarled.

You smirked. Knowing him, he was definitely going to ask if—

“How much was this dress?”

Sighing amusedly, “It wasn’t cheap.”

“How attached are you to it?” He mumbled, a hand reverently skirting up to your hip.

“A moderate amou—”

“Can I rip it off you?”

There it was.

In the many years you were married, Joel shredded more than enough articles of your precious wardrobe in similar heated moments. If you were to count the offences, you’d likely run out of fingers. Your wedding dress had been among the few survivors of his destructive tendencies, though not for lack of trying on his part.

You stifled a snort and shook your head, reaching up to caress his face. 

“No.” You smiled. “Because I’d like to wear it again.”

Joel held your hand against his face and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Next time.”

And then his hands found the zipper on your side, pulled it sharply down, and tugged the dress off you.

His eyes darkened.

You had chosen to don an intricate, black, lacey number underneath your dress that teased just enough and only hid the bare minimum. Of course, you had. You hadn’t had an opportunity to wear anything vaguely provocative in ages and were expecting some luck after your date.

You certainly didn’t expect that your ex-husband would be the one seeing it.

“This for him?” Joel’s lip twitched.

Heat rose in your cheeks. “Well, I—”

“Yeah, these don’t get a pass.”

With a sharp tearing noise slicing through the air, Joel ripped the flimsy lacey bra clean in half, watching intently, hungrily, as your tits spilled out.

“Joel!”

“I know, I know,” Joel grunted. “I’ll buy you a new set… buy you all the fuckin’ sets.”

You were about to object, intent on citing the price attached to that particular pair, but Joel had sunk back on his knees and spread your legs apart.

He pressed his lips on your inner thigh, scruff tickling your skin as he slowly, softly trailed his mouth upward, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

His face came to a stop in front of your core, noticing how heavily you were breathing, and his eyes flicked up to yours, smirking. Smug fucking bastard.

“Joel.” You gritted your teeth.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Don’t fucking tease me.” 

And he leaned his forehead against the lower part of your navel, taking a second to breathe in the unmistakable scent of your arousal seeping through your lingerie. 

He was practically salivating, now. 

“I’ll try not to, ma’am.” 

Without another word, he took the lace into his teeth, yanked his head sharply, and tore your panties open.

Confirming his suspicions, you were absolutely soaked. Slick drooled freely out of your puffy folds, taunting him and draining every ounce of self-restraint he had. 

Fuck, you were gorgeous.

“Tell me,” Joel said lowly, meeting your gaze once more as a thick finger swiped lightly through your lips, collecting your arousal. “This for him or me?”

“You.” You breathed without a second thought.

“Louder, sweetheart. My ears ain’t what they used to be.”

“You.”

Smirking wider, “Damn fucking right.”

Then, he happily hitched your legs over his shoulders, leaned forward, and dove in.

His tongue prodded into your heat, dragging down your walls and sending jolts of electricity down your spine. He worked fast and sloppily, sliding through your folds and flicking into your walls, urgently tasting you like he wouldn’t get another chance. 

Your arousal coated the lower half of his face, his eyes were almost black with desire, obscenely wet noises echoed in the silence of the tiled room as his tongue eagerly devoured you whole—

“Fuck, almost forgot how good you taste. So fuckin’ sweet.” Joel mumbled against your sex, entirely, wholly bewitched. “She missed me, too, huh? Just drippin’ for me…”

He continued to furiously lap at your entrance, scruff rubbing against your inner thighs. And then he moved up, planting messy kisses higher and higher until he reached your swollen clit.

You gasped brokenly, flinging a hand to grasp his curls as his lips alternated from pressing messy kisses along your seam to greedily sucking at your bundle of nerves, latching onto it almost desperately.

After a particularly delicious drag down the roof of your core, you rolled your hips up into his mouth and brought him closer to you with your grip in his hair.

“Shit—sorry.” You panted, breathing heavily.

He barely pulled away to look at you.

“Don’t fuckin’ be. I can handle it, you know I can.” Joel all but growled, before returning to attend to your needy fucking pussy.

He was like a man possessed; lapping frenziedly, groaning lowly into your sensitive skin, curved nose swiping through your folds as he worked.

Very soon, a familiar tingle in your lower stomach introduced itself.

“Joel,” You called urgently, attempting to warn him.

He knew you were close. Oh, he knew. So, he went faster and harder, pressing himself further against you, suffocation be fucking damned.

His low, wrecked voice came slurred and slightly muffled by your sex, “y’gonna come? Go on, baby, all over my face—thaaat’s it.”

A shattered moan escaped from your throat, and you felt your release take over your body almost violently. You couldn’t help the way your legs clamped down around his head, but Joel loved it, letting you smother him and humming happily into your heat as he worked you through your climax, swallowing your release and eating like a man starved.

Finally, he pulled away with a wet squelch, softly pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and gently let your legs down.

And you were immediately greeted with the sight of his lower face shining with your slick.

A good look on him, if you’d say so yourself.

He smiled lazily, eyes blown-out and absolutely fucking pussydrunk. 

“That good for you, sweetheart?” He mused.

“You, Joel Miller, are what we call a munch.” You smiled back.

Pride bloomed across his face. “Gladly, sweets.” 

And you pulled him up by the collar of his flannel shirt into a filthy kiss, tasting your arousal on his lips.

He let his eyes fall shut and reached up to curl a hand around your jaw as he returned the kiss, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Not wasting any time, your hands flew to his belt, blindly fumbling at the leather material to slide it out of the loops of his jeans.

Joel chuckled, leaning forward to trail his lips down your neck, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses.

“Need somethin’, baby?”

“Wanna return the favour,” You glanced down at the bulge in his lap.

“Mm-mm. That was more for me than you. Missed your sweet fuckin’ pussy.” Joel mumbled against your pulse point.

“Munch.” You couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yeah, yeah.” Joel sighed, lifting his head and undoing his jeans just barely enough to pull himself free from his boxers. 

You heard yourself swallow.

Joel Miller was a big man, and you were very aware of that fact. It was written all across his body; from his impossibly broad shoulders, to his beefy arms, to his thick fucking cock.

He stroked himself, once, twice, as his eyes fell to your pulsating, slick core. Beads of precum leaked from his flushed tip and down his length as he did so.

“Spread those legs wider for me, baby. Let me see you,” He breathed lowly.

And you very willingly obliged.

“There’s my girl,” Joel hummed.

With a hand around his base, he guided himself closer to your drooling cunt, nudging his swollen head against you.

Sighing, “Deep breath, baby.”

And he slowly forced himself in, one hand on the small of your back, the other on the underside of your thigh, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist as he steadily fed you his cock.

You gasped some variant of a plea.

Needless to say, he was a tight fucking fit.

“Takin’ me so well. That’s it, baby, let me in.” He blabbed mindlessly as he continued to sink deeper inside. 

Deeper, deeper, deeper…

He winced. “Shit—there you go.”

When all of him was nested inside your welcoming channel, he let out a gasped expletive at the sensation.

Full. You felt so full with him inside. You always did.

“Fuck, missed this.” Joel panted, resting his forehead against yours. 

You tried to echo the sentiment, but the only thing you were capable of doing was letting out an incoherent groan of his name.

Joel got the message, though.

Maintaining an unhurried tempo, he rolled his hips back and forth, slowly dragging his thickness against your walls, making you painfully aware of every last inch of him.

“How’s that feel, baby?” He mumbled, voice airy.

“Good. Feels so good.”

And, fuck, he did. 

He felt amazing.

His tempo soon picked up, leaving your mouth to fall open as you took every inch of him again and again, stretching you open with enough pleasure to dull the slight pain.

“Tell me,” Joel hummed as he continued to drive ceaselessly in and out of your tight channel, adopting a false lilt of indifference. “Who’s fuckin’ you so good, huh?”

An incoherent syllable slipped from your lips.

“Who, baby?” Joel urged you, unrelenting in his pace. “Sure as hell ain’t fuckin’ Mark.”

Dumbly, you shook your head.

“You, Joel.”

Your words were almost drowned out by the symphony of your own moans, which were accompanied by the obscenely wet slaps that sounded every time his hips fully met yours.

“Louder.” He snarled, punctuating his response with an intentionally rough ram. “Neighbours can’t hear you yet, c’mon.”

“You, Joel!”

Satisfied, his hands went to hold you by your waist, keeping you as still as possible as he drove insistently into you, his tip now kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You cried out at the feeling, nails raking down his back.

Heat pooled in your gut, your vision blurred, a high-pitched ringing almost deafened your ears.

“Joel, Joel, I’m…” You babbled.

“Close? Go on, gorgeous. Let me feel you choke my dick.”

With his blessing, his name left your mouth in a high-pitched scream, and you felt yourself clench around his throbbing length as your orgasm rippled across your body like an earthquake.

Joel, being the overachiever he was, didn’t stop for even a second until your breathing slowed and your eyes fluttered open again.

And, once he saw that you had recovered, he leaned forward to slant his mouth against yours, swallowing your sighs.

“You okay?” He mumbled into the kiss, barely breaking away.

“Yeah.” You exhaled. 

He smiled against your lips.

“Good. Almost there, baby. Gonna take you against the sink, now, and you’re gonna give me one more, how’s that sound?”

You nodded dreamily, feeling him slowly pull out.

He leaned back and, with his hands on your waist, delicately set you down.

“Turn ‘round for me, sweetheart.” 

You acquiesced without hesitation, bracing yourself on the porcelain countertop.

Joel hummed, kicked your legs open even wider, and, not long after, sank the entirety of his cock into you in one deep thrust.

A sharp breath hit the air behind you, and an airy ‘fuck’ followed it. This angle made him feel bigger, if that was even possible.

He didn’t wait long after that. He couldn’t. Overcome with the need to feel you, he started moving. The first thrust was slow. Experimental. The second was hard. The third was harder.

Before you knew it, his big hands found a home on your hips, and he began to drive roughly into you, as if making up for lost time.

He certainly proved he was willing to atone for his absence, thrust after thrust.

“Oh, look at you.” Joel tutted and pulled your hair to tilt your head upwards.

You came face to face with the woman in the bathroom mirror.

Somewhere in between thrusts, your mouth had fallen agape, letting loose a long whine of pleasure, which was stuttered by every slam of his hips against yours.

Your hair was frizzy, your face was flushed, your hooded gaze was flooded with desire, and a light sheen of sweat doused every inch of your skin.

You were a wreck, thanks to the man fucking you so well behind you.

“Eyes up here.” Joel sighed. “Keep ‘em open. Gotta watch how well you take me.”

Joel was even more of a sight. 

The top few buttons of his flannel were undone, his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up, his hair was wild, and the look on his weathered face was nothing short of territorial as he held you to him and fucked you with reckless abandon.

Your eyes fell to where your bodies were connected, hypnotised by how easily his tanned cock disappeared in and out of your puffy cunt.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The corners of his lips were coyly upturned when he cooed, “Don’t we look good, baby?”

You could only respond in broken syllables.

“Yeah,” He grunted. Then, after a particularly forceful thrust, “we do.”

He continued to ram into you, finding your cervix with each thrust, keeping his eyes trained on the mirror, fixated on how your tits bounced so prettily for him.

“Beautiful.” He whispered, jaw tight.

If your brain hadn’t been turned to mush after the two orgasms he forced out of you, you would’ve heard him. But all you were focused on was the rush of another climax approaching.

You gripped the countertop harder and gritted your teeth, feeling warmth collecting in your stomach and bracing yourself for impact.

As if reading your mind, Joel’s hand moved from your hip to your front, trailing down until he brushed your clit, rubbing sloppy semi-cricles and whispering sweet things as you whimpered.

“You gonna give me one more?” He murmured encouragingly, his nose nudging the side of your face.

You could only manage an open-mouthed nod.

His fingers sped in their motions, swiping at your clit feverishly as he continued to rut into you, grazing your cervix each time.

Again. And again. 

“Come for me, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” He whispered gently.

Your jaw slackened, your heartbeat quickened, and, in a blinding flash of pleasure, you came with his name on your tongue, helpless to the throes of your climax.

“There you go. Shit… so good for me.” Joel groaned. And then, urgently, “Where—where do you want me to–?”

Not even a full second later, “Inside.” 

“You sure?” He panted, starstruck. 

“I have an IUD, just—please.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, letting you feel every shaky pull of his breath as he caged you in. His hands found yours at the edge of the sink, lacing over them gently. His head dropped beside yours, his forehead nearly touching your temple, and a warm breath fanned across your skin as he sighed. 

And then he resumed his earlier pace.

He rammed into you hard and fast, chasing his own release as if it were a life-or-death situation. And all you could do was take it.

After a dozen more jerky thrusts, his breath caught in his throat and, with a low curse, he came. Hot ropes of his spend spilled inside you, and he rode it out until he couldn’t give you any more, which took a few more lazy rolls of his hips.

His breath evened not long after, warm and steady against your browbone. Soothing, almost.

Gently, he pulled out of you, and you felt his come slowly drip down your thighs.

“Fuck,” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, scruff rubbing against your crown as he did so.

And he bowed his head to rest it on the crook of your neck.

“That was great, George.” You panted.

Joel snorted tiredly. “Just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Nope.”

He huffed out a chuckle.

Then, he languidly pressed a trail of open-mouthed kisses wherever his lips could reach—the underside of your jaw, your throat, your neck, and down, still.

A warm, fuzzy sort of feeling radiated from his touch, lulling you into a state of bliss. It felt like love; it felt like coming home.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your face.

Joel mumbled something unintelligible against your shoulder.

“What?” You replied, breaking free from your trance.

“I said,” He pulled away and, with two fingers on your chin, tenderly turned your face to look at him. His voice was wrecked and so very earnest when he finally repeated himself. “Don’t send the papers. Please.”

He held the rest of his plea in his eyes in the way they shone with a certain sincerity.

You smiled softly and shook your head. Because you knew you never really had any intention to. Because you wanted to hold on to him. And you were glad he wanted to hold on to you, too.

Your lips found his. Gentle, delicate, a reassurance. He gave in to the kiss almost immediately, sighing into your mouth.

“I won’t.”

And you meant it.

thanks for reading!!! reqs are open, if you wanna send an idea or anything over :)

🏷️: @whaddupbaby, @pedritodowney08, @martuxduckling, @aadhinagony, @lanabobana, @pedr0swh0r3, @romancherry, @strawberriesandhotmen, @streamermattsgf, @bonneyzsk, @worhols, @serendippindots, @paprikainfurs, @lanternnightgarden, @12vamppp, @savvyisss, @umadirectioner, @tinawantstobeadoll, @not-the-teen-witch, @wundagre, @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere, @guelyury, @joelspickle, @callofdiva, @hotnmad, @brightestxxwitch, @pearl-diver-m, @kungfucapslock, @hellokittyyloverrrr, @meganfoxismywife, @natalieispunk, @billionairecowgirl, @my-tearsricochet

[ohjoelmiller]

Trailer #3

[ohjoelmiller]

PEDRO PASCAL and DAKOTA JOHNSON in the new 'Materialists' trailer

[ohjoelmiller]

ellie’s community…

[ohjoelmiller]

You can't keep her safe forever. No matter how hard you try, no matter how many people you kill — she's gonna grow up, Joel. And then you'll die. She'll leave. Then what? How long till she's torn apart by Infected or murdered by raiders? Because she lives in a broken world that you could have saved. Maybe. But it isn't for you to decide. Or you. So, what would she decide, huh? 'Cause I think she'd wanna do what's right. And you know it. It's not too late. Even now. Even after what you've done, we can still find a way.

[ohjoelmiller]

love notes

pairings joel miller x sunshine!reader

summary a sweet series of joel miller notes. soft little pieces of his heart as little love letters tucked into your every day. he never asks if you found them. you always do. and he always knows. he’s always there.

tags lots of fluff, quiet love notes, domestic moments, and joel being sweet. set in jackson, post-outbreak. established relationship, and lots of gentle, everyday affection. love in the little things. acts of service as love language, he loves you in silence, quiet love notes, post-it note romance. gets spicier.

masterlist dividers by: @uzmacchiato

you groan as you shuffle into the kitchen, sleep still clinging to your limbs. the coffee tin’s half empty, same as your energy.

you pop the lid and something flutters out. a folded scrap of paper, taped to the inside.

you unfold it, his handwriting unmistakable.

“hope this makes your morning a little better. like you always make mine.”

you lean against the counter, smiling into the quiet, coffee forgotten for just a moment. he grumbles from the other room.

“you find it?”

you call back, voice warm. “yeah. i did.”

“good,” he says. “was worried it’d fall into the grounds.”

it’s laundry day. again. you’re folding socks when one of yours feels heavier than usual. you tug at it—and out falls a tiny square of paper.

“you wear the warmest things but you’re still the one keepin’ this place cozy.”

you glance toward the door where he’s chopping firewood, sleeves rolled, hair a mess. he doesn’t see you watching—but he pauses like he feels it.

you slip the note into your back pocket. you’ll keep it. like you keep him.

you’re brushing your teeth when you spot it. a square of paper tucked into the edge of the mirror behind your toothbrush cup.

it wasn’t there this morning.

you pull it free, toothpaste foam threatening to spill from your mouth.

“every time you smile into this mirror, i fall in love again.”

you’re still holding the note when joel walks by, pauses in the doorway. he doesn’t say anything and just watches you smile.

you rinse and mutter, “you’re such a sap.”

you open the fridge after dinner, just to peek. one slice of pie is left, barely hanging on. there’s a sticky note taped right to the container.

“left you the last piece ’cause you always let me have the first.”

you turn around to find joel pretending to be very busy wiping down the table.

you hold up the pie. “you’re trying to make me cry over dessert?”

he shrugs. “worked?”

you kiss his cheek. “might’ve.”

it’s late. you’re tucking an extra blanket into the corner chair, the one by the window.

something crinkles beneath the cushion — and when you lift it, a folded note slides free.

“this is the spot where i first knew you felt like home.”

you sit there for a while, blanket draped across your lap, eyes misty.

joel finds you minutes later, leans on the doorframe.

“you remember?”

you nod. “i never forgot.”

he walks over and pulls you into his chest, resting his chin on your head.

“me neither.”

you’re changing the sheets when you find it — a tiny folded note tucked deep in the pillowcase.

it must’ve been hiding there for a while.

“just in case you ever forget how much i love you."

your hands still. the quiet hum of the house fills the space where your breath used to be.

joel walks in, drying his hands on a dish towel. he sees you holding the note and stops in his tracks.

“you weren’t supposed to find that so soon,” he mumbles.

you smile, hugging the paper to your chest.

he walks over and presses a kiss to your forehead. “i’m glad you did.”

it’s pouring outside. the kind of steady, peaceful rain that softens the world. you’re curled up on the couch, blanket tucked under your chin, mug of tea balanced in your hands.

inside the mug’s handle, a little square of folded paper.

“you make rainy days feel like sunshine.”

you blink, surprised. then glance toward the kitchen, where joel is drying dishes with a quiet smile on his face.

“you hid it in my mug?” you ask, grinning.

“figured you’d need something sweet before the tea cooled.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

he taps your shoulder gently on his way past. “and you’re the light in this house.”

you wake up late, sun pouring through the curtains. joel’s not in bed but his warmth still lingers in the sheets.

on the nightstand is a note in his handwriting, folded neatly over a coaster.

“you talk in your sleep. last night you said my name like it was a prayer.”

you’re still holding the paper when he walks in with two mugs.

“you sleep okay?” he asks, gently.

you nod, eyes soft. “dreamed of you, i think.”

he hums. “guess we were dreamin’ the same thing.”

you’re getting ready for a short patrol, slipping your jacket on when something crunches in the pocket.

you dig around and pull out a folded napkin, wrapped around a crinkled note and two homemade granola bars.

“i packed the snacks you like. don’t tell ellie i stole hers.”

you laugh, pressing your lips together so it doesn’t escape too loud.

joel’s sitting on the steps, tying his boots. he glances up at you.

you lean down and kissed his lips.

“you’re sweet when you’re sneaky.”

you’re slipped into your coat for a walk, just to clear your head — the kind of quiet escape you’ve both learned to recognize in each other.

your fingers brush paper tucked in the pocket.

it’s small, folded once, his handwriting scratched a little messier than usual.

“you always know how to calm me down. even when i don’t say i need it.”

then you hear his footsteps behind you.

he doesn’t say anything, just lowers himself beside you. his thigh presses gently into yours. his hand finds yours.

it’s late, and you’re ready for bed.

a note.

folded once. the edges soft from fingers lingering too long. there’s a smudge of ink where his thumb probably pressed too hard.

you unfold it and read:

“i ain’t never been good at sayin’ things. but i hope you feel it anyway.”

it’s not long. it’s not fancy.

but it’s everything.

you slip quietly out of the room and find him in the kitchen, stirring sugar into a cup of tea.

he looks up, and for a second, he doesn’t say anything. just studies your face, like he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking.

you don’t say anything either. you walk right up, wrap your arms around him, and hold him like he’s something soft.

and fragile.

and home.

he exhales slowly into your hair, the tension in his shoulders easing. his arms come around you like they were always meant to.

he doesn’t ask if you read it. he doesn’t need to.

you felt it.

late autumn, jackson’s first snowfall.

you wake up to the hush that only snow brings. outside the window, the world is blanketed in fresh white.

you went into the kitchen, chilled but curious, and find a note stuck to the coffee tin with a magnet shaped like a crooked heart.

“happy first snow. i remembered you said it’s your favorite.”

you smile instantly, remembering how you once told joel, offhandedly, barely even thinking that the first snow always felt a little magical.

behind you, the door creaks and he steps inside, boots dusted white, cheeks pink from the cold.

you laugh and launch into his arms before he can shake the cold off.

your one-year anniversary.

you’re not expecting anything. you’d said no fuss. just a quiet day, maybe dinner if the power stays on.

but when you open the drawer, a piece of worn paper flutters out.

“one year ago today, you looked at me and smiled. i’m still not over it.”

your heart stutters.

joel walks in behind you. he’s trying not to smile.

“turn around, sweetheart. ”

a bouquet of fresh flowers.

you step forward and rest your forehead against his chest. “i love you, joel.”

he presses a kiss into your hair, voice low and rough. “i love you more.”

“had a bad dream. didn’t want to wake you. just needed to know you were real.”

found under your pillow after you noticed the sheets were rumpled more than usual.

you sleep in longer than usual. joel was gone when you woke, though the sheets were warm, the air still held the weight of him.

joel comes in moments later, mug in hand, eyes a little tired.

“i didn’t mean to wake you last night,” he says gently.

he sits beside you.

“didn’t want to ruin your sleep.”

“you’re never a ruin,” you whisper, and rest your head on his shoulder.

the sun is warm. you’re humming in the garden patch behind the house, talking to the squash vines like they’re old friends.

“you talk to the plants when you think no one’s listening. they like it. i do too.”

found tucked into your gardening gloves.

you blink, unfolding it carefully.

you glance toward the porch, and sure enough. joel’s sitting on the steps, arms resting on his knees, watching you with that crooked half-smile that never fully reaches his mouth unless he’s looking at you.

“you’re spying again,” you tease.

he shrugs. “i am, and proudly.”

you wrap the scarf around your neck on the first chilly morning of the season. something falls out and flutters to the floor.

a note, tucked between the folds.

“didn’t think i’d ever like autumn again. then you came with your damn scarves and apple pie.”

found folded inside the knit scarf you always wear once the leaves start turning.

you smile, heart thumping. he’s out front, sleeves rolled, cheeks pink from the wind.

you walk out, scarf tight, and toss an apple slice his way.

he catches it mid-air. “you find it?”

“yup,” you say, cheeks warm.

he smirks. “only for you.”

you didn’t make it to midnight. neither did he. you both nodded off tangled under a blanket and empty glasses nearby.

the next morning, you find the note slipped under your glass, a tiny smudge of ash on the corner.

“you're the first person i wanted to kiss 24/7. still do.”

found under your glass on new years morning.

you walk into the kitchen, where joel’s already making breakfast, hair sticking up at odd angles.

you say nothing, just wrap your arms around him from behind and press a kiss to the back of his neck.

“mornin’,”

“happy new year, miller.”

the sun’s out for the first time in weeks. you’re on your knees in the dirt, planting the tiny new shoots you bartered for at the last jackson market. you reach under the flower box to adjust its footing and feel paper brush your fingers.

“spring makes everything bloom. you make me soften.”

found under the porch flower box when you’re planting the first seeds of the year.

you glance up, heart doing that fluttery thing again.

joel’s watching you from the porch, arms crossed, trying not to look obvious.

you hold the note up like a trophy.

“i’m gonna start putting you in a flower box if you keep saying stuff like this.”

he chuckles. “least i’d get some sun.”

you catch him red-handed.

you’re pretending to look for the cinnamon, but really, you’re watching joel from the corner of your eye.

he’s in the living room. thinks you’re distracted. he pulls a note from his back pocket. worn and folded just like all the others and carefully tucks it into your current read on the side table.

you wait until he leaves the room. then you grab the book and open it to find:

“you caught me this time.”

you smile, heart full to the brim, and tiptoe into the hallway.

he’s already halfway up the stairs. you call out, “joel?”

he turns. you hold up the note.

“i think you’re due for a kiss.”

he raises a brow. “that so?”

you nod. “caught you fair and square.”

he smiles wide, just for you.

you press it to your chest, eyes warm. “you don’t have to hide them, you know.”

he shrugs. “kinda liked the hunt.”

you grin and slip your arms around his waist. “then next time, i’m leaving you a note.”

his eyebrows lift. “oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you whisper. “but good luck finding mine.” you’re true to your word.

the next morning, joel is suspicious from the moment he wakes. his coffee is poured, breakfast warm on the table, but you’re suspiciously chipper.

grinning behind your mug like you know something he doesn’t.

because you do.

he pretends not to notice. you pretend you didn’t spend twenty minutes figuring out where to hide the note without him spotting you.

he checks his boots. his coat pockets. even lifts the lid of the sugar jar like maybe you got creative. nothing.

you say nothing. just kiss his cheek and remind him to be careful on patrol.

he kisses you back, lingers a second longer than usual.

when he came back, you found him hunched over the kitchen table, brow furrowed like he’s working a puzzle. he doesn’t even hear you walk in

“you looking for something?”

he glances up, caught again. “i might be.”

you hum, lean against the doorway, smug.

“maybe you just missed it.”

you step closer, brush a curl from his forehead. “want a hint?”

he tilts his chin, inviting. “hit me.”

you lean in and whisper against his ear. “page 237.”

and went outside.

you’d caught him rereading it late at night, the pages softened by time and thumbed-through affection.

he finds the note folded neatly at the page you marked, stuck between a paragraph about dust and distance.

"even when you’re quiet, i hear you. even when you’re gone, i feel you between my legs, in my chest, under my skin. you ruin me, and i want more. always.”

“jesus, baby…” he murmurs, almost to himself.

joel reads it twice. folds it once more, careful, and tucks it into his back pocket like it belongs there—like it always did.

by the time you walk into the room—barefoot and innocent like you didn’t just unravel him with one line. joel's still holding the note.

he looks up at you, eyes a little glossy, a little wide. stunned in that quiet joel kind of way. all softness and awe and love that has nowhere to go but into you.

“you tryna start something, sweetheart?”

you shrug, lazy and sweet. “maybe i’m just reminding you.”

his hand finds your waist. then your throat. gentle, possessive, reverent.

“remindin’ me of what?”

you lean in, lips brushing his jaw, whispering the answer against his skin:

“that i'm yours and you're mine. always.”

joel groans low in his throat. you swear you feel it echo through your bones.

“you ever gonna stop leaving these?” he murmurs, voice thick with something softer than sleep.

“not unless you want me to.”

he shakes his head, gaze pinned to you like you hung the damn moon. “don’t you dare.”

"you too."

“come here,” he mutters, already walking you backward toward the bedroom. “you started it, baby. now you finish it.”

and you do.

with nothing but quiet gasps, loud moans, the sound of skin coated with sweat slapping and the rustle of worn sheets and the sound of joel loving you.

[ohjoelmiller]

polaroid hearts

pairings joel miller x reader

summary during a quiet patrol, you and joel find a working polaroid camera at a gas station. later, you discover he’s been secretly taking pictures of you.

tags established relationship, slow-burn, tender moments, filled with cuteness overload, fluff, and sweet romance as joel secretly cherishes the memories you create together.

masterlist

it happens on a slow day. one of the rare ones.

the two of you stumble on the gas station, half-collapsed but still standing while on patrol together. it’s one of those quiet, golden afternoons, where everything feels just a little softer.

no infected, no people. just you, joel, and the crunch of gravel beneath your boots.

inside, the place is mostly ransacked, long picked clean by the past patrol.

you and joel knew but for some reason decided to check inside.

“i’ll check the back,” he says, brushing his hand across your lower back as he passes.

that little touch. simple and instinctive still gives you butterflies.

you sift through shelves, overturned display racks, old register drawers. you’re about to move on when something behind the counter catches your eye.

a polaroid camera.

“no way…” you murmur, pulling it out carefully. joel hears you and rounds the corner, shotgun lowered but alert.

“you find somethin’?” you hold it up.

he pokes his head around the doorway, rifle slung over his shoulder.

“a camera?”

“polaroid,” you say, tapping it with your knuckle.

“retro as hell. wonder if it still—” you press the button. the machine clicks loudly, a little wheeze and miraculously a photo begins to slide out.

“no way,” you whisper, grinning like an idiot. “it works!” joel eyes it with suspicion. “that thing still got film?” “got two whole packs, looks like. better make ‘em count.” joel chuckles low in his throat, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, watching you with that soft, fond look he probably doesn’t realize he wears just for you. “okay,” you say, turning toward him, “your turn.”

his smile fades a little. “nah. i’m good.”

you walk toward him slowly, raising the camera. “just one. for me.”

he sighs, not quite meeting your eyes. “i look like hell.”

you lean up on your toes and kiss his cheek. “you look like you. that’s what i want.” joel lets out a soft huff, but the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little.

“alright, fine. go on, then.” you raise the camera and snap the shot just as he squints at the light, caught between a smile and a protest. he’s caught mid-squint, sun in his eyes, standing near the light coming through the shattered window. there’s the hint of a smile on his lips

the photo slides out with a buzz. you hold it delicately, waiting for it to develop.

“now i can remember this face when you’re grumpy tomorrow,” you say, giving the photo a dramatic little wave.

“i’m not grumpy.” he crosses his arms but doesn’t say more.

you tuck the picture carefully into your pocket, joel watches you do it.

“you’re keepin’ that?” he asks, voice softer now.

“of course i am,” you say without hesitation. “you look…so damn handsome.”

joel shakes his head, but you can see it—the blush he tries to hide behind a chuckle.

that same week —

the fire crackles, sending flickers of amber light across joel’s front porch. the night in jackson is quiet as you sit beside joel, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair, fingers tracing slow patterns against the worn wood.

without thinking, he reaches for the camera.

the button clicks, and you don’t even stir.

the photo slides out, and joel takes it gently, shielding it in his hands as it develops.

you, caught mid-thought, a soft, genuine smile playing at your lips. no walls, no guarded edges—just you.

you felt it before you saw it.

you watch him, stunned into silence by how careful he is with it.

the subtle shift in joel’s posture, the way he straightened just slightly, like he was preparing for something. you caught the way his fingers lingered near the polaroid camera, the telltale glance in your direction, quick, like he was checking, like he was making sure you weren’t looking.

but you were.

when the image begins to appear, joel stares at it. a smile spreads across his face. slow, sweet, impossible to hide.

you fought the smirk threatening to rise, keeping your expression soft, easy, like you hadn’t noticed a thing.

“whatcha doin’?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you like really looks. there’s something in his eyes, something unspoken.

“you were peacefully looking at the fire’ earlier,” he says softly, lifting the camera.

“you looked… i don’t know. happy. i don’t see you like that near enough.”

“joel,” you murmur, already blushing.

“goddamn,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in quiet awe. “how’d i get so lucky?” he looks at you then.

“you. just sittin’ there. smilin’ like that.”

you don’t know what to say. your heart’s pounding.

joel watches you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a grin.

you catch the way he glances at the camera, the way he shifts slightly like he’s debating something. so, naturally, you decide to make his choice easier.

with exaggerated enthusiasm, you lift your hands to your face, shaping them into hearts and pressing them against your cheeks, tilting your head.

“how’s this for a shot?” you tease, batting your lashes for effect.

joel exhales a laugh and lifts the camera without hesitation.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters, shaking his head. click.

the photo slides out, and joel picks it up with practiced care.

you lean forward, watching it develop, your heart hammering just a little faster than it should.

slowly, your image comes into view—that sweet pose, the warmth in your expression, the way the firelight softens everything.

but the real giveaway is joel’s face when he sees it—how his lips press together like he’s trying to suppress something big.

you poke his arm. “what? didn’t turn out?”

he shakes his head, eyes still glued to the picture. “no,” he says, voice quieter now. “turned out too good.”

you blink at him, watching the way his fingers trace the edges of the photo like it’s something delicate.

and then without a word he tucks it away in his jacket, alongside the other. “wait,” you laugh, reaching for it. “that one’s mine.”

joel leans back, smug now. “nope.”

you try again. he dodges.

“joel,” you groan, half-laughing, half-serious.

he smirks, finally meeting your eyes.

“gonna keep it with the others,” he says simply, patting his jacket.

you blink. “…others?”

joel doesn’t answer, just watches the fire again, completely unbothered by the way your mind is now racing with the thought of just how many pictures he’s been secretly collecting all this time.

you sit back, grinning like an idiot.

you’ll find them someday.

the fire has burned low now, embers glowing soft in the night. you sigh, shifting closer, and joel doesn’t hesitate. his arm settles around you, firm, steady. he’s always been solid, always been something to hold onto, even when he doesn’t realize it.

your cheek presses against his shoulder, breath evening out. joel turns slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes soft in the firelight.

“you tired?”

you hum a little, not quite answering, just letting yourself sink into the warmth of him. his fingers trace slow patterns against your arm, absentminded, gentle.

“you’re gonna steal all the polaroids, aren’t you?”

you smile without opening your eyes. “obviously.” joel huffs a quiet laugh, tilting his head back. “gotta admit, i like the thought of you keeping ‘em.”

your fingers tighten just slightly against his sleeve, something deep settling in your chest.

“you should be in more of them,” you say, voice low, drowsy. “maybe.” you know that you’ll get your chance to capture more of him.

one memory at a time.

just like he’s been doing with you.

the next week —

you and joel are back on patrol, weaving through the forest on the edge of jackson. the sunlight filters through the branches in scattered beams, casting long, golden streaks across the moss and ferns.

you’re walking ahead, checking the brush for signs of anything recent, when you hear him behind you.

“hey,” joel says, voice low.

you glance back. he’s a few paces behind, hands resting casually on the straps of his backpack. his rifle hangs across his back.

there's something about the way he’s looking at you. like he’s trying to decide something.

you slow your pace until you're side by side. “what’s up?”

he doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just studies the clearing you’ve stepped into—a little patch of light surrounded by trees, the trail winding quiet through it.

“you, uh…” he clears his throat. “still got that camera?” you pause, the mug halfway to your lips. you don’t smile. not yet.

just nod. “yeah. in my bag.” you tilt your head, curious. “why?”

joel shifts his weight, eyes scanning the tree line like he’s stalling, but there's no tension in his shoulders. “just figured…” his hand lifts halfway, then drops again. “if you still wanted a real picture. of me.”

you blink at him. “now?”

he gives a small nod, almost sheepish. “better light out here than back home. figured maybe… the trees’d look better behind me than a damn porch railing.”

you smile, slow and warm. “alright, joel. c’mere.”

he exhales like he’s already regretting it, but walks over without protest. you watch as he steps into the clearing, finding a spot where the sunlight filters through the canopy. he plants his boots in the moss and— pop.

there it is.

that knee.

he shifts his weight onto one leg, resting the other with just a slight bend, popping his knee out like he always does when he’s standing still. like it’s habit. like it’s comfort.

you grin. “you always stand like that.”

joel furrows his brow. “like what?”

you tilt your camera down, gesturing. “that knee. you pop it every time you’re trying to look like you’re not posing.”

he scoffs under his breath. “ain’t posin’.”

“mmm,” you hum, raising the camera again. “sure you’re not.”

he doesn’t argue. just lets his arms cross loosely over his chest, posture relaxed—but that knee stays popped, his weight settled the way it always is when he’s just being himself.

you look through the lens, and your chest tightens.

joel, out in the open, just him. honest. unhidden. carefree. standing there in the quiet green of the woods like he belongs to it. like he belongs here, with you.

click.

the camera clicks, and the photo slides out with that familiar little whir. you cradle it in your hands as it begins to develop, shielding it gently from the breeze.

joel steps closer, watching with quiet curiosity. you hold the picture up between you both as the image starts to form.

slow and ghostlike at first, then clearer.

joel beneath the trees, that knee popped, hands relaxed. his face half in sunlight. eyes soft. like he’s not fighting anything in that second.

you glance over. “you look good.”

he studies it for a beat. “didn’t even realize i stood like that.”

you smirk. “i know. that’s what makes it good.”

“so,” you begin, your voice teasing, “didn’t know you were such a softie, joel.”

joel’s eyes soften, a rare, quiet affection flickering there. “you got me figured out, sweetheart. ain’t nobody else sees it like you do."

“i just… don’t mind you takin' my picture, sweetheart."

you laugh lightly. "if you keep standing like that, sure."

"you’re really gonna give me crap about the knee, aren’t you?"

“hey, i’m not judging. just sayin’, it’s part of your charm,” you tease, nudging his shoulder again.

“yeah?” joel ask, looking over at him.

your heart does that thing again. just a little at his words. you keep your gaze ahead, not wanting him to catch the way your cheeks warm.

the rain starts in the early afternoon. you and joel cut patrol short before it rolls in fully, returning soaked but laughing, hoods dripping, boots heavy.

now, the storm taps gently at the windows.

joel’s upstairs tinkering with a stubborn window latch, while you curl up on his couch with a blanket and a mug of tea, the room filled with the low hiss of the fire.

you shift to get more comfortable, and something slips off the armrest with a soft thump, joel’s flannel jacket.

you lean down to pick it up. as you straighten it, your fingers brush something stiff in the chest pocket.

curious, you slip your hand inside.

polaroids.

you blink.

carefully, you pull them out, all tucked together. the edges are worn, a little soft, clearly touched over and over again. it’s you.

sitting by the fire, cheeks pink from cold. you’re laughing, eyes crinkled.

the next: you curled up in the joel’s couch, fast asleep, head tipped against the window. sunlight streaks through the glass. there’s a shadow in the bottom corner. joel’s hand, maybe. close but not touching.

another: you in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, tongue between your teeth in concentration. light pouring in from the window. one of your socks is mismatched.

then the one, hands on your cheeks in a heart shape, eyes squinting with laughter.

you remember that one. you remember how warm he looked at you afterward, even when he tried to hide it.

you flip to the last one. you, in profile, sitting on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders. the light hits your face in this soft, golden way that feels more like a memory than a photograph.

you aren’t smiling. you’re just… peaceful.

you don’t even hear joel’s footsteps until he appears. he stops mid-step when he sees what you’re holding.

“guess you found ‘em.”

you look back down at the photos, heart full and aching in equal measure. “you’ve been carrying these around?”

he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “didn’t mean to hide ’em, really. just… i dunno.”

you trace the edge of the photo with your thumb. “these are all of me.”

joel nods slowly. “yeah.”

“you don’t have any of yourself.”

he shrugs. “don’t need any of me. i remember me just fine.”

your chest squeezes. you walk over, placing the photos gently on the table, and wrap your arms around his neck. his hands settle on your back, one of them coming up to cup the back of your head.

“you’ve been holding onto me,” you whisper. joel leans his head down against yours, murmuring into your hair. “always.”

you pull back enough to meet his eyes. “you know i’m stealing one, right?”

“figured you might.”

“this one’s mine.”

he watches you tuck it into your pocket with a fondness so open, so sweet, it leaves you breathless.

you smile at him. “don’t worry. i’m gonna take so many pictures of you, you won’t know where to keep them.”

explicit version — coming soooon!

[ohjoelmiller]

Meet the Millers Masterlist - NEW CHAPTERS COMING APRIL 16TH, 2025!

Moving into the Boston Quarantine Zone after nearly 20 years on the outside takes some adjusting. A misdirection one night guides you to the 3 men who will change the course of your life.

Benny Miller x Will Miller x Joel Miller x f!reader

Overall rating: M for mature themes. 18+ only!

*UPDATE MARCH 2025: I am officially continuing this series after 3 years of debating! “Part 2” will pick up on Chapter 12, only a short bit after the ending of Chapter 11 (despite me taking 3 years to write it lol)

*Also note this was written before the release of the show!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 (this is where the fic originally ended in March 2021)

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Extras:

Video Edit made by @livingmydreams13

Video edit made by @livingmydreams13

[ohjoelmiller]

THE LAST OF US 1x04 | 2x06

[ohjoelmiller]

they’re laughing like they didn’t just rip our hearts out.

[ohjoelmiller]

oh ☹️

[ohjoelmiller]

PEDRO PASCAL AND BELLA RAMSEY, THOSE EMMYS ARE GOING HOME WITH YOU NO MATTER WHAT

[ohjoelmiller]

not good, i’m violently crying 😭😭😭

How are those of us without dads holding up tonight

[ohjoelmiller]

goodbye, goodbye, you were bigger than the whole sky.

[ohjoelmiller]

“when you love someone you always see their face.”

[ohjoelmiller]

i don’t know if i’ll ever recover from that episode