eff4freddie - Tumblr blog

eff4freddie · 1 month ago

Text

Oh this is delightful. I’m hoooooooked.

Falling For You - Part 2

Joel Miller x f!reader | 10k | 18+ | masterlist | fic masterlist | ao3

fic summary: Joel Miller gave up on the idea of a soulmate at least 20 years and one apocalypse ago. But it turns out the universe hasn't given up on him quite yet.

Part 2: Joel was pretty sure he couldn't do this.

a/n: hellooo it's time for part 2! where did Joel run off to? let's find out! see tags/warnings below and check the fic masterlist for the full tags. Thank you again @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta!! 🧡

tags/warnings for part 2: fluff, angst, panic attack (Joel), more family fluff, some pretty negative inner monologue (Joel), more soulmate lore, pregnancy mention (Maria), stop reading here if you like surprises, hand holding, a bit of other (PG) touching, reader has a brother who died, hand kiss, cheek kiss

Part 2

Joel was on the other side of Jackson before he registered his surroundings.

He came back to himself leaning against one of the houses they were working on, clear across town, chest heaving. He was covered in sweat but he felt ice cold all over.

He couldn’t breathe.

His chest felt tight, like it couldn’t expand far enough to let in any air, like he was trapped in a vice. He pushed back and leaned harder against the wall until his feet started to slip out from under him on the grass. He slid and stumbled his way to sitting against the wall in the dirt.

Joel knocked his head back against the wall and groaned.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” he muttered aloud. He couldn’t breathe.

And that was how Tommy found him.

“Whoa, shit,” he heard from his right and grimaced. “Joel? What the fuck–”

Tommy cut himself off as he dropped on his knees next to him. “Shit,” he repeated, reaching forward to grasp Joel’s shoulder.

Joel shuddered. “Can’t–” he tried to suck in a breath and failed. “Can’t breathe.”

“Alright, hey, big brother,” Tommy said, sounding a bit winded himself. He grabbed one of Joel’s hands and put it against his chest, and then flattened his own over Joel’s heart. Joel reached up and grasped it. Tommy pushed on his chest, just a bit, and Joel felt like his lungs opened up with the pressure. “Breathe with me, Joel. Just try and do what I’m doin’.”

He tried, and he couldn’t for a while. But Tommy was patient and after a long while of no sounds in their little corner but Joel’s breathing and Tommy’s voice, low and encouraging, he felt his breath begin to slow.

When Joel could finally draw in a deep breath again, he realized his hands were shaking.

“Shit,” he said, the first words he’d said in god knows how long. “Fuck.”

Tommy huffed a laugh and collapsed next to him against the wall. “You got that right. Shit and fuck, Joel.”

He clasped his hands together and focused on his breathing. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Yeah, I know.”

“That happen often?” Tommy asked, looking over at him.

Joel closed his eyes, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “Not so much lately. That’s what… I told you about it. Before.”

Tommy let out a long breath. “Yeah, I remember.” For a moment neither of them said anything, their breathing the only sound aside from the light breeze rusting the grass and the leaves of the tree that was shielding them from the road.

It turned out that out-of-his-mind-with-panic Joel was good at finding hiding spots. Huh, he thought, looking around.

“What…” Tommy sighed, cleared his throat. “What set it off?”

Joel could tell by his tone he was worried Joel wouldn’t answer. He definitely didn’t want to answer but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to hide this. Not in a town this small. “She–” he coughed. Took a long, slow breath. “Tommy.”

“Joel.” His brother nudged his arm with his elbow and Joel sighed again.

“It’s… fuck. Ok.” He closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. “Bolts.”

There was a pause, and then Tommy said, in a slow, confused voice, “what about her?”

“She’s– Tommy, she’s my–” He couldn’t say it. How could he say it? He didn’t know how to say it.

Tommy turned towards him on the grass, eyebrows raised. “Wait. No. No fucking way.”

Joel groaned.

“No, you’re shitting me.” Tommy was starting to smile, then, and Joel closed his eyes again. “She’s what, Joel? Say it.”

Joel sighed what felt like the heaviest, longest sigh of his life. “She’s my…” he shook his head and he swore he could feel Tommy roll his eyes.

“She’s your one, ain’t she?” Tommy was outright grinning now, Joel could hear it. That little shit. “Holy fucking shit, Joel. Goddamn. Bolts is your soulmate?” Joel gave in and looked at his brother and the excitement on his face almost made him want to hide again.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking down.

“Shit, Joel.” Tommy nudged him with hand. “What are you doin’ all the way over here?” He gestured at the yard around them.

Joel shook his head, brow furrowed. “I panicked,” he said, voice low. “Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Just… panicked. And ran.”

“You what?”

“I fucking ran, Tommy. What do you think I was doin’ over here, meditatin’? I ran and I couldn’t fuckin’ breathe and I don’t even know how I got here.” Joel was pissed at the universe for doing this to him, but most of all at himself. He felt his chest start to heave again until Tommy reached out and squeezed his upper arm.

“Hey,” he said, “ain’t no way you’re the first person to panic at meetin’ their soulmate.” Joel side-eyed him. “What, it’s probably true! Just– just go back and talk to her, it’ll be–”

Joel was shaking his head. “No,” he said, voice as firm as he could make it. “No way. I’m not goin’ back.”

“Joel–”

“No, Tommy. I won’t.” He didn’t know how to say what he was thinking, that she deserved better and he was broken, anyone could see it, why would he inflict that on anyone else and this? all this was… god she was so fucking beautiful. What would she think of him?

“Joel.” He could hear the exasperation coming back in Tommy’s voice. “You can’t–”

“I can.” He said and struggled to his feet. “And I will.”

He could hear Tommy’s sigh all the way down the block.

…

Joel spent the next two days hiding. There wasn’t a better word for it. He couldn’t pretend, not in his own head.

At one of their construction projects he managed to find and swap with someone who had patrol assigned the next day. He let Ellie know at dinner, and she grumbled again about not getting to go but didn’t seem to notice that Joel was very carefully not looking around the dining hall. Ellie was going to have a longer day again anyway, with some sort of special project at school in the afternoon.

Patrol kept him outside of Jackson for a while, and he felt his shoulders release the moment he rode through the gates. It was a boring route but just interesting enough to keep him from thinking.

Perfect.

That night he convinced Ellie to have dinner in, at home. He’d thought about it on patrol – now that he knew what Bolts looked like, he was certain he’d seen her around. He was certain he’d see her at the dining hall, too.

He squashed his brain’s attempts to linger on how perfectly he could picture her, after such a short time seeing her.

On the second day he went and dug into one of their projects on the outskirts of town, losing himself in the mindless tasks of ripping up carpet and sanding wood floors.

It was mid-afternoon before he realized he’d forgotten something important.

He froze when he heard Tommy stomp inside the building with Darren, knowing that meant it was well after 2 o’clock. It was Thursday, and therefore a day Ellie didn’t have school in the afternoon.

A day when she would go pick up supplies from Nuts ‘n Bolts. And he could ignore Tommy – he had years of practice, after all – but he wasn’t going to ignore Ellie.

Fuck.

…

That night Joel walked to the dining hall full of dread. He’d wracked his brain all afternoon and failed to come up with another excuse to eat at home. Besides, Ellie was a smart kid – she’d see through him sooner or later. And he had a feeling it would be sooner if she’d talked to Bolts.

Not that he thought she’d say anything. Not that he knew her, but from the way Ellie talked about her…

Joel very purposefully stopped thinking about it.

He stopped outside of the doors and took a deep, slow breath.

“Hey, brother,” he heard from behind him, and stifled a groan.

“Tommy,” he greeted, turning to look.

Tommy was squinting at him. “Showing your face today, hmm?”

“Shut up.” Joel walked inside without looking back.

At dinner, Joel used his Ellie and Maria buffer from Tommy to the best of his abilities. He kept Ellie talking about school and found himself asking Maria questions like he never had before.

Tommy eyed him the whole time.

“Hey Maria,” Ellie asked towards the end of the meal, looking thoughtful. “How many soulmates are there in Jackson? Tommy made it sound like a lot.”

Tommy laughed. “I didn’t say a lot, I just said it had happened at the gate before.”

Maria raised an eyebrow at her husband. “I’m not sure, Ellie,” she smiled. “According to George it’s more than the general population, Before. Percentage-wise. He was a sociologist.”

“What’s that?” Ellie asked, leaning forward.

“Like a scientist who studies societies and human behavior.”

Ellie sat up straight. “Cool! George from the stables?” Maria nodded and Ellie grinned. “Nice. I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

Joel looked over at her. “You goin’ to the stables tomorrow?”

Ellie nodded, looking smug. “I’ve got a delivery and a pick-up to do for Bolts.”

Joel coughed and clung to his neutral expression with every ounce of willpower he had.

“What?” Ellie said, eyeing him.

“Nothin’,” he wheezed and took a sip of water. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

Ellie rolled her eyes and patted him on the back. “What, are you too old to eat unsupervised now?” Tommy laughed and Joel scowled at him.

“You know, we’ve had a few more new people,” Tommy said, tone way too innocent. Joel narrowed his eyes. “Maybe we’ll be hearing about some new soulmates soon.”

Ellie perked up while Joel glowered, trying to transmit stop hinting into Tommy’s annoying little mind. “Ooh, yeah! Maybe I’ll get to see it next time.”

A few minutes passed without Joel realizing he’d stopped listening, until Ellie elbowed him in the ribs. He grunted and raised an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“What’s with you?”

“Nothin’.” Joel knew the moment the word let his lips it was the wrong move – she’d never believe him, and now she was insulted.

Ellie narrowed her eyes at him and he sighed. “No,” she said, tone suspicious. “Something is up with you.” Joel felt Maria’s gaze land on him too and stifled a groan. He was certain Tommy was grinning. “I’m going to figure it out, you know.”

Joel shrugged. “Nothin’ to figure out.” His tone was mild but he knew it probably sounded as forced as it felt. He needed to get out of there, out from under the too-knowing gazes of his brother and his kid. Not to mention Maria, who didn’t know him that well but was probably the smartest person in this damn town.

Not that he was going to tell her that.

Ellie glared at him for a minute and then allowed Tommy to change the subject. Joel didn’t trust it for a second.

…

She didn’t ask him about it when they got home, which put Joel even more on edge. She didn’t ask about it before she went to bed, either, or in the morning before school.

Joel was rusty but he recognized the paranoia that settled over him, the paranoia of knowing his kid was plotting something. Even if he didn’t know what.

Sarah, too smart for her own good, had done this to him more than once. There was the year she became determined to find her Christmas presents early. She’d launched an investigation in their house like nothing he’d ever seen, but still never found them. (They’d been at Tommy’s apartment the whole time.) And then there was the time she’d tried to set him up with her soccer coach (who was happily married, though Sarah hadn’t known that, and who had thankfully thought it was hilarious).

So when Joel found himself looking over his shoulder for a small, too smart menace all day, at least it felt familiar.

Somehow she still managed to catch him completely unawares when she pounced.

“You’re frowning even more than usual, so it must be bad,” she said, appearing from absolutely nowhere inside the house he was working on. Joel did not jump a foot in the air. He certainly didn’t make any noise. And he definitely didn’t launch his screwdriver 10 feet across the room.

“Jesus Christ, Ellie, make some goddamn noise,” he said, heart racing. He leaned against the wall next to him and turned to look at her. She was leaning against the doorway looking far too smug. He grimaced.

“You know your face is gonna get stuck like that.” She grinned at him. He’d said that to her on the road and now she said it to him every time he frowned. He didn’t think she’d noticed yet that he frowned more now because it made him feel warm inside every time she said it, when she picked up stuff like that from him.

Joel sighed. “I’m fine.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Sure. You’re not being weird at all, just like this morning when you left your coffee on the counter and didn’t drink it, or two days ago when you insisted we had to eat dinner at home and miss that weird chicken you like, or when you suddenly swapped patrol shifts with Pete rather than do whatever you’re doing in here. Totally normal Joel behavior. Nothing to see here, folks!”

Joel was a bit taken aback. “Ellie–”

Her face fell and he felt it like a fist around his heart. She seemed unsure of what she wanted to say but frowned. “We’re supposed to be honest with each other, Joel. If you don’t– if–”

“Hey,” he said, and held out a hand. Ellie came over and sat next to him as he slid down onto the floor. “I’m alright. I… It’s nothin’ like that. I’m just— I’m thinking through something’. Gettin’ my mind around it..” He winced internally, knowing he’d promised her already that he’d talk about soulmates, if and when it happened. Maybe he could put that off indefinitely. “It’s nothin’ bad. I promise. Just…” he sighed. “I need to think a bit. Let me figure it out, ok?”

She squinted at him again and nodded. “Ok. I can’t believe you didn’t drink your coffee, though.”

Joel groaned. “Me neither.” No wonder he felt like shit.

“And you have to tell me eventually.”

He sighed and shook his head. “I know, kiddo. I know.”

…

After all that, he couldn't muster the effort to even be surprised when Tommy was waiting on their front porch when they got home. Time’s up, Joel thought to himself, sighing. Just three days and he was already being cornered.

“Evening, folks,” Tommy said, smiling. Ellie doffed an imaginary cowboy hat at him before she scooted inside and Joel smiled against his will.

“Tommy,” he said, voice wary.

Tommy eyed him. “We need to chat.”

“Tommy–”

“Joel.” Tommy raised his eyebrows. For a moment they just looked at each other, and then Joel sighed.

“Get inside, then.”

Tommy followed him in and took a seat at the kitchen table. Joel heard the back door shut as Ellie went into the backyard. He sighed. “Well?”

Tommy leaned forward and didn’t waste time. “When are you going to talk to her?”

“I’m not.” Joel crossed his arms and frowned, looking away from his brother.

Tommy scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Joel, you live in the same very small, rural, post-apocalyptic commune. You’re renovatin’ the damn town and she’s in charge of our supply inventory. How exactly do you plan to manage that?”

Joel frowned down at the table.

“Don’t answer that, I know you don’t have a plan. You’re just hidin’.”

Joel looked up at his brother, scowling. “I am not–”

“You are,” Tommy said, pointing at him, “and we both know it. You’ve done it before, Joel. When you met Sarah’s mama? When our mama found out you quit football and didn’t tell her?” Tommy counted each item off his fingers. “It’s not the first time you’ve run off to think about somethin’. Sure it won’t be the last.” Tommy tapped on the table. “But there ain’t no other way this ends, big brother. You have to talk to her.”

“Tommy, I don’t…” he trailed off. He took a deep breath and finally let out the question that had sent him running, that had been crowding behind his teeth for 3 days no matter how he tried to choke it back. “Did you ever think about what it meant, that you found Maria here? Here and now, in Jackson.”

Tommy sighed. His face fell, and Joel knew that his brother understood what he was asking. Of course he did, Joel never should have doubted him. “You mean, this whole business is supposed to be fate, right?”

“Right,” Joel said, wincing. He wanted to get up and walk away from the conversation but he knew Tommy wouldn’t let him. Wouldn’t put it past him to sit on him and make him have it. It wouldn’t be the first time, and even if he never said it out loud, Joel knew he was getting old. Older than the last time he’d wrestled his brother, for sure. He curled his hands into fists and pressed them into the table.

“And if fate brought you here, what’s that mean about everything else that happened?” Tommy’s voice was soft and knowing and the words hit Joel like blows.

He blinked and dropped his face into his hands. His hands were shaking. “Tommy–”

“Joel, I been thinkin’ about that for years, now.” Joel looked up to find Tommy frowning, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “And I don’t think it works like that. No, hear me out,” he said, raising a hand when Joel started to protest. “Maria and I have talked about everything at this point, everywhere we’ve been since, you know, and even before that. And Joel, wouldn’t you know it, but we almost met twice before this.” Tommy raised his eyebrows.

Joel blinked. “What? How–”

Tommy nodded. “Once in Austin. Once when I took that trip, Before, out to California.” Joel’s jaw dropped. “We were even in the same room once.” He laughed, and Joel couldn’t help but huff a startled laugh in response. “It was a big room — well, a mall, technically, at the food court — but still.”

“No kiddin’?”

Tommy laughed again. “No kiddin’. So, way I see it, the universe is bringing us together, somehow, but it wasn’t necessarily meant to happen now.” He shrugged. “I won’t pretend I’m some genius. But it feels right. And George told me it’s not uncommon for that to be true, for people to have near misses like that. Even more common now after everything.”

Joel sat back in his chair heavily. Could it be? He wanted to believe and wanted to run away from it, all at once. He couldn’t bear the thought that any of this – Sarah, Tess, Bill, Frank – he cut himself off. He couldn’t bear the thought of any of that being fated. It made him want to scream, made him want to tear things apart. Tear himself apart.

But if Tommy was right… for a long moment he just closed his eyes and breathed.

“Shit,” he said finally, and Tommy smiled. “I can’t… I need to think.”

But of course Tommy wasn’t going to let him. “So,” Tommy said, leaning forward again. “When are you going to talk to her? You gotta, Joel.”

Joel’s heart was racing as he came down from the rush at what Tommy had just told him. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and groaned. “What do I even say, Tommy? ‘Hey, sorry for the massive fuckin’ disappointment I’m sure it is to be my soulmate, nice to meet you.” He shook his head, waving a hand at Tommy when he opened his mouth. “Don’t even start. We both know–”

“Soulmate?!” Joel whipped his head to the right and found Ellie standing in the doorway, hand pressed against each side of the door frame. She was leaning forward into the kitchen, face and tone incredulous. “Joel, what the fuck–”

“Ellie,” he groaned and then glared at Tommy, who raised his hands in front of his chest.

“No, Joel, what the fuck,” she repeated, stepping inside. “You found your soulmate?! When?!” She slapped both palms down on the table. “Who is it?”

Tommy looked between the two of them and then opened his mouth. Joel leaned forward. “It’s–” Tommy started.

“Tommy,” Joel growled, cutting him off.

Ellie and Tommy both started talking at once.

“Joel, you can’t–” Ellie said, crossing her arms.

Tommy rolled his eyes. “It’s not like you can keep it a secret forever, brother,” he said.

“I know that,” he said, voice tense. “Let me tell her.”

Tommy nodded, leaning back in his chair.

“Ellie, it’s–”

“Is this what you were hiding?” She interrupted, frowning.

He nodded. “I just… needed some time.”

She looked at him for a moment and then looked down and set her jaw. “Joel, we said we’d live. That was the deal.”

“I know it was.” He leaned towards her.

“You said you’d tell me, because it seems like getting to know your soulmate might be part of living.” She looked up at him and then back at the floor as she recited his words back to him. “Because FEDRA was full of shit, right? About pretty much everything.” Her tone said she wanted him to tell her that was true. It was something they’d talked about on the road, a bit, an idea she was still getting used to after growing up in their care.

“Right,” he said, voice firm. He didn’t want her to doubt that for a second.

She nodded. “And soulmates must be something good, then. If they didn’t like ‘em.” She sounded like she was reminding herself as well as him.

Joel nodded, watching her. “Yeah.”

“Who is it?” Ellie asked again, finally, and Joel leaned back.

“It’s Bolts,” he said, and her head flew upwards, mouth dropping. “When we met the other day. We heard it.”

Her mouth made a little ‘o’ of surprise and he felt himself smile. “Really?!”

He nodded. “Really. I, uh. I wasn’t… I just needed some time,” he repeated again, grasping for the certainty he’d felt for the last three days, that staying away was for the best. It was slipping away from him and he knew he wasn’t ready for what he might find in its place.

Ellie moved forward and leaned against the table next to him. She poked him in the shoulder. “Maybe you can take your time and talk to her at the same time. Or something. Bolts is cool, man, you’ll see.”

“She is,” Tommy agreed.

Joel looked between his brother and his kid and he knew he was outnumbered.

“Ok,” he said, and they both smiled. “Ok, look, if I promise to talk to her, will you lay off?” He looked between them. “Both of you. I can’t…” He scrubbed one of his hands through his hair. Ellie reached out and ruffled it up some more and he smiled. “I’ll talk to her but let me take my time, alright?”

They nodded. Tommy stood up. “Alright, Joel. Let me know if you want to talk about it. I’ll see y’all at dinner,” he said, and squeezed Joel’s shoulder on the way out.

When the door shut behind him, Ellie started to move away, but Joel caught her arm. “Hey,” he said, voice soft. “You know… you know you come first, right?”

She furrowed her brow but met his eyes. “What?”

Joel sighed. “I’m not… I’m not rushin’. But you know, no matter what. Soulmate or not. You come first for me. It’s you and me, Ellie. Before everythin’ else. Ok?”

Ellie wavered for a second, looking a bit like she had no idea what to do with that information. “Joel–”

“Just need you to know that, is all,” he murmured, poking her in the arm.

She grimaced and then grinned as she poked him back. “I do know that, Joel.” She looked shy and he smiled.

“Good.”

“Yeah, ok, enough feelings.” She pretended to puke and backed away from him. He laughed, feeling lighter than he had since he’d heard the music.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go find dinner, kiddo.”

…

Promise made, Joel knew his time had run out. Still, he managed to push it three more days, until Monday. He drifted through those three days and tried not to think too hard about what he was going to do.

Ellie kept giving him looks, though, so he knew he couldn’t get away with going any longer than that. But she kept her word and she and Tommy both laid off of him.

When Joel stood up from his desk on Monday afternoon, though, Tommy grinned. “Where ya headed?”

“Mind your business, you old busybody,” Joel said, and stalked out of the office before Tommy could tell him he sounded like their mother, who used to say that often.

“Ok, mom!” Tommy yelled after him, and Joel sighed as he headed out the front door.

The walk to Nuts ‘n Bolts was quicker than he would have liked, and Joel grimaced when he stood outside the door. He tugged at his shirt sleeves and then sighed. Not like it’s gettin’ any better than this, he thought.

“Alright, Miller,” he muttered to himself. “Buck up.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and stepped forward to open the door.

He’d barely taken three steps inside when he heard her voice and froze in his tracks. “I’ll be right there,” she called, and he closed his eyes. Had her voice sounded like that last time? Or the time before?

So warm?

He clenched his fists and cleared his throat. “It’s me,” he said, and it came out garbled. He cleared his throat again. “It’s me,” he repeated, clearer that time. “Um, Joel. Joel Miller.” He winced.

The room suddenly felt still and he realized she’d stopped whatever she was doing.

“Oh,” she said, voice light, so low he almost didn’t hear it. He took a step forward. “I… let me–”

“I’m sorry,” he called. He hated the hesitance he could hear in her voice. “I… can we talk? I won’t run away this time.” He winced again and took another step forward and to the side so he could peer around the shelf. He still didn’t see her.

“You promise?” her voice sounded closer and he felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Promise?” he asked, overwhelmed. He could hear her footsteps and he knew she was nearby.

Bolts turned the corner at the end of the row, and Joel felt his breath catch in his throat. She was somehow more beautiful than he’d remembered, just more in general. He traced his eyes over the lines of her body and felt himself start to turn red.

“That you won’t run?” she repeated, and took a single step forward. He nodded and met her, step for step. They were so close now, only a few feet away from each other.

“I promise.”

…

You weren’t sure he was going to come back.

You’d heard all about Joel Miller before you met him. The whole town was full of gossips who loved to talk about anything new. Add in the fact that you were usually supplying the people he worked with on a daily basis and, well…

Safe to say you’d heard all about him.

He was tall, he was strong, he was scary, he was tough, he was only soft with his kid, he was grumpy, he had a great laugh, he never laughed, he was patient. He frowned all the time, but no, when he smiled he was so handsome, and did you see him lift that pillar into place? Did you see his arms? Did you see how careful he was with his big hands when he showed the new kid how to strip a wire?

You might have been eavesdropping at dinner for that last bit.

But for a while that was all he was to you – rumors. Until Ellie started dropping by to pick up their orders. That’s when you really started to learn about the man behind the stories, because he was all Ellie wanted to talk about.

“Joel says everyone Before wanted to be a contractor when they grew up. Is that true?”

“Joel told me about paintball, did you ever play? Sounds sick. Bet I would’ve destroyed that old man in paintball.”

“Joel said parents used to ‘ground’ their kids as punishment. Were you ever grounded? Was it really just staying home and doing nothing? It sounds like it should mean you have to, like, lay on the ground or something.”

“Ok, we were talking about the Olympics and Joel told me about water polo and luge and ski jumping and I need a second opinion. What? Like, what?”

Ellie was hilarious – every time she visited, Bolts found herself grinning and laughing. Especially at the puns.

You saw her with a man you presumed was Joel a couple of times, but they were always busy. And so for a while that’s who Joel Miller was to you – that broad-shouldered guy who ate dinner with Ellie, a good dad who clearly doted on his daughter.

And then, finally, you met him.

One of the patrols had brought you back some new supplies to sort, and you were waist deep in it (literally) when Joel finally stopped by the shop again. You could hear him moving towards you through the store, and found yourself grinning at the box you were leaning into, amused at the easy banter flowing between you.

When you turned and looked at him, still smiling, you froze.

He was gorgeous – brown hair, warm brown eyes, easy smile. You’d been right about his shoulders – so broad, so sturdy. He looked strong.

Somehow you managed to notice all of that despite the music blaring in your head.

You could barely wrap your mind around it. This man, this incredibly attractive man, was your soulmate? This man that you knew to be smart and capable and a great dad?

Your soulmate was still alive?

The music started to fade and you felt yourself shiver, breaking whatever spell had held you in place. You stepped forward, and said his name…

And felt your stomach drop when he turned and ran.

…

You might have avoided the dining hall for a few days after that.

To be honest, at least with yourself – and you’d gotten pretty good at that over the last two decades of apocalypse – you avoided pretty much everything that wasn’t work or your little house nearby.

You didn’t want to see anyone. You couldn’t get the look on his face when he ran out of your head and by the next day you’d pinpointed it.

Joel had looked panicked.

You wavered between worry that you had caused his panic and worry that he really did not seem to be interested in the idea of having a soulmate.

And it’s not like you were on the edge of your seat, waiting for yours. You’d given up on that years ago, as nice as it sounded. There had been a lot going on after all.

But the idea of finally finding them? Finding him?

Well. You might have been excited, until you saw his reaction. Now you weren’t sure what to think.

Maybe he just needs time, you told yourself, wincing.

When Ellie came in as normal, like nothing was wrong, you knew he hadn’t told her. You knew it hadn’t really been that long, and he’d clearly been upset, but you also felt a pinch of hurt at that.

You shoved it down somewhere deep.

By the weekend, though, you felt like your secret was bouncing around inside your chest trying to get out. After you closed up the shop on Friday you sighed.

You needed your best friend.

…

Thankfully, when you stepped inside their house, Tommy seemed to be out.

“Maria?” you called, looking around the corner into the kitchen.

“Upstairs!” you heard her call, and turned towards the stairs. “Come on up!”

You found her sitting in the baby’s room sorting little onesies. You knew she’d been collecting them for a while, both from others in town and Tommy on the lookout on the patrol.

“Think you got enough?” you asked, smiling. She rolled her eyes at you and laughed.

“More than,” she said, leaning back in her chair and placing a hand on her belly. “Got about half the hand-me-downs this town has to offer – Isabela has the other half.” She took a deep breath and settled back. “What’s up? Did we have plans?”

You shook your head and sat on the floor by the pile of clean clothes. “Want me to help fold?” you asked, and she nodded. “I, uh, need to talk to you about something.” you reached for the tiny t-shirt on the top of the pile – it said “taco time!” with a cartoon taco that appeared to be dancing – and snorted. “Where’d you get this one?”

Maria smiled. “Donation from someone. I have it written down somewhere.”

“Course you do,” you said, starting to move through the pile. The shirts felt almost too small to fold, which made you smile.

“Talk about what?” she asked, reaching for another onesie to fold.

You sighed. “So, um. I might have…” you put the shirt you were holding down – this one said “donut worry, be happy” with a picture of a donut with sprinkles – and covered your face with your hands. Maybe it would be easier to talk about if you didn’t have to look at anything. “I might have found my… my soulmate.” You coughed.

There was a moment of silence, and you peeked through your fingers.

Maria was frozen, staring at you, jaw dropped, onesie hanging from her fingers unfolded. As you made eye contact she started to grin. “No fucking way.”

“Way,” you said, and let yourself fall backwards onto the floor. Staring at the ceiling, you said, “on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?!” she said, incredulous. You felt something hit your chin and lifted your head – she’d thrown the onesie at you.

“Seriously?” you asked, holding up the onesie.

“Tuesday?” she said again, holding her hands out.

You sighed and dropped your head back onto the floor. “Tuesday,” you confirmed. “I… he ran away.”

There was another silence, but this time you counted down in your head. 3… 2… 1…

“WHAT?”

You smiled at the ceiling. Maria sounded pissed.

“He did what? Who is it?”

You shook your head. “I think… well. He looked pretty panicked. I think he wasn’t expecting it.”

“Has he been back, talked to you again?” she asked and you shook your head, rolling it back and forth on the floor.

“Nope.”

“Who. Is. It.” Her voice was implacable and you knew you’d run out of ways to avoid the question.

“Don’t freak out, ok?” You lifted your head and glanced at her, and found she was staring at you, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “Don’t freak out.”

She sighed. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

You fell back again and covered your face with your hands. “It’s Joel,” you said, voice muffled. There was a long pause.

“Did you just say,” she said, and her voice was carefully even, “Joel?”

You nodded.

“Joel Miller?”

You nodded again, hands still covering your face.

“Tommy’s brother Joel Miller?”

The evenness of her voice was starting to freak you out, so you peeked out from behind your hands. Maria’s face was carefully blank, and you winced.

“Yeah,” you said, heaving yourself into a sitting position. “That Joel.”

Maria stared at you. You wondered if you were about to hear another Joel freaking Miller rant from Jackson’s Number One Joel Skeptic, but after a moment the tension seemed to leech from her shoulders. She sighed again and rubbed her eyes.

“Ok, well clearly I must be at least a little bit wrong about him, if he’s your soulmate.”

You raised your eyebrows, shocked. “What?”

Maria groaned as she leaned forward, but waved you off when you moved to help. “I know you. I hope I know what kind of person would be your match.” She sighed, and it sounded like she’d rather step on legos that say what she said next. “If he’s yours, there must be parts of him I haven’t seen yet.” She grumbled something under her breath that sounded like “all the good parts, probably.”

You smiled. Maria may be stubborn at times, but she was the best friend you’d ever had, and it showed. “From the way Ellie tells it, he’s the best person in the world.”

Maria snorted. “Let’s leave that for another day.” You laughed. “Ok, perception-of-the-world-altering news aside, did you really just meet Joel on Tuesday?”

“Yep.”

“How is that possible?” She looked stunned. “You’ve met Ellie. Hasn’t he even been to the shop? Isn’t he constantly ordering supplies?”

You shrugged. “He left quickly that one time, never saw his face. Ellie picks up all of their orders now and she loves it.”

Maria hummed. “You know, you might have set the record in Jackson for the longest time in town before realizing you’re soulmates.”

You rolled your eyes. “It wasn’t that long.”

She eyed you. “Sure.”

“But anyway. He freaking ran. Not sure what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Maria shook her head. “Now that I know it’s Joel?” She shook her head again and sighed. “Makes more sense. Probably couldn’t handle his feelings.”

“I mean, maybe. He looked so panicked, though.” You bit your lip and looked down at your hands. “And from what I’ve heard from Ellie, he’s plenty up front about his feelings when he needs to be. She’s a good kid, you know? You can just tell he’s pretty open with her. And you can see his parenting in things she says.”

Maria sighed. “Yeah, I know he’s a good dad. Just surprised to learn he’s got room for anything else.”

You frowned, thinking of the look on his face before he’d turned away. “Well, he might not.”

Maria shook her head slowly, looking thoughtful. “I assume you don’t want me to talk to Tommy about this.”

You winced. “Not yet. I need… a little more time.”

“Alright,” she said, and picked up a new onesie to fold. “But hey,” when you looked up, she was smirking. Uh oh. “You know, now that I think about it,” she grinned, “not sure I’ve ever met anyone more your type than Joel Miller.”

“No,” you said, but she kept going.

“Tall, messy hair, broad shoulders? Those arms?” She waggled her eyebrows at you. “I’ve seen those hands. They must be genetic, because you know how I feel about Tommy’s.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. “Maria–”

“Shoulda guessed the moment I saw him.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s not that bad,” you said, shaking your head.

She hummed. “Sure,” she said, and you knew she was mocking you.

You sighed. “That was my first thought, when I heard it,” you admitted. “Oh shit, he’s hot, basically.”

Maria laughed. “You know it was the same for me, with Tommy. From the first moment I couldn’t help but think, well damn, just look at him.”

You both laughed. “Guess those Millers have good genes.”

She shook her head, still laughing. “They really do. Bet this baby will be so cute they get whatever they want forever.” You both smiled at the thought. She sighed. “Jesus. What are the odds, us and them?”

“I wondered about that.” You smiled a bit wistfully. “Maybe George would be able to tell us.”

You both laughed again, and for a moment you let yourself feel the warmth of it – that you’d found your soulmate, and he was your best friend’s brother-in-law. What were the odds, really?

It was hard to feel very hopeful about it, but for a moment, you tried.

…

By the time Monday rolled around, you were wondering if you might need to be the one to seek Joel out. It felt like the ball was in his court, though, and you really didn't want to chase after someone who didn’t want to be chased. You figured eventually you could call in the cavalry, anyway.

The cavalry being Tommy, of course. You wondered if Joel had told him.

You lost yourself in your work, sorting supplies and filling orders, and before you knew it it was almost time for lunch. You’d just started sorting through your last order, eager to take a break, when the bell over the door tinkled.

“Be right there,” you called absently, frowning down at the pile of metal hooks in front of you that seemed to be tangled. How did these get so bad?

You heard whoever it was clear their throat. “It’s me. Um, Joel. Joel Miller.”

You froze, staring down at the tangled hooks in your hands.

Joel.

You needed to say something back. You shook yourself and dropped the hooks. The clank of their impact on the countertop made you wince. Your voice came out strangled. “O..oh. I… let me–”

But he interrupted whatever you were going to say. You weren’t even sure, yourself.

“I”m sorry,” he said, and you felt your stomach swoop. You had no idea what your face was doing, and you were suddenly glad he couldn’t see you. “I…” he trailed off and you had no idea if you should say something.

What would you even say?

“Can we talk?” he continued. “I won’t run away this time.”

You heard him take a step and it startled you into motion. You turned towards the door and took a step towards the shelf you knew was probably hiding you from view. You took a deep breath. He won’t run. “You promise?” You stood just around the corner from where you knew you’d probably find Joel and froze.

“Promise?” He sounded confused and you wondered if he was just as overwhelmed as you suddenly felt.

You can do this. You nodded to yourself and, after nervously straightening your shirt, stepped around the corner.

He was just as tall and broad as you remembered, even though he was leaning a bit like he was trying to make himself smaller. He was repeatedly tightening one of his hands into a fist and then releasing it, a nervous movement that caught your eye before you met his gaze.

He was looking right into your eyes, and he was so handsome.

“Um,” you said, shaking yourself. “That you won’t run?” You took a step forward and Joel nodded. He took a step forward, too, and you found yourself only a few feet away from him. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his.

“I promise,” he said, voice low. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, along with a lot of worry.

You smiled, and it grew when his gaze dropped down to trace over it. “Ok then.” You reached forward and lightly brushed your fingertips over the back of the hand he had strained in a fist. “C’mere,” you said, wrapping your fingers around his hand and tugging. His fist finally relaxed and he let you slide your hand into his. You felt a tingle slide down your spine.

You turned and led him through the maze of your shop to the back area with its little green couch. Tommy had helped you drag it back here when you’d first decided to use this space for inventory. It was just big enough for you to nap on, or for you to sit on with Joel without touching. You sat and turned so that you leaned slightly against the arm. He sat next to you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

You looked down and saw his hand resting next to his leg. Now that you’d touched him, you couldn’t help but want to touch him again. You reached out, slowly crossing the distance between you, and brushed your fingertips over the back of his hand. His hand twitched and you started to pull away, but he followed you – he slid his hand slowly along the couch between you, palm rasping over the worn fabric, before flipping it and taking your hand in his. He squeezed it lightly and you felt the corner of your mouth lift in a smile as you looked back up at him.

“I–”

“I’m–”

Joel started talking at the same time you did, and you both smiled. He ducked his head but lightly squeezed your hand again. “Go ahead,” he said.

You shook your head. “No, you first.”

He raised his head and met your eyes again. He gave you a half smile that made your heart start to pound in your chest. Handsome.

“Had the sudden urge to say ‘ladies first.’ Don’t think I’ve said that to anyone in years.”

You snorted a laugh. “I don’t think anyone has said that to me in years. I’m not exactly a lady. And there’s not a lot of time for pretence in an apocalypse.”

Joel shook his head, still smiling. “Being here, it’s so…” he looked around your little shop. “Normal? Not exactly like it was Before, but…”

You nodded. “It was never going to be like Before. But it is weirdly normal. Still gets me sometimes.”

He looked back at you, eyebrows raised. “Still gets you?” He huffed a laugh. “Haven’t you been here for years? Guess it might be a long while before I get used to it, then.”

You shrugged. “I think it still gets all of us, sometimes. Makes it easier not to take it for granted.” You turned towards him a bit more, lifting your knee onto the couch between you. Your hands came to rest next to it and you tried not to notice the heat of his hand against the side of your thigh.

Joel looked down and took a deep breath. “What were you going to say, before?”

You smiled again and let your eyes trace over the shape of him on your couch – his tousled hair, the line of his neck, his broad shoulders. His hand in yours. “I was just going to say, I’m glad you came back.”

He raised his head and met your eyes. “Me too.”

“I, uh…” you trailed off, glancing over his face. “I wasn’t sure you were going to. Come back.”

Joel grimaced, but when you started to pull your hand away he held on. “I’m sorry. Again. I’d…” he sat up straighter and turned a bit towards you. The side of his thigh came to rest against your knee and you felt your awareness begin to narrow to all of the places you were touching. You felt it like a tingle over your skin. It was so easy to touch him, you realized, and you wondered if that was part of being soulmates. His voice startled you when he continued, “I’d like to explain. Or, try to. If that’s alright with you.”

He looked at you, and for a moment you simply looked at each other. It hit you, suddenly, that you were looking at your soulmate. Your soulmate. You smiled again. “Have to admit, I’ve been curious.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said, and you noticed he seemed to be tracing you with his eyes the same way you’d done to him a moment ago. You felt your face start to get hot. “Must’ve been disappointin’... hearin’, um. Hearin’ it. And then me–” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“I won’t pretend I wasn’t upset,” you said, but squeezed his hand. He was there now, after all. He came back. “But I might have been a bit distracted, you know, in the moment. The upset settled in after.”

“Distracted?” he asked, raising a single eyebrow.

Your face burned. “Um,” you said, looking down. You peeked up at him through your eyelashes. “You’re, well. You know.”

Joel started to smile and you knew he knew exactly what you weren’t saying. “I know?” His tone was teasing, and something inside your chest came alight. Your soulmate.

“Joel Miller, you know. Don’t make me say it.”

He leaned closer, just a bit, and his full smile took your breath away. “Would it help if I said I think you’re beautiful? Thought it last week and again today.”

You grinned. “Well, that does make it easier for me to tell you I think you’re handsome.” You bit your lip. “‘S those shoulders.”

“My shoulders?” he said on a laugh.

You nodded. He had a great laugh, but you noticed it seemed to surprise him every time he did it. “Definitely. And, well.” You hid your face. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

He flushed, suddenly, and your eyes narrowed.

“Joel?” you asked, and he started to lean back. You reached out and tugged on his sleeve with your free hand. “What?”

“I, uhh…” he trailed off. “Nothin’.”

“Thought you were going to explain.” When he looked up you smiled, trying to make it clear you were teasing.

He shook his head, face serious. “I’ll… let me do that. Explain.”

“Alright,” you said, softly, squeezing his hand to encourage him. When you did, you realized your tangled hands were now resting on your thigh, you’d moved them sometime in the last few minutes without noticing. You bit your lip. “Go ahead.”

Joel sighed and dropped his head back to rest against the couch. “Well, I’m sure it was obvious that I panicked.” He peeked at you and you nodded. “I figured my soulmate had died. Long time ago.” He shrugged. “Never thought I’d find you here.” As he said that he let his head fall to the side so he could meet your eyes. “Never expected it.”

You nodded. You knew the feeling.

“But, um.” He took a deep breath. “Alright. Let me get this out, not sure if I’ll be able to. But I want to try.” You squeezed his hand. He shut his eyes. “I had a d– a daughter. Before.” He cleared his throat and you could hear how difficult it was for him to say this. You leaned forward.

“Joel–”

He shook his head and squeezed your hand. You squeezed back. “Sarah.” Saying her name seemed to leave him breathless and you wished you’d known him long enough to pull him into a hug. You figured holding hands was already pushing it. “And T–” he stumbled over his words. “Well, I’m sure we’ve both lost people. Important people.” His free hand, resting on his left thigh, was shaking. You reached across his body and slipped your hand into his. He let you tug it towards you, turning his body so that both of your joined hands were resting in your lap. His eyes were still closed. “And I couldn’t–” he sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed both of your hands. “I couldn’t bear the idea that any of that was m– meant,” he took another deep breath. “Meant to be.” He almost whispered the last few words and you felt it like a vice grip around your heart.

“No,” you said, voice firm. It startled him, and his eyes flew open. You could see the emotions swirling in them. “I don’t believe that. Never have.”

“No?” he repeated, leaning towards you. You could feel his full attention on you and you swallowed roughly.

“Never have,” you repeated. “I don’t believe in fate.”

He looked taken aback. You weren’t surprised, it wasn’t the first time you’d gotten this reaction. “You don’t? What about–”

You shook your head. “My parents weren’t soulmates,” you said. You still felt a pang, all these years later, just thinking about them. You shook it off. “And they were happy. And there are so many people out there who never find them.” You smiled, wryly. “Could be more now.” He nodded. “Way I see it, there’s someone out there who just fits you,” you squeezed his hands, “but that doesn’t mean everything’ll be sunshine and roses when you find them. You still have to work at it, to choose them. And…” it was your turn to trail off, emotions clogging your throat.

Joel leaned forward, seeming to realize you were suddenly having trouble. “Hey, you don’t have to–”

You shook your head, and he squeezed your hands. You realized he had turned more and your knee was now resting on top of his. Somehow it grounded you. You cleared your throat. “My brother. He– Outbreak day.” You took a slow breath in and out. “He met his soulmate young. They weren’t ready. They were just starting to…” you shook your head. “Anyway. It’s not always easy, even if you fit. You might meet at the wrong time. And you still have to try, to want it.” You looked at Joel again and found a look on his face that told you he knew exactly what you meant.

“I should be honest,” he said, and something about how he said it sent ice down your spine. You almost started to pull away but he wouldn’t let you. “No, listen, darlin’. I want you to hear it from me. I spent years scoffin’ at the idea of findin’ my soulmate. Tommy’s heard me say it, wouldn’t be surprised if he talked about it. But it wasn’t really because I didn’t want one.” He slipped his right hand free from yours for the first time since you’d sat down and your breath caught when his fingertips brushed against your cheek. His hand dropped back into his lap and you missed its warmth. “I think I always did. Want one. I just…” he grimaced. “Was pretty sure no one would want me. No one should, anyway.”

Your eyebrows flew upwards in surprise. “What?”

Joel tilted his head. “What?” he repeated.

“Joel.” you said, leaning forward. “Why wouldn’t someone want you?”

He blinked, taken aback. “I… well. Tommy’d say I’m a stubborn asshole. And I’ve done…” he shook his head. “Things that weren’t…I wasn’t… there’s not a lot of me left.” He struggled to put whatever he was thinking into words, but you were pretty sure you knew what he was getting at.

“Joel,” you said again, and he looked at you, eyes wide. “We’ve all done things we didn’t want to do, or things we regret. And more things we don’t, plenty of terrible things we’d do again if we had the chance.” You lifted your free hand, wondering if you could touch him the way he’d touched you, but you chickened out and dropped it on top of your hands that were still tangled together. “Seems like there’s plenty of you left, Miller.”

“How d’you know?” He sounded like he wanted to believe you but wasn’t sure if he did.

You smiled at him. “I’ve heard all about you from Ellie, you know. You’re a good dad, Joel.” You watched as he took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Ellie, she… I was different. Before her.”

“I think I get that,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “I was a different person before I came here.”

You both took a moment to just breathe. You were starting to feel a bit runover from all the emotions you’d just spilled and Joel looked like he might feel the same. You decided to take a chance.

“Besides,” you said, smirking, “I’d say there’s exactly the right amount of you, Joel.” You watched as he started to blush, again, and grinned.

“Really?” he said, tone wry.

“I already told you I think you’re handsome,” you said. “I meant it.” You let your eyes trail over him again and bit your lip.

Joel coughed. “Earlier, when I said it was nothin’.” You nodded – you did want to know what he’d been thinking when he’d blushed that first time. “The first time I saw you, you were, ah…” he trailed off and turned even more red.

You thought back, trying to remember… and oh. Oh shit.

“The box?” you said, feeling yourself get hot. “Oh no.”

He nodded, and suddenly his gaze was different. It was deeper, somehow. “Oh yes. The box.” He smiled and leaned forward. “I was already thinkin’ how funny you were, and how much I was enjoyin’ talkin’ to you.” Was his voice deeper? You shivered. “And then I turned the corner and, well. Shit.” He laughed and shook his head. “Might’ve been my first thought when I saw you. Those jeans looked real nice on you, darlin’.” You shivered. You realized you’d shivered every time he’d called you that. You wanted to hear him say it again.

“Maria said she wasn’t surprised when I told her,” you said, grinning, “because you’re exactly my type.”

Joel looked surprised. “You told Maria?”

“Oh,” you said, but well, of course you had. “She’s my best friend.”

He nodded. “It’s– that’s fine. I told Tommy and Ellie. I’m just surprised you still want to talk to me.” He grimaced. “Maria ain’t my biggest fan.”

You laughed, and laughed a bit more when he sighed. “Oh believe me, Joel, I know. But I think she’ll come around.”

He looked skeptical. “Not sure I agree with you but you know her better��n me.”

His words finally registered with you and you couldn’t help but ask, “what did, ah… What did Ellie say?”

Joel smiled. “She likes you a lot. And me and her, we made each other a promise. About livin’ here.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “A promise?”

He nodded. “That we’d try. Try and live, I guess. Try and make it work. So… I would have talked to you either way, I want you to know that. But like I said, I’m stubborn. I might’ve been a bit slower about it without her remindin’ me.”

You laughed again. “She’s a force, that girl.” You knew he could hear how much you admired her in your tone because he grinned.

“She is,” he said, and you could hear how much he loved her. “I also promised her I wasn’t in a rush. And, well. Is that alright with you? If we take it slow. I want to get to know you, I do, just–”

“Of course, Joel.” You squeezed his hand again. “Of course. I… it was a surprise for me, too, you know. I’ve been on my own a long time. Even if you are way too handsome.”

He blushed. You grinned.

“Well then, darlin’,” he said, and you shivered again. He must’ve noticed that time because he smirked. “How do you feel about havin’ lunch together? Maybe tomorrow?”

“I’d like that, Joel.” You were feeling warm, now, and much more settled than you had in days. You figured Joel had the right idea, getting all of this out in the open early. “Here? Away from the peanut gallery.”

He smiled. “Sounds perfect. I’ll bring somethin’.”

As you fell into an easier silence you both seemed to realize that you were sitting with your knee propped on his and both of your hands tangled with one of his. You both sat back and gently disentangled.

“Alright, then,” he said, and made to stand.

You leaned forward before he could. “Joel?” He nodded, looking at you. You leaned forward even farther, into his space, until you could feel the warmth of him. You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and tried not to think about how much you liked the way his beard felt against your lips. “Thank you for coming back,” you murmured, close to his ear.

Joel turned his head slightly, and suddenly your faces were only an inch or so away from each other. “I was always comin’ back. Promise.” He leaned forward nudged his forehead against yours. “Thank you for waitin’.” As he leaned back he took your hand and lifted it to his lips. He kissed your knuckles softly and you gasped.

You nodded. “Of course.”

Joel stood, finally, and you let him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, darlin’.”

“Tomorrow,” you agreed, and you watched him walk back towards the front of the store. When he was out of sight you fell back against the couch and sighed, head swimming from the way he’d just kissed you. And you’d kissed him.

Holy shit.

...

a/n: !!!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #x reader

319 notes · View notes

eff4freddie · 2 months ago

Text

Pleasure dom into praise kink, got it.

#god this man #Pedro pascal #support me baby #pedrohub

3K notes · View notes

eff4freddie · 2 months ago

Text

Well, fuck.

For the Hour

Being a hooker in Jackson isn’t glamorous, but it pays in coffee, bullets, and the good kind of winter gloves. So when your regular—Tommy—asks if you’d see his brother, you don't hesitate in saying yes.

omg this is literally 11k words im ded - warnings: literally porn with a plot, sex work (mention of terms hooker etc), explicit smut (18+), unprotected sex, age gap (Joel is in his 50s), subby!Joel energy, soft dom reader, emotional vulnerability, Joel has a bad back and feelings, praise kink.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

You caught your breath as the last wave of pleasure ebbed from your body, chest rising and falling in a slow, quiet rhythm while Tommy lingered there a moment longer, his breath warm against your neck as he let out a low groan, still half-drunk on the high you’d given him. The morning light filtered in through the tattered blinds, casting soft golden slats across the tangled mess of limbs and discarded clothes strewn across the hardwood floor. Somewhere, from the corridor or maybe the neighbors', drifted the scent of burnt coffee—bitter, familiar, grounding.

Tommy sat up with a grunt, running a hand through his damp hair as he muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, his voice still heavy with sleep and satisfaction. He glanced over at you with a lazy grin, tugging his jeans from the floor. “Remind me to come by more often.”

You laughed—quiet, genuine—watching him as he passed you a towel and leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek. It wasn’t part of the deal, not really. But then, Tommy had always blurred the lines—sweet in the way men like him weren’t meant to be, not in this town, not in your world.

“You’re already my best customer,” you murmured, eyes gleaming as you took the towel and began to clean yourself up, your voice laced with a teasing fondness, the kind reserved for people who came back again and again not just for the sex, but for something else they couldn’t name.

He stood with a quiet exhale, tugging his flannel over his broad shoulders, his belly soft where it peeked above the denim as he buttoned his jeans. His eyes lingered on you a second longer, not quite lecherous, not quite innocent either—just… watching, like he didn’t want to leave just yet, like he hadn’t quite figured out what you meant to him.

He watched you, gaze lingering over the bare slope of your chest, the way your skin caught the muted morning light spilling through the cracked blinds, casting golden lines across the sheets like something sacred.

You didn’t bother covering up—not with Tommy. The two of you had done this too many times, in too many rooms, on too many mornings like this, for there to be any shame left between you. There was something quiet in it now, a kind of unspoken understanding that had formed over time—not love, not quite friendship, but an intimacy that lived in the space between laughter and the sound of a zipper being drawn.

As he buckled his belt, fingers fumbling slightly around the worn leather, he cleared his throat like he was trying to shake something from it, something heavier than dust.

“Do you, uh…” he started, then hesitated, licking his lips like the question might taste strange coming out. “Do you have an age limit or somethin’?”

You tilted your head, brow lifting in easy amusement as you smiled faintly. “Sorry?”

He laughed, soft and awkward, and rubbed the side of his nose—a nervous little tick you’d seen before, like his body gave him away even when his voice didn’t. “I mean—with what you do,” he said, trying to sound casual but missing the mark by an inch. “With your… services. You got a limit, or...?”

“For my services?” you repeated, feigning offense, a teasing lilt in your voice as you leaned back against the headboard. “You make it sound so formal.”

“Quit,” he muttered, a laugh under his breath, but there was something beneath it—something that wasn’t quite a joke.

You smiled at him again, slower this time, more real. “Not really,” you said with a shrug, reaching for the towel more out of habit than modesty. “As long as they’re sweet... can get it up... and make sure they pay well.”

Because in Jackson, payment wasn’t green bills or cards anymore—those belonged to a world that had crumbled with the last election and the first outbreak. Now, people paid in what mattered. A tin of that good jam made from the summer’s last raspberries. A half-empty bag of coffee beans that still smelled like mornings from before. Gloves thick enough to survive the frost that rolled in from the mountains. Cans of peaches, salt for the roads, shotgun shells, antibiotics, clean socks. Favors. Names. Protection. A seat near the fire.

He chuckled at that, the tension easing from his shoulders like you’d let him off some invisible hook.

You tilted your head again, watching him as you sat forward slightly, your hair sliding over your shoulder in a loose, dark curtain. His eyes caught on it—just for a second, but enough to notice.

“So,” you said softly, the teasing edge slipping just slightly from your voice, replaced by something gentler—curiosity with a tilt of wariness, a shift in the air between you. “Why’re you askin’?”

Tommy exhaled with a quiet huff, running a hand back through his hair and catching the loose strands that had fallen from his ponytail, fingers dragging through it with a kind of frustrated carelessness.

“It’s just…” he started, voice trailing off before picking back up again with a sigh. “My brother. Joel. I think he could, you know—benefit from... all this.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, hand cutting through the air as his eyes flitted across your still-bare body, lingering but not ogling, like he was trying to make a point without being crude.

Joel.

The name landed with a quiet thud, familiar but unexpected.

Of course you’d seen him around—Jackson wasn’t big enough for anyone to stay invisible for long. He was older, that much was clear; wore the years like a weight across his shoulders and a scowl that never quite left his face. Always furrowed at the brow, jaw set like he was bracing for a blow that hadn’t come yet. Handsome in a rough-edged, quietly dangerous way—not like Tommy, whose smile came easy and whose touch always felt a little more like comfort than command.

Sometimes, when you looked at them side by side, you forgot they were cut from the same cloth. Same blood. Same broken world.

You let out a breath of laughter, amused and maybe a little intrigued, as you rose to your feet, the light catching along the soft curves of your body, bare and unashamed, each step toward him slow and fluid, the kind of motion meant to be watched. Your hips swayed with the ease of someone who knew exactly how she moved, your skin still flushed from the morning, the remnants of pleasure humming faintly in your limbs. Sensual without trying to be. Just a woman in her own skin.

“Your brother,” you said with a soft, knowing smirk, brushing your fingers gently through the messy strands of hair that had fallen across Tommy’s forehead, still damp with the sweat of sex and sleep and something in between. The gesture was easy, instinctive—your touch lingering only a moment before it drifted lower, settling at the nape of his neck where your fingers curled loosely, not to pull him close, but simply to stay connected. “Doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d pay a visit to a hooker.”

Your voice was teasing, light on the surface, but there was something deeper threaded beneath it—some quiet question you didn’t ask aloud.

Tommy’s hands found your waist without hesitation, as if drawn there by muscle memory more than intent. His touch was broad, familiar, grounding—palms warm against your skin, a little rough from the kind of labor this world demanded of men like him, the kind of years that wore into the bones. There was nothing hurried about the way he held you, nothing that spoke of possession in the traditional sense, but it was there nonetheless—a kind of unspoken tether, something formed not from love or lust but from routine, from comfort, from the simple ache of being human in a place that had taken too much.

Whatever this was between you and Tommy—it didn’t have a name. There’d never been promises or claims, no plans made or futures built. But the line between business and something softer had blurred a long time ago, and neither of you had ever bothered to draw it back again. It was easier this way.

He looked down at you, lips quirking into a crooked grin that didn’t quite make it to his eyes, which always seemed just a little too tired, like he hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in years. “Yeah,” he murmured, the words softer now, almost thoughtful. “He ain’t. But maybe that’s exactly why he needs it.”

You hummed quietly in response, letting your hands slide from his neck down to his chest, fingers resting lightly over his heartbeat. You tilted your face up to meet his, chin angled just slightly, and the distance between you felt at once too close and not close enough.

“He’s fifty-six,” Tommy said, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth crooked and amused, eyes crinkling just a little as he shook his head. “Old bastard,” he added with a chuckle, like he was fond of the man but couldn’t help teasing him anyway, like it was easier to speak in jokes than admit the weight behind the thought—that time had moved on without asking, and they were all just trying to catch up.

You let out a dramatic gasp, sharp and playful, one hand flying to your chest as though genuinely scandalized, though the glint in your eyes gave you away immediately. “Tommy,” you said, drawing out his name in that mock-offended tone you knew always pulled a smile from him, “what kind of girl do you take me for?”

Your voice was honey-drenched, rich with pretend indignation, all wide, fluttering eyes and arched brows, even as you stood in front of him still completely bare, the golden morning light licking across your skin like it had been invited.

Tommy’s grin tugged crooked across his lips, slow and easy, like it had nowhere else to be. “The kind of girl who says she’s shocked,” he drawled, eyes dipping meaningfully down your body, “while standin’ butt-naked in my arms.”

And then, as if to punctuate his point, he gave your ass a firm, unapologetic slap, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Now put some clothes on,” he added, voice light but still edged with that gravelly fondness he tried to hide. “Before I end up stayin’ another hour and missin’ patrol—again.”

You yelped, laughing as you twisted away from his touch, jumping back into the warmth of the tangled bedspread, sheets twisted like vines beneath you. His handprint still tingled on your skin, a reminder of how close things could still burn even after the fire was out.

Tommy bent to grab his jacket off the chair, slinging it over one arm as he turned toward the door, but then paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder with that half-smile he always wore when he wasn’t quite sure how to say what he meant.

“So, Joel?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t trying to care too much. “You’ll see him?”

You met his gaze, all ease and softness now, letting your weight sink back into the bed as you pulled the sheet loosely over your thighs. You smiled, slow and sure.

“I’ll see him.”

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

Tommy sat at the far end of the Tipsy Bison’s bar, his knee bouncing beneath the table with a restlessness that betrayed more than he meant it to, jittery and twitchy like the truth was sitting in his lap and he didn’t know where to put it. His beer sat mostly untouched in front of him, beads of condensation sliding lazily down the bottle’s neck, forgotten. Across from him, Joel nursed his second glass of whiskey with the kind of single-minded focus that suggested he was trying not to think too hard about anything else.

Joel was mid-grumble, voice low and gravelly, muttering into his glass like it had personally offended him. “These kids on patrol,” he said, shaking his head, “they’re damn near still in diapers—think they know everything, but can’t read a fuckin’ map to save their lives. I had to double back twice today. And my knees…” he trailed off with a grimace, reaching down to rub one as if the act alone could conjure youth. “Shit don’t work like it used to.”

Tommy blinked, and then—without really meaning to, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them—he blurted, “Hey, you should go see this masseuse I know.”

Joel paused mid-sip, squinting over the rim of his glass like Tommy had just spoken in tongues. “Masseuse?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, trying to sound casual but already feeling the weight of what he wasn’t saying begin to gather in his chest. “She’s real good. Works outta her place. Kinda… therapeutic.”

It wasn’t technically a lie. You did use your hands. You did know how to relieve tension. But if Joel had even the faintest idea of the things you did inside that soft little house of yours—the same one with the blue curtains and the jasmine Tommy had planted out front in exchange for a particularly memorable morning—he would’ve spit his drink out on the floor, gotten up, and walked home on those bad knees just to scold Tommy like they were kids again.

Because Joel, bless him, would’ve done what Joel always did—squint real hard, say something like “Jesus Christ, Tommy,” then go on about morals and dignity and how the world’s gone to hell.

So no, Tommy didn’t tell him everything.

Didn’t tell him about the soft, lilting laugh you had, or the way your door was always unlocked for him. Didn’t mention the way you said his name when he showed up late, or the sweet little things you did with your mouth that had nothing to do with pressure points. And he sure as hell didn’t mention the way you made him feel—warm and wanted and like the end of the world hadn’t already come and gone.

“Why the hell would I need a massage?” Joel muttered, voice rough as gravel as he leaned back in his chair, scowl etched deep between his brows. “What I need is for people to stop assignin’ me shifts with goddamn teenagers who can’t tell north from their own ass, and a patrol route that doesn’t run me straight into a fuckin’ ravine.”

Tommy scoffed, lifting his beer but not bothering to drink from it, eyes rolling as he shook his head. “You just spent the last thirty minutes complainin’ about your back, Joel.”

Joel shot him a look—sharp, defensive—the kind that had scared men once, back when fear was still a luxury. “That don’t mean I want some stranger touchin’ it,” he said, shoulders stiffening as he reached instinctively for his glass again. “Ain’t lookin’ to have someone mess it up worse than it already is.”

Tommy flinched at the word—touching—and it landed wrong, punched straight into his gut like a sucker hit. Not because Joel meant anything by it, but because he did. And before he could shut it down, there it was again—you—bent over him, lips parted, breath hot against his neck, your hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slow like you had all the time in the world. The soft sound you made when you sank down on him, the way your tits bounced against his chest, warm and slick, and how your fingers dragged down his spine, nails scratching just enough to make his hips jerk. His cock twitched, hard and immediate, a pulse of heat shooting through him that had no place in this conversation.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself back to the present. “Come on,” Tommy urged, voice lighter now, too easy to be innocent. “She’s real good. Not just in the way you’re thinkin’, either. She’s sweet. Quiet. One of those girls you don’t really notice till you do, and then it’s like you can’t stop.”

Joel arched a brow, unimpressed, suspicion already creeping into the lines of his face. “That so.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said quickly, pushing past the moment. “Real good hands. Knows what she’s doin’. And I’m tellin’ you—first one’s on the house. She won’t even charge you.”

Joel grunted, unconvinced, but didn’t push the conversation away completely. He just shifted in his chair, bones cracking, and muttered something under his breath about not likin’ surprises.

And Tommy—well, Tommy just smiled into his beer again, trying not to think about how you’d looked the last time he left your place, tangled in sheets and flushed with sleep, calling his name like it was something soft.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

Joel stood stiffly on your porch, the wood creaking beneath his boots as he pressed his thick fingers into the knot burrowed deep in the side of his neck, muttering low, gravel-soaked profanities beneath his breath—half at the knot, half at Tommy, and half at himself for agreeing to this in the first place. The porch was too damn pretty for cursing—lined with flower boxes overflowing with jasmine and wild mint, and some old rocking chair that looked like it had actually been made for sitting, not surviving.

He knocked twice—sharp, reluctant—and already regretted whatever the hell Tommy had gotten him into.

The door swung open almost immediately, like you’d been waiting on the other side, like you’d known he’d hesitate and come anyway.

Joel failed—spectacularly—to hide his reaction.

Tommy had mentioned you were a woman, sure. He had not mentioned that you were the kind of woman who made men forget how to breathe. The morning light spilled in behind him, framing you in gold like some holy sin, soft and warm, the robe you wore cinched lazily at the waist like it wasn’t trying to hide anything, just loosely draped to suggest comfort—but his eyes caught the line of your collarbone, the way the fabric parted ever so slightly, and dropped, uninvited, to the swell of your cleavage.

He clenched his jaw, hard.

What the fuck kinda masseuse looks like this?

He’d been expecting someone else entirely—some no-nonsense, middle-aged woman with short gray hair and orthopedic sandals, maybe a raspy smoker’s laugh and a mug that said #1 Back Cracker, someone who would offer him over-steeped tea and tell him stories about her son in the army or her time stationed in Kabul. He hadn’t planned for this—for lace peeking out from under your robe, for legs bare and smooth in the glow of a Jackson sunrise, for you smiling at him like you already knew he didn’t have the guts to walk away.

“Joel, right?” you asked, your voice light, almost teasing, as you leaned a little deeper into the doorway, the name tasting curious on your tongue. “Tommy’s brother?”

“Oh—yeah,” Joel said quickly, the syllable catching on the rough edge of his throat as he blinked like he was just remembering where he was. His boots scuffed slightly against the floor as he shifted his weight, shoulders twitching with a discomfort he clearly didn’t know how to hide. “I, uh… Tommy said you do massages.”

The words came out like a question, like he wasn’t entirely convinced of the truth himself—and maybe he wasn’t.

You paused, something flickering behind your eyes as your lips parted—then closed again. A breath. A scoff. Quiet, sharp, and laced with a kind of tired amusement as your gaze flicked briefly to the floor. Of course Tommy hadn’t told him the truth. Of course Tommy had sent his older brother to your door with that same boyish grin and a half-assed lie, hoping Joel wouldn’t figure it out until it was far too late to back out gracefully.

He hadn’t told him that this wasn’t just a massage.

He hadn’t told him that he was coming over to have sex with a woman—with you—and not in some hurried, transactional way, but slow, deliberate, intimate. The kind of encounter that lingered on the skin long after the door closed behind them.

You bit your lip without thinking, the movement soft and sensual, more out of habit than seduction—but it was still enough to make Joel glance away, like he’d seen too much too quickly and didn’t know where to look anymore.

“Well,” you murmured, shifting your weight from one bare leg to the other, the silk of your robe whispering across your thigh like it, too, was trying to decide what kind of evening this was going to be. “Come on in.”

You didn’t confirm or deny his assumption—just stepped aside and let him walk into the space where everything might change.

And Joel—standing there on your pretty porch, fingers twitching at his sides, jaw locked and eyes anywhere but your mouth—hadn’t figured out how to say no.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

Joel stood stiffly in your bedroom, hands twitching uselessly at his sides, his body held like a man trying not to breathe too deeply in someone else's space—already half turned toward the door, as if he could will an exit into existence before you returned.

His eyes moved over the room like he was trying not to look at anything too closely, but there was no hiding the tension in the line of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched every few seconds like he was already regretting stepping foot inside.

The room wasn’t what he’d expected—and not just because it was your bedroom, though that alone had made his pulse stutter. That part could’ve been explained away, justified somehow—people did all kinds of things out of their homes in Jackson. But it was the way the space was set up that made his throat feel dry.

The bed, wide and inviting, draped in soft cream linens that looked freshly smoothed, was positioned at the center of everything, with candles flickering gently along the dresser, casting long golden shadows across the floor. There were no towels. No oils lined up neatly on a cart. No clinical sterility to hide behind. Just plush throw pillows, lace-trimmed curtains, a faint trace of perfume lingering in the air, and the undeniable hum of something not quite professional.

And you—Jesus Christ, you—had offered him coffee or water, your voice light and easy like it wasn’t a loaded question, and he, too dazed to think, had said yes. You’d disappeared into the kitchen, and he’d barely exhaled since. He wasn’t sure if he was sweating or just uncomfortable in his own damn skin, but every part of him was screaming that he didn’t belong here—that you were too pretty, too soft, too young to be touching a man like him.

You, meanwhile, were grateful for the excuse to step away, your heels silent as you moved through the house, trying to get your own heart rate under control.

You knew it wouldn’t take Joel long to figure it out—that you weren’t really a masseuse, that this wasn’t some wholesome back-cracking session with a side of eucalyptus oil. That lingerie didn’t belong under robes worn for healing. And yet here you were, wearing it anyway, lace brushing against your skin with every step, wondering how long it would take before he got up and left.

When you stepped back into the room, he was still standing—just as rigid, just as uncertain. “Sit,” you said gently, offering a small, practiced smile, your tone breezy enough to keep the moment from collapsing under its own weight. “Please.”

Joel nodded once, tight-lipped, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed like it might burn him. His knees were wide, his elbows stiff, his eyes trained directly ahead—on nothing at all—like he was trying very hard not to see any part of you.

You approached slowly, extending the glass of water toward him, the condensation already beginning to bead along the side.

He took it with a quiet murmur of thanks, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment—just a flicker, but enough for you to feel the heat of him, the way he flinched ever so slightly like he wasn’t used to being touched without intention.

“So, uh…” Joel began, voice low and hesitant, the sound rough like it had scraped its way out of his throat. He rubbed a hand along the side of his neck, eyes flicking briefly up to yours before landing somewhere over your shoulder, already looking like he regretted speaking at all. “How long you been doin’ all this?”

The words hung awkwardly in the air between you, heavy with implication but wrapped in a poor attempt at small talk—something Joel Miller was not known for. You could tell it took effort for him to say anything at all, that his instinct was to sit in silence and let the tension pass like a storm front, but some part of him—some flicker of politeness or nerves—had nudged him into conversation.

Your eyes widened just a little, caught off guard by the question, and then you blinked, like you needed a moment to remember who you were supposed to be in this room. “Oh—yeah,” you said, stumbling just slightly over the words. “Since I got to Jackson, really. Started pretty soon after I arrived.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. You had been doing this since you arrived—though massage had never been the core of it.

Joel nodded slowly, his brow furrowing with thought, and you could see him working through the gaps, filling in the blanks with whatever image he had in his mind. “So you, uh… didn’t have any proper trainin’? From before?”

You shook your head, lips parting as your answer tripped a little over your breath. “No. I—uh. No, it’s all… self-taught.”

His eyes lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary, then shifted away again, landing on the corner of the bed, then the curtain, then the floor—anywhere but you. “Right,” he said finally, like it was the only thing he could think to say, like maybe he’d already asked too much.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold, but it was thick with uncertainty—his, mostly. His knee bounced once. His fingers tapped the glass in his hand. You could feel the weight of his restraint like smoke in the room, curling into the corners of the furniture, slipping under your robe.

You took a small step forward, smoothing your hands down the front of your robe out of instinct rather than necessity, and offered him a gentle smile—nothing suggestive, just a flicker of softness to meet his discomfort.

“Okay,” you said, voice quieter now, almost tender. “It might be easier if you take your shirt off.”

Joel’s eyes snapped back to yours—not wide, not shocked, just hesitant. Cautious in a way that wasn’t rooted in modesty but something deeper, older, worn thin over time like denim at the knees.

Still, he nodded, slow and uncertain, and reached for the buttons of his flannel, hands broad and calloused, fingers stiff with age and overuse. They moved with that steady, familiar rhythm of a man who'd spent most of his life taking off shirts for work, not for anyone watching. The ache in his knuckles—probably arthritis—tugged at him with every movement, but he didn’t stop.

He just tried not to think about how long it had been since anyone had seen him like this—shirtless, stripped down, exposed in a way that wasn’t about survival. He tried not to wonder whether his body, changed by time and burden, would make you flinch. Whether the soft at his waist, the scars, the salt-and-pepper spread of hair across his chest would make you look away.

You turned away—not out of modesty, not to create distance, but to offer him something rare in this kind of space. The grace of privacy. The freedom to choose, or not choose.

Behind you, there was a quiet rustle—cloth shifting, boots scuffing gently against the floor, the faintest creak of the bed frame as his weight shifted.

“I’m ready,” Joel said at last, his voice low and gruff, the words shaped more like a sigh than a decision, like he was forcing them through clenched teeth.

You turned around slowly, hands folded softly in front of you, gaze lifting to meet him—and stilled for just a moment at the sight.

He was broader than Tommy. Thicker through the chest and shoulders, his body weathered with age and labor in a way that wasn’t unkind, just honest. The kind of build earned from years of carrying things—wood, gear, grief. His torso was lined with muscle that didn’t try to impress, but spoke of endurance, strength without vanity. Sparse hair dusted across his chest, silver threaded through dark, and a thin scar trailed down from his left shoulder toward his ribs, pale and healed and unspoken.

You cleared your throat gently, “You can lay on your tummy,” you murmured, voice soft, quiet.

He nodded once, eyes flicking away from yours, and with a heavy breath he lowered himself down, letting out a grunt as he adjusted his limbs, clearly not used to surrendering his body to anything but pain or sleep.

You dipped onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight as you knelt beside his frame, your knees brushing the sheets. He was tense—every muscle held taut, like even now, he didn’t know how to truly let go.

You reached out carefully, hands warm and deliberate, and let your palms press gently against the slope of his shoulders. The moment your skin touched his, he flinched—not sharply, not out of fear, but with the quiet recoil of a man unused to kindness. Of someone who hadn’t been touched gently in years—not without urgency, not without purpose.

“That hurt?” you asked softly, letting your fingers still against his back, giving him space to answer.

“No,” he murmured, voice muffled against the pillow, gruff and strangely quiet. “It’s just—”

You waited. He didn’t finish.

So you started to move again, slow and careful, letting your hands glide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, down the rigid line of his spine, easing into the hard knots along his lower back. His skin was warm, rough in places, scarred in others, but beneath your fingers you felt something deeper—a kind of held breath, a body that had been bracing for too long.

And then—just there—just below his ribs, your thumbs pressed into a tight knot of muscle and he let out a sound. Low. Unintentional. Somewhere between a grunt and a breathless sigh, like the smallest piece of him had slipped loose without his permission.

You paused.

Not because he told you to, but because something in the room shifted—just slightly, but enough. The silence grew thicker, not with discomfort, but with heat. A different kind of tension settled beneath your palms, no longer just physical but charged.

You leaned forward, just barely—close enough that your breath warmed the curve of his neck. “That okay?” you asked, your voice low, velvet-soft.

He nodded, but didn’t speak.

So you let your hands drift lower. Slower. Testing. Exploring. And when your fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans, you felt him tense again—but not the same way. Not from pain. Not from unease.

From want.

A breath caught in his chest. His fingers curled in the sheets.

Still, he didn’t stop you.

You let your hands linger at the small of his back, then slowly, deliberately, splayed your palms across the wide stretch of his hips, fingertips grazing just beneath the worn hem of his jeans. The heat coming off him was no longer the warmth of skin—it was heavier now.

“Turn over,” you murmured, your voice barely more than breath, a suggestion wrapped in silk.

Joel hesitated—but only for a beat—before he shifted beneath your touch, his breath hitching slightly as he rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. His chest rose and fell with quiet tension, each breath like he was trying to steady something inside of him that had already tipped. His hair was mussed from the pillow, his ears flushed red, and he wouldn’t quite meet your gaze—his eyes somewhere near your shoulder, like he couldn’t decide if this was the moment he should speak or simply stay.

You looked at him—really looked—and it hit you with a kind of quiet intensity you hadn’t expected. Rugged. Shy. Ruined with restraint. For one suspended second, you felt your breath catch—your body going still with the weight of what you were about to admit.

“I’m not really a massage therapist,” you murmured, the truth threading from your lips like smoke, soft and unembellished.

Joel’s brow lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise ghosting across his features—but he didn’t flinch, didn’t yell, didn’t get up and storm out the way you thought he might. He didn’t raise his voice or accuse you or spit something cruel. He just sat there—this man you’d heard whispered about around town, the one with the sharp jaw and the sharp aim, the one who’d killed infected like it was nothing, like breathing—and he blushed. His ears pinked. His throat bobbed. And for a man who was supposed to be all grit and gravel and gunpowder, he suddenly looked so soft.

Your gaze dropped.

And there it was—undeniable, obscene even—his cock straining thick and swollen against the front of his jeans, the fabric doing a poor job of hiding just how wrecked he already was. You could see the wet spot where he’d already leaked through, dark and damp and desperate, the denim pulled tight across the aching outline of him like his body couldn’t help betraying how badly he wanted this. How badly he wanted you.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice low and cracked, almost pained, one hand dragging down his face like he could scrub the arousal off with enough pressure. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

The apology hit your chest like a bruise—small and self-conscious and entirely Joel. Like he couldn’t imagine that his desire was allowed, like he thought being this turned on was somehow shameful. Like he wasn’t sure if wanting made him pathetic.

It was so different from Tommy.

Tommy never apologized for being hard. He wore it like a joke, a badge, always ready with some cocky little line—“That one’s your fault, sweetheart”—as he adjusted himself without blinking. He got hard, you both laughed, he’d kiss your shoulder or slap your ass and go right back to whatever he was doing, comfortable in his skin, in his want, in the way he took up space.

You reached for him before that shame could bloom any further, your hand wrapping gently around his wrist—steadying him, grounding him—and you leaned in close, voice soft and sure and edged in something deeper.

“Don’t,” you whispered, letting your fingers slide slowly up his forearm. “Don’t apologize.”

Your gaze dropped again, drinking in the sight of him—his flushed neck, the way his thighs had tensed, how his cock twitched hard under your stare like it hurt to be untouched.

And then—without breaking eye contact—you sank slowly to your knees between his thighs, the sheets rustling beneath you as your robe slipped open just enough to reveal the tops of your breasts, the soft glow of your skin catching the light. Joel’s breath hitched sharply in his chest, and he didn’t move—didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away—he just watched, wide-eyed and stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he was afraid that moving might wake him up.

“That’s why I’m here,” you murmured, your voice low, velvet-smooth as your fingers glided up the inside of his thigh. You could feel the heat radiating off him now—thick, pulsing heat—and you swore his legs trembled just slightly under your touch, like his body had been starving for this, aching longer than he’d ever dared admit. “To take care of you.”

You reached for his belt then, undoing the worn leather with slow, reverent hands, letting the soft clink of the buckle echo in the stillness. He sucked in a breath at the sound alone, as though it unraveled something inside him.

Before you even freed him, you pressed your palm gently over the bulge in his jeans—and fuck, he twitched beneath your touch, cock rock-hard and leaking, the wet spot soaking through the denim where he’d already been dripping for you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word trembling out of him like he wasn’t even sure he was allowed to say it. “This—this ain’t right.”

You looked up at him from between his legs, your position deliberate, your eyes steady and warm. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t shy away. You just smiled softly, your voice velvet-wrapped and laced in heat. “Why not?”

Joel’s gaze dropped—first to your mouth, then to your hand still palmed over the thick, pulsing bulge in his jeans. His chest rose in quick, shallow breaths, like he was trying to breathe through wanting. “You’re—fuck—you’re a hooker?”

His voice cracked on the word, like it embarrassed him to say it out loud. Like it made him feel ashamed to be this turned on by someone he wasn’t supposed to deserve.

But you didn’t pull back.

You didn’t offer shame or explanations. You kept your hand right where it was—pressing gently against the thick, leaking shape of his cock—and leaned in, close enough that your breath warmed the sensitive skin of his thigh through the fabric.

“I’m here,” you whispered, slow and steady, “to make you feel good.”

Joel opened his mouth, ready to argue, to throw up some sad scrap of pride or guilt—but you didn’t let him.

You kissed him instead.

Right on the inside of his clothed knee, a soft, filthy little kiss that made him twitch beneath your palm. So gentle. So patient. So goddamn unfair to a man who hadn’t been touched like this in years.

“Stop thinking so much,” you murmured, your lips brushing against him again. “Let me take care of you.”

There was a pause. A long one. You could feel it pulse between you—hesitation, thick and tight, the kind that came from deep inside a man who hadn’t let himself need in a long time. The want was there, throbbing—pressed up against years of restraint, of pride, of silence. But then Joel looked down at you—eyes wide, pupils blown, a little wild with it—and he nodded. Once. Sharp. Like the motion hurt.

“Okay,” he said. Then, barely audible—“Please.”

God, his voice on that word—so wrecked, so raw—you could’ve come from the sound alone.

You smiled, slow and warm, something curling in your chest, deep and satisfied. “Good boy.”

The words slipped out before you even thought them through—instinctive, soft, teasing. But the moment they left your mouth, you saw it hit him. His jaw clenched, his chest stilled, his breath catching like you’d yanked the air right out of him.

His eyes flicked away immediately, like he wasn’t sure what just happened or why it made his cock twitch so hard it strained visibly against his jeans. But it did. And he felt it.

He was so different from Tommy.

Tommy never waited. Never asked. He’d grip your thighs, mutter something cocky like “Bet you’re already wet for me,” and be halfway inside before you could catch your breath. He took control like it was his birthright—rough palms, fast kisses, always in command.

“Let’s get these off, huh?” you said gently, already reaching for the button on his jeans, your fingers working with slow precision, deliberate and unhurried, like you were unwrapping something rare.

He didn’t stop you. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, chest bare, arms braced behind him, watching you with a look that was part surrender, part disbelief.

You pulled the denim down, inch by inch, and then his boxers—already damp with arousal—until both were gathered around his thighs.

And then his cock sprang free.

Fuck.

It slapped up toward his stomach with weight, flushed and hard and glistening at the tip, fat drops of pre-come already trailing down the shaft. Not as long as Tommy, no—but thicker, meatier, with veins you could trace with your tongue and a curve that made your cunt clench just looking at it. The kind of cock that filled you. That stretched you.

Your mouth watered.

And below it—God. His pubes were wild, a thick thatch of dark hair streaked with silver, coarse and completely untouched, like he hadn’t even thought to groom because he never imagined someone might want to see him like this. And that happy trail? Not neat. Not delicate. Just a messy line of hair leading down from his soft stomach to the base of his cock—feral, raw, real, like the rest of him. This wasn’t a man who prepped for pleasure. This was a man who had been surviving.

And still—he was so fucking hard for you.

Visibly twitching with every breath you took.

Your hand found his thigh first, the heat of him pulsing beneath your palm, solid and thick beneath your touch. You let your fingers trace the curve of his muscle, the hair there soft and coarse at once, and you felt the faintest tremble as you leaned in closer, your breath warming the head of his cock just enough to make him twitch.

“You’re so big, Joel,” you murmured, your voice slow, low, reverent, like you were saying it just for him and no one else. “You’re already dripping for me, baby,” you added with a little smile, dragging your thumb across the head—slow, teasing, making his hips jerk like he hadn’t even meant to move.

His breath caught, chest rising like he’d been hit, eyes locked on you in disbelief. “Christ,” he rasped, the word escaping him like it physically hurt to hold it in. His hand twitched where it braced against the bed, knuckles white, jaw tense, his eyes dragging over you like he was afraid to blink and miss anything.

Then, softly, sweetly—you tilted your head, lips just brushing the inside of his thigh.

“Do you want me to use my mouth?” you asked, the question falling from your lips like silk, delicate but charged, heavy with intention.

Joel opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed hard.

“I—” he stammered, and then exhaled like it cost him something. “Shit… can I… can I see you first?”

The request was so gentle, so earnest, it cracked something inside you. There was no demand in it. No entitlement. Just the soft ache of a man who hadn’t been given softness in a long time, if ever. He wanted to see you. Not just touch, not just take—see. He wanted you to be real to him, wanted to remember how you looked in this moment, flushed and glowing and his, if only for now.

You couldn’t help but smile. “See me?” you echoed softly, lifting your eyes to meet his.

He nodded—barely—a small, shaky dip of his chin like anything more might shatter the moment. And when he spoke, his voice was rough, low, wrecked, caught between awe and the kind of ache that sat low in a man’s belly. “Yeah… if that’s okay,” he said. “I just—fuck. I wanna remember it.”

You straightened slowly, your breath soft and even, fingers slipping to the sash of your robe. The silk felt cool against your skin, a faint whisper as it slid beneath your touch. You untied it with quiet grace, letting the knot fall loose, the fabric parting to reveal the delicate lace beneath—your lingerie soft and sheer, clinging to you like second skin.

Joel’s eyes were on you now—truly on you—and the way he looked made your stomach flip. Not hungry. Not greedy. Just wide-eyed and reverent, like you were something holy he didn’t know how to touch without ruining.

You stepped closer.

His hands rose slowly, hesitantly, the way a starving man might reach for fruit he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. His fingers brushed your hips with the barest pressure—calloused and trembling, like even that much contact might be too much. His thumbs ghosted along your skin, just beneath the lace, pressing in gently like he needed proof that you were real and not some fevered hallucination his mind had conjured from loneliness and want.

“This okay?” he asked, voice rough but quiet, like it hurt to say aloud—like he was asking permission just to want you. His eyes lifted to yours, and they were so fucking open, something vulnerable flickering there, raw and unguarded, as if a single word from you might send him crumbling.

You nodded, slowly, letting your smile bloom soft and slow—something deeper than heat, something that said yes, I want this too.

Your fingers threaded into his hair—thick and unruly, streaked with silver at the temples—and the second your nails grazed his scalp, he broke. Not loudly. Not all at once. But in the way his breath hitched, in the way his knees seemed to go soft beneath him, in the way his entire body leaned into your touch like it was the first good thing he’d felt in years.

His shoulders dropped like a weight had slid off of them, like your hands alone were holding him upright. He didn’t move his own—just kept them resting on your hips, loose and trembling, like he was scared if he held tighter, you might pull away.

And when you tugged gently at the strands, he let out the softest, smallest sound—a whimper, barely there, but so raw it made your chest ache.

He tilted his head into your palm like he couldn’t help it. Like your touch was oxygen. Like he needed it more than he needed to come.

Like he’d been waiting for this—not just your body, but your hands, your care, your permission to be held—for far, far too long.

“You can take this off,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your fingers toyed with the straps of your lingerie. “If you want.”

He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly, his eyes flicking up to yours again—wide, hesitant, a little stunned.

“You sure?” he asked, and God—his voice when he said it, thick with that gravelly drawl and threaded with something so soft it made your chest ache. His eyes were almost pleading—puppy-dog eyes, sweet and unsure, hidden under all that gruff exterior. The kind of look that said he wanted it so badly he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding as your teeth grazed your lower lip, voice as open and bare as the skin he hadn’t touched yet. “I want you to see me.”

His eyes stayed locked to yours, dark and wide and uncertain, but he nodded—just once, soft and small—his voice barely audible as he whispered, “Okay.”

You moved slowly, carefully, like the moment might break if you shifted too fast. Your knees sank into the bed, and you straddled him gently, your body folding around his like a promise, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t stop wanting. His cock—hard and flushed and waiting—pressed up against the thin fabric between your thighs, heat meeting heat, and you felt him twitch slightly, breath catching in that way that made you ache for him.

He was still so nervous, so unsure, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this, if you truly meant what you’d said—so you leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow, your mouth brushing against his like you were giving him time to change his mind.

He didn’t.

Joel kissed you back with a kind of desperation that nearly undid you—like he was starving for it, like every nerve in his body remembered what his mind had forced itself to forget. His lips were rough, a little clumsy, but so eager, so full of want it made your knees weak. His hands gripped your hips first—tight, tentative—but then one of them slid slowly up your back, the movement stiff and unpracticed.

You felt his fingers fumble at the clasp of your bra.

Slow. Awkward.

A clink. A pause.

Then another tug that clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

You smiled into the kiss, unable to help the way your lips curved gently against his. The affection in your chest bloomed too big to contain.

“Need a hand, baby?” you murmured, teasing soft and warm.

Joel froze.

Literally froze, like you’d just caught him red-handed doing something far more scandalous than trying to get your bra off.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—cheeks flushed, lips kissed raw, brows furrowed in mortified concentration. His hand was still awkwardly stuck on the clasp like it might bite him.

“Shit—God, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice hoarse, the shame already rising like a tide in his chest. “It’s just… I haven’t—fuck, it’s been a while. A long while.”

Your heart swelled. Not with pity—but with something softer. Deeper.

“It’s okay, Joel,” you whispered, your voice like balm, soft and steady. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

He huffed quietly, almost laughed—but it didn’t carry humor, just something strained and bruised, something that lived in the hollow of his chest. He shook his head, gaze dropping as he muttered, “I’m sure the other men you’re with…”

“Joel,” you said firmly, cutting him off before the sentence could reach its end, your voice soft but full of weight. You leaned in a little, pressing your forehead gently to his, forcing him to look at you, to feel how present you were. “I’m not thinking about anyone else right now but you. Okay?”

His breath shuddered out of him in response, his eyes closing like he was holding that truth against his ribs, trying to believe it. After a moment, he nodded, the smallest, quietest movement—just enough to say he heard you. Just enough to say okay.

You smiled at him then, slow and warm, and leaned back just slightly. “Now,” you murmured, fingers slipping behind your back with practiced ease, “let’s get this off.”

Your hands worked quickly, but not rushed—there was no shame in the movement, no hesitation, no apology. Just the quiet, practiced confidence of a woman who knew exactly how powerful she was. The clasp of your bra came undone with a soft snap, the straps sliding down your arms with sinful grace before the lace slipped away completely, falling to the floor like it had never deserved to touch your skin in the first place.

And then—you were bare.

Joel’s breath caught so violently in his chest he almost choked on it.

Your tits were fucking perfect. Full and high, soft but heavy, flushed with heat, nipples tight and begging to be sucked. Lit by the golden light filtering through the room, they looked practically edible—glistening, mouth-watering, obscene in how pretty they were. They swayed gently with every breath you took, right at his eye level as you sat astride him, so close he could’ve buried his face between them and died happy.

But he didn’t.

He just stared.

Wide-eyed, jaw slack, pupils blown so dark they nearly swallowed the color. Like he wasn’t sure whether to worship or drop to his knees. Like it was his first time seeing a naked woman and you were every fantasy he’d ever had—all of it—wrapped in silk, sweat, and sin.

And fuck, the way he looked at you?

It made you wet. Soaking. Aching.

Because his gaze wasn’t greedy. It was wrecked. Full of awe. Full of reverence, like you were something holy and he was already praying.

His tongue flicked out, instinctive, desperate—wetting his lips like he could taste you just from looking.

And finally—hoarse, broken, like it physically hurt to say it—he murmured, “You’re… beautiful.”

You smiled at him then, your hands still resting gently at the back of his head, your fingers idly curling through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re handsome,” you said, and meant it—because even flustered, even blushing, even sitting there with guilt in his eyes and wonder on his face, Joel was beautiful. In a way he didn’t know how to carry. In a way you ached to show him.

He shook his head a little at that, bashful, like the compliment didn’t belong to him, like he didn’t know where to put it.

You leaned in slightly, shifting your weight just enough to press your chest a little closer to him, your breasts soft and warm in the space between you, your skin nearly touching his. “You can touch them,” you whispered, your voice low, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as your breath shivered across it. “I like when people use their mouth.”

Your fingers slipped deeper into his hair, gently tugging at the roots, anchoring him in the moment, steadying him against the flood rising between you.

“Whatever you wanna do,” you whispered. “It’s yours.”

His breath shuddered in response—just a single exhale—but it sounded wrecked, like you’d just undone something in him that had been locked tight for years.

His hands rose slowly, big and broad and calloused, shaking just slightly as he brought them to your chest. And when he finally cupped your tits—gently, reverently, like they might melt in his palms—you swore you saw his lips part in pure awe.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples—light, tentative—and his gaze flicked up to meet yours, wrecked and open and begging for approval.

You nodded.

And he leaned in.

Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair as his mouth closed around your nipple, warm and wet and so gentle at first, like he was still afraid he might do it wrong. But the moment he sucked—just a little, just enough to pull a quiet gasp from your lips—you whimpered, the sound leaving you before you could stop it, breathy and broken and so full of want it made his cock twitch against the inside of your thigh.

He froze for just a heartbeat, pulling back only slightly to glance up at you, lips still parted, a little swollen now, his eyes dark with something soft and searching.

“Am I…” he paused, his voice rough and low, so unsure, like the words tasted foreign in his mouth. “Am I doing good?”

God. God.

Your chest rose with the breath you sucked in, your eyes already glossed with it, your lip caught between your teeth as you nodded—hard, fast, desperate for him to understand just how much he was ruining you.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hips already rocking forward, chasing friction. “Fuck, Joel… you’re making me feel so good.”

His eyes widened slightly at the praise, his breath catching in his throat, like he didn’t know how to carry those words—but needed to.

You cupped his face then, pulled him back to your chest, your thighs squeezing tighter around him as his hands cradled your hips and his mouth returned to your breast with more purpose now, more hunger.

He moaned against your skin, low and desperate, sucking softly, his tongue flicking over your nipple just to hear the way your breath stuttered.

“Shit,” you breathed, voice barely holding together, your body already flushed and trembling from the way he touched you like you were something precious, something sacred he didn’t know how to handle but wanted to try.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your thumb brushing gently over his flushed cheek, your chest still rising fast from the weight of his mouth. “Lie down,” you murmured, the command soft but firm, wrapped in something far more tender than dominance. “Get comfortable.”

Joel obeyed without a word, shifting beneath you with a quiet grunt as his back met the sheets, but his eyes—God, his eyes—never left you. They dragged down your body like a prayer, following the way your hands slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slowly, baring yourself to him inch by inch until there was nothing left between you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw you, the heat of your pussy glistening in the low light, your thighs already slick with want, your confidence quiet but undeniable.

You crawled back onto the bed, slow and deliberate, your knees parting as you straddled his thighs again, his cock thick and flushed and waiting, twitching slightly where it rested against his stomach. Your breasts—red and swollen and slick from his mouth—bounced gently with each movement, catching the light like they’d been made for him.

And then—just as you were about to reach for him again—Joel sat up.

“Wait,” he said, voice low and rough, and a little breathless.

You stilled, your hands settling on his chest, your brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?” you murmured, brushing your thumb along the curve of his shoulder.

He looked at you—so shy, so unsure, like a man who didn’t know if he was allowed to ask. His cheeks were flushed, his lashes low, his voice softer now than you’d ever heard it.

“Can I…” he hesitated, swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll last long if you—if you use your mouth. Can I just—can I be inside you?”

You smiled, “Of course you can,” you whispered against his mouth, your lips brushing his with a sweetness that made him sigh into you, the sound barely audible but heavy with relief, like the permission alone had eased something he’d been holding for far too long. “I want you to.”

But before he could move—before he could even think—you reached down, your hand slipping between your bodies, finding his and lacing your fingers together. Gently, deliberately, you guided his hand downward, slower than necessary, not for hesitation but for effect—for connection—until his fingers rested at the slick heat of your entrance.

“Here,” you said, voice breathy, your eyes locked to his. “Feel.”

Joel’s eyes snapped to yours, wide and glassy, full of disbelief, like he hadn’t expected you to give him this, too. His throat worked around a hard swallow, the tips of his fingers twitching against the soaked warmth of your cunt, already glistening for him.

“For me?” he asked, the words almost reverent.

You nodded, biting your lip, your breath hitching as his fingertip brushed just barely against your entrance. “For you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with heat. “I’m so wet, Joel. For you.”

He made a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat—part groan, part plea—and you could feel how badly he wanted this, how hard he was fighting to hold on to whatever control he still had.

“I—” he started, and then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Shit. My back’s bad. And my knees—”

You smiled, warm and teasing, as you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, your voice turning playful as you reached for his cock and lined him up against your soaked entrance. “Gonna make me do all the work, huh?” you teased, your hips already rolling slightly, letting the thick head of him slip just barely into your folds.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, flustered, completely undone now, blinking up at you like you’d just caught him stealing something precious.

“I’m joking, Joel,” you said with a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping into his hair, your lips brushing his as you began to sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch burning in the most perfect way. “Relax. Let me bounce on your cock.”

Joel exhaled like he’d been punched in the chest, his hands gripping your hips instinctively, not to control—but to anchor. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and filled with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

And then you sank down—fully—his cock stretching you wide, thick and throbbing and buried so deep it felt like you couldn’t possibly take more.

Your cunt clenched tight around him, soaked and fluttering with every inch he filled, your thighs trembling from the fullness. You held still, just for a moment—breathing with him, grounding yourself—as your body adjusted to the sweet, overwhelming ache of having all of him inside you.

And Joel?

He fucking unraveled.

His head tipped back against the pillow, jaw slack, throat arched, eyes squeezed shut as he let out the most broken, shaky moan you'd ever heard tear from his chest.

“F-fuck—oh my God,” he gasped, the words tumbling out of him like they weren’t meant to be said out loud. “Fuck—sweetheart—I—I can’t—”

His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what to do with them—torn between holding you down and worshipping you. His whole body trembled beneath you, his thighs tight, chest rising in frantic, ragged bursts like he was trying not to cry.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed again, voice high and wrecked, cracking under the weight of it all—awe, hunger, helpless fucking need. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight—so warm—I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t—”

He looked up at you like you were about to ruin him—eyes wide and glossy, mouth open, chest rising fast.

“Please,” he whimpered, voice shaking so badly you felt it in your cunt. “Don’t—don’t move yet. I—I need a second.”

You nodded gently, cradling his face, letting him breathe through it—letting his cock throb deep inside you as your walls fluttered around him, gripping like a fucking vice.

But when he finally exhaled, when the tension in his shoulders dropped just enough—you moved.

A slow, teasing grind of your hips. One long, drawn-out rock that pressed your clit right against the base of his cock, dragging every inch of him against the softest, tightest parts of you.

Joel gasped.

His eyes slammed shut, his fingers digging into your hips like he didn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You okay, baby?” you whispered, lips brushing his cheek.

He nodded—too fast, too desperate—his head barely bobbing before he choked out, “Yeah, just—fuck, slow down—please. I ain’t gonna last long if you—”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, anchoring him in the heat between your bodies, and whispered against his lips, “That’s okay. You don’t have to last long, Joel.”

Another grind. Wetter this time.

His breath hitched violently.

“Just let me make you feel good.”

And then you rolled your hips again—slower this time, deeper—and his hands shook on your skin, his whole body going tight beneath you as he gasped and swore again, his voice barely holding together.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, one hand slipping up to your waist, fingers trembling, the other rising to your chest like he couldn’t help it. You guided him, curling his hand around your breast, moaning as his thumb grazed your nipple.

“Touch me, Joel,” you whispered. “Just like that. You’re doing so good.”

And he was—his cock throbbing inside you, his mouth open, eyes wide and overwhelmed, his voice breaking as he tried to keep himself from losing it. But your pussy was gripping him so tight, soaking and pulsing and grinding down with every slow, filthy roll of your hips—and he was ruined.

“Shit—darlin, please—I can’t—” Joel gasped beneath you, voice catching as his fingers dug into your hips, trying desperately to still you, to slow you down, to regain any control over the way your body was grinding down onto his, slick and hot and perfect around him. His head fell back against the pillow, his chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut like he was holding on by a thread.

But you didn’t stop.

You moved faster now, hips rolling deep and steady, your thighs trembling from the pace, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. Joel’s hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, like he could physically slow you down—but even as his fingers dug into your skin, his hips bucked up to meet you, chasing your rhythm like his body had stopped listening to him.

“Darlin’,” he gasped, voice fraying, wrecked, “you gotta stop—I’m serious—fuck, you gotta slow down or I’m gonna—”

But you didn’t stop.

You moved harder.

And Joel’s breath hitched, eyes wide, mouth open like he was trying to warn you and couldn’t remember how.

“Shit—shit,—stop movin’—I can’t—I’m not gonna hold it—fuck, I’m gonna come—you’re gonna make me come.”

His voice cracked on the last word, his grip trembling as he tried to slow you, tried to guide you off him—but his cock twitched violently inside you, and his hips snapped up in betrayal, chasing that edge like he couldn’t help it.

And then he broke.

With a sharp, shuddering gasp, his whole body arched beneath you, thighs shaking, eyes squeezing shut as he came hard, release spilling into you in thick, pulsing waves. His hands clamped down on your hips, not to stop you anymore—but to hold on, to anchor himself as the pleasure tore through him, brutal and sudden.

His jaw clenched, breath catching in his throat as he moaned low and hoarse, like he was in pain from how good it was.

You gasped softly at the warmth spreading inside you, the way his cock twitched with every pulse of it, the way he moaned your name—broken, wrecked—like a prayer against your collarbone, his breath shuddering as it spilled from him.

And then—he pulled you in.

His arms wrapped tight around your waist, dragging you down against his chest, like he needed you closer, needed to be grounded in the heat of your skin. His face buried in your neck, breath ragged, hot and frantic, his whole body still trembling with the aftershocks. He held onto you like he thought he might float away if he didn’t—fingers digging into your back, too tight, too desperate.

You didn’t move.

You just stroked your fingers slowly through his hair, soft and patient, cradling the back of his head like he was something fragile, like you were holding a man coming undone quietly in your arms.

And Joel? He didn’t even lift his head.

He couldn’t.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven waves, his cock still buried inside you, twitching with sensitivity, every part of him too much—too raw, too fast, too gone. He pressed his face deeper into the curve of your neck, like maybe if he hid long enough, you wouldn’t see how red his cheeks were.

“Fuck,” he rasped finally, voice hoarse, choked, mortified. “I—shit. I’m so sorry.”

The words were slurred, mumbled into your skin, thick with shame, like they physically hurt to say.

“I didn’t mean to… I mean, I wasn’t trying to—fuck, I didn’t think I’d—”

He cut himself off, groaning in frustration, still unable to look at you. Like he was bracing for disappointment. Like you were gonna laugh. Like he’d failed some unspoken test.

“I didn’t mean to come that fast,” he whispered. “That’s… not how I wanted to do this.”

“Shh,” you whispered softly, stroking his hair a little slower now, your touch more comfort than seduction. “You don’t have to be sorry, Joel.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing his sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, your gaze tender, reverent. “You did so good for me,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, your voice a hush of affection. “Made me feel so good. So warm.”

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unsure, and when he looked at you—really looked—he almost broke again.

“Look at me,” you whispered, thumb brushing his cheek. “Please.”

And when he did, you kissed him—slow, deep, soft enough to make him sigh against your lips. His mouth opened to you like instinct, and he almost whimpered into it, the sound desperate and sweet, like his heart was leaking out through the press of your mouths. He held onto you tighter then, arms curling around your waist, pulling you down against him like he didn’t want any space left between your bodies.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

He just breathed.

Held.

Tried to remember what it felt like to be this close to another person without losing something.

And then—so quietly you almost missed it—he whispered, “I don’t wanna go.”

The words cracked something in you. Not lust. Not even longing. Just something bare and soft and aching.

You kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and whispered back, “Then don’t.”

And he didn’t.

He stayed.

Wrapped around you, still trembling, still catching his breath, holding you like you were the only safe place left in the world.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

TY FOR READIN - LET ME KNOW UR THOUGHTS IN THE COMMENTS !!!!

#Lordy #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic

2K notes · View notes

eff4freddie · 2 months ago

Note

Hello! I just wanted to send you a message to say that reading your story “touch” inspired me and gave me the push to keep writing my series that I’d been struggling with. It was so so great, I loved every second of it, read it all in a day and think it deserves a million more notes than it has. I really appreciated that reader was 30+ too! 💕

Well. I don’t even know what to say.

I think it’s every artists hope to inspire other artists. Thank you for giving me that.

I can’t wait to read what you’re working on. ❤️❤️

#joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal fic

5 notes · View notes

eff4freddie · 2 months ago

Text

The way this series is SO HOT and so sweet at the same time.

Masterful.

Chapter 4: Listen

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: Thunder clatters outside occasionally. He closes his eyes, but then, he hears it—a soft, barely audible sound from across the hall. A sigh, perhaps. Or a moan. Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, domesticity in the apocalypse, pining and yearning, stairs, smut, male masturbation, female masturbation, voyeurism, fantasizing, joel miller with a towel wrapped around his waist alert. Words: 5,100

A/N: Imagine my joy when TLOU showed Joel hearing something in bed... as I've had this idea since I started outlining this whole story.

Healed Masterlist AO3 Link Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

Joel stands at the bottom of the stairs, one hand gripping the railing, the other clutching his cane. He looks up, toward the second floor he hasn't seen in months.

You stand beside him, waiting.

“Just two,” you remind him gently. “Up and down. That’s the goal for today.”

He nods, determinedly.

Just two.

The stairs are a challenge, the last obstacle that’s keeping him from getting back to his life after almost six months of recuperation.

They stretch longer than he remembers, longer than he thinks he can handle. But he knows he has to. He knows he can… with your help.

He takes a deep breath, trying to find his balance, trying to find the strength to make it. He thought he was done with this part of healing, feeling weak. But now that he’s facing the stairs, he knows it will be hard.

"One at a time," you instruct. "Good leg first, then bring the cane and your left leg up together. Ready?”

“Hm,” he grunts an affirmative.

His foot drags over the first step as he pushes his body up it. He tries to steady his legs, his muscles screaming and twitching as they move in a way they haven’t in months.

His cane shakes under the weight of him as he takes a breath before lifting his bad leg up behind him. A sound of pain that he tries to fight escapes his throat.

“Joel,” you say softly.

“I know,” he grits, looking over his shoulder at you. “Just give me a minute.”

He feels so fucking tired. So fucking weak.

He barely manages to master the second step before his body protests, before he can’t take it any longer.

Two fucking steps down, twelve more to go.

Shit.

He turns, awkwardly shifting his body around, and lowers himself to sit on the same step he couldn’t make it past.

His knee is killing him, but the short walk to the living room seems too daunting now.

You crouch in front of him, waiting for him to tell you what he needs. Your understanding eyes staring into his.

“Not today,” he finally says, feeling totally defeated.

“Tomorrow,” you say, your hand comes to rest on his knee.

He looks down at your hand on him, his heart begins to race even faster at the sight.

—-

You know it’s more than just a set of stairs.

Joel knows it, too.

The next day, he tries again. And the next. And the next.

Each time, he does a little more, a little better. He makes it further up the stairs, your hands steady on him, holding him, keeping him from falling, from doing it alone.

It’s slow progress, but it’s progress.

And you’re always there with him.

By the fourth day, he can climb five steps.

His confidence grows—until a setback on the eighth day. He makes it to the landing, you’re standing in front of him, ready to help him catch his balance when he steps up. But when he steps on top of it, his left leg buckles and he falls forward. You react instantly, surging towards him, but it’s too much, Joel falls… and takes you with him.

You tumble backward, gasping loudly when you land against the hardwood. He falls forward, catching himself at the last second, and his hands slam down on both sides of your head. His arms tremble as he holds himself above you. You’re pinned beneath his warm, heavy body that now hovers mere inches from yours.

His face is so close. His dark eyes widen with concern as they search yours. You can feel his ragged breaths meeting with your own, the heat of his warming your face.

“Are you okay?” he asks, the rumble of his voice radiating through you.

You try to speak, but you can only nod as you still try to catch your breath.

His weight is solid and real, it reminds you of how far he’s come from the broken man you first treated. It’s then that you realize your hands have been grasping his biceps this whole time. You look down at the sight of your hands wrapped around his big arms, and try to hide the hitch in your breath.

“I’m fine,” you finally manage to say, but neither of you move.

“Okay,” he whispers. His eyes move to your lips before he swallows hard, and pushes himself off of you, grunting as he rolls to the side.

“Shit,” he mutters, sitting up against the wall, breathing hard. “I’m sorry.”

You sit up, trying to hide your grimace from the pain. “It’s fine. Nothing broken,” you assure. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. His voice is tight as he tilts his head back in frustration, his jaw working. "Just frustrated.”

“You’ll get there, one step at a time, Joel.”

“I know. It’s just… my bedroom’s up there, the rest of my life is up there.”

The vulnerability makes your heart ache. “You’re making incredible progress,” you tell him. “But your body needs time.”

He nods. His eyes staring into yours. Finally, he sighs, straightening himself and reaching for his cane. “Tomorrow.”

—-

His days used to be filled with rebuilding and fortifying Jackson. Now, his days are filled with rebuilding and fortifying himself; all that’s left is the stairs. The goddamn stairs.

Today, two weeks after he began this journey, his goal is to conquer all fourteen steps.

He stands at the bottom, determination fueling his ascent. He thinks of how happy he’ll make you. How proud you’ll be.

"I'll be right behind you," you reassure him, "but I don't think you'll need me."

He takes a deep breath. His knuckles now no longer choke the cane. He moves easier. He’s stronger.

His ascent begins methodically.

Right foot, then cane, and left foot together. Pause. Repeat.

You follow a few steps behind, close enough to help but giving him the space to succeed on his own.

Halfway up, he pauses on the landing to catch his breath.

You wait patiently, a slight smile on your face.

He begins again.

Right foot, then cane, and left foot together. Pause. Repeat.

And then he’s there, standing at the top of the stairs, looking down the hallway he hasn’t seen in months. His former life is now within reach again. He never thought he’d be so happy to see Ellie’s old, scratched-up door.

You step up, joining him at the top.

“So, how’s it feel?”

“Good,” he simply states.

"You did so well, Joel,” you say. “And… you didn't need me at all that time.”

He wishes he could utter the words that travel from his heart to his mouth, that he swallows down. "I still like to have you there.”

—-

Two hundred rows of crocheted yarn lay in front of you. Mainly blue, with a couple of rows of grey and dark green… a small chain of black in the middle from when you had to wait for more yarn. You’ve been working on it for months now, a warm, comforting blanket for Joel.

It started as a project to keep you busy, but soon turned into a gift to give to the man you’ve slowly been falling for. With each stitch looped and each row created of the blanket, your feelings for him have been knitted into every fiber.

Something to protect him from the cold.

Something to comfort him.

You fold it neatly, running your hand along the section you worked on during the first terrifying days when you weren’t sure he’d even survive. Loose stitches from sleepless nights, tight ones from anxious times, soon turning smooth as his health improved.

You pick it up, holding it close to your chest as you take it to the front porch, where Joel has been spending his nights.

He looks so peaceful, his guitar in his hands, his fingers gently plucking a melody. You pause in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt the moment. It’s the first time you’ve seen him play.

He senses you, his fingers pausing on the strings when he looks over at you.

You give him a soft smile. “It’s beautiful.”

“Just messin’ around,” he says, setting the guitar down. His eyes drift down to the bundle in your arms. “What’s that?”

You step closer to him, suddenly feeling shy about giving him something so personal. “I-uh, made you this.” You unfold the blanket. “I started it when you were… when things were bad.”

His eyes widen as he takes the blanket in. His fingers reach out, brushing against the soft yarn. “You made this whole thing… for me?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, watching him trace the pattern. “It’s yours. “

He swallows, his eyes traveling across every stitch.

“It’s not perfect,” you add, suddenly self-conscious. “There are some uneven rows, and I ran out of yarn a couple—”

“It’s perfect,” he interrupts, as he looks up into your eyes. “Really. Perfect.”

—-

For five months, he was cooped up in his home, too prideful to let his fellow residents see him so bruised and beaten, relying on a wheelchair and others to get around. Now, his cane rests against the railing, and he looks more like himself.

The sun’s just setting, long, tired rays of orange and pink stretch across his yard. The leaves of the trees sway in the breeze rolling off the mountains. He missed this so much. The solitude of his porch, the peaceful sound of nature returning to itself at the end of the day. The quiet sounds of Jackson settling into the evening.

It still gets cold here when the sun goes down, but now he’s warm. He’s not sure if it’s from the beautiful blanket you knitted or the fact that you created it solely for him.

The door clicks shut behind you as you step outside with a mug in each hand. His eyes drift from the horizon to you.

“Coffee?” you ask, offering him one of the mugs.

He accepts it, his hand brushing your hand, his touch lingering against yours.

You’ve brought out a kitchen chair to sit next to him. Your chair doesn’t rock, but he notices how you sway slightly, holding your mug with two hands and sipping.

He takes a drink, savoring the coffee. “How much do we have left?” he asks. He pauses at we, as if this home, and everything in it, is also yours.

“Quite a bit,” you say, taking a drink from your mug. "I have tea. I’m saving the rest of the coffee for you.”

He swallows hard, looking down at his mug. You’re saving the coffee for him. Sacrificing again. It’s been this way for so long now.

As the stars begin to prick through the sky, the air begins to chill.

He takes the blanket on his lap, unfolding it, and offering the excess to you.

You scoot your chair closer, making the distance between the two of you disappear until you’re so close, he can feel your arm against his.

“Thanks,” you say, settling back in your chair with a contented smile.

He takes another sip of his coffee, relishing in the warmth of it, of his new blanket, and of you.

—-

Joel manages the stairs easier and easier with each passing day. Soon, he’s climbing them multiple times a day. Slow, but strong. You’re proud of him, but you can’t help but feel a bit melancholy as you watch him regain his independence. With each step he takes, it feels like a step away from needing you.

Lonesome Dove is still downstairs, unfinished with just a hundred pages left, resting near where Joel’s hospital bed used to sit in the living room, next to the recliner you used to sleep in every night. The furniture has all been moved back; no need to make space for Joel’s healing.

You’ve been thinking about it more. Joel doesn’t need around-the-clock care. He can walk, have a daily routine, and heal without your help. Soon, he’ll be able to go back to work, back to his normal life.

Back to being alone.

You should be happy. This is what you wanted—to see him recover, to watch him reclaim his life. But instead, you feel a hollow ache spreading through you.

You should be finding your own home to stay, should be forging your own path in Jackson, but you don’t want to leave the comfort of Joel’s home.

You’ve grown too attached to it… and him.

—-

After enduring countless years of tepid water and weak faucets, he can no longer resist the allure of a good shower. He’s been looking forward to it since he gained the strength to walk again.

Now, he’s alone. Under the hot water, steam billowing around him. It feels good, almost heavenly if it weren’t for the lingering aches and pains. He wants to wash it all away—the pain, the weakness, the need—but as the water hits him and soothes his muscles, he realizes he doesn’t want to wash away the memories of your care or the feelings he now harbors for you. Of how everything in his house now smells like you—sage and vanilla. Of how gentle your hands are when you touch him.

Of the glimpse of your bra, light purple, all lacy and pretty, hanging up to dry in your bedroom.

The water cascades down him, over the scars and marks that cover his body. The tap is hotter than it should be, almost scalding, but he likes the burn… it reminds him he’s still alive. That his body is healing, all because of you.

He can’t stop himself. He can’t stop his thoughts from drifting to you and staying there.

You’re everywhere, everything, and he can’t escape you. He doesn’t want to.

The water and the solitude should make it easier.

It doesn’t.

He knows he can’t hold back any longer. He knows he can’t fight it. He knows he can’t stop himself from wanting this, from wanting you.

He knows he can’t be strong enough.

He gives in.

His hand drifts down, over his chest, his stomach, and lower. God, it feels good. It’s been so long since he’s felt this way, since he’s wanted to feel this way.

His breath hitches and then he holds it when his hand moves over his cock. He gasps at how sensitive it is, how much it wants this, how much it also needs you.

He strokes himself slowly, letting the heat and pressure build inside him.

He thinks about you, the way you looked when you shaved him, the way your breath caught, the way your eyes went wide when you saw him.

To the way you touch him, working his muscles, washing his body, getting so close he could feel your heat, feel your breath, feel you.

He pulls and squeezes, trying hard not to make a noise as his knees feel shaky. It’s not going to take him long, especially as he thinks about how your skin would look against the white tile of his bath, as he fucked into you.

He strokes himself harder and faster, imagining the silk of your pussy wrapped around his cock, his breaths racing faster, his body trembling with the effort, with the need, with everything he’s been holding back. He squeezes his eyes shut as he pictures you underneath him, writhing and moaning for him.

It feels good. Better than he remembers, better than he thought it would, better than anything he’s had in a long, long time.

He braces a hand against the slippery tile. His legs are shaky and still weak, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

The tension tightens his body, his stomach clenching, his balls drawing up. He tries to fight the low groan that escapes his throat, but he loses. The sound radiating off the smooth tile.

He wants so badly to moan your name, to hear how sweet your voice is when you whisper his name in his ear.

He’s so close. He strokes his cock faster, more desperate to reach the first climax he’s had in months. “Fuck,” he whispers, remembering the peek of your tongue when you lick your lips. He imagines your lips wrapped around his cock, how warm your mouth would feel as he fucked it. His hips thrust forward, chasing the pleasure.

His back slams against the tile wall, the impact of his broad body hitting the hard ceramic makes the bottle of soap teeter before crashing to the shower floor.

Then, a knock. His vision blurs, the pressure crawls up his spine, the grip on his cock tightens.

“Joel? Everything okay in there?”

His heart stops. You’re right outside the door. How long? Did you hear him?

Oh god. The thought of you listening, of hearing his desperate grunts, of the wet sound of his strokes, maybe picturing what he’s doing, maybe even wanting it too—

“I’m—” His answer gets stuck in his throat as his orgasm shatters through him without warning. His mouth opens in a silent cry as he spills over his fist, pulsing hot ropes of his cum all over himself before it’s washed away with the spray of the shower. “Fine,” he finally manages.

He watches as his seed disappears down the drain, his legs trembling so badly he has to hold himself against the wall to stay standing. His chest rises and lowers rapidly as he tries to catch his breath.

“Just… dropped something,” he adds, instantly wincing at how wrecked he sounds.

"Alright,” you say. “Don't push yourself too hard."

He slumps against the tile, spent and suddenly exhausted. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He hasn't felt this way in... hell, he can't even remember how long. Not just the physical release, but the wanting. The needing. The way his thoughts constantly circle back to you.

He reaches for the soap. He needs to finish what he came in here to do. His movements are more clumsy than he wants them to be. Exhaustion weighs on him. He knows he shouldn’t have done what he just did, but he’s a selfish man, even when he’s the victim of his own circumstances.

He turns the tap off… and tries to lift his leg.

It hurts too much.

Fuck, he knew he overdid it. Getting in was a hell of a lot easier thanks to his cane and the towel rack, but now, the exhaustion weighs heavily on his already sore muscles.

He tries to move it again, and the pain shoots through his whole body. He can’t stifle the deep sound of pain that bellows from his mouth.

—-

Joel’s loud growl jolts you from your thoughts as you wait outside the bathroom. You heard the sounds earlier, your ear pressed against the door, trying to get closer to the muffled grunts. But this sound—it’s different.

"Joel?" you say, your hand on the doorknob. Your voice comes out higher than you wanted it to. “Are you okay?"

"Yeah,” he sighs.”I… hate to ask you this, but I need some help in here.”

“Now?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Are you… decent?”

“Yeah.”

You push the door open slowly, your heart hammering against your chest. The bathroom air is humid and thick, smelling of Joel’s soap. It’s already heady enough, and then, you look over at him.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen a sight more beautiful than Joel’s golden skin against the white tile of the shower. One of his large hands is braced against the wall, while the other clutches the gray towel that’s haphazardly wrapped around his waist. Water drips from his slicked-back hair, trails of it run down his broad shoulders and chest before disappearing beneath the towel. You wonder what one of those drops would taste like against your tongue. Your eyes stay focused on the hint of his thigh for a moment too long before you force your eyes to stay on his face.

You can feel your breathing quicken, your heart feels like it’s going to clatter out of your chest as you take each step closer to him.

"What do you need?" you ask, your voice husking at the end.

He shifts in the shower and winces slightly. "I can't lift my leg," he explains, gesturing awkwardly toward the tub edge.

"Okay," you say, handing him his cane. “Use this first, and we’ll get your good leg out.”

Clinical. You try to keep it clinical… but again, it feels different.

You stand outside the tub and wrap your hand around his waist. He’s so warm, so soft, so comfortable.

"On three," you instruct. "One, two..."

He leans his weight against you, heavier and more overwhelming. You brace yourself, supporting him as he lifts his good leg, grunting and groaning with each movement.

“I’ve got you, Joel, you’re doing good.”

Your shirt becomes wet where it presses against his damp skin. Water drips from his hair onto your shoulder, running down your neck.

You get him half out before you quickly drop down onto the floor, reaching for his leg still in the tub.

“I’ve got you,” you reassure. “Now, lift.”

You carefully guide his leg over the edge of the tub as he breathes through the pain. He settles, both hands bracing on the cane.

His towel has slipped low from his movements, you can just see the delicate trail of dark hair leading below his navel.

You’re still on your knees before him, you look up, your eyes meeting his, dark and intense as they look down at you.

“Thank you,” he says lowly.

“Of course, Joel,” you respond, standing up, his eyes watching your every move.

Your shirt clings to your skin, wet and transparent in patches. You catch Joel’s eyes sweeping down to your chest before he turns away.

Clinical. Keep it clinical.

"I'll let you get dressed," you say, attempting to cut through the tension.

He nods, still not looking at you. "Thanks," he says roughly.

The door closes behind you, you feel slightly dizzy at what just happened. Your skin feels too hot and sensitive where it touched his.

It's just the steam, just the exertion of helping him.

Lying to yourself is becoming harder by the day.

—-

Joel stares at the ceiling, listening as the rain clatters against the roof. He should be comfortable; he’s slept easily in his bed for the past couple of weeks since he made it up the stairs, and yet, tonight, he can’t find comfort. His mind won’t stop racing to allow him to sleep.

The more he tries to push away the thought of you, the more vivid it becomes. The way your hands felt against his bare skin. The subtle scent of vanilla that always surrounds you. How your shirt had gone nearly transparent when soaked, revealing the outline of your bra beneath.

"Christ," he mutters to himself, throwing an arm over his eyes.

It's been so long since he's wanted anyone this way. So long since he's allowed himself to feel this way. The years of survival had dulled those needs, buried them beneath more pressing concerns—staying alive, keeping Ellie safe, building something resembling security in Jackson.

But now, in the quiet of his healing, his needs have awakened again.

It’s all because of you.

You.

With your sweet smile, your understanding ways, your beautiful body, your gentle hands that know exactly how to heal him, inside and out.

He knows he shouldn't think of you this way, but he’s already too far gone. You're his doctor, his caretaker. You saved his life, you watch over him daily. This crosses a line he's not sure he has the right to cross, even in the privacy of his own mind.

And yet, the thoughts persist. He’s far beyond the line.

His cock begins to twitch beneath the sheets as he thinks about what you’d look like in the shower with him, how good you looked on your knees, how you stared into his eyes as he hovered above you when he fell on top of you.

He reaches down, brushing his hand against his cock that’s slowly growing hard.

And then, he hears the steps creak as you make your way up the stairs.

He hears you approach his door—the nightly check you always make before going to bed. He no longer needs your help to get ready for bed, but you still always make sure he’s comfortable and situated. Quickly, he adjusts the sheets, closes his eyes, and regulates his breathing to pretend he’s sleeping.

The door opens slightly. He can feel your eyes on him.

You softly pad over and stand near him, he hears you place a glass of water on his bedside table.

He keeps his breathing steady, fighting the urge to open his eyes, to see your face in the dim light from the hallway.

"Good night, Joel," you whisper finally before retreating.

He listens as your footsteps cross the hall to your room.

He exhales slowly, turning and opening his eyes to stare out the window, watching the raindrops fall as the moonlight shines in. He wonders what your bare skin would look like in the low light.

He stays there for a while, staring out the window as he tries to let sleep take him, but it eludes him, his mind too full of you, his body aching for more than just sleep and rest.

Thunder clatters outside occasionally. He closes his eyes, but then, he hears it—a soft, barely audible sound from across the hall. A sigh, perhaps. Or a moan

He goes completely still, his eyes widening, turning to lift his good ear as he strains to hear. There it is again, slightly louder this time. Definitely a moan.

The thought of what you could be doing in the private of your bedroom sends a flame up his spine, his cock throbs painfully, straining against his navy pajama pants. Before he can think better of it, he sits up and gets out of bed. Pain shoots through his injured leg as he stands, but he barely registers it.

He needs to be closer to the sound.

He opens his door slightly, and he can just make out the sound of your bed creaking and more muffled moans.

He grips the wall for support, limping silently across the hallway, still listening. He moves with the rumbling thunder outside.

Your door isn't completely closed. He stands outside, heart hammering in his chest, blood rushing in his ears.

He can see you in your bed, illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the window. He was right, you look gorgeous under the light of the moon.

You’re sprawled on your stomach, face buried in your pillow, your hips raised. Your sleep shirt has ridden up your back, revealing the swell of your ass. God, you’re beautiful.

It’s so forbidden, but he can’t look away; your body is moving rhythmically against your hand, hidden beneath you.

He reminds himself to breathe quietly as he grips the doorframe. He knows he should turn away, he should give you privacy. But he can’t move.

Your back arches, and his hand drops to his crotch, palming himself through his pajama pants as he listens and watches.

He hasn’t seen anything like this in so long, his whole body thrums, he’s never felt more alive than now, he slips his hand underneath the waistband of his pants, and begins gently stroking himself.

He watches you like a goddamn voyeur.

He wonders if you can sense it.

—-

You’ve needed to do this for so long. Your body has been aching with this need for months. Every touch, every glance, every whispered word of gratitude from Joel has kindled the fire within you.

Your fingers easily glide through your slick, your thumb circling your clit as you bite into your pillow trying to muffle your moans. You can imagine his thick fingers as yours, his heavy body against your body, his low voice whispering in your ear. You’ve never wanted somebody so bad before.

You flip over, your eyes shut tight, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you spread your legs wide and fuck yourself with two of your fingers as your other hand pets against your clit.

You’ve been denying your attraction to Joel for so long. Too long.

You remember how it felt to have his weight pressed against you on the landing, the way his arms caged you in, his dark brown eyes looking into yours, intense and searing. You think of how those same eyes would look now, hovering above you, his broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight shining in through your window. The way his jaw would clench, the sounds he’d make as he fucked you.

You begin circling your clit tighter, your fingers pumping in and out of you faster. You’re so close.

You’re so lost in your fantasy that you don’t notice the shadow at your door as you fantasize about his weight, his scent, the scratch of his beard against your thighs, the heat of his skin against yours.

“Joel,” you whisper into the darkness as you orgasm.

—-

He heard it.

His name was just on your lips. He almost falls at the realization.

He strokes his cock quicker and harder. The floorboard beneath him creaks loudly in the quiet house, and he freezes.

Joel doesn't wait to see if you've heard him. He quickly moves back to his room as silently as he can.

Back in bed, his heart is pounding against his chest. He pushes his pajama pants down his hips, taking himself in hand, he knows he’s not going to last long. The image of you touching yourself, the sound of his name on your lips, has already made precum pour out of him.

He spits in his hand and fucks himself urgently, almost desperately, his breath coming in harsh pants as he tries to stay quiet.

It doesn't take long. He cums all over himself with a low groan he loses the fight to stifle, spilling over his hand and stomach.

In the aftermath, a different kind of tension settles over him. What has he done? What line has he crossed? Is he really going to get off to the thought of you twice in a day?

And yet, he can't bring himself to regret it. Not when he heard you moan his name, not when he knows that whatever this is between you, isn't one-sided.

His leg throbs with dull pain, reminding him of his limitations, of the reason you're here in the first place.

He is still your patient.

You are still his doctor.

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

eff4freddie · 2 months ago

Text

Thank you so much for these lovely comments. I have no idea if the physiology is right either, it’s just stuff I picked up from all my appointments with my extremely patient physio 🤣

I’m so glad you felt the birth scene was authentic! Thank you ❤️

Touch | Part Four

Your skills are tested more than ever, and Joel finds a way to thank you for everything you do for Jackson.

Words: 6.2k

Part Three | Series Masterlist | Part Five

Warnings: depictions of childbirth, here there be smut (this chapter is a lot), fingering, praise, Joel is grumpy but horny, Joel has unique ways of showing his appreciation, we continue to stan an apocalyptic grump

Minors DNI

Later, you would be grateful that your makeshift massage table had the good grace to collapse when it was just you on it. You’d been leaning over it, all your weight on one corner trying to set the towels right, when you heard the telltale creak of wood. You yelped as it gave way, landing heavily on your knee and for a moment the pain took your breath away, as you suddenly found yourself crouched amongst the detritus of your usefulness in Jackson. For a long moment you were stunned, your brain trying to catch up, before you felt the tears pricking at the back of your eyes, your jaw aching where your mouth turned down. Your first real thought was that Joel had been right. Your second was that you had no idea how to tally this loss.

You felt helpless, made small and childlike by the shock and the pain, and you wondered if it would mean you’d have to leave Jackson. The town council had been dubious at best but you’d made it in based on Maria’s championing of the cause, and you couldn’t bring yourself now to consider how you would need to survive on your own in the cold, in the dark, realising that the last three months of warmth and safety had made you soft, had dulled your senses. You should never have leant on the table the way you had been, you should never have been so careless. You looked down at your shaking hands.

You saw in them your mother. Your memories of her skin, papery thin across her palms, across her knuckles. How easily she would bruise as her treatment went on, how you went from being able to push down into the sinew to dusting light across the surface, how towards the end all she could tolerate was your fingertips, dragging gentle so as not to tear.

You wiped the tears off your face with your mother’s hands, your own only capable of destruction.

—

The expedition to recover the raider’s stash started the following morning, and you along with most of Jackson went to the gate to see them off. Marla was smiling, riding high on her chestnut horse, her eyes bright and wild looking over the crowd. Your eyes, too, scanned over the faces, your tummy somersaulting with the prospect of seeing Joel. You had no idea if you wanted him to be there, if you were worried that he would speak to you or more worried that he wouldn’t, if he would look through you, keep his eyes empty of any recognition, or if he would stare you down, that same look of naked wanting written clear on his face. You felt your cheeks turn traitorously red at the thought of it, a bolt of something sharp and hot between your thighs. In the time since Maria’s kitchen you had wondered if you had misinterpreted, your mind playing the moment back but this time Joel is disgusted, this time Joel is confused, this time it’s Joel who legs it down the hallway and out into the freezing cold. You found yourself trying to cling to the real memory, trying to hold it safe and fragile in your palm, scared of it and scared of cracking it, brittle little thing that it was.

There were no speeches when Marla and the six departed Jackson. Even Jacob, who you expected to grandstand, was quiet. You spotted Ray on the other side of the street, his eyes never leaving Marla’s back until the gate closes behind her. He looked like he wanted to cry, and you took a step towards him before you saw Simon appear, gripping him by the shoulder and steering him towards the mess hall. You decided not to try and catch up to them, your knee aching from standing so long in the cold.

As you swung around to head home a pair of eyes caught yours, and it took you a moment to recognise that Joel’s daughter was watching you, likely had been quietly regarding you, from her position leant up against a fence post. For a moment you just stared at her, her gaze unwavering and her face unreadable. She looked so small, but so wired, her arms held tight against her body. You recognised it, the perennial fight or flight, and you felt a pang of something sad and hopeful, a flip of the gut. You smiled warmly at her, nodding your head. She hesitated, but nodded back, and disappeared into the dissipating crowd. She may not be Joel’s actual daughter, you thought, but they are so very much the same.

You were halfway home before you heard your name being called, a frantic edge to it that made the hair on your arms stand up. You turned, searching for Tommy and finding him barrelling towards you, stopping only when he can hold onto your arms to steady himself, nearly toppling the both of you in the process.

‘God, what is it?’ you asked, unable to get the fear out of your voice and thinking immediately that something was wrong with Joel, the sinking feeling in your gut dislodging bile snd sending it rushing into your throat.

‘Maria,’ Tommy said, and it’s no better, ‘she’s started…it’s happening and,’ he sucked in another gulp of clean mountain air, coughed for a second like he was choking on it, ‘she’s asked for you,’ he finished.

‘For me?’ You repeated, and now you really heard the panic. Tommy swallowed hard and nodded at you, his eyes big and brown and terrified, and you found yourself moving, heading straight to their house without even considering if this was the sane thing to do. You stopped, suddenly, and Tommy nearly slammed into your back. ‘Wait, did you call on the doctor as well?’ you ask, and Tommy sighed.

‘She doesn’t trust ‘em,’ he said, as if this was in any way a reasonable explanation. ‘She made me promise not to call on him unless it was really needed.’

‘Tommy, she’s having a baby. It’s needed,’ you said, and you watched his face fall. You knew in that moment he would do anything for her, that this was testing him more than anything ever had, and you remembered that this was what family was: throwing yourself under the bus just to properly entertain their nonsense.

‘I’m coming, of course,’ you said, and you saw his shoulders relax. ‘When I say so, you go get the doc. I can be the bad guy,’ you finished. Tommy nodded his head so hard he nearly shook his cowboy hat off, and you were off then, determined to be the sensible one, an Apocalyptic Doula with nothing but a twenty-year-old knowledge of human anatomy and a shattered massage table.

You had only just stepped onto the front porch when you heard the low moan, and you felt your stomach twist. Turning back to look at Tommy you saw the way his mouth was set firm and grim in a line, the way he searched your eyes for some kind of reassurance. You had attended a birth once, in the QZ, and it had happened in the bathtub out of fear that FEDRA would cart the woman off and cut her open rather than waste ether on her, waste the time of properly welcoming a new life into a dead world. That baby had arrived squawking and angry, an entirely appropriate response, and you had stood behind the midwife holding the towels and trying not to look at the remnants of what had brought him here. This was the limit of your qualifications, and looking back at Tommy’s pinched face you realised it would have to be enough.

You forged on, reaching down into your gut and pulling some strength from somewhere around your tailbone. In the entry way your eyes adjusted to the dark.

‘She wanted the curtains drawn, wanted the dark’ Tommy explained behind you, and you thought immediately of an injured cat seeking out the damp privacy under a house to tend to its wounds, to face the horror of its own mortality away from prying eyes.

‘That’s good, it’s calming,’ you said, and you saw how soundly this reassured him, two breaths from full blown panic as he was. ‘Do you have towels?’ you asked, and he scurried off to get them, grateful to have something to do.

In the living room Maria was on her knees, leaning over the arm of the sofa and resting her head in the bend of her arms. For a second you thought she was praying, but you heard her deep breaths in and out through her nose and you realised she had retreated somewhere inside herself, the pain sending her reeling back from her own skin. You got in behind her, hissing as you leant on your bad knee, and pushed your hands into the small of her back, over her hips, supporting her pelvis as it worked to expand enough to let the baby through. She sighed, relaxing into you, so that you held some of her weight in your arms.

‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘I knew you could help.’ You felt a twang of pride inside your ribcage, and you hummed your acknowledgment to her.

‘How long?’ you asked, and she sighed.

‘Feels like months,’ she said, turning slightly towards you. You took the opportunity to reposition her, sliding your arm under her belly to round her spine out, and she groaned in relief. ‘Had been feeling something for the last day or so, nothing regular, I thought false labour maybe?’ She stopped speaking for a second and you watched as her belly seized, felt the ripple of muscle under your palm. You went back to rubbing hard circles into her hips as she breathed through it, finding that you matched her, that you sucked the air in as she did, shared it between you, caught yourself in the moment of relief when she slumped back against you. ‘Lost my plug around dinner last night, though, waters this morning.’

You did some rough calculations in your head, considering this and by the way she was still able to speak, you estimated she wasn’t even halfway there. You steeled yourself for hours and hours of this, felt a sliver of panic slice at your windpipe.

‘Why haven’t you called the doctor?’ you asked, and she huffed out a tired, joyless laugh.

‘You’ve seen him,’ she said, and you had - when you had quarantined on arrival, and as soon as you’d seen him you’d wanted to make a Dougie Houser joke, but you had realised he would be even too young to know the reference. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he tried to check your pulse in your elbow.

‘I’ve done this once before,’ she said, and you fought hard against the instinct to ask for more, to mask your surprise. She was quiet for a moment, gently circling her hips in the air. ‘I know I’m asking a lot,’ she said, and you heard the doubt in her voice.

‘Not too much,’ you reassured her, ‘but I reserve the right to call an actual professional if required.’

Maria snorted through her nose. ‘Let me know if you find one,’ she said.

—

Maria laboured into the afternoon, sometimes kneeling, sometimes pacing, sometimes lying on the sofa with a pillow between her knees. You kept her cool, collecting her sweat in a damp towel and handing it off to Tommy to rinse, the stressed soon-to-be-father hovering always in your peripheral view. Occasionally he would ask you how things were progressing, as if you had a magic wand or an invisible ultrasound machine, but Maria eventually got tired of him asking and snapped at him to shut it, that no one had any idea. It wasn’t the reassurance he was looking for.

As the sun set Maria started to get more agitated, finding it hard to get comfortable in any position. Unable to carry her full weight, you had Tommy come over and hold her up while she groaned and swore into his neck. You could see that she was tiring, made worse by the fact that there was no clarity on how much longer it would be, how much longer it should be, that the three of you were holding your breath trying to figure out if danger was lurking around the corner, like it so often was.

She had taken to letting out her breath in long moans, the sound almost mournful, as you and Tommy took turns to sway with her, as you held her hand, as you patted her hair back away from her face. Occasionally you would look into her eyes and see that she was barely there, that the pain had now stolen her away completely, that she had left her body to do its work without her tagging along for the ride. Only occasionally would she speak to refuse medical attention, and then not again for minutes at a time.

It was around this point, when the moaning became constant, when it appeared that there was no Maria in the room, that Tommy swore under his breath, gathered his coat and stomped out the front door. Maria didn’t look up from her position slumped over the back of the couch and you didn’t mention it to her, hoping that Dougie was ready to earn his keep.

Ten minutes later you heard the door open again and two sets of footsteps, calling over your shoulder that you hoped he’d brought the good drugs. You heard a laugh, a huff of a thing that froze you on the spot.

‘If I had those ya reckon I’d be here?’ Joel asked, and you wondered if this would be the thing that finally sent you careening over the edge: opening a pregnant woman’s hips with your hands while the man you had a raging crush on sassed you from the doorway.

‘Tommy?’ you asked him as he appeared behind his big brother, eyes anxiously roaming over Maria.

‘Joel has seen this before,’ he said, not looking at you so not seeing the look of surprise on your face that you quickly wiped from your features, your eyes flitting to Joel to see if he he’d caught you and knowing, in your guts just knowing, that he had. ‘I figured he could tell us if it’s going ok.’

You couldn’t help a little ripple of unearned indignation at this, and you informed them that you had it under control. It was difficult for them to hear, though, as this was also the moment Maria chose to bend further at the hips, brace her knees, and bellow from deep within her soul.

Joel regarded this silently for a moment. Tension hung in the air while you all waited for his assessment. ‘Totally normal,’ he said, as if Maria hadn’t just unleashed a screaming banshee from the fifth circle of hell. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘No, stay,’ Tommy said, too quickly, stepping towards Maria and rubbing sweet but ineffectual circles on her shoulder. ‘I mean, you can…if things get…’

‘You can stand at the business end with a catcher’s mitt,’ Maria said, from somewhere under her own elbow, shrugging off Tommy. You grinned, falling just a little bit more in love with her by the minute.

‘Tried a bath?’ Joel asked, and you were about to offer to start drawing it when Maria shook her head.

‘Too narrow,’ she said, sounding breathless but resolute. ‘Need her with me and we wont both fit.’ You beamed at this, unable to stop yourself turning to Joel feeling just a little smug. You’d been at this for hours and he thought he could come in and fix it in five minutes? He cocked a knee and put a hand on his hip, and you could see that in any other situation he would have rolled his eyes. As you looked away you just caught his little grin in your peripheral vision.

He turned to Tommy. ‘I really don’t know what I can do here,’ he said, but Tommy stopped him.

‘Just stay,’ he said, and you realised that he was appealing to his older brother to stick by him, that he was telling Joel that he felt safer with him there. You realised that Joel, as gruff and stoic as he was, was comfort for Tommy. You realised that you agreed.

—

You tried to get Maria to eat some dry bread around dinnertime but she refused it, tired and sweaty and back deep inside herself. Tommy brought out ice chips from the freezer for her to chew on and you avoided looking at them for too long, the memory of the cold across your teeth as you held Joel by the wrist too strong, and too ill-fitting for what lay ahead of you. You studiously avoided Joel’s eyes, only glancing up long enough to see that he, too, was avoiding what Tommy held in his hand.

Around 10 pm Maria started wanting to retreat up to the bedroom, and you followed her up the stairs slowly to make sure her legs wouldn’t give out. It took three contractions to get up there, her face screwed up tight against the bannister, bracing herself against the wall, and when she reached the landing she wailed that she couldn’t do it anymore, that she wasn’t strong enough. At the bottom of the stairs you heard Joel inform Tommy that she was close, that it was time for the doctor. He slipped away into the night to bring him, while Tommy helped hoist Maria onto the mattress. Within moments she was up again, on all fours and howling, as you encouraged her to swing low into her hips, to drop down and let her pelvis open. She told you, rightfully, to fuck off.

‘Do you need to push?’ you asked her, thinking back to the delivery you saw in the bath in the QZ, racking your brains trying to remember how the midwife handled it.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ Maria cried, and you reached out to wrap your hand around your wrist.

‘I think that means no,’ you said, trying to scrounge together some confidence to push into your voice. ‘I reckon you’ll know when you feel it.’ Maria nodded at you, her head bent back to look at you through her armpit, and you gave her what you hoped was a reassuring smile.

‘You can do this,’ you said, and you knew, looking at her on all fours on her mattress, hair wild and matted and eyes now shut tight against the pain, primal and urgent and so incredibly strong, that it was true.

You felt a hand on your arm gently pulling you away, and you stood to see Dougie Howser at the end of the bed. You repositioned yourself so that Maria could see you, sat at the headboard and let her rest her head on your shoulder. You looked over to see Tommy getting down on his knees to lean beside her, Joel in the doorway watching on. His eyes met yours and for a moment the world was silent. An understanding seemed to pass between you, that what you were witnessing was sacred and precious, but that it belonged to the people in front of you, that it was not for either of you to share.

‘Ok,’ Dougie said, and you were surprised his voice didn’t break as he spoke. ‘We’re close but we’re not quite there yet.’ It bothered you that he said ‘we’ as if he was also writhing on the bed howling in agony, but the one functioning synapse you had left advised you now was not the time to point this out.

Maria groaned when she heard this, turning her head to Tommy and panting, as he rested his forehead on hers. You were close enough that you could hear her urgent whisper to him that she couldn’t do it, that it was going to split her open, and the way that he soothed her, how he held the back of her head and whispered words of love and courage, how he knew she was hurting but that she could do it, how he loved her, more than anything, but how much in awe of her he was that she was going to make him a dad. You felt heat in the back of your eyes, swallowing sour across your throat, the intimacy of the moment so breathtaking that you wanted to turn away from it, even as it played out almost entirely in your lap. You looked over Tommy’s back to Joel, saw that he had heard it too, that he had witnessed this moment, saw the way he stood steadfast in the face of such naked love. Saw that he was holding your gaze, letting you borrow some of his strength to carry you through it, to be able to resist the instinct to shy away.

‘Oh!’ Maria suddenly exclaimed, her eyes wide as she snapped her head up to look at you. ‘I have to push!’ You watched as Dougie ducked down behind her again, busied himself underneath her, before returning to the surface and nodding to Tommy that it was time. Your remaining synapse again advised you not to point out that he had just said she wasn’t there yet, then promptly joined all your other brain cells in death.

‘Ok baby,’ Tommy said, and Maria reared up then, swinging her legs down so that her knees were back on the floor, her elbows digging into the mattress. You reached out and held her hand.

‘Can she do it like this?’ Tommy asked and you answered for Dougie, knowing the answer almost innately, not wanting him to try and put her on her back.

‘Let gravity help,’ you said. ‘Let her do it how her instincts tell her to.’

In the end, Joel didn’t need a catcher’s mitt. Maria and Tommy’s baby boy slid into his father’s hands and onto his chest, the younger Miller gasping with awe and love while the very youngest Miller gave his dad a piece of his mind. The shrill cries were somehow the sweetest thing you had heard, somehow a symphony of life and resistance, and you found yourself surging with hope at the sight of him, wiggly and squirming and covered in goo. Joel appeared with the towels and Tommy wrapped him up, while you helped Maria back onto the bed and into a comfortable position. You backed away then, over to the doorframe where Joel had stood vigil for so long, letting the new parents luxuriate in their first moments with their creation. After a few moments Joel came and stood by your side and you almost let yourself reach out, take his hand in yours, so awed were you by the events of the last twelve hours.

—

Joel offered to walk you home and you let him, the adrenaline retreating to leave just plain exhaustion in its wake. You had been wired right up until you pulled your coat on, the warmth of it reminding your tired bones of the need for rest.

‘Oh my god,’ you said, as Joel pulled Maria’s door shut behind you and ushered you down the front steps. He smiled at your tired excitement.

‘Somethin’, right?’ he asked, and you just nodded, didn’t have the words, couldn’t find them even as you jumbled through your brain.

‘She was amazing,’ you replied, your breath fanning out in front of you in the midnight chill.

‘She had a good team,’ he replied, and you grinned back at him.

The walk back to your house was only a few minutes, but with each step the exhaustion and the cold got in under your clothes and held you hard and bony by the knee. You’d managed to ignore the pain of it when Maria needed you, but now the ache had settled in. You started to limp.

‘What’s that about?’ Joel asked you, nodding towards your feet.

‘Oh I hurt my knee, you were right, the massage table did come down.’ You were focussed on your feet in front of you, trying hard to slide on the ice, so you yelped a little in surprise when Joel grabbed your arm snd stopped you.

‘You hurt?’ he asked, and in his eyes you saw genuine worry. He faltered, collecting himself. ‘Was anyone hurt?’ he tried again.

‘No it was just me,’ you said, and you turned away from him to keep walking, hearing his footsteps quicken to catch up with you. Your eyes were stinging from the cold and the weight of the day. ‘I was, am, so grateful to Tommy for finding it for me but the table was huge, I had to climb onto it to get the towels right each time, and it was hard to get into a good position sometimes so I had to kind of lean over to get at someone’s shoulders…’ you pantomimed this in thin air, raising one leg up to demonstrate how you would need to contort yourself, and nearly slipped. Joel grabbed you by the armpit to steady you, grunting as you leant on him. ‘Sorry,’ you said, wondering if the fatigue had made you delirious. ‘Slippery,’ you helpfully clarified, as Joel nodded once at you but didn’t let you go.

You expected him to drop you at your front door, but he followed you onto the porch and down your corridor. It felt strange, having just witnessed the miracle of life, to throw him out straight after, so you didn’t, listening to him shuck off his jacket and hang it by the door. He stopped at the doorway of your treatment room, regarding the mess of splintered wood on the floor.

‘Yeah, I know. I’ll clean it up, it’s just really heavy,’ you said and you weren’t sure if you meant the weight of the wood, exactly. You sighed, heading into the kitchen and then stopping when you remembered what tends to happen when you and Joel sit down at a table, and doubled back to flop down on your sofa. You lifted your knee and started rubbing at it over your jeans. You heard the floorboards creaking under Joel’s feet as he continued to inspect the damage in your treatment room.

‘You want some tea?’ you called our to him after a while. He appeared over your shoulder, grinning when he saw you slumped into the cushions.

‘Reckon if I did I’d have to make it myself,’ he said, and you closed your eyes snd hummed your agreement. Instead, he came and sat down next to you, his weight nearly causing the rusted springs to collapse you into him. You watched his eyes roam your meagre belongings.

‘Wood was rotting through at the top of the legs,’ he said after a while. You rubbed absently at your knee and nodded. ‘Tommy wouldn’t have checked, he ain’t careful. Back on the old job sites I spent half my time checking his work, correctin’ his mistakes before the boss got onto em.’

‘He’s lucky to have you,’ you said, honestly. He looked over at you, and you thought you saw the faintest hint of pink under his patchy beard. You wanted to pull him to you and nip on the skin. You swallowed.

‘That botherin’ ya?’ he asked, and you panicked for a second that he knew what you’d just been imagining, before you realised he meant your knee. You nodded, and he grunted in acknowledgement.

‘Show me what to do,’ he said, and your breath caught in your throat.

‘What?’ you asked, frozen in place next to him. He was avoiding your gaze, but he slipped an arm behind you and pulled you over to the coffee table, so that you sat facing him, squarely between his knees. He put his hands on your shin, and you just managed to hold in a gasp.

‘Show me,’ he said, nodding down to his hands.

Your mouth was bone dry, your throat threatening to collapse in on itself. His hands were so warm, scorching through your jeans. ‘Umm…’ you started, taking a second to catch your breath. He waited patiently for you to continue, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth on the inside of your knee. ‘Well, I landed right on it so you don’t want to really massage the knee cap,’ you started, casting your eyes down to your leg where it felt almost safe. ‘It’s better to try and move some of the fluid, support the tendons around it because they got a bit of a sudden stretch as well.’

He made a sound in his throat to indicate he was listening, moving his hands to brace either side of your knee.

‘It’s really about gripping around the back of the leg while you kind of make little circles with your thumbs,’ you said, demonstrating with your own hands in front of your face. ‘Sometimes I imagine it’s like I’m smearing toast on butter,’ you went on, and he huffed out a quiet laugh.

‘You butter your toast with your thumbs?’ he asked, gently ribbing you again.

‘And what if I do?’ you shot back, pretending to be offended. He smiled, returning to his work.

‘This good?’ he asked, and you hummed. ‘What about here?’ he asked, moving his hands above your knee and holding firm. He let out a shaky breath and you watched his face as he kept his eyes trained on his hands. The heat from them was scorching, and you felt sweat break out on the back of your neck. ‘Can I do anything here?’

You wanted to laugh, a giggle forming in your chest and threatening to pop out into the air between you. You wanted to tell him he could do anything anywhere, but you gripped hard on the edge of the coffee table and steeled yourself.

‘Same thing but just rather than circles try and kind of push down towards the knee.’ His grip was firm, his hands so strong. You held your jaw shut tight, not sure whether you wanted to laugh or scream, the wings brushing so hard against the inside of your ribcage now you wouldn’t have been surprised if the feather started to strip away, if you opened your mouth and coughed them up onto the rug.

‘I gotta tell ya, I thought you were lyin’ about going to school for this,’ he confessed, and your attention snapped back to the man in front of you. ‘You must have been young on outbreak day,’ he said, and you nodded. ‘But I saw how you were with Maria tonight I…I knew it then. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.’

‘It’s ok,’ you said, your voice quiet. ‘I was young, but my mum…when I was 15 she got…and she needed so much medical help, one of the things that they said would help with the chemo was…so I went to school for it on the weekends and…I helped her.’ You were aware you had yet to finish a full sentence, but your poor brain was scrambling to understand what was happening, had been scrambling all day. You saw again your mother and father standing at the kitchen sink peeling potatoes, your mother’s favourite knitted beanie covering her head. Honey I’m going to Jackson. See if I care.

You came back into the room, your mind drifting back to the man in front of you, who was watching you openly now, his hands still on your knee.

‘So beautiful,’ he said, almost to himself. You felt heat bloom across your chest. ‘Doin’ so much for so many people. Will you let me do something for you?’

Your vision blurred, your eyes watery, and you nodded, suddenly shy. He stood and tugged you up into standing, coming forward to support your weight, his lower hand on your back and your nose buried in his shoulder. You felt him grip the button of your jeans, popping it open with one hand.

‘Take these off baby, so I can take care of you,’ he said and your fingers moved of their own accord, pushing the denim off your legs and down to your feet, where he helped you step out of them. He sat you back down on the coffee table, getting onto the floor in front of you, inspecting your now naked knee as he held it in his hands. His bare skin on your bare skin, his pulse against yours.

He clicked his tongue at the sight of the purple and yellow bruise blooming across it. ‘Poor little thing,’ he cooed, bending down to place a feather light kiss on it, his hand gripping the back of it, his fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thigh. You broke out in shivers, temporarily unable to speak, letting out a breathy whimper when he moved his hand up to pull you towards him, the edge of the table digging into your bottom. ‘I know, baby,’ he hummed, his voice gravelly and dipped in sin. Your cunt throbbed in time to your thundering pulse, the heat between your legs unbearable, making you want to squirm, but he held you fast.

‘Can I do anything here?’ he asked, moving his hand up, his other mirroring his actions on your other thigh, his fingers close enough to brush against your panties but he stayed achingly far from your centre. He pulled your thighs apart, making room for himself as he shuffled forward. You shook your head, willing him closer, higher and further, inside. ‘No?’ he asked, pretending not to understand, and you nearly cried out. The ache was unlike anything you had ever experienced, the heat and the pulse of it stopping you from forming any kind of cogent thought.

He moved his hands to bracket your hips, his thumbs rubbing circles on the crest of the bone, and you keened, staring imploringly into his sparkling brown eyes. If he was going to continue to torture you, you were not going to stand for it, the moment you regained your ability to move.

‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he said, but the bastard didn’t mean it. ‘You’re so good to us, so good to this town. I won’t tease ya.’

And he didn’t, then, slipping his hands under your underwear and running his fingers up against your dripping seam. You gasped, rocking your hips into his hand, as he circled your clit with one hand and pushed two strong, thick fingers into your cunt. He watched your face as you screwed your eyes shut, the pleasure almost painful in its entirety, sending sparks into your fingertips and down to the tip of your tongue. You heard the hoarseness of your voice as you cried out into the quiet of your living room, your hands flying to grip Joel’s flannel shirt.

‘Joel!’ you gasped, genuinely surprised by the way he had set your entire nervous system ablaze.

‘Sssh,’ he said, ‘I know baby, I know.’ He manoeuvred his hands inside your underwear, stretching the stitching almost to breaking point, and you didn’t fucking care if he destroyed every piece of clothing you owned, would ever own.

‘Take them off, take them,’ you muttered, pulling at them to get free, suddenly feeling the cotton too tight across your hips. He gripped them, stripped you of them in one swoop, barely missing a beat as he pumped in and out of you.

‘So good to me, so good to us,’ he muttered, his eyes watching the contortions of your face as he systematically took you apart. ‘Slipping that ice into that mouth,’ he added, and you would have been shy about it except that you were currently spread open on yet another table, every breath pushing you closer to toppling over the edge.

You felt your cunt gripping, your weight now bearing down on his hand, as you reached forward and grabbed him by the wrist, pushing him further into you, to graze against the spongey spot you could never reach yourself.

‘Oh, fuck, baby,’ he said, as you moaned high and tight, ‘show me how you like it, show me how to help you.’

‘There, there,’ you whimpered, the weight in your pelvis heavy now, the heat expanding out into your limbs, the speed of it breathtaking, as if all your life you had been waiting for this one man to touch you. ‘Please,’ you added, a gasping benediction to nothing in particular.

When you came, hips circling Joel’s pumping hand, your own grasped in his shirt, head thrown back to the ceiling and eyes shut tight, you forgot for a moment. Forgot to tally your losses, to keep the running sheet in your head of grief and of fury. Forgot the world had ended, taking with it first your family, then your home, and then your self. Forgot for a moment the dying light over the mountains surrounding Jackson, the cold and the bite of winter nipping fast into your bones. For a moment you floated, anchored as you were to the world by Joel’s touch, his breath hot on your neck as he repeated and repeated and repeated your name.

Taglist: let me know if you want me to add you!

@orcasoul

@archofimagine

@hiroikegawa

@littlemisspascal

@ilovejoel-andjavi

@giggly-otter

@harrysrosetatto

@Hjzghi-blog

#comment reblog #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #tlou jackson #pedro pascal fanfiction

230 notes · View notes