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lilyinmysoul · 12 days ago

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Human Thing

JacksonJoel x F!Reader

WC: 5K

Summary: You jerk Joel to sleep. The request was ‘old man’s first time in subspace’ and I hope I did it justice.

Warnings: subby Joel, Joel with internalized conflict about masculinity, smut, handjob, vivid description of bodily fluids, reader is described as having bony fingers, tit sucking, Joel is 56, anxious Joel, soft!dom reader, palming, embarrassed Joel.

Note: This one doesn’t have as much dialogue and instead more internal stuff, but I think it’s pretty detailed so that’s a win. Sub Joel also revives me, so there. I also noticed how much I overuse em dashes, but I can’t really help it.

Either two jobs really wasn’t enough for Joel, or he still felt like he had something to prove. You didn’t ever know why Joel kept piling on more work—first the obligatory patrols and then the repairs. Little maintenance things around town to occupy him; he was never a pipe guy, but he could unclog a sink. He eventually figured out how to get a dishwasher back up and running, but that was about where his luck ended in the realm of plumbing. But where one road ends, another begins—or so, they say—and so he picked back up on his old practice: his carpentry expertise from times long ago. It almost felt like a lifetime had passed since Joel had spent his days in the sun sawing planks and nailing them down, and maybe it had. However distant the memories, he still remembered the craft like the back of his hand, and the nimbleness of his fingers paired with the handiness of his technique returned as if they had never been gone.

It didn’t take long before Joel was out twice as often, fixing a cupping floor or replacing a bad beam in a roof. The town needed that: helpers. People to be there when you need them, to play their roles and keep things running—and maybe that’s why Joel fell into it so much. It was all he’d ever done. Maybe he really did love that, or maybe he was just still running. Maybe he never stopped. Not when he met Ellie, not when he came to Jackson, and apparently not when he met you. He still had a mighty mind full of buzzing memories—more hurt than life, it sometimes seemed. But that felt like an awful heavy reality to accept. Something you can only come to terms with when you really have to face it, and you don’t want to think about the kind of pain in your cowboy’s heart when you aren’t there to subdue it.

The man seemed very fascinated again by his tools, by the saws in the stables. Joel was a patrolman, and Tommy was surprised to see his brother asking around for more work. It was strange, but that’s not something you deny—so, then, Joel had two jobs. He was building again, helping to cram more new homes into the edge of town, fixing pre-existing ones or doing repairs on shops. It was quite the feat, you imagined, and it showed as Joel began coming home every day with an even more furrowed brow than usual, shirt soaked through with even more sweat. Whenever you’d ask, though, it always sounded the same: I’m alright… I feel fine, even as exhaustion took over his mind and his eyelids drooped like overripe berries.

Joel had always been depended on. He liked that. To provide was to show love in a way that he was comfortable with. It was really the only way he knew how to give his affection, but also to prove his worth. He was strong then—working day in and out to build a shed for a client—and he was strong now—laying the bricks of an old and crumbling house on his own time. He felt a little accomplishment after each, even though he had assumed the belief that fixing things was his duty. Either way, he admits to himself that deep down, he would appreciate some thanks, some congratulation. He usually received none.

Sarah was gone—long gone—and little brother didn’t need him anymore. He’d spent years protecting Tommy amidst a new world with horrifying conditions, and then there was Tess; she always left it upon him to do something, to finish a task, and for Ellie, he had to protect. If he had one job back then, it was to keep that girl alive—but of that responsibility he had long since been dismissed.

He frustrated himself with it sometimes. The desire to get shit done. It was all that his life had allowed him to know, and something he had no choice but to lean into. So, he lets the work pile on. If anything, he pursues it. Being of use, strong, of value… that’s what Joel wants to be. He assured himself of it.

Joel’s shoulders have always beared a certain weight. A tiredness upon them that could only be related to the sheer volume of effort he put into every little thing. A man who tried so hard was a gift, but he would surely work himself to the bone and you worried that you would just never understand it. Accomplishing, building… was he fulfilled by it, or had he spent so long having been expected to do it that it became his nature? Why did he feel so pressured into service—was it tradition or habit? The more it crept into his brain, the harder his mind pushed back, refusing to let himself contemplate. He was a stubborn man—‘Just how I am, always been,’ he’d say in passing. And from what you knew, he was telling the truth.

The week had kept you busy—Joel more so, as always. It was always one thing after another. The wonders of winter were many, and however much Joel hated the cold, he thanked the freezing months that slowed the wandering of infected. The things would freeze and bury themselves in the snow while coming down the mountains or sticking to frosted rocks, even falling through iced over ponds. This kept any of the extra rot-infested creatures away from the town, but as the snowy hilltops began to melt, the bastards began to thaw, and the price of peace was always paid with increased numbers of infected lingering around the gates. Joel’s patrols have been particularly rough and his arms are always tired from aiming at those things from behind the trees, and gosh, he’s getting older.

It’s certainly scary to Joel. This world—this new world—doesn’t accommodate anyone anymore, let alone those with aching backs and weaker wrists. Even in somewhere as quaint as Jackson, it’s impossible to let go of the knowledge of what happens outside. What beasts pace in humid basements or the kinds of people who roam empty streets. He knows what a clicker will do for flesh and what a raider will do for a bullet or two, and soon enough, he worries that the heavy strength in his arms will no longer suffice, giving way to muscle pains and the kinds of headaches that mess with your eyes.

For a week, you had slipped past each other in the mornings, readying for your day. A kiss on the cheek, a rub on the shoulder, and maybe a whispered ‘are you okay’—not because you believed that there was something the matter with Joel—beside his tendency to bite off more than he could chew—but because it was a subtle reassurance where he had trouble giving them. A small conformation that things were fine, that you were fine, even with a little less time to spend together. As much as you worried about Joel taking on too much, you both had to admit that the town needed him right now—construction was heavily underway in Jackson and security measures were up—so for now, you had to deal, and help out a little extra when it came to dinner and chores.

As much as he loved you and loved holding you close, Joel’s focus had to be elsewhere as of late. He’d been working double running around town from house to house, building fences and replacing broken windows.

If it had been a long day, it was about to get a lot longer if his suspicions were correct. The floor of the empty house had been fixed and polished, and Joel hoped to god that the feeling of odd intuition in his gut was wrong.

Joel walks into the center of the room—slowly—his boots making a low knock against the new wood before a dreaded crunch sounds through the room. You’ve got to be kidding me, he thinks, striding back to the doorway so as not to slump the floor further. It was sinking in just a little and his mind says, goddamnit, I can’t catch a break.

“Shit,” Joel mutters, a stained hand rubbing over his sticky forehead. A day’s worth of work in the sun, and this is what it gets him. Some incompetent prick polished a rotting floor as if that would fix it. It’s like filling a pothole with shaving cream, which makes Joel angry. Tired, too. He wants to go home already, but he isn’t one to mope—or quit.

The man rests an exhausted hand upon his hip, the denim under his fingertips acting as the only thing grounding him while his mind spins frustratedly. He’d have to pull up all of these planks—what a goddamn waste—and then he’d have to replace this decaying beam, and then some. Internally, Joel wishes he could just get a day off, but he knows that if he was offered one, he surely wouldn’t accept it. It was already beginning to get dark and he surmised that the new task at hand would take him a couple of hours at least, so he got to work.

••• ••• •••

When you’re fifty-six, it gets really hard to crouch like you used to. To uproot a shit-ton of floorboards, you have to un-drill each one, and pry it apart through the shiny paste that it had before been coated with. Now, half of the brand new floor was gone from the vacant living room, and his breathing was heavy and deep, his lungs in need of a break and his eyes in need of some rest. Outside, it is dark—almost completely—and Joel runs his fingers through his graying hair that’s a bit damp near his scalp, and decides that this would be one of those rare instances in which he calls it quits. He figures he’d screw it up if he didn’t go get some rest, and so he rubs his dusty hands on the faded denim covering his thighs and lets out his longest sigh in a while.

He looks over his work—not with accomplishment, which was much more rare in the realm of Joel’s mind—but contentment. He could leave this half done because he had more to attend to at home: his girl, for one, whom he had a habit of accidentally disregarding in favor of his work—although, he’d never admit that it was in part due to the secret appreciation he had for her congratulations. He didn’t take compliments—well, or at all—but her recognition flattered him. He liked that she made him work for it.

Languidly, Joel switches off the light that reflects in the bare room, closing the door—which could very well be rotting, too—and leaves, for tonight, his responsibility. His work has been sanctioned off and forgotten for now, and his duty is at home: taking care of the dishes, tidying up the bathroom, and falling into bed with his woman, arms wound around her as he slept, or maybe he could get lucky and make it all up to her. God knows it’s been too long.

As he walks down the old cracking driveway, his steps are weary, yet determined. If you were here, you’d laugh as he told you that even though he had only just left, he was already thinking about when he could get back to work and finish that job. You would pat his shoulder and tell him to take a break, or make some innuendo about needing him at home, and he’d wrap an arm around you. Crickets chirp in his ear as he imagines you and the warmth inside that little home you share.

Joel continues down the road, the gravel crunching under his feet as it waits to be replaced with cement, which would take a damn while if this town didn’t get a move on with all this development. he tells his brain to shut up; pushing the thoughts of work from his mind proved difficult.

Gravel soon gives way to concrete as he begins to near the house. Porch lights illuminate the street, and it’s times like these in this little town that he can begin to forget—for a moment—the world beyond it. What he has now is stable and comfortable. He doesn’t have to fight anymore. When he looks up at the stars, long since cleared of the light that once muted them, his heart holds admiration, rather than fear. There always seems to be a little bit of dread in his heart, a weight in his chest that left an odd anxiety coating his skin. But even so, he was learning to ignore it. Maybe, one day, it would shrink.

Joel crosses the narrow road into his own front yard. He hopes you haven’t gone to sleep yet. He feels fatigued and sore; he hasn’t eaten, and he doesn’t want to—but he wants to see you. And he certainly wouldn’t mind a glass of water.

The wetness of the grass turns the dust on his boots to mud and he kicks them off as he steps up onto the porch. The door is unlocked—you must be awake—and he turns the knob. The homely feeling replaces that of the cold night and the sight of the kitchen—even though it’s empty—warms his heart.

His slow steps cross the room as he shrugs off his jacket, hesitating for a moment before moving to hang it up in the closet. It takes him a few seconds longer than it should, an ache threatening to set in his shoulders.

He quietly shuts the closet door, and over the low hum of the radiator, Joel hears a thump from the bedroom. It could be the closing of a drawer or the drop of a book, but in Joel’s mind it simply registers as you, and like a moth to a flame, he ambles down the hall through the dim light, the glowing gaps in the door leading him.

Joel splays a hand against the wood, pushing the cracked door open. He hadn’t realized that his brows are knit tight, but his eyes soften when he sees you, perched upon the bed with a book between your soft hands, fingers framing the pages with a sweet languidity.

When you hear the door creak open, you know who’s there—of course you do. You let out a soft hum, finishing the sentence that entranced you before you finally look up—withdrawn from one world and brought back to another, a fantasy just as sweet: one where Joel was with you, back at home, with nobody to come knocking about a broken shelf.

Your eyes meet with Joel’s, his hair quite disheveled. He’s hesitating, now, fingers fidgeting as they rest near his hips. You can always tell when Joel is exhausted, and he is exhausted now.

“Hey,” he mutters with a gruff voice before shuffling toward the closet. He busies himself with undressing, replacing his dusty clothes with soft and clean ones. He looks relieved to be rid of his stiff jeans, sighing as he pulls on new boxers. He grabs the nearest T-shirt off the shelf and pulls it on, turning back to you.

“Hey, Joel,” you return, voice as affectionate as warm honey as you take note of the reddened bags under his eyes, the sharpness in the lines of his forehead and how his gaze lands on you like you’re the only thing left. It’s clear that he’s tired, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he stands, for a moment.

You push your now forgotten book away, leaning back against the headboard as Joel’s enervated eyes make your heart quicken, just a little. You open up your arms, holding them out, beckoning him. He knows that if he lies down with you, he’ll fall right asleep, and so he does.

He doesn’t pull back the covers, only sitting atop them like you do, letting his back rest up against the wood.

“What’s this?” Joel picks up your discarded book, clearly trying to make some kind of conversation as his tired body relaxes into the mattress.

“A mystery I found in town.” You look at him, his messy hair casting a shadow over his eyes.

Joel hums, leaning his head down to press a soft kiss on your shoulder. “You’re so smart…” his low voice rumbles. He never really read until you showed him how fun it could be. Even then, he rarely had time.

When you give him a thoughtful hum in response, his thick arm wraps around your shoulder, hand slowly finding your side to rub it sweetly, a position so natural and recurring—your bodies are like magnets, always assuming the same attraction, his body enveloping yours. Right about now, he’d usually roll on top of you, hands cradling your head and caging you in as he showed you his love the way he was taught.

You rest your warm hand over his before lightly lifting it, slipping his arm back over your head. You hold his knuckles to your lips, pressing a little kiss to them, one for each weathered finger. Despite the tenderness of your action, Joel is a little confused, and when you place his hand back on his chest, he’s a little bit hurt. He feels his heartbeat underneath his palm and takes a fistful of fabric into it, unsure what to do with this—it felt like rejection.

Joel’s spine slumps a bit against the headboard, his slouch against the soft pillows leaving his head below yours, and you give a peck to the crown of it, taking the opportunity to sling an arm around his shoulder. The act alone elicits an inhale from Joel; you can hear it, and you can feel his heart rate slowing when you pull him closer, hand splayed on his chest.

“You’re sleepy,” you mutter in his ear before laying another kiss, this time in the crook of his neck.

A grumble sounds from Joel, a stubborn admittance. “Yeah. Well, I still want you.” When his voice is low, you can always hear his accent more clearly. A testament, like all other features, to who he is, who he’s been. You respond by rubbing your hand around his chest, and so he keeps talking. “‘M goin’ crazy.”

“You don’t look like it.” You chuckle into his thick hair.

As you bury your fingers into his hair, rubbing his scalp soothingly, his head turns into your chest and when the muscles in his neck tense and it looks like he might retract, you keep him there. A firm hand on the side of his head that presses him lightly into you. You want him to stay there because he needs it. You do know what he needs.

“You look like you’ll pass out on me any second,” you quip, and by the time you finish your sentence, you know that it likely isn’t true. You see it; the bump in his boxers just beyond the belt of softening flesh at his waist, so you run your wandering palm over that ring of tummy that hid years’ worth of muscle, although less visible now.

Your eyes glance down, and his are wide open. He’s watching you stroke the fabric over his coarse skin with eyes calmer than you’ve seen in quite a while. Continuing to roam, your touch rubs soothingly against Joel’s side and his face nuzzles further into your chest.

“I’m awake,” Joel finally says, his grumbling voice breaking the silence. As you touch his skin, you feel his pulse speeding up once again. “Can you…” ahead of himself, he trails off.

When you reply with an inquisitive hum, he only nuzzles deeper, the thin cotton you wear acting as the only barrier between your supple breast and the worn skin on his face. His cheekbones and the tip of his nose rub against your chest, and he can faintly feel your heartbeat. When he doesn’t answer, you don’t push and instead grip the fabric of your shirt and lift.

You don’t take it off, just bringing the fabric to rest over your chest, the flesh jiggling a bit as it’s freed, Joel’s cheek resting upon the soft tissue. He lets out a shaky breath.

The man looked very tired and very drunk on your touch, his body unmoving in a way that was rare. No fidgeting, no grabbing, just accepting.

Your eyes focus on the sweet lines around his eyes, and you let one hand take the side of his face. Maybe he takes it as encouragement, or possibly permission, but with your hand on his jaw, his nuzzles against your chest turn to kisses. They are wet, and not too coordinated, but they are full of that same kind of admiration that you always see in Joel when he loves you, but it’s missing its possession. He isn’t trying to prove anything, just taking. Is it selfish? He doesn’t know, and he’ll probably think about it later, but he can’t right now.

Rosy lips wrap around your firm nipple, the warmth of Joel’s saliva engulfing it. His kisses are turning to licks and sucks as his mind wanders about—about you, about the pure euphoria of sitting and getting what he wants without busting his ass for it. His tongue against the warm flesh puts a moist sound into the air and your fingers on his hairy jaw were only encouraging him, a little grunt leaving his mouth.

“Yeah…” you mumble, partly to yourself as your free hand wanders down his body again, and when he hears your voice, his lips part, a pop ringing through the air as your nipple slides from mouth. He feels caught, for a moment, like a child doing something wrong.

You push his head toward you again, other hand still wandering, and wow, he is rock hard. Joel’s boxers are thin and blue, making no effort to hide the pressure underneath them that forces the fabric to tent. You don’t want to tease him, not now, but you can’t help but have your fingers meander their way down his hips a bit slower than usual. As your hand traces, nearing too close to his pulsing bulge, Joel’s hips twitch into your empty touch.

Joel wonders to himself about how this all seems to you. Does he look stupid, curled up against you like a goddamn baby? If he was in his right mind—never. But now, there was no way to resist your warm embrace, and your hand was coming closer and closer to his cock, and he worried that if you touched it, he’d only last a few seconds. You’d wrecked him.

Ghosting over the fabric once and then twice, your fingers circle the spot Joel that wants you before cupping your palm over it; it feels like heaven, and you can tell. He mumbles something incoherent against your chest, his mouth reconnecting with the slick skin as he begins to suck once again. Something about the weight of them—it was grounding. He didn’t think, now, that he’d ever have enough of them.

As you knead gently, rubbing and squeezing his firm bulge, his hips tick up another time, almost imperceptibly. It’s a light movement, something you’d never usually catch, and you wonder if you’ll ever get him like this again.

Even though Joel tended to treat compliments like cardinal sins, you bet he’d let you get away with it now. Your fingers finally slip underneath the band of his briefs and immediately find his length, tip a bit slippery and oh, so firm.

“Lift your hips a bit, handsome,” you instruct gently, and he does it, his mouth leaving your breast again, its slick and spit covered surface dampening his cheek. Now, his head rests against you, his ear on your collarbone as you get a good look, boxers tugged down to his thighs.

Joel has been quiet, but his face tells it all. His look is dazed, like he wouldn’t be able to tell you what day it is, and you smile softly even though he can’t see it. His chin isn’t tilted up or focused on you, it’s on your hand as it wraps around him with such care.

You glance down at your chest, each nipple a bit shiny in the lamp’s glow. “Made a mess here, huh?”

“Yeah…” Joel responds, his voice raspy and only barely above a whisper. “‘Like doin’ it.” His head lolls back against your shoulder, and with the way he’s slumped, you know his back will be sore, but he just doesn’t care. He needed this, you tell yourself, but you know that you did, too.

“I do, too. It’s… comforting,” you let out a low laugh—partly out of hilarity and partly from contentment. This gets a low chuckle out of Joel—if you could even call it that. A low sound made from humor, sure, but one that sounded like it took effort to produce, like someone pretending not to be drunk and failing miserably. “Didn’t know these were so powerful.”

Joel gives you a mindless hum that turns to something of a whine when your thumb circles his tip. It’s a beautiful sight; Joel is laid out, soft and malleable, almost docile. You could hear the shakiness in his breath, like he was completely gone.

When you bring your hand to Joel’s mouth, he isn’t sure what to do with it, and so he watches you with slitted eyes before opening his mouth, leaning in the slightest bit, and enveloping your fingertips.

He sucks them a little, letting his teeth bite lightly on your fingers. Inside of his mouth, his tongue dances with your fingers like he needs them, and you chuckle into his salty hair.

You give him a little bit longer to suck your bony fingers, and he does so as if he were nursing from them. He looks utterly peaceful as you pull them out, your fingers now wet and again cupped by his mouth. Joel had gotten ahead of himself, but it was nothing if not endearing.

“Could you get these wet for me?” You ask him lowly, and you see his face go a bit red when he realizes what you’re asking. You never asked him to suck on your fingers, and so he looks away as he lets a bit of saliva dribble down into your hand. Joel is hit again with another wave of self-consciousness, and he feels compromised. He swallows and lets his eyes close when finally, your slick hand wraps around his cock again.

“Sorry,” a puff from Joel when he feels your touch. “Fuck.”

“I like it, Joel,” you give him a tight stroke and then a giggle in his ear. “Told you how nice it is to have something to suck on.”

He inhales through his teeth as you continue to touch him, and if he wasn’t so far gone, his face would have gone redder. His skin is damp and rosy, but the embarrassment is leaving as his responsiveness does, making more room in his head for that still softness that he never knew until now.

Joel only watches as your hand slides up and down his length, first taking a slow pace that makes his hands shake a little at his sides. He could no longer think about the contrast between this and the usual arrangements, how he let his strong body rest as you cared for him. His arms were littered with scars, hands tainted by the sun, abdomen dusted with dark hairs that trailed down into the graying abyss at which your hand rested now, your touch so caring.

His hands and his mouth are unoccupied, his eyes misty as he watches. Again, you press a kiss to his temple, nuzzling into his hair, free hand cupping his bearded jaw. Joel lets out heavy breaths, little deep sounds that he doesn’t bother to contain. His face turns again toward your breast. His mouth doesn’t open, but he leans against you, enveloped by the comfort of your body. When your hand speeds its pace, rubbing him quicker, his grunts only amplify, another bud of pre-cum excreting from his cock and dripping down it, slowly.

There’s a kind of gravel to his voice that you only hear when he’s close, and as you murmur little compliments into his ear, you know he hears you, he just doesn’t have it in him to answer. Joel’s mind is spinning a bit, and his eyes fall shut, some mix of a whine and a grunt passing his lips.

What seems to do it, though, is when your arm tightens around him, holding him even closer and even tighter as you work him. His mind has a fuzziness to it that he never wants to let go of—so new, and yet so organic.

He doesn’t tell you when he’s going to cum, he just does, but you can tell by the tightness in his muscles. His thighs tense up, and so do his hands, and when the milky liquid spills out of him, it comes slow. It trickles down onto your hand, and when you think it’ll stop, it keeps going. It’s certainly more than he’s ever given you before, its drips landing at his base and tangling with the hair there.

Joel’s head, slightly sweaty and slack, is rested against your chest, his eyes in slits and fighting not to close.

“Oh, Joel…” you give his warm forehead a rub, looking around the room for something to clean your hand and chest with. You can’t fall asleep like this, so you pull your shirt, already half off, over your head, using the fabric to dab at your damp skin.

You’re extra careful when you wipe Joel, his cock now soft as you dry him off, scrubbing the coarse hair lightly as you try to get it dry. By the time the cloth has done its job and you’ve tossed it aside to the floor, Joel’s eyes have long since been closed and his breaths are shallow against your bare chest, mouth open the slightest bit.

You click off the lamp and your hand finds his head in the dark, fingers running through his hair as you murmur to him sweet nothings that he surely won’t remember.

Thank’s for reading!! Tell me what you think

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