macfrogrecs

[macfrogrecs]

The Stranger by the Sun

Joel Miller x OFC│explicit, 18+ │15k words

Summary: The cash draws the line, the cash compartmentalizes, and it tells him just as much as it tells her that what exists between them is transactional. What happens between Joel hovering too close to forty-five, and a girl in her twenties, in her bedroom and between her legs, is a transaction. To her, it is cash, and to him, it is the only time he knows that he will be taken care of. Because after helping and cooking and cleaning, playing the role of both parents to Sarah, driving out to assist his parents, and lending Tommy a hand at work, well, who looks out for Joel? Tags: Angst, smut, paid sex, weird intimacy and fluff, age gap, sad sexy vibes. A/N: hehe:)

Read HERE on AO3!

“Pay up,” she said, laughing, and he took out his wallet. It was pure luck that he had bills, hundreds in cash from selling some shit from the garage — a reminder he tried to push away, of his life that smelled and looked like gray, dusty, concrete up against the soft silk that sat a foot away from them, all over her bed. He folded the bills, slipped them between two ceramic pots holding leafy, green plants, and returned his attention to her. It was only then that he could look at her, touch her, smell her, because then it was justified, then she got her end of a deal that was sick and immoral and terrible. She got money, he got her touch. He got, for one night, a reprieve from the type of loneliness that subdues you so deeply you’re too afraid to leave it.

[macfrogrecs]

VIC!!!!!! oh my god

Sitting before you—you perch alone on the island of his given coat—he tilts his head, leaning back braced on thick arms to look up at the swaying vines with just an impression of brilliant yellow-green, as if that were the color of the air. A sudden breeze stirs the softness of his hair, lifting a stubborn cowlick, and at that exact moment, the cloud cover parts on the face of the sun. In the brilliant shaft of buttered sunlight, his dark curls glint with specks of purest silver, leaving you wishing you could touch the fan of fine lines at the corner of his eyes, feel his age with your fingertips. “You’re angry with me,” he finally says, head still tilted towards the sky. You watch him very closely, learning. His voice is deep, quiet. He looks tired, the violet shadows beneath the brilliant hazel eyes. Still beautiful, the full, slightly sulky curve of his mouth surrounded by dark beard. He is everything, all of him, masculine.

i just…you write with such a devastating delicacy where it’s equal parts leather and lace, as aching as it is soothing. i’m fucking obsessed. this whole chapter just came alive in my mind like i was watching every beautiful brushstroke. and then that fucking ending, i—

so hot it should be illegal. lawyer up, dude. i’m coming for you. and also because of you. holy shit.

Busy, Dying. Part 2;

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: In an in-between place called his life, Joel Miller is alone. In search of a cure. In need of a miracle. In want of God.

Can I interest you in a cure for loneliness? She'd asked him in a language without words. Taking it is the easy part. Letting her go is impossible.

-OR-

an a/b/o soulmates AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No Outbreak AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Soulmates AU, Infidelity, Cheating, They're behaving badly and doing things they shouldn't be doing idk, HEA!!!!!, Angst, Fluff & Smut, Scenting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Group Therapy, Social Experiments, Explicit Sexual Content, Dom/sub Undertones, Complicated family dynamics, Discussions of self harm, Depression, Existential Angst, He’s a loser your honor!!!

Word Count: 6.3K

Read on AO3

Part 2;

It is your own conspiracy that if you say the words three times in the mirror—I am so alone I am so alone I am so alone—the feeling will go away. Banished ghost. 

You commit yourself to this practice religiously for three weeks before you feel you must absolutely return to the meetings held in the basement of the Emmanuel Episcopal Church or you might just die. 

The first Friday back, you watch him. He blunders around the crowd, struggling to find a seat when he rushes in late that evening, trying to sit as far away from you as possible and, to his great misfortune, ending up right behind you. Squashed between two old ladies, his big body comically trying to fold itself into the tight rows. 

You laugh at him the whole way through the meeting. 

After, he’s like a raging bull. Scowly and unapproachable as the omegas in the group inevitably make their meager attempts to talk to him. It makes it all the more irreconcilable, a man like that here in a place like this—all the while with a wife at home. 

You wonder about her. 

“That one has a bad temper,” Maria warns as the two of you watch him. They seem to know each other in some way outside of this church, and it takes everything in you not to beg for details. A brother far away in Wyoming, Maria tells you later. “Big and hairy like a bad, lonely dog.”

You say, “I think he’s shy.” 

She watches you very peculiarly after that, and tells you, “You’re lost, girl. Joel Miller isn’t what you need finding you.”

But you know this, you assure her, and you continue to avoid him. 

The following Friday, he’s the one playing the disappearing act. The next week, as well—no show. You start to dread even your own shadow, wondering where he is, wondering if he’s ever coming back, if he has children and how old he is. Wondering if he wonders about you. Wondering why you’re so obsessed.

Too full of curiosity for your own good, you hover when he finally appears once again. Circling him and Maria, desperate for any sort of information. 

His wife had been sick, he says. He’d had to take her to the doctor. 

You wonder if her sickness might be a baby—sick to your stomach at the thought of it yourself. 

Finally, the week after, the two of you break your fast from one another. 

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, coming up from behind, ambushing you once again at the dessert and coffee trough. This is supposed to be a safe space, yet it feels anything but with him near. 

“No I haven’t.”

“You’re not supposed to tell lies in church. It’s a sin.”

“I don’t believe in sin.” You turn to face him, and your stomach hurts. 

He’s got on a dark green fisherman’s sweater—well worn but knit sturdy. A thing that looks as if it’s been his for years. 

And you’re feeling thin-skinned and unable to face him today, for no good reason. You don't know this man. You have no right to punish him with your silence, no right to be angry, to wonder about him. Going out of your way to avoid him is childish when you’re supposed to be here to get to know people. But that sternness from before, the one that looked too heavy for him to carry, has been wiped away from his face now, and in its place he only looks very earnest, like he really wants to talk to you. And it’s only that, well you don’t know him, yes, but you’d felt that you needed to, or that you would. That you were meant to find him in this place, and you’re angry at yourself and at him at how wrong you’d been, still, even after all these weeks of radio silence while he’d been busy caring for his sick wife. 

“Me either,” he gives a small huff of laughter, shoving his fists into the pockets of his dark jeans. 

Setting the donut in your hand back on the table—rude and gross, but it’s an afterthought—you wipe your sweet sweaty palm against your hip, appetite all gone now. The basement is suddenly unbearably hot, your heart beating in your throat. 

“Anywho, I gotta run. Somewhere to be—” you mumble, brushing past him. There’s a sudden rush of itching heat burning its way up your chest, your throat, ants crawling over your scalp. The room is stifling, your limbs leaden and too many bodies; so many disgusting, clashing scents: pheromones, and desperation and such terrible loneliness, and him at the center of it, ambrosial.

You’ll have to recite your mantra more faithfully in the mirror every night, not a single miss. Remind yourself, I am so alone, so that the feeling might go away, and you’ll forget him and the way he smells and his eyes like amber green river stones, more quickly. 

“Whoah, hold on,” he calls after you, following to the exit and up the steps to the world outside of this church. You’d brought a coat today, unable to enjoy the cold the way you usually do, uncharacteristically chill, aching limbs, miserable in the biting morning air. He calls your name, and you clutch the wool against your chest, trying to hurry away from his much longer legs that catch you anyways. 

Suddenly, though, you change your mind. Whirling around to look up, you stop your running, and he’s right there, so close. “I haven’t been ignoring you. You were gone.” Mind changing again, your gaze falls, unable to hold his eyes. You watch his left hand flex like he wants to do something with it. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A scoff. “What are you apologizing to me for?” 

“You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met in my entire life.” He says it quietly by way of explanation, like another apology. 

“You must not have met very many interesting people.”

It feels hot and cold at the same time out here. Your stomach still hurts. Your eyes ache as if you could cry, which is ridiculous because you have absolutely no reason to cry. 

“Maybe not,” he says very low. It seems he’s drifting closer, like you’ll float away. A car honks its horn loudly somewhere in the background, and you still can’t look at his face. His own coat is clutched in his fist and now the honker is shouting too, expletives and God’s name being taken in vain. 

“You should go back in there,” you tip your chin at the depths you’d just fled from, stealing a quick glance at his face, “Find someone else who’s interesting.”

He grunts once, a wordless no and lifts his coat to drape it over your shoulders—you decide you’re even colder now, you don’t think you’ll ever be warm again—and takes yours from your listless grip, draping it over his elbow. 

This man. “Aren’t you here to get to know people?” You demand, finally looking up at him angrily. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

His palm at your bicep urging you towards Arlington and the garden sends all sound skittering out of your ears. He reminds you of your earlier words, that he might like to walk, and you can hear yourself agreeing while you look up at the muted light of the late November afternoon leaching through the cloud cover. Through the wool and cotton you feel your skin sucking heat from that singular point of contact, warming you entirely.

It had been blisteringly cold last night, the alluring taste of incumbent winter in the air, and a vicious frost had ermined all the tree trunks within the Boston Public Garden, roughened the surface of the grass. 

Joel chooses a quiet spot by the pond, the willow weeps above your head and all around the two of you the sharp autumn air is lightly laced with the fragrance of leaf rot. An elderly couple floats serenely in a lone swan boat at the center of the pond, not a ripple in the surface, as if they weren’t really there. 

Helping you to sit, he gently pulls his coat from your shoulders, laying the garment for you to rest on protected from the frigid ground and carefully looping your arms through your own coat now, he pulls the excess fabric of his up, draped over your shoulders once again, leaving you securely enveloped from the cold. 

“Here, let me help you,” he says, and the sudden gentleness in his voice makes you want to burst into tears. 

His character, that of some matryoshkin sort, one embedded in another in another, never knowing which is the realest one, the truest one, which will come next. Angry snarling dog one day, a gentleness that burns the next. You have the sense that a person could know him for decades and still never reach the center, never cease to discover more. 

Sitting before you—you perch alone on the island of his given coat—he tilts his head, leaning back braced on thick arms to look up at the swaying vines with just an impression of brilliant yellow-green, as if that were the color of the air. A sudden breeze stirs the softness of his hair, lifting a stubborn cowlick, and at that exact moment, the cloud cover parts on the face of the sun. In the brilliant shaft of buttered sunlight, his dark curls glint with specks of purest silver, leaving you wishing you could touch the fan of fine lines at the corner of his eyes, feel his age with your fingertips. 

“You’re angry with me,” he finally says, head still tilted towards the sky. You watch him very closely, learning. His voice is deep, quiet. He looks tired, the violet shadows beneath the brilliant hazel eyes. Still beautiful, the full, slightly sulky curve of his mouth surrounded by dark beard. He is everything, all of him, masculine. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

Finally, he looks at you, too. He’s got a big head, proportionate to his big body, that falls back heavily. You can’t help smiling at him, it feels too natural. 

“Now you’re honest.”

“I wouldn’t tell a lie here,” you say, and he sighs like you’re a supremely difficult little omega, too impossible to be reasoned with. Turning back to the sky, eyes closed now, there’s a smile across his mouth also, and you wish the two of you could sit here and laugh forever in this moment.

The silence between the two of you is marvelous enough to be unnerving. Settled beneath his great coat, you’d never believed you could feel the cold so little—learning every fine detail that makes up the man. Even inches away from him, he seems utterly unattainable, each of the two of you existing on your separate islands—you trace the woolen edge of his coat against the ground—some twenty years your senior, likely, and married. But the cold has given you such a feeling of grounding buoyancy. You’d awoken angry, miserable, so full of despair you would’ve been sick with it if it were possible. And now—you hadn’t felt this alive or awake in years, perhaps your entire life. He is a marvel, and there are bubbles in your head threatening to take you floating away, and yet, your feet are firmly melded to the ground in reality. 

How attractive, how delicious the prospect of intimacy is with someone who you know will never grant it. It fills you with something ferocious or hungry or snapping, something pathetic that makes you want it all the worse. And he, with a gravitational pull too strong to even think of escaping.

Yes. You hadn't felt so happy in years. 

“How old are you?” Breaking the silence, you ask him.

“Forty three.”

“You have a brother.” He nods. “I have one too.”

“Do you speak to yours? I don’t.”

“He calls me once a month. It’s all he can bear of me.”

“Mine won’t speak to me.” He sounds sad saying so. 

“Why not?”

“I hurt him. Scared him.”

“My brother, he says my whole life is papier-mâché. My values are all wrong, I’m a crowd-pleaser. It’s probably true.” You’d felt it impossible to better yourself, and yet still, you tried for him even when you didn’t want to. “How did you hurt him?”

“You can’t change a man, only make him more secure. Depending on his character that may then bring happiness or strength or success. Tommy’s failure of this in me was more than he could bear, also.”

The willow becomes your confessional. “I spiked my own drink once just to see what it would be like. A doctor told me afterwards that I have self destructive tendencies. I want to hurt myself, but I don’t want to actually feel the hurt, which makes me all the more addicted to it. A supernumerary on the stage of my own life, too afraid of hurting and hungry for it at the same time.”

The heel of his left hand, you notice, is bearing down on an old acorn burr, and yet he seems not to feel the pain. 

He’s looking at you very intently now. Some glimmering streak in his eye. It almost looks aggressive, and a muscle flutters madly at the edge of his jaw. He straightens, sitting up to face you. The acorn burr is left flattened and disfigured in his wake.

“The last doctor I saw told me I was depressed. I never went back after.”

“Are you?”

He laughs surprisingly full of humor and then instantly serious again. “Probably. I’ve been watching my life, scratching at it trying to get in. I can’t. It’s right there.” The matryoshka shuffles, locked in his melancholy one moment, spilling brightness the next. 

You want to understand him so badly your hands shake with it. 

“What’s your favorite thing about your work?” You ask him. 

Where does his wife think he is right now?

“That’s a nice question. Maybe…” he thinks a moment, “Getting to make things that’ll go in people’s homes. The idea that something that came from me will be surrounded by a family.”

You can’t help yourself. “Why aren’t you at home, then?” You ask him imploringly, unbearably sad for him, sick with need, desperate to understand what it is he’s doing here, and all at once, utterly certain of what it is you are. You breathe him in deeply. “Don’t you love your wife?” The question is posed with no bravery, and yet it still comes out into the world demanding. 

He clicks his tongue, taken aback, a shocked breath, maybe even a small, reproving smile. A hundred different emotions coming to life across his face in that single moment. 

“I don’t know,” he finally answers. “I remember loving her. Maybe. At best? She’s a stranger. At worst? An excuse?” The way he says it, like a question—he’s asking you, not telling, for he isn’t even sure of it himself. You’ve caught him off guard. 

“No…” the click of his tongue snaps you to attention, “That's too generous. We’re trapped in a box together, but completely strange to one another.” It suddenly feels like he shouldn’t be telling you this—about her. You’re sure he shouldn’t be. 

“Do you hate each other?” you ask anyway. There’s something…your only example of love and marriage being two people who had always hated one another and filled the home where their children lived with more hate. It’s difficult to fathom something different than what that had looked like. 

If you were truly brave, you’d ask if he has children, too. 

“No,” he says immediately, a non option, his brow furrowed. “That would take too much effort.” 

Now you understand. He’s alone anyways. The feeling of urgency within you mounts. You’re frightened by this moment of discovery. 

“You’re Southern. Your accent…” You can’t discuss this anymore, needing to change the subject. 

“Texas.”

“When did you leave?”

“Long time ago.”

“Do you miss it?”

At his, he laughs like the question is ironic. “No. Where are you from?”

“Sometimes it feels like I can’t even remember.”

And as if he’d pulled the feeling straight from your mouth, he tells you that he understands what that’s like, and you can’t help it when you reach for his hand, being as careful with him as you would any shy creature, needing to hold him. 

-

“I’ve never been in love,” you tell him, childish look of recklessness and valor coming across your face as you pick up on the earlier thread of conversation you’d frightened yourself with. “It seems too daring, even grotesque.” 

He thinks he wants to capture that look in a bottle and take it everywhere with him. His entire body throbs with a heartbeat and the shape of your hand fits his as if every joint and muscle and soft ligament had been specifically designed for him to hold, filled suddenly with a terrible sense of foreboding. Looking at you, one just knows there’ll be a broken heart. 

Your small thumb smooths gently over his large one, and he marvels that such an exquisite creature would touch him. God, but you’re beautiful. Your touch, soft and enticing and painful all at once. No one had ever been so gentle with him.

“Won’t you tell me a secret?” you beg.

He will. He might give you anything in this moment. In the weeks he’d been kept away, he’d desperately counted the days and minutes until he could return to that place of worship and honesty. 

“I think about you,” voice hushed, the shaking of the leaves not loud enough to mask the soft breath you suck in as he gives you his confession. 

He maps the architecture of the small hands in his grasp, fingers tracing fingers, uncured clay fragile before the heat. He feels tired and strangely spent, almost drunk on your touch. His thumb slides upwards, marveling at the softness of your wrist, and then there, beneath the shivering distraction of your pulse and his disturbing search, the unlocked fragrance of your scent gland. It drifts towards him slowly like smoke rising from sleep.  

The air seems to pulse between the two of you with heat and premonition. That singular moment before everything goes terribly wrong, he can see it in your eyes. Such vibrancy, excitement, recklessness turned dangerous. 

“We should…” you feel him begin to pull away, grappling to hold on to the moment and his hand, “We should fuck.” He takes himself back, letting you go. Where else was this being led?

He cringes away from you. “Excuse me?” 

“Sex. You’ve had it before.” His mind reels. His body’s reaction at hearing your mouth say these things, the way it shapes them, the soft, full lips wrapped around the words.  

Looking away, he watches the pond’s couple help each other out of the swan. In his periphery, he can see you begin to bristle at his silence. 

“Don’t be peevish. It’s unbecoming.” 

He can’t help feeling angry. “I’m not. I’m old enough to be your father.” 

And you laugh at him. You’re deviating paths now, going opposite ways and angry at one another for it. 

“We could pretend that—if that’s what you want,” you say, voice husky and seductive. 

A small palm smooths up his thigh and his gaze snaps fire at you, hand clamping painfully at your wrist, fingernails digging at your gland, disturbing more of that gorgeous scent into the air. 

You make a pained sound. He needs to leave. He needs to never see you again.

“Don’t be disgusting,” he shoots back, hot everywhere. 

“Don’t be a prude.” He flings your wrist away, and you cradle it against your chest as if he’d hurt you. The heat turns to guilt pulsing through his limbs. 

Warring to wounded then, your eyes. You wrap your fingers around your discarded wrist. “What if we lose everything? What if tomorrow’s the end of the world? What if we’re so thoroughly cured of our loneliness after all this is done, we never feel like we need another person this way again?” 

His muscles tense with the need to flee or attack, the thought of you needing him, of being needed—he’s like some creature coming upon its mate. 

Despite his age, he had never tried to truly seduce anyone. He had never truly wanted anyone. Not in any real and base sort of way. Like an alpha. Desire for him had been a mute and ordinary thing. But he could have you now, turned into a thing he’d never been before, he could mount you and rut you into the dirt like an animal. Never so much a product of his designation as he feels in this instant. 

He can’t even form word, and your body seems to pulse against his with embarrassed heat and indignation. 

“Have you ever even fucked an omega?” You spit at him meanly. 

“We shouldn’t be talking about this.” 

Voice carefully restrained, each syllable off his tongue is measured with his tenuous control. 

“Tell me anyways,” you demand, shoving his coat off your shoulders being the thing that almost makes him lose it. 

“It’s cold. Put that back on.”

“Tell me.” And he shouldn’t. You should have no sway over him. No demand of his honesty or anything else that belongs to him.

“Once. Only because I wanted to know what it was like.” He’s man enough to admit to himself the embarrassment he feels telling you this.

But it seems to quell some tremor in your eyes, and you sit back, palm petting at your throat as if you’re trying to soothe yourself. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, gaze averted, glassy, delirious look there. “I’ve always gotten my feelings hurt easily. I’m—” you shake your head quickly, sucking on your lip. “...too sensitive. Sometimes I feel like I’ll float away if I don’t find anyone to hold me down.” 

He should tell you that you’re not, wants to, but the image of you weak and pinned beneath him churns in his mind. Whole body aching suddenly, needing his hands on you before he does something truly heinous—he straightens abruptly, abandoning your reassuring warmth. Feeling suddenly cold despite the sweat dotting his spine. 

Without another word he turns to leave you there, alone, while the swan pair watches from across the pond as the two of you part ways. 

The next morning he awakens stiff and burning, his cock a brand of heat against his stomach. And works his entire day in a static haze, lavender spots at the edge of his vision where all he can think about is how you smell and the way your hand feels in his. By five o’clock, his fingers ache, spasming painfully from gripping his tools too hard. Breaking his weeks-long habit, he decides to attend the Saturday night meeting, full of constrained energy and sullen moodiness. Reasoning that a pretty, young girl like you wouldn’t waste her weekend in the basement of a church abandoned by God. 

And is sick to his stomach with equal measures elation and dread when he spots you sitting amongst the crowd of metal folding chairs—wearing his coat. He doesn’t hesitate even a little when he claims the seat next to yours. 

The two of you sit in strained silence the entire meeting, the other alphas and omegas surrounding throwing alarmed and intrigued glances your way as the tension brews hotter and more frenzied, scent mounting.

His body hurts. This is a painful kind of lust. 

He listens to the speakers tonight with only half an ear, instead, occupied with the memory of what you’d looked like the other week eating a jelly and cream filled donut, imagining what your mouth would look like smeared with his blood and come. He can smell your body, how hot and trembling nervous you are. So unlike all that blistering, innocent valor from yesterday. 

The omega with the cruel husband turned sick one is taking her turn again tonight. Now that he finally looks at her, she has hair that at one time was vibrant red, now turned a softened copper threaded through with white. Time is such a painful, slow thing, Joel thinks. 

“Have you ever been with someone you knew you were too good for?” The omega asks the room, while the one beside him begins to shake, knee jolting nervously.

You’re anxious, and it makes him angry that you should be made so by his actions. 

Too rough for forbearance, his palm clamps down tightly on your knee, holding it still, and you make some supplicant whimper at the back of your throat. Almost imperceptibly, you draw away from him, the line of your shoulders growing rigid, and a wild, irrational sense of loss steals his breath. 

He’s been so busy lately, distracted. He’s hungry, overstrained, anxious, himself. He doesn’t mean to be brusque with you. He just can’t help himself. 

Would we be here if we had? Someone lost in the crowd pipes back. 

The woman laughs, she has a kind face. “Me either.” You shove his palm off your leg as if it burns. “But there was someone… once. A chance, maybe. Someone I didn’t choose but should have. We were friends. We came very close to being happy.” 

And Joel suddenly feels a wave of desolation so overwhelming wash over him. He turns to look at you, your vibrating profile, so pretty, and he’s gentle this time when he touches your knee. Just to feel you. How terrible, he thinks, to only come very close to being happy. 

The speaker changes, and then it’s Maria’s voice talking to them all. Joel still can’t look away from you as you, in turn, refuse to look at him. 

“Stop, Joel,” you whisper. But he can’t. 

“At the start of this, we usually discuss a second option for those of you who aren’t able to find what you’re looking for in this. Sometimes it’s not so simple,” Maria tells them. 

A miracle move on drug, is what she calls it. 

The group’s coalition is sponsored by a pharmaceutical company, one testing a cure for loneliness. Something they think of as pilled perfection, something to numb the pain of loss. Any emotional wound, now with the potential to be a thing of the past. The young omega handing out the pamphlets had promised an easy cure, it seems this is what he’d been referring to. And if the potential side effects included an inability to hold on to any sort of emotional attachment afterward, well, the encounter groups they’d targeted thus far were grateful for it in the end anyway. They were all alone after all. 

“It’ll help you let go of everything you can’t let go of,” Maria tells them. “Help make you forget. Help make you un-lonely. We’ll be holding a session Wednesday morning for anyone who’s interested in being part of the trial. Our sponsor company, Firefly, is very happy to welcome as many of you as possible.” 

Beside him, you whisper, “Only a coward would take that option. What a cheat.” 

Joel hesitates, perplexed and wounded by your words. 

“You’ll never have to grieve or miss something you can’t get back, ever again. I know that for many of you, this is the ultimate fantasy,” Maria says.

“I think it sounds like something to help let go. Like what I came here for.”

You exchange cards. Now it’s your turn, the wounded look. 

When Maria’s through, bidding the group goodnight and setting them all free to mingle, you’re up and out of your seat before he can get a word in. He watches you go as if he were some sort of abandoned lapdog, only for a second, before he’s once again, striding after you. 

You weave almost drunkenly through the crowd, first heading towards the exit, then to the beverage station, then correcting and veering towards the back hall where the restrooms and catechism classrooms are. 

Gaining on you, he takes you by the elbow, pushing you deep into the darkness of the long hallway. Going far enough the din of desperate socialization turns a quiet murmur. You’re really in the belly of the beast now. So quiet and dust infused it feels as if it’s been years since a soul stepped through here. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Your face glows with fevered sweat. 

“I’m sick,” you mumble on the tail end of a whine when he shakes your arm into responsive compliance. “Let me go. Stop,” you fight, trying to claw away from him.

“No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I threw up all night. And you have the personality of a snarling dog more than a man. Has anyone ever told you that?” Shoving at his chest now feebly.

Ignoring your caterwauling, he takes you in entirely. “You’re not sick,” he says again, sure now. 

There’s a timeless hunger gnawing at his gut. Joel suddenly feels more himself than he thinks he’s ever felt in his entire life. 

Dragging you high against his chest by the collar of his own coat, he brings the tip of his nose slowly to the valley of sweet fragrance at the side of your throat. Inhaling deeply at the flushed, swollen scent gland there. The sound of your toes scuffing against the floor excites him even more. 

“You’re not sick. You’re going into heat,” he says slowly; gathering the overwhelmed, shivering creature as gently as he can in his arms. 

Your fingers claw at his own throat in return, as if digging for his own answering scent. “No. But it’s not time. I had one not so long ago.” You sound on the verge of tears, and he makes a deep, soothing sound in his chest. “My blockers...I— I can’t be. It’s not time yet.”

“It’s a breakthrough heat.” His other hand comes around to the small of your back and ever so slowly, he presses your hips closer to his. “It’s mine. Because of me.”

“No.” You shove back with renewed strength suddenly, spinning around to scurry deeper down the dark hall and then careening on weak legs into an abandoned classroom. 

Heart beating madly at the prospect of the hunt, he takes a singular calming breath before he’s stalking after the sound of your crying. 

-

“You need to not run from me right now. It’ll make my rut come faster,” his deep voice comes from somewhere in the dark unknown. 

You scramble around the children’s desks, weaving your way clumsy with disorientation to the far end of the classroom. You don’t want to go into heat right now. You can’t. Not with him. You need to be safe and alone in the confines of your warm, comfortable bedroom, far away from the temptation of him.

His heavy, panting breath sounds closer and there’s a shriek in your throat like a struggling kitten. 

“You want me to lose my self control. That’s what this is, isn’t it?” There’s a loud crash as he shoves one of the little desks out of his way, followed by your answering half-scream. And then he’s here, coming up behind you but finding mercy enough to hold himself back at the last moment, panting as if he’d just run miles fighting against himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. Come here, baby. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s okay.” He takes a step closer, and the slowing of his breath and soothe of his voice calms you in turn. Baby baby baby. “You’re only going into heat, that’s all, sweet girl. I’ve triggered it for you and I’m sorry. Let me come to you.”

You let out a high and harried sound, palm smoothing over your throat over and over again. “Joel,” you say once.

“I’m here. It’s okay.”

“It’s only that—”

“What is it?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m embarrassed.” A helpless tear spills out over the edge of your eyelid. 

“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about with me. Ever. We understand each other, you and I. Don’t we?”

And he’s right of course. You’d picked his face out of the crowd in instant recognition, after all. “I’ve had heats…but I’ve never—never had a, a heat with someone. With an alpha.” 

He’s utterly silent and you feel deranged enough you’re almost certain you can hear the pound of his heart inside his chest.

“You’ve never had a knot take your cunt?”

“No.” You swallow, cringing with mortification at his crass words. 

“Never.”

You hear a muttered fuck, and his breathing goes quick and shallow and then even again. He has better control over himself than you do at this moment. 

“Then how?”

You flush hotter, so embarrassed. “T—toys,” you stutter. “Medication to help me.”

When he steps closer, only calm accompanies him. All is suddenly quiet. You want him. Your disjointed mind, overwhelmed by too many confusing emotions had gone into overdrive for a moment, but now, with the scent of hot, aggravated alpha surrounding you, it’s obvious this was all you’d needed to calm down. In a rush of air out of your nose, it’s all okay. 

You can feel his hot breath against your forehead, the wash of heat on each exhale and the lingering scent of sweet musk at his inhale. You touch his cheek with shaking fingers and feel him turn ever so slightly into your palm, and then he’s bending slowly. 

First, it’s a soft, wet nudge of his mouth, your bodies held apart. A frightened thing. Then his strong nose bumping into the side of yours, the splendor of inexperience turning to knowing, a nuzzle. Coming in again hungry, with the slick of tongue now, and the deep inhale of shock at first taste. Your breaths rush through one another, and you feel yourself backing away in maybe fear, more likely overwhelm, but his mouth follows your retreat and then his palms are at your waist, tugging you into himself, pressing you tightly to his body with a ragged groan. 

“Your mouth…Your mouth is so beautiful,” he says.

Everything in your lower belly cramps in painful agony, and you scratch at his arms and neck without much strength, trying to climb higher and take more of him into your mouth. Oh, you want this so badly. You want it to be everything you’ve dreamed of so obsessively the past weeks. Nothing else in the world exists except for your two mouths pressed together.

His lips burn a wet path across your cheekbone, sliding to the side of your neck to suckle at your scent gland. “Fuck.” His scraped teeth along the patch of sensitive skin. “Have you had sex before?” The question is gentle, understanding, his tongue tasting your sensitive earlobe, head ducking suddenly to give a sharp bite at your breast. 

“Yes.” 

His erection is pressed firm at your belly, hot even through his jeans and your sweater. His large body radiates heat. At your back, his palm finds the edge of your top, sliding underneath to make first contact, blistering skin against blistering skin. 

“But not an alpha.” He says it smugly, the bastard. Palm sliding down to your rump, tucking you more tightly against his hard cock. You shake your head at the crook of his neck, fingertips twisting in the back of his hair. Your breath comes in wet little pants that sound too pathetic to bear. 

“It’s going to feel so good,” he promises, acknowledging what it is that will now happen between the two of you soon, rubbing slow circles low on your back with that wide, strong palm. “It’s different. It’s…” That palm slides lower, squeezees the curve of your backside. “It’s ordinary if it isn’t with someone���special. If there’s not the possibility of—” 

You tell him you understand what he’s trying to say. 

“I think it’ll be so good between us,” he finishes. 

At the waist of your skirt, his fingers press between your skin and the stretch of your tights, forcing his large hand into their confines. Your breath skips into his open mouth, panting into one another, he cups you between your legs and suddenly all you can focus on is the tight ache there, the nylon soaked obscenely between your thighs. His arm around your back squeezes you tighter to his chest and his fingertips are pushing past lace edge to feel the slick swell of wet cunt. 

“Oh, Joel. Not here,” you moan. “Someone will come in.” He’s circling your clit, so sensitive and so swollen it hurts. You tug him impossibly closer, and he presses you back into the cold stone wall. “We can’t in a church.” Your protestations sound weak even to your own ears as you spread your legs wider for him. 

“I don’t give a fuck.”

He takes your mouth again, sucking deeply, groaning even deeper when he presses inside of you to the first knuckle. “Tight, baby,” he breathes into your neck, his hips slowly grinding into your pelvis. 

He feeds you more, then presses a second finger, holding still for a second, then another. Panting like a rabbit caught in a trap with three of his too thick fingers stuffed in your overstretched cunt. The sound of popping seams moves up your spine. 

“Can feel your little cunt shaking around me. Jesus—” he groans. It’s all mine, whispered into your hair. 

Suddenly, there’s the open and close of a door nearby. And then the sound of someone’s voice calling your names. Joel huddles you further into the dark corner, confined by the protection of his body, his fingers still moving in and out of you, stretching you well enough to burn as he presses as deeply as he can and with the utmost gentleness, pets lightly at the painfully sensitive mouth of your cervix. Humming in satisfaction at the feel of you. 

“Right there?” He hums. 

You’re crying, clutching at him even more tightly. Your name sounds again, being searched for, like a warning. 

“If I fuck you, nobody else ever will.” His voice is so dark it’s menacing. It’s recklessness, verging on a lie. Maybe it’s hope. 

Pressing lightly again, petting, petting, he pulls his fingers back a little, the loud sucking sound of your cunt trying to hold onto him, and you’re coming for him, crying into his neck, sucking on his scent gland so that the taste of him floods your mouth. The sound of a door opening, and you hear him growl at someone to fuck off in a very scary voice, his fingers never ceasing their steady thrust inside of your clenching sex, and the frightened slam of a door. 

“It’s alright. You’re alright. That’s my good girl,” he pets and soothes at you, pressing a kiss to your temple, your eyelids, your mouth again and again.

Part 3;

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[macfrogrecs]

such an intense finale handled with such care, and the glimmers of humor and tenderness they've always had. i loved every step of the way ❤️

Good Neighbors | joel miller x f!reader (18+)

Part Four of Four

✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧A fic inspired by Fortnight by Taylor Swift✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Bonus Chapter (3.5)

summary: the chapter when shit hits the fan, and you just hope there’s still someone by your side to clean up the mess. warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] no outbreak!au, age gap (joel is 48, reader is 32), joel x ofc (no sexual content), reader x omc (PLEASE READ DISCLAIMER), infidelity, (off-page) domestic physical and sexual assault, processing of the aftermath of a dv incident, physical assault (off-page between two men), daddy!kink, brief unprotected PIV, oral (f!receiving), handjob, degradation!kink, praise!kink, unashamed sexualization of the term "kiddo", unhealthy/toxic age gap marriage. Reader has hair, wears dresses/makeup, and is considered a "trophy wife" type. Reader is implied to be conventionally thin. Apologies to anyone for whom this kills immersion for, but it felt very necessary in the context of the story. DISCLAIMER: This chapter contains references and allusions to off-page domestic sexual and physical assault. The act itself is not described in detail, but the aftermath is extensively covered. Chapter also contains verbal abuse and reflections on habitual emotional abuse and manipulation tactics. If any of this is triggering for you, please protect your peace and read with caution. word count: ~12.4k a/n: Thank you everyone for reading this little series of mine. It became something special for me in a dark time in my fandom experience. It warms my heart to see how much some of you love them. This will likely be the very last fic I'll ever post on this blog, so please sub to my ao3 if you want future updates from me <3

Available Only to Registered Users on AO3

[macfrogrecs]

Hi!!! Would you write something for Joel where he's been insecure about his lil tummy (dad bod™ 4thewin) and reader reassures him about that? Thankssss

Joel Miler x Reader Sun Kissed

fluffy, domestic hardworking manual labor Jackson!Joel a/n: anon, I loved this shit so much. im no better than a man when it comes to objectifying joel miller. ended up going fluffy instead of smut like I originally thought. I know it's not exactly what you were looking for, but hope you enjoy nonetheless!

Summer came with a vengeance on Jackson, that was for certain.

Even the animals were sluggish, tired, wearier than ever. More water was flowing down from the mountains, and thanks to the dam, survival wasn’t a concern, but that didn’t mean the heat wasn’t out to kill. The days of dehydration and exposure on the open road were long behind you, yet summer still found ways to make its presence known. The humidity didn’t cling late into the evenings or mornings, but the afternoons—God, they blazed hot and unrelenting, radiating off the mountains like a furnace.

Today was no exception.

You knew Joel was out working the fence line in this heat, so you’d sent him off with plenty of water—two full canteens, a firm promise you’d be by at lunch to refill them. He’d grumbled about being fine, but you knew better. Stubborn as he was, he wouldn’t pace himself.

When noon rolled around, you made your way through town, shielding your eyes against the glare, waving to the few folks you passed. Small talk was predictable, everyone muttering complaints about the heat, wiping sweat from their brows.

Then, finally, you reached the south end of town—and stopped dead in your tracks.

Because, well… damn.

Both of the Miller brothers were hauling lumber, stripped down to nothing but work-worn jeans and boots, shirts tossed haphazardly over a nearby fencepost. Their backs glistened in the sunlight, broad shoulders flexing, arms corded with effort as they hefted heavy beams. Sweat traced slow paths down the ridges of their muscles, catching in the dips of their spines, gleaming in the golden light.

Joel was all raw strength and weathered endurance, years of survival carved into the thick frame of a man who had endured more than his share. He wasn’t lean like Tommy, but solid—broad through the chest, thick at the waist, his build shaped by necessity and years gone by. His chest was broad, dusted with dark hair that tapered down over the soft curve of his stomach, thick at his waist, full and firm in a way that made your mouth go dry. His arms—God, his arms—were powerful, veined and tanned, shifting with every movement, slick with sweat and streaked with dirt.

You couldn't quite blame the sun for the heat coursing through you.

"Hello, gentlemen," you called, voice lilting just enough to be playful.

Both Tommy and Joel turned at the sound of your voice, and despite the heat, a warm flicker of something else sparked in Joel’s gaze when he saw you. You stepped forward as they pulled off their gloves, handing Tommy a fresh canteen before turning to Joel, who wiped the sweat from his brow before reaching for his.

Joel’s fingers brushed yours when he took the canteen, his palm warm and calloused, damp with sweat. He grunted a soft thanks while he kissed your cheek, and then twisting the cap off, tilted his head back to drink.

And oh, what a sight that was.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, sweat slipping down the thick column of his neck. The sun beat down mercilessly, highlighting every ridge and plane of him—the breadth of his shoulders, the worn strength in his arms, the scars that told stories only he could share. His stomach was soft beneath the curve of his belly, a body shaped by labor, by hardship, by years of carrying burdens no one else could.

You wanted to put your hands all over him.... So you did.

Joel barely had time to react before you stepped into his space, reaching out to press your hands flat against his chest. He stiffened immediately.

“Now what’re you doin’?” His voice was rough, a little wary, but he didn’t move away.

You hummed, tilting your head, fingers splayed wide as you dragged them down, feeling the heat of his skin, the slick dampness of sweat beneath your palms. "Admiring," you murmured, pressing lightly into the soft curve of his belly.

Joel made a noise, somewhere between a scoff and a bashful grunt. "Ain't nothin’ worth admirin’."

That made you frown.

"Hey." Your hands flattened against him, insistent. “Don’t talk like that.”

His gaze flickered away, jaw tight. He shifted slightly, like he was thinking about pulling back, but you only pressed closer, standing on your toes to nudge your nose against his cheek, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

"I love this," you murmured, tracing slow circles over his belly with your thumbs, feeling the way his breath hitched. "All of it. All of you."

Joel swallowed hard. His ears were pink now, that telltale sign of his embarrassment creeping up. You knew that if you pushed just a little more, you could really fluster him.

You just couldn't help it.

Your fingers slid lower, dragging lightly over his stomach, tracing the dip of his waist before smoothing over his sides, nails scratching just enough to make him shudder. His whole body was warm beneath your touch, solid and sturdy, sweat-slick and sun-kissed. You dragged your hands up again, all the way back to his chest, smoothing over the broad plane of muscle there before letting your nails scratch lightly through the hair.

Joel let out a soft, shaky breath. "You're a wicked little thing, ain't ya, hunny?"

You grinned.

He tried to act unaffected, tried to keep that gruff, unshaken demeanor, but the way his fingers twitched at his sides told a different story. The way his throat bobbed when you pressed another soft kiss just below his jaw. The way his chest rose a little too fast, like you’d stolen his breath.

You locked your hands around his middle, your hips attached to his, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs where your shorts cut off.

"You're so damn handsome, Joel."

That finally did it.

A strangled sound left his throat, and before you could tease him any further, he grabbed you—big, strong hands gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face in your neck, and the sudden contact sent a shock of warmth through you. His breath was hot against your skin, his nose brushing just beneath your ear. You could feel the dampness of sweat from his bare chest pressing into your front, sticking to your clothes, but you didn’t care.

"You’re gettin’ sweat all over me," you giggled, scrunching your nose playfully as his fingers flexed against your waist.

Joel huffed out a gruff, breathless laugh. "Serves you right."

Before you could respond, a voice called out from across the yard.

"Y'know we got work to do, right?"

Tommy.

You turned just in time to see him smirking, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, watching the whole scene unfold.

Joel let out a long, exasperated groan, but instead of letting go, he pulled you even closer, pressing his face more firmly into your neck, his beard scratching against your skin.

"Yeah, yeah." he muttered against your throat.

You laughed, curling your fingers into his hair, letting him hide for just a little longer.

You’d both get back to work eventually.

But for now, you were perfectly happy tangled up in the warm, broad, beautiful body of the man you loved.

[macfrogrecs]

Good Neighbors | (joel miller x f!reader) (18+)

Part Three of Four

✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧A fic inspired by Fortnight by Taylor Swift✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧

Part One | Part Two

summary: your affair with joel heats up with a week of uninterrupted bliss. warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] no outbreak!au, age gap (joel is 48, reader is 32), joel x ofc (no sexual content), reader x omc (pitiful sexual content), infidelity, daddy!kink, fingering, unprotected PIV, unprotected anal, oral (m! and f!receiving), degradation!kink, praise!kink, brief roleplaying, unashamed sexualization of the term "kiddo", discussions of SA and domestic abuse, marital discussions regarding mismatched desires on having children, reader struggles with body image as a result of her abusive husband, unhealthy/toxic age gap marriage. this chapter is a much needed break from Jack. immersion notes: reader has hair, wears dresses/makeup, and is considered a "trophy wife" type. additionally, reader is specifically implied to be conventionally thin. apologies to anyone for whom this kills immersion for, but it felt very necessary in the context of the story. word count: ~11.6k a/n: wanted to give the lovebirds a little part that's primarily fun times before shit hits the fan <3 So there will be one more chapter!

Available Only to Registered Users on AO3

[macfrogrecs]

well. cried twice. read it again. cried all the more.

emma, i think this fic covers pretty much everything i love so much about you AND your writing.

you have captured the most stunning reel of life in this universe. the violence, the terror, the safety and the sanctuary and the love, all in three thousand words. shut up. i actually couldn't love you more.

Without community you lose sight of what matters. You lose sight of how you can not just survive this hell on earth, but live in it.

so simple and sincere, and so moving. it transcends the world of tlou. it was just one of many lines that i read and thought how only you could've written it. only you can put these sentiments into such delicate and yet very deliberate wording.

the way you draw from and build upon this world never fails to amaze me, either. the brutality and bloodshed of it is so deftly depicted - and then to pair that with the emotional storm inside her is just genius, dude. shut UP!

and not only all THAT! but you have nailed every bit of what makes joel my favorite character. so beautifully and so effortlessly. his attentiveness, his observance, his wit. so much of what i love about the way you write lies in the brickwork - the knuckle to her chin, his deep voice echoing through the house, the hot bowl warning. small things that feel like sparks in the FIRE of EMOTIONS you SET IN MY CHEST

It’s the father in him, the caretaker, the man who knows when to listen and when to push. He’s taught you a lot about that.

i instantly felt the love between them. the home they've created and the one they share. it's so subtle and yet all so meaningful.

shoutout to dog mom ellie, and the emphasis on the beard love. i grinned like a maniac at both, and then immediately went back to weeping.

i love you. thank you so much. i can't wait to reread this forever.

to close up all the rest

joel miller x reader | 3.2k

a patrol rattles you. joel keeps you grounded.

cw: typical tlou violence, intense emotions about being alive/death, love, something to live for. post-part i jackson au

a/n: just a little jackson au one-shot. this is a christmas present for darling @macfrog. thank you for existing, i love you. hope this is alright.

--

It's been a long time since someone died in front of you.

You don't even know her. Honestly, you should be glad the runner grabbed her, considering she just finished shooting at you. Your patrol partner, a kid called Joey who usually works the stables, shouts your name as you watch it sink its teeth into her neck over and over again.

She doesn't even scream.

"More are coming," he cries. "We have to go."

He's right. The woman's gunshot echoed in the valley and it's not yet cold enough for the herds to be slow, so you have a few minutes at most to get out of here. Probably less.

Groans on the wind. Definitely less.

You shake yourself out of the twisted thrall you've fallen into and look away. Heart in your throat, blood pounding in your ears, you quickly tie your bags to your horse and scan the street.

"Do you have your pack?" you ask Joey.

If she was screaming you'd shoot her. Put an end to it. But it might be a waste of a shot and then the runner would be on you in ten big steps. Fuck.

"Got it!"

You both mount skittish rides and take off down the cracked pavement. The patrol had an added ask of raiding some neighborhoods for linens that can be turned into bandages. You each have a big bag of old clothes, curtains, blankets, and the like strapped to the back of your saddles. The woman had appeared out of the tree line just as you finished the last house, demanding your stuff. There was protocol for this -- Joey would distract her while you went for the gun strapped to the back of your jeans.

But she was skittish, this woman. She fired at the pavement in front of you as soon as your hand twitched.

And then, well.

After a few miles of steady galloping you signal for Joey to slow. The forest is quiet as you turn onto the path down the hill that will lead you back to Jackson.

"I can't believe she shot at us," the kid says. "Stupid."

You sigh. "She was desperate," you say, remembering how wild her eyes looked. "And alone. If she had people with her she wouldn't have."

"You think?"

It's been some time but you did your days alone in this world. It's bloody, it's terrifying, it's punishing. You stop trusting anyone and eventually you stop trusting yourself. Wondering why you keep trying. Without community you lose sight of what matters. You lose sight of how you can not just survive this hell on earth, but live in it.

If she had wanted to do that, instead, maybe you could have told her it was possible.

"Yeah," you say. The walls of Jackson come into view and you think about what awaits you. A warm house, an even warmer embrace. Safety, security, home. "Having people makes all the difference."

Joey waves the green flag and the gates open for you. After returning your horse and checking to make sure the kid isn't too traumatized -- frankly, he seems totally unbothered -- you walk back to the house. The sun is starting to set, painting everything golden, but you can see the clouds rolling in. Might be that snow that everyone keeps anticipating. Most mornings you hear chatter about it. Small talk about the weather persists after the end of the world.

A few folks wave hello, ask after Ellie's new dog, say they hope you've got your firewood ready. Jackson is a thing out of dreams. Solid walls, even steadier people. Good rules, smart leaders. You feel lucky every day that they let you stay here. That you've made a home here.

That home is in sight when you turn on Rancher and what you spy on the porch makes you pick up your pace.

Joel.

He's rocking in the one chair out front, guitar slung across his lap like an afterthought as he strums with his eyes closed. It'll be too cold to sit out, soon, so he spends most evenings playing while he can still stand it.

A heaviness you didn't realize you were carrying lessens a little at the sight of him.

"Hey, stranger," you call as you walk up the steps.

His gaze falls on you, the hazel in his irises more evident in the fading light of the late afternoon. God, he looks beautiful. Like everything you've ever wanted.

"Howdy," he says. The guitar goes up against the house and he stands, meeting you at the top step. "How was patrol?"

You falter, smile frozen on your face. You should tell him, but you don't know what you'd say. A stranger died in front of you and it's put your stomach in knots? It's not that he'll laugh at you, or anything like that. You just need to chew on it a little longer. And right now you're steps away from the warm inside of your home and inches away from the man you love, so you decide to push it aside.

"The usual," you muse. Joel furrows his brow just a little and searches your gaze, but whatever he finds in your eyes causes him to let it go.

"Okay," he says, softly. He taps your chin with his knuckle and turns toward the front door, snagging his guitar on the way. "You hungry? Ellie brought by some soup."

"Did she make it?"

Your layers go on the hooks by the door, your boots next to his in the hall. He heads for the kitchen.

"Hell no," Joel says, deep voice echoing through your house. "Dina did."

"So it's edible?"

You pad on socked feet over creaking hardwood and find him over a pot on the stove, bowl in hand.

"Tried a bit and it didn't kill me," he says. "Waited for you to get home to eat, though."

"And Tommy says you were raised in a barn," you tease, kissing his cheek before he ladles the soup for you.

Joel grunts and you laugh. "Hot bowl," he says. "Careful."

For some reason, his gentle caution makes your chest hurt. You think about the woman from today, how she had no one telling her to be careful. How she made a mistake, or maybe a reckless choice. How she didn't even scream.

There are many very difficult days in this life and you dealt with them on your own for a long time. It's taken practice and mounds of patience from Joel and the other people in this town who love you, but you've learned that you can let other people help you through those days. But that doesn't mean it isn't hard.

You sit at the table across from Joel and try not to let your mood take over.

"You alright?" Joel asks, frown firmly in place. "Maybe Ellie did make the soup--"

"It's good, Joel," you say, smiling a little. If he asks you how you are one more time, you'll crack. And you're not ready yet. "Will you tell me about your day?"

He sighs, no doubt seeing through your second deflection, but allows it.

"Let's see," he starts, leaning back in his chair. "Tommy had me handlin' that bullshit with the kids who went huntin'."

Last week, three teenagers snuck out with the grand idea that they'd bag an elk or something just as big and bring it back for fame and glory or whatever kids think is worth life and death these days. It hadn't gone as badly as it could have, but it was pretty bad. They'd stolen a rifle from the patrol cache and only made it a few miles before one of them slipped down a bank and broke his ankle. Joel had been the one to lead the search party when someone realized they were missing.

He's got a soft spot for teenagers.

"It's good for them to learn," you remind him. He sucks on his teeth and rubs at his jaw. You slurp on some more soup and a thought at odds with your sour mood dances through your memory -- how good his beard felt on your skin last night. Jesus. He does something to you, this man.

"Should know better," he says, oblivious to the echo of your desire. "Havin' them clean all the guns is one thing but once that kid heals up I'm tellin' Tommy we oughta start a trainin' class or somethin'. Let them get outside the walls and hunt if they want. With supervision."

"Keep talking like that and Maria will make you join the council," you muse.

He snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure as shit not doin' that."

"You'd be good at it, Joel. People listen to you."

"I have a hard enough time gettin' my own kid to listen to me," he reminds you. "Hell, you, too."

It's less of a jab and more of an attempt to get you to cheer up, and it works. You laugh at him, delighted to vex him so. As if he does anything but melt for Ellie. And for you -- both of you know just how wrapped around you he is. He'll do anything for his family. You've seen proof of it.

"If only the council had a uniform," you sigh, exaggerating your disappointment. "You'd look so handsome in one."

"Watch it," he says, eyes sparkling.

You tap his foot under the table with yours. "Just being truthful," you tease, though it rings a little hollow given the fact that you're swerving talking about your own day.

Joel hums and leans back in his chair. "You gonna tell me what happened today?"

"What do you mean?"

Even as you chew on how to swerve him once again, you find yourself going back to the patrol. The way your senses sharpened when she stepped out of the trees, how you saw all the ways it could go wrong. Her twitchy hand, her wide eyes. The crack in her voice when she demanded your packs. The echo of the gunshot and your own heartbeat loud in your ears wondering if today was the day you wouldn't make it home. When the runner leapt out of nowhere and latched onto her. How easily your life could have ended that way, too.

"Hey, I'm talkin' to you," Joel says, not unkindly. "Where are you?"

You chew on your lower lip. This would be a lot easier if the words would just come to you, if you knew how to explain yourself.

"Joel--"

"Alright, that's it," he says. Joel gets up with a groan, stretching his arms high in the air, and heads for the front door.

"What?" you ask, confused, but you follow him into the hall. "Joel, where are you going?"

"We're goin' for a walk." He shrugs on his jacket and waves you over. "C'mon."

"But the dishes--"

"Will be here when we get back," he finishes. "Now, get your coat on. Hat, too. Reckon the snow is gonna start tonight."

You could fight him about it, say you're cold and tired and just want to sit on the couch. Tell him to stop badgering you, to let sleeping dogs lie.

But that's the thing about Joel -- you trust him. Outside the walls, inside your home. With your life and with your heart. You're safe in his hands. And you've been here before plenty of times. After nightmares from both of you, after hard days in town, after his fights with Ellie or Tommy or whatever it is. You walk and you talk it out. Fresh air helps, Joel often says. It's the father in him, the caretaker, the man who knows when to listen and when to push. He's taught you a lot about that.

So you shove your feet back into your boots and Joel tugs a knit hat over your ears. The sun finished setting while you were eating, Jackson now illuminated by the gas lamps and string lights hanging between the posts.

Normally you'd be content to just walk with Joel side by side, as is your usual routine. He's not a particularly public man when it comes to affection, though you never doubt that he's thinking of you. His eyes find yours in every room and he easily finds you in every crowd. By now, you've got your own language.

But, given that he's brought you out here to no doubt get you to be honest about your complicated feelings, he offers you his arm for support. You take it with a dry look that he matches.

Never one to let you off easily, this man. Not when he knows he can help, at least.

"You know what I'm gonna say," he grumbles.

It helps to talk.

It's basically a mantra in your house. Ellie says he didn't used to be like this. The total opposite, in fact. You know that it's her that brought him back to this version of himself -- he did it because she asked. And maybe you coming along helped, too. He might seem gruff and guarded to those who don't know him but it's all so he can protect who and what he loves.

And this is one of his ways -- not letting things go unsaid.

"I don't know where to start," you say. "I don't know how to explain it."

Joel rubs a hand over his jaw. "Try the beginning," he suggests. "It was patrol, right? Somethin' happened?"

You nod.

"We saw a woman," you start. You close your eyes and picture her, letting Joel lead you down the street. "She came out of the woods just as we finished the last house."

"Hostile?"

You look at Joel. His jaw is tense, as if you're not standing in front of him safe and sound. Always trying to fix hurts he had nothing to do with.

"She had a gun, yeah," you continue. "Demanded our stuff. We were ready to do the protocol but then she shot at us."

Joel stops in his tracks, pulling you with him. "She did what?"

"And missed, obviously," you remind him. "But it was a stupid mistake, since we weren't far from that town with the herd. She had to have seen traces of them and known they were there."

"Christ," he mutters. You tug on his arm and he starts walking again.

"And before we could do anything a runner tackled her to the ground."

Joel curses under his breath. "Unlucky."

It starts to snow. You look up at the white flakes falling from the dark sky as you figure out how to say what happened next.

"Go on," Joel says, softly. "This is the part that bothered you, I reckon."

"She didn't even scream, Joel," you whisper just loud enough for him to hear. "She just went down."

"Ah."

All of it comes to a boil and the words pour out of you.

"I mean, why did she shoot in the first place? She was jumpy, sure, but she was alone, too. She looked so tired, so desperate, and the way it lunged for her I know it didn't kill her on the first bite. No screaming, she just took it. She took it and gave up. I don't -- she must have had nothing, to give up like that. It's just so fucked up --"

Your voice breaks. Joel pulls you to a stop and unwinds your arms so he can put his hands on your shoulders.

"Ain't nothin' you can do about someone else's lot," he says. "She made her mistakes."

"I know," you retort, "but that could have been me."

"It ain't you."

"But it could have been, Joel!" You're not angry with him, but you're frustrated. "If things had worked out differently for me, it could have been. If I never found Jackson, if I was still out there. It could have been me."

He exhales sharply, reigning in his own desire to remind you that you're safe. That you're here, that you're with him. That he won't let anything bad happen to you.

"Lots of things could be different," he says, slowly. "Could spend days thinkin' 'bout that stuff. Years."

"I guess I'm just sad for her." The snow has gathered in Joel's hair and you reach for him to brush it away. He allows it, keeping his eyes on yours. "I think she wanted to die."

"It's a hard life on the road."

You sigh. "I know, Joel," you say. "I just -- it's been a long time since things have been that bad for me. And it was hard to be reminded, you know?"

His hands move from your shoulders to cup your face, thumbs your skin. "I know, sweetheart," he replies. "We've all been there. Hard not to think about givin' up at least once in this shit hole."

It gets a dry laugh out of you.

"But you ain't givin' up. You fight tooth and nail every single time 'cause you've got so much to get back to. And it'll get you home."

You lean into one of his palms, your lips brushing along the heel of his hand. "I know, Joel."

He's not done. "For a long time I was like that. Not carin' much how things went, so long as I got to get my hands dirty. But Ellie --" he swallows, the love he has for his girl getting in the way of his words " -- and you tie me to this damn place. Make me get up every day, make me remember how things can be good. And someday it'll be my turn --"

"Joel--"

"No, listen. Someday it'll be my turn, and I'll go knowin' I was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to get what I got. Time."

You can't take it anymore. You pitch forward into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist. Now that he's said it, you realize why the whole thing bothered you so much. You don't want to die. You don't want to lose the life you have now. The home you have with this man, the way he loves you. The way you love him. It makes you feel human, it makes you feel alive.

And you feel damn bad for anyone who doesn't have something to live for.

Joel's hand presses into your spine. Maybe in a different life you'd be worried that he'd think you're silly for being so bothered about this, but he always takes you seriously. You both know how quickly you can lose something, how much it matters to make the time you have count.

"Thank you," you say into his jacket. He scoffs.

"C'mon, now." He gently pulls away from your embrace to look at you. He brushes snow from your shoulders and hat with careful fingers. "Let's go home."

Home. For so long you never thought you'd have one.

Joel must see the vulnerability in your eyes because he leans in to press his lips to yours gently. An anchoring touch, a reminder of how he feels.

"Getting frisky, Mr. Miller," you mutter when he pulls away. He snickers and you sneak another kiss as he pinches your hip through your coat.

"Home," he says again.

You couldn't agree more.

[macfrogrecs]

coming at you from beyond the grave because this did, indeed, KILL ME, NOELLE. i hope you have a good lawyer.

His heavy hands find your waist once again, and with the head of his cock still buried deep in between your legs, he sits up and back against the headboard, grunting a low, alright, c'mere, as he takes you with him with ease. You cling to him like a koala, body putty and pliant as he brings your weak arms to wrap around his neck. And then, a firm hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, lets you nuzzle your wet face into the dip in his shoulder, and breathe in the comfort of his scent while his other traverses the line of your spine.

this is all i want in the world, actually. so sweet and soothing and sexy oh my gosh he's so OLD. brava. brava.

only then, i am good || one shot

joel miller x f!reader

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for fic updates!

pairing: daddy jackson!joel x f!reader summary: you have a bad day in which it makes you question your worth. only joel can make you see the truth. warnings: jackson era [well into the tlou2 timeline but nothing bad happens], implied age gap [i warn you, joel is old old], angst [in the form of internal turmoil], feelings of guilt/burdening, established relationship, ddlg dynamics, soft daddy dom!joel, daddy kink, praise kink, size kink, finger sucking, pet names galore [baby, sweetheart, little girl, angel] size kink, reader is hella needy, reader has pubic hair bc i said so, smidgen of cockwarming, just the tip mention, dubcon*, dacryphilia, unprotected piv, nipple play, belly bulge, creampie, joel is reader’s personal weighted blanket, fluff, aftercare. *reader is not in the right headspace to properly consent to piv but she’s a-okay with it! word count: 3.8k

a/n: i’ve been to emotional (and physical) hell and back (are we back? who knows) these last few weeks and it had me yearning for daddy jackson!joel. so this is what this is. it’s a tad different from my typical style of writing and it’s not betaed and very very loosely proofread (barely looked thru it while in the waiting room lol), so it’s probably shit but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless xx

You should’ve double-checked the lock. Triple-checked it. As always. Hand to God, it slipped your mind. You were tired. Achy and sleepy, and you just wanted to go home. Back to Joel. Curl your spent body into the thick, burly warmth of his and let him cradle you until the whole day wipes itself from memory. 

You’ve been asking them for more responsibilities — a more serious role within Jackson, for months. After today, you’re sure they’ll never take you seriously. Never see you as one of them. They’re so much older and wiser — experienced. And you…well, you are not.

They never fuck up. Never make mistakes that would risk losing an important asset to this safe haven. And today you have. You fucked up. You don’t know how you forgot. It’s been your only job here, the only thing they let you have, and still — you messed it up. 

You forgot to lock the stall door to the stable for one of the horses. And not only did the horse escape but now the town is technically down one patrolman. You have completely thrown off the patrolling schedule, one that was meticulously crafted and has been in place long before you arrived in Jackson. It very rarely changed. 

You offered to lend a hand, practically begged them to send you out with the rest of the search party. But Maria, Tommy, and Joel all told you to go home while they sent a group (of which included Joel and Tommy themselves) outside the gates, well past dusk, to go looking for him. You felt entirely useless.

Begrudgingly, you scurried home, a beaten puppy in need of licking one’s wounds. Feeling the weight of the day and the frustration that has accumulated over months suddenly seeping into your bones, and you just…broke. You crawled into bed, alone in the dark, and you cried for hours, your mind spiraled, turning over the mistake you made, again and again and again. 

When it stops and the wracking sobs slow into shuddery hiccups, it’s only because you hear heavy footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Tired. But steady — sure. And that nauseating sensation in the pit of your stomach returns as the footsteps grow closer and closer. 

The door creaks open slowly, pale yellow light from the hallway spills through the crack, your puffy eyes squint and flutter against the sudden light, shape of him vague in your blurry vision, but you know it’s him: tall frame, broad shoulders, pale skin, and dark features.  

Joel. 

You curl your body tighter, making yourself as small as possible. Close your eyes, and bury your tear-stained face back into the damp royal blue of his linens, the piney scent of him everywhere: his pillows, his sheets, his mattress, clouding your mind. You hear his footsteps as he rounds the bed, feel him reach over and switch on the lamp beside you. He grunts, his joints creak as you feel his weight sinking the edge of the bed, settling himself down in the ‘c’ shape your body had formed.

“We found him. Fella was out by Hidden Pines,” voice soft, almost cautious. 

You nod silently, but you don’t look at him, not wanting to embarrass yourself even more, not wanting him to see how pathetic you look after spending hours upon hours sobbing into the pillows over a mistake you made.  

A heavy hand cups your knee over the sheets, thumb stroking bone through the fabric there. 

“It wasn’t your fault, baby.” He says, surely.

But you don’t really believe him. 

You sniffle and tilt your face away from the tear-soaked pillows just enough so he can hear you. “Yes, it was. I was the last one in there. It’s my job to take the horses back and settle them in for the night. My job to make sure they stay in the stables. It’s been my job, my only job all this time, and I can’t even do that right,” you ramble, voice breaking, bottom lip wobbling, fat tears pricking your red eyes once again. 

“No. You listen here,” he says sternly, feeling his body turn beside you, bed covers bunching up around your knees. “You did lock it, but the latch was loose, honey. Tommy and I tried ‘em. They’re due for a fixin’ n’ we should’ve been checkin’ ‘em, but that’s my job, not yours. This wasn’t on you, darlin’. You hear me?”

You avoid his eye and stay furled on the bed. Silence swells between you, and you fiddle with a stray thread in his sheets.

“He wasn’t supposed to take off like that, but he’s a younger horse,” he shrugs, and a sigh falls from his lips. “It happens. Whoever was mannin’ the wall tonight should’ve seen him. Many things were at play, baby. It wasn’t your fault.” He says in a matter-of-fact tone.

Your head snaps over your shoulder in a fury. “I could’ve helped fix it. I could’ve made it right,” you bite, shaky voice laced with venom. You don’t mean for it to sound so harsh, but it manages to stifle the sob that threatens to claw up your throat. And for a second, the irritation in your voice doesn’t rattle you until you notice Joel’s shoulders tense, and you regret it immediately. 

A whirlpool of emotions swirls in your belly. A weird noise squeaks out from your lips as you try to fruitlessly blink away the sleep and salt in your eyes. You don’t want to cry in front of him. You bury your face into the pillow again, trying to muffle the sob-like groan as you cringe away from Joel, ashamed. 

His hand drifts up your thigh, broad palm splayed across your flesh, his touch unwavering. “Sweetheart, the only reason I told you to stay here s’because it ain’t safe out there. The amount of infected may be less this time o’year but the cold…” He trails off, his grip tightening around the meat of your thigh unconsciously, “makes people meaner,” his voice grows unsteady at the thought. 

You shiver, and you suspect he feels it. He clears his throat, and tender fingers brush the strands of hair out of your face, then they trail down, and you feel the cold roughness of his skin against the warm softness of yours as his calloused hand cups your jaw, tilting it to face him, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

Your eyes pinch shut, and the dam breaks. You can’t bear to look at him. Your heart sits heavy in your chest, feeling the guilt creeping back in at his touch. His hands, usually warm, are now icy cold, and all you can think about is how you are the cause of it. He had been out in the cold longer than he needed to be because of you. You and he both know his worn bones can’t handle it, and yet, he went out there in the dead of winter as nightfall cloaked over Jackson to right your wrong, and it makes you feel terrible. 

“Baby. Look at me,” he whispers softly.

You do, and through bleary eyes you meet his weary gaze. His lips are downturned into a frown, and with a twist in his brows, that worry line in the middle of his forehead materializes. You hate being the cause of it. Your heart plops to your stomach, your throat goes thick, something rising at the base of it. 

“What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me,” he implores, his voice stern but soft, eyes shifting back and forth between yours — dark amber irises so warm, pleading.  

Teach me to be good. “Just you, daddy – just need you,” you blubber, your voice innocent and small. Weak. 

He knows exactly what you mean. You have been together long enough that he reads you like an open book. You watch as he wordlessly toes off his boots with a thud. Watch as he moves to stand to unbuckle his belt, dropping it to the floor with a soft clink, his jeans, jacket, and flannel following shortly after. Watch as he shifts onto the bed, bones crackling as he lowers himself and presses his broad form into you, his knees popping as they coax yours open. Watch as one of his hands drifts south between your bodies to grip the thick root of his cock while the other bunches up your nightgown to your navel, revealing your unobstructed cunt to him.  

You whimper when the leaky head of his cock notches at the already slippery entrance of your cunt. He glides the wide cockhead between your folds, up and down, up and down, while the warmth of his breath fans across your face when his lips part to murmur, just the tip tonight, baby, s’not a good idea for you to take all o’me right now, alright? 

You nod numbly. You don’t care how much he gives you — you just need to feel him. Need him to fix you. Need him to make the hurt you feel inside go away. Need him to search for the good. Maybe it’s there, buried deep in a place only he can find. 

His hands find yours, pins them firmly above your head, and with his dark gaze holding yours, he very gently pushes his tip inside your tight, wet hole. His mouth pops open in a deep groan, and you catch it with a soft gasp of your own. 

“There you go. S’that feel better, pretty baby?” He murmurs, his jaw ticks, brows twitch.  

You nod desperately, your wide, glassy eyes going hooded. Your thighs tense around him, causing a little more of his cock to push inside, making you whimper and squirm beneath him.  

“Good. Now just listen to my voice. Just focus on me, right here,” he grunts haggardly, voice so low and commanding. And that alone makes your brain go fuzzy. 

You try to focus all your energy on his voice and the heavy weight of him on top of you and the fat tip of his cock stretching your too little hole open, but suddenly, he pulls out, and you almost whine at his absence.

But Joel doesn’t give you enough time. 

Your body moves up the bed with a jolt, gasping when his hips push forward with more force, filling your cunt with the head of his cock, and then some more, only to slip out of you again immediately after. He’s toying with you, and he’s doing so because he knows you really need this. 

He slips his cockhead gently back inside you, and you whine at the soft squelch your slicken pussy makes. The two of you revel in the lewd, wet sounds that ricochet through the room, all while never breaking eye contact. 

“My little girl just needed me to fuck all the bad thoughts away, hm?” he breathes, his nose brushes against yours.

“Mmhm,” you sigh, cunt flittering around him. 

“Needed me to stretch out her sweet little hole and make everything better, s’that it?” 

You nod frantically, moaning breathlessly. 

Joel growls. “Say yes, daddy,” he commands you softly, his fingers squeezing yours.

“Y—ye—yes, d–daddy.” Your words come out broken in between the slow rolls of his hips, but by the smirk that tugs on his lips, you know he’s proud of you anyway. 

“Good girl,” he praises, his touch featherlight as his fingers push the stray strands of hair away from your forehead, and the scruff of his chin tickles your nose as he lays an open-mouthed kiss between your furrowed brows.  

“But daddy—” you start to protest, scrunching your nose. 

Joel harrumphs as he pulls back. All of his features pull into a stern look, and to stop you, the pad of his roughened thumb sweeps across your cheek and sinks between your parted lips. 

“Na-uh. No fightin’ with daddy,” he presses gently. 

By instinct, your lips close around his digit, sucking it into your mouth and swirling your tongue around the thick of it, tasting the salty, woodsy flavor of him, and it only feeds the foggy haze in your mind more. 

Spit pools at the corner of your lips. His thumb moves in and out of your mouth, matching the rhythm of his thrusts as he fucks his cockhead in and out of your hole. Your mind begins to blur, but there’s still a storm stirring in your swollen eyes, and Joel, as always, can see it. 

“Alright, this ain’t workin’,” he sighs exasperatedly. 

And you think he’s utterly fed up with you not obeying him. He unsticks his body from yours, and your eyes search his face — the lines beside his eyes, the hairs in his brows, the muscles around his lips — trying to decode the emotion that flits across his features. Though, as expected, it’s near impossible to read him. Joel may have been able to crack you open, and although the years he has spent in Jackson have managed to soften him up — tiny cracks in his stony exterior over time — he remains inscrutable. 

For a moment, you think he’s going to scold you. Tell you you’re no good for him anymore. You wouldn’t blame him. You can’t seem to do anything right. Maybe he thought he wanted to take you apart, bit by careful bit. But what if he peered through the gap and saw something he didn’t like? What if he had a change of heart — now that he stepped back and assessed the damage? What if the severity of it was too much to mend? Burden too heavy to carry. He doesn’t deserve that. He deserves someone good. Someone not in need of fixing. Someone unbroken. 

But Joel surprises you. His hand retracts from your face, and instead wraps his arm around your middle, maneuvering you onto his thighs so you're straddling him. His free hand fists the hem of your nightgown, and in one swift motion, tugs the fabric over your head and tosses it aside to join his pile of clothes on the floor. His heavy hands find your waist once again, and with the head of his cock still buried deep in between your legs, he sits up and back against the headboard, grunting a low, alright, c'mere, as he takes you with him with ease.

You cling to him like a koala, body putty and pliant as he brings your weak arms to wrap around his neck. And then, a firm hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, lets you nuzzle your wet face into the dip in his shoulder, and breathe in the comfort of his scent while his other traverses the line of your spine.

Slow but steady, Joel bucks his hips up, up, up, until the entirety of his thick length works its way into the slick slide of your cunt. Your soft thatch of curls meets his, softly grazes your clit, and you writhe in his arms, sniffle, and whimper brokenly against his shoulder, but sure, gentle hands pull you into his chest tighter. You feel the strong drum of his heart against yours, thrumming against each other: ga-gung, ga-gung, ga-gung, pace quickening, like they're trying to catch up, trying to sync. Your body melts into his. Skin to skin, heart to heart, heat of your cunt to the heat of his cock; and then suddenly, two become one.

“Shh, shhh, I know, baby, I know. You got it,” he whispers, as he begins to rock you back and forth, back and forth, lulling you gently back into the haze, and everything finally fades away. 

He presses a kiss right behind your ear. “Therrrre we go, just take it, good girl,” he murmurs as a heavy hand pets your hair. And whether he’s talking about his cock or his praise, you obey regardless. Your cunt sucks the heat of his cock in deep. Let him fuck himself into you; let his warmth smolder you until your cunt ignites. Let it roar and burn and spread through your system like wildfire. Let him make you good.

The tips of his fingers move through your hair in small ministrations, gently scratching away at your skull. “Daddy—s–so big—” you whimper, your fingers pulling the hair at the nape of his neck, tears welling up in your eyes as something low in your belly begins to churn. 

“Shhh, angel, it’s okay. I know, s’a lot,” he soothes, feeling his deep voice reverberate against your chest. Your cunt contracts at his praise, and the steady pace of his hips falters briefly; he groans deeply when he feels his tip choked tight within your walls, “you’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart, so good.”  

He continues his shallow thrusts while he rocks you in his arms. There’s a low static buzz in your ears, but you can still hear the perverse chant that manages to fall from your lips — one that grows louder with every roll of his hips, daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy. And in turn, he murmurs incessant blabbers of, you’re okay, angel, daddy’s here, daddy’s gotcha, into your hair, punctuating every one of his words with a soft kiss to your temple and a slow buck of his hips.  

The tip of his cock nudges that soft ridge deep inside you, and he feels your cunt flutter around him. “You gonna come for me, angel, hm? You gonna be a real good girl for daddy and let me feel this drippy little pussy come all over me?” He coos.  

“Uh-huh,” you murmur. 

Deft fingers curl around the back of your neck, and with the slightest of pressure, he squeezes once, gently instructing you to use your words. A silent command. 

“Y-yes, daddy, I prom–I promise, I wanna be good. I wanna be good,” you mewl.

His nose drags along the side of your face, down, down, down, until his heated lips meet your pulse point. “Go on, baby, let go n’ get daddy all messy. Show daddy how good of a girl you are,” he rambles, his voice a low vibration, goosebumps prickling in its wake.

With your tight cunt full and impaled on his cock, your clit throbs, eager for more friction. You rut your hips against his, humping him like a dog in heat as you rub your puffy pearl against the graying curls there, smearing him in your slick just as he insisted.   

And within seconds, your body constricts, navel pulls taut, and then something fiery in your belly erupts. Your body begins to tremble as stars burst behind your eyelids, liquid heat turns your mind and body molten, melting away completely with the force of your release.

“Daaaddy,” you cry, lips quivering. Your muscles go lax, and your body slumps in his hold, feeling the last of your energy leaving you. Your head lulls back, and his hand slides up the base of your neck in time to catch it in his massive palm.

He clutches you tight, marveling at your fucked-out form in his arms while babbling praises of,  ohhh–that’s it, that’s it, good job, baby, such a good fuckin’ girl— daddy’s so proud of you, as warm tears roll down your face. And it only spurs him on. 

His languid strokes speed up, your body jolts above him violently, weeping cunt fluttering repeatedly around him. Your mouth falls open, wanton moans escape past your parted lips as he fucks you harder. “Christ, that’s it, that’s my girl. Look at you, perfect little thing,” he pants, coaxing you through your orgasm. 

His eyes drop quickly to watch the bounce of your tits, nipples peaked and gleaming with beads of sweat. He dips his head to one sticky breast, and with a flick of his hot tongue, he laps up the salt on your skin. 

It elicits a sharp gasp from you, your chewed fingernails desperately trying to claw at him, your body arching against his mouth, and you feel him grin against the curve of your breast. His mouth drifts, wraps his whiskered lips around your other swollen nipple, tongue swirls the pointed bud, teasing you with a graze of his teeth across the wet peak before nipping it, tugging the stiffened point ever so slightly between his teeth.  

“Daddy–oh!” You choke on a moan, and your spent pussy clenches around him so tight, your cunt is almost forcing him out. His hips buck into you harder in response, his thrusts growing more erratic as he seeks his own release. 

Joel hisses, mouth releasing your tit with a wet pop, “sweet Jesus, m’gonna give it to you real good, baby—like you deserve, fuck—”

He's cut off by the strangled groan that rips through his chest, his back arches off the headboard, and you feel him twitch. His grasp on your enervated form tightens, and then a blazing heat spreads inside you. His sweaty forehead falls to your dampened chest, the swell of your breasts cushioning the drop of his head, his body convulsing as he pumps upwards into your core. Cock pulsing and spasming within your walls as he continues to spill inside you, your belly swelling and set to burst full of his seed.  

Joel slumps back against the headboard, his arms loosen, but they don’t release you, just holds you there on top of him as he presses hasty kisses and whispers shaky sweet nothings into your hair while his hot seed dribbles out around his length, turning the hair at the root of his cock into a pool of sticky milky white.  

You don’t know if it’s minutes or hours that pass by as you stay limp in his lap, breathing in the sweat and sex on his skin as you snuggle back into his neck, the heat a low simmer. But when he runs a warm, wet rag between your legs and uses the same one to wipe your mixed wet off of his shaft before he tucks you in with a peck to your lips, the tip of your nose, a long kiss to your forehead, and lays himself on top of you with the full weight of him, pulling the comforter up to trap the heat of your bodies between you, sore cunt plugged with his softened cock once more, you know that he makes you feel whole. Not ruined or broken. Not stupid or useless or helpless. And in truth, it's all you’ve ever known with him.

As you slip gently into the waiting black, small fingers that draw circles into his silver curls come to a slow, you think you hear a quiet sigh — feel his lips lazily form around the words against your tacky skin — something of, you are good, angel tucked away into the valley between your naked breasts like a secret. And you think you believe him, and for now, that’s enough for you.

[macfrogrecs]

stay forever (joel miller x f!reader)

catch part one here: stay awhile 💫

summary: you & joel finally reach jackson, and the life you’ve dreamed of becomes reality — with a few twists and turns along the way.

warnings: age gap (29/56 — if this isn’t for you, that’s fine! you don’t have to read it) blood, canon-typical violence, no ellie or sarah, cursing, food, smut, tiny breeding kink (lmao), oral (f receiving), do a shot every time joel hugs reader, unprotected piv, parent loss, anxiety, nausea, fluff & comfort, joel miller dies aged 102 in his bed because i say so. this fic isn’t safe if you’re triggered by pregnancy & childbirth. 18+ mdni.

notes: i was desperate to give these two the happy ending they deserve. a special shoutout to @swankyorange, whose conversations and vulnerability with me about motherhood and loss inspired so much of the love in this fic. thank you, shelly. 💕

a huge thank you to two of the best people in my life: @frannyzooey & @macfrog 🫶🏻 kelli — you walked me through joel’s emotions and gave me so much to work with; i am nothing without you. SDLN is the blueprint, always! max: you’re the best friend & beta a girl could ask for. thank you for your time, your brain, and your endless patience. always. gorgeous gif by @pedgito — i love you, ali! thank you!

“Y’see it, baby?”

Joel squeezes your hip, lips brushing your ear. Your nose is frozen, arms wrapped round yourself inside your jacket in an effort to keep warm. His gloved hands grip the reins in front of you, the horse you share sliding over the ice precariously.

Lifting your head, you do see it.

High walls stretching across the horizon, snow adorning the watchtowers. Jackson. For a moment, your heart stops, reminded of the QZ you’d left behind a lifetime ago. As if he’s inside your mind, Joel’s nose is at your temple, his words soft amidst the howling winds.

“‘s gonna be okay, I promise. Won’t let anythin’ happen to you.”

Nodding, you try to ignore the freezing burn in your thighs, the flurries of snow caught in your eyelashes. You left your sanctuary at Bill & Frank’s months ago, and have been on the road ever since. Shot at, stabbed — you in the palm, Joel in his torso — and hungrier than ever, you’d met the worst of humanity as the seasons changed; a brutal winter sinking her teeth into you both, leaving behind scars that would never fade.

Your bandaged hand moves to wrap around his over the leather, the horse navigating through the blizzard under Joel’s instruction. The animal had been a blessing: the blood from your wound still dark and sticky across his flank as Joel had urged him onwards, fleeing the raider camp you’d stolen precious resources from.

You’ve borrowed, begged and beaten your way here, the reward coming closer with every kick of Joel’s heels. You can scarcely believe it, blinking and straining your eyes, as though you’ll wake up in a few moments still in the damp and dilapidated motel you’d left three mornings ago.

Exhaustion had settled deep in your bones a while back, hope of finding Jackson a flicker in the dark that was often dimmed by every setback, every near miss.

You’d stitched Joel back together precariously after he’d been injured, held him through the fever that burned him from the inside out afterwards. He, in turn, had stemmed the bleeding from the hole in your hand, cleaned and wrapped the wound as you’d sat in his lap, tears carving a path in the dirt on your cheeks.

You’d sustained one another in the depths of despair: bodies curled close, reassuring words shared, the constant belief in something better pushing you onwards.

Now it’s here, appearing in front of you like a ghostly mirage.

The settlement becomes clearer, smoke rising from various buildings beyond the wall, people scattered across the top. Their guns are trained on you both, shouts lost in the frigid gale that blows cold in your face.

“Tommy said to expect some kinda hostility. They���re real protective of this place,” Joel mutters grimly.

You manage a smile he can’t see.

“For good reason, I’m sure.”

The gates begin to open at an agonising pace, Joel bringing the horse to a stop at a safe distance. Nerves tingle along your spine, and you shift a little in the saddle. His fingers drift along your thigh, chest pressed to your back.

“How long has it been since you got a message to your brother?”

“Six months.”

You exhale, steeling yourself. They could’ve shot you on sight, spilt brain matter across the snow. Nothing is to say they still won’t. These people don’t know you, they don’t know what you’ve been through to get here. In a world overthrown by violence and despair, faith in others is hard to cultivate — and even more difficult to maintain.

Frank’s long-ago kindness reminds you that it’s still possible. He and Bill had offered you shelter when you needed it most, and you can only hope you’ll be afforded the same luck twice.

A lone figure strides out in your direction, bandana obscuring most of his face. Black hair sits on his shoulders, gun slung across his chest. You feel Joel hold his breath, his body solid against yours. The man comes closer still; his eyes a rich, deep brown, so like a pair you’ve seen before.

Tommy.

///

“Y’let us know if you need anythin’. Head up the street, turn left, and ours is the first house.”

Joel pulls his younger brother into his arms, Tommy’s chuckle honey-like and comforting, echoing round the kitchen.

Your kitchen.

Tommy pulls back after a beat. “S’good to see you too, big brother.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, pulling his heavy overcoat over his shoulders. You both watch him go, front door closing softly behind him.

Gazing at Joel for a moment, you wonder what he’s thinking. It’s been a long day: the two of you welcomed into the community with many open arms after your dramatic entrance. You’d met Maria, Tommy’s wife, and taken an instant liking to her. She spoke to you like she’d known you forever, promised that you were safe here.

“You okay?” you ask Joel, reaching out for his forearm.

He scrubs a hand over his face wearily. “Think I’ll sleep for a week.”

Wrapping yourself round his midsection, his chin rests against your forehead. You stand like that for a while, snow falling softly outside the windows. The kitchen surfaces are faded, tiles missing in some places. The leather couch in the living room has been patched over with jagged stitches, the coffee table stained with rings, and the bookshelf stuffed with novels you’ve never heard of.

It’s perfect.

“Pinch me,” you mumble into Joel’s chest, feeling his quiet laugh reverberate through you. “Tell me we gotta leave in the morning.”

“No need to, sweetheart. It’s ours for keeps.”

The tears come then, and you gladly let them fall. Joel soothes you, swaying you both on the spot, warm hand rubbing across your back. Your shared wounds are still sore — both physical and mental — but, at last, you have a home to heal them in.

///

You’re given a week to settle in.

Tommy and Maria drop by with meals, clothing, hygiene essentials, and plans on how to integrate the two of you into community life. Joel volunteers to be part of the patrol unit, but you know you’re not ready for that yet — or if you ever will be.

“Don’t think about that now. We need somebody in the dinin’ hall, anyway. Feel like gettin’ your hands dirty?” Tommy asks one evening, eyes twinkling in a way so similar to his brother’s.

Joel’s thumb brushes over your knuckles from his place beside you on the couch, never too far from your side. You agree, eager to contribute in any way you can. In truth, your culinary skills leave much to be desired, but you’re keen to make the most of this new life you’ve been granted.

Joel sees Tommy out, coming back to pull you to your feet. “You don’t have to do anythin’ you’re not comfortable with,” he murmurs, searching your face for any hidden anxieties.

Joel knows you better than anyone, knows what to say whenever you doubt yourself. Pressing your face into his flannel chest, you breathe in deeply: he smells clean, fresh in a way neither of you had been for a long time. You find it both comforting and unnerving; a reminder that soon, you’ll be spending hours apart from one another.

“It’ll be strange, not seeing each other all day,” you confess.

Joel’s eyebrow quirks, grin pulling at his lips. “Better make the most of it now, then.”

You let him lead you upstairs, towards the soft bed you share, scattered with mismatched pillows and a chipped lamp on the nightstand. The pristine furnishings you enjoyed in Lincoln are long forgotten, and in their place are belongings you’ve traded for and made your own.

Joel gently pushes you down onto the plaid sheets, hands splayed either side of your head. You recall the many times you’ve been in this position: hard earth freezing cold against your back, Joel’s warmth the only sustenance as he overwhelmed your senses and stretched you open, his thumb in your mouth to silence your cries.

It’s different, now.

The privacy and protection of your own home affords you all the time in the world to indulge in one another; a job Joel takes very seriously. He sucks at your pulse points, drags your shirt up and over your head. He lavishes your breasts individually with his hot tongue, your back arching off the bed in response, tugging desperately his silvered curls.

The scruff along his jaw brushes against your sternum, your body writhing at the sensitivity. Joel leaves messy, open-mouthed kisses across the curves of your belly, pulling back to wrestle with your jeans. Hopelessly, you try to help, a whine caught in your throat. Joel takes your wrists in one hand, pinning them above you.

His voice is low, raspy. “Be patient. ‘m gonna give her what she needs.”

Heat pools in your stomach at his words. Slick and slippery as he finally frees you, you watch as Joel pries your thighs apart with huge hands, settling his broad shoulders between them. The anticipation bubbles in your chest; you’re still not used to the sensations he’s about to bestow upon you, never having enough time to explore each other like this before.

Joel eats you out reverently, like he’s afraid he’ll never be able to do it again. It’s all you can do to hold onto him as you convulse against his insistent tongue, thick fingers digging into your thighs as you come down from heaven. “Tastes so goddamn sweet, baby,” he tells you, licking one last stripe over your centre, your body trembling from overstimulation.

He gathers you in his arms, kissing all over your face as your breathing begins to regulate. He’s still fully clothed, moustache shiny and dripping. Grabbing at the buttons of his shirt feverishly, Joel aids you in your task, reaching for his belt buckle.

“Don’t lecture me about patience again, old man,” you manage. He chuckles in response, your favourite sound.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

///

Spring arrives, and with it, endless amounts of joy.

The happiness you only knew as a child blooms fervently, like the wildflowers that begin to carpet the mountain ridges surrounding Jackson. The days stretch out longer and later — something you’d dreaded back in Boston, sick to your stomach of the stink, the grey, the death.

Now, the hours are lived out in vivid colour.

Joel’s in your bed every morning, slipping inside you and making you come when you’re still half asleep, bringing you tea before he leaves for the day. You love your job in the dining hall; shy smiles shared between newfound friends, bonds forged and deepened, all kinds of adopted families hosting you both for dinner.

The scar on your left hand lingers, long after the stitches are removed. Your fingers are numb from time to time, Joel pressing his lips to each tip individually to make you smile. You’ve seen much worse injuries — seen the way the residents of Jackson make do, make the most of what they have. You willingly follow suit.

You know everything comes at a price. The peace and solitude you’ve found is guarded heavily, patrol shifts running every day of the year.

You count down the minutes until Joel comes home, often with stories to tell. Sometimes he wants to share; but mostly he just kisses you, pulls you close into his thick overcoat. He’s the most capable man you’ve ever known, but you don’t let him leave in the morning without promising he’ll return safely before the sun goes down.

You never want to waste the simple gift of your lover coming home to you: often scraped and bruised, but alive. The shared feeling of sheer relief often results in Joel fucking you wherever he can take you — slowly, deeply. He pulls you flush to his chest on one such occasion, spilling inside you over the dinner table. Hand wrapped round your throat, lips against your ear, pounding into you until you see stars.

You’re made for this cock, baby, he groans. So fuckin’ tight. So perfect.

Showering together becomes routine, just like you dreamed it would be, the lace you coveted in Lincoln and carried halfway across the country safe beneath your pillows and worn whenever you feel like it. Confessions of love flow freely from Joel’s lips whenever he bottoms out inside of you; eyes rolling in the back of your head, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps as he squeezes your hips.

I know, baby. I know, ‘s a lot. God, I fuckin’ love you. Love you so much, honey. Y’know that, don’t you?

///

From your perch in the bed, you hear the front door close, the scrape of the bolt that means Joel’s home. Usually, you’d be in the living room to greet him, help make a start on dinner. Tonight, though, you couldn’t face it. You’ve been feeling off all day — out of sorts, for the first time since you arrived in Jackson.

His feet fall heavy on the stairs, calling out for you between rooms.

“Up here.”

Joel’s face appears round the bedroom door; cheeks pink, hairline damp, chest rising and falling. Spring had bled so effortlessly into summer, your bedroom windows thrown wide open in an attempt to coax a breeze through the house. You hope it’ll blow the cobwebs away, dilute the feeling settling in your stomach.

“Hot one today, huh?” you comment grimly as he sits beside you, warm hand sliding across the bend of your knee.

Joel shrugs, shoulders flexing. “Not if you’re Texan.”

You roll your eyes, curling your body around him instinctively. He toes his boots off before lowering himself to lay beside you. Usually you’d comment on how much you hate it when he leaves them there, but you simply don’t have the energy, preferring to burrow into him despite the heat.

“Maria gave me a couple eggs as I was leavin’ the stables, was thinkin’ I could do us some omelettes tonight—”

Joel’s theoretical dinner plans are rudely interrupted by your stomach gurgling, acid rising in your throat. You swallow thickly in disgust at the sensation, his eyebrow raised in concern. “Or.. I can go to the dinin’ hall and bring you whatever you want, if you’re not feelin’ it,” he says gently, warm palm rubbing between your shoulder blades.

“I don’t know what I want,” you pout, horrified by how petulant you sound. In truth, you’re startled by the churning feeling in your gut — awakening a fear you’ve so far put to the wayside, too distracted by your happiness to give much thought to. You’ve buried it as the weeks passed, unwilling to let your mind wander down that particular path.

You’re late.

Three months late, in fact.

“Well, just let me know ‘f you change your mind. Might just be the heat,” Joel muses, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. You watch as he rolls away from you, heading for the shower. The thick planes of his freckled shoulders come into view as he tugs his shirt off, leaving you chewing your lip in uncertainty.

His presence has always been soothing, medicinal — everything else falling away whenever he’s near, no problem too big if it’s halved with him.

Except this one.

///

The next day, Maria sets a bowl of soup down in front of you and draws up a chair at the dining table, her face a picture of concern. You’d knocked at her door with shaking hands this morning, asked her if she’d accompany you to the infirmary. The two of you had grown close, even more so since Maria had given birth to a son — Caleb, the light of her and Tommy’s life.

With Joel out on patrol, your secret had spilled into the sweet-smelling summer air, lip caught between your teeth as your voice trembled. Maria had looped her arm through yours, ensuring you put one foot in front of the other in order to meet Jackson’s midwife. She held your hand when the news was confirmed to you, dabbed a tissue to your tears.

You hadn’t said much — you couldn’t. Somehow, your de-facto sister-in-law had gotten you home, ensconced safely in one of the two chairs Joel had built himself for you both to share.

Joel.

You couldn’t bear to think about him; about how he’d react to the result of your shared carelessness. It’s hard to reframe it as anything else in your state of shock: your hand closing over your belly instinctively. The midwife had guessed you to be around twelve weeks along — the size of a plum, she’d grinned. Don’t panic, though. It’s normal not to feel the baby moving just yet.

The baby. Half you, half Joel — with fingers and toes and a heartbeat fluttering like a hummingbird.

Maria’s voice drags you from the white noise inside your head, your name echoing round the room as she pushes the bowl towards you. “You should really eat,” she reprimands kindly, sipping her tea. Smiling weakly, you bring the soup to your lips and swallow, if only to please her.

It tastes good, at first. Soon enough though, you’re grimacing, the scent drifting from the bowl turning your stomach. “Everything makes me nauseous now,” you moan. “I’ve been fine this whole time.”

Maria shares a sympathetic smile. “You’re lucky. I was sick — like, really sick — with Caleb from the start.”

You sit in companionable silence for a while, listening to the sounds of Jackson’s children in the street. Classes have finished for the day, and you watch as parents shepherd their unruly offspring home; some sat on shoulders, others swinging from hands. It makes your heart skip a little, your apparent future playing out in front of you.

Maria clears her throat, getting up to leave. “If you want my opinion, I think it’s better to tell Joel sooner rather than later.”

“I can’t.” Your voice is a whisper. “He’ll hate me.”

“You and I both know him better than that,” she says gently. “You’re his life — both you and the baby, now. Besides, am I supposed to believe you got pregnant all by yourself?”

Pinching your brows in exasperation, you confess.

“We just.. Forgot to be careful, I guess. My periods are never regular, and we’ve been so happy here. It just — it didn’t cross my mind.”

Liar, you reprimand yourself inwardly. Memories of begging Joel to fill you up swim through your subconscious, both of you lost in the heat of the moment. You wanted to feel him, let him claim you; and Joel was only happy to oblige, babbling about makin’ it stick.

“Spare me the details,” Maria laughs, wrinkling her nose. “Look, you’ve seen Joel with Caleb. It’s like a second nature to him — remember the animals he carved for his nursery? He painted each one, and now they go on a goddamn safari together.”

Despite yourself, you grin, thinking of Joel’s knees creaking whenever he gets down to his nephew’s level, his stoic nature forgotten as he makes the lion roar to the little boy’s delight, thick finger tickling him under the chin.

Maria continues, coming to rest her hand on your shoulder comfortingly. “I know you’re frightened — you have every reason to be — but, he might not be. This might be the best news he’s had in twenty years.”

Grimly, you cling to the hope that she’s right.

///

Maria leaves you with your thoughts. You spread out across the couch as the sun dies away, golden light filtering through the windows. With your shirt pulled up, your hands splay across your belly, still in disbelief. You’d never entertained the thought of being a mother — not even here, where babies are born surrounded by love, cherished from the day they open their eyes to the world.

You wonder how your own mom felt when she found out about you: if she was frightened, thrilled, or an exhausting mixture of the two, just like you are now. Closing your eyes, you can smell her vanilla perfume, remember her shy smile. You’d shut the door on those memories for so long, death and destruction tainting them with a murky visage you couldn’t — wouldn’t — scrub away, for fear of hurting yourself even more.

You wish so much that she could be here; wish you could hide behind her, hold her hand.

It hits you, then. The clarity is so earth-shattering, you swear you can feel something in your belly. The little life that lies beneath stirring, forcing you to confront what you’ve known in your heart since you first found out about them.

You love this baby.

///

You’re dicing carrots when Joel comes home.

His hands reach for your hips, just as they always do; the grey in his hair reflected in the windows in front of you. He nuzzles beneath your ear, apologising for running half an hour late. You weren’t worried: it’s normal for him to head to the Tipsy Bison with Tommy for a sneaky whiskey, and besides — your mind had been firmly elsewhere.

“Everythin’ okay?” he probes, noting your silence.

The knife slices cleanly, a rhythmic thwack against the cutting board.

“I’m pregnant.”

He stills, his body wrapped round you. You taste blood in your mouth, having bitten harshly into your lip in anticipation. He says nothing, for a beat. You’re sure you can hear the rapid tick of his watch, in time with your heartbeat.

“Pregnant?” he whispers, after an age.

Nodding, you turn in his arms. “I — we’re — having a baby, Joel. I’m near enough twelve weeks along.”

“Fuck.”

The word is brutal, harsh; his face unreadable. He gazes at you, hands braced either side of yours on the kitchen countertop. You reach out to the scruff along his jaw, the heart-shaped patch where it refuses to grow. He leans into your touch, unblinking.

“How’re you feelin’? Are you — alright?” he asks quietly, and for a moment, you’re lost for words. Seemingly forgetting the sledgehammer you’ve taken to his life, Joel’s first priority is to check on you. On reflection, you’re not sure why it surprised you so much: it’s what he’s always done, ever since he pulled you from poverty in Boston.

“I think so.” Holding his face in your hands, you will him to speak. “Explains why I’ve been feeling so off, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he exhales, standing tall, hand carding through his hair. “Y’usually love how I do your eggs.”

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or cry your eyes out; partly in relief that he knows, that he hasn’t turned on his heel to leave.

Yet.

“Look, Joel,” you start, voice stronger than you feel. “I know this is less than ideal — we should’ve taken more precautions, been more careful, I don’t fucking know.”

If there’s an unspoken decision to be made, your choice is already firm, despite your shaking hands. Joel is your heartbeat, your home. The only thing more important is unborn inside you, existing through no fault of their own.

“No, no,” he shakes his head, pulling you into his chest as your bottom lip wobbles. “Take a breath, honey. Just — take a breath. In and out, nice ‘n slow for me.”

“Nobody’s gonna start blamin’ anyone else around here,” he continues, soothing you gently. “Besides, it’s not a mistake. S’not somethin’ we need to fix. I need to know, though — are you happy?”

You watch his eyes drop to your belly, hidden beneath one of his shirts you’d pulled on as the night drew in. “Yes,” a sob rises in your throat, “It took a couple hours, but I — I want this, Joel. I want it so badly it scares me.”

He gazes at you, long and hard.

“Makes two of us, then,” he exhales finally, squeezing you close. You sneak a glimpse at him: overwhelmed by what you find. His face is quietly joyous, that smile you first came to love so long ago pulling at his lips. His fingers creep beneath the flannel you’re wearing, thumb stroking across your stomach.

“A baby, huh?”

You hear the emotion in his voice, the lump in his throat. Your hand covers his, squeezing softly, elation coursing through your bloodstream. The band of tension that lingered around your ribs dissipates, a feeling of calm left in its wake.

His palms don’t leave your body: moving back to your hips, caressing your belly, squeezing your shoulders. You bask in his touch; baby nestled between you somewhere. You tell him everything the midwife said: you can’t feel them yet; but their heart is beating, strong and true.

“‘m sorry I wasn’t with you.”

“Maria helped — she helped a lot,” you sigh contentedly. Joel’s hand sweeps across your navel again, the lines by his eyes creasing as his grin widens.

“She always knows what to do.”

Dinner is forgotten; Joel leading you to the couch, pulling you into his lap. You thread his hair between your fingers gently, trace the curve of his nose as he asks more questions. “Guess I’ll be goin’ to Tommy for advice for the first damned time in my life,” he grumbles, hand on your hip.

You kiss his whiskered cheek. “I don’t think you need to learn all that much.”

“No?”

Shaking your head, you go on. “Look how long you’ve been taking care of me — how good you are at it, how much you enjoy doing it. Think about the way you are with Caleb. You’re gonna do just fine.”

Joel’s smile is shy, eyes skyward, shining in the glow of the lamps. You’ve caught glimpses of his stoic delight before; when you share slow mornings together, playing guitar with his brother. But this? It feels like a crack bursting open in his chest, sunlight pouring outwardly, filling the room with love.

“Never saw this comin’ for us,” he admits, fingers stroking at your spine. “But I always wondered if it was somethin’ you wanted — somethin’ I might not be able to give you.”

“There’s nothing you couldn’t give me, Joel Miller.”

“Don’t be too sure. ‘m almost fuckin’ sixty, after all,” he hums, dragging the flannel up towards your ribs, drawn once again to your belly. His disbelief is still palpable, the way he strokes your skin so tenderly: the two of you cocooned together in a bubble of confounded happiness.

“Gonna be the best mama, sweet girl. They’ll be the luckiest — I’ll tell ‘em every day.”

The kiss you respond with is long and lingering, Joel’s tongue intertwining with yours; hands seeking out your breasts, heavy in his palms. Feeling him harden in his jeans, you grind against him slowly, relishing the sensation. “We don’t have to,” he whispers, watching your pupils dilate.

“I want to,” you groan, teeth in his bottom lip. “Take me to bed.”

///

Six months later, everything hurts.

Feet impossibly swollen, heartburn ravaging your throat, more tired than you ever thought possible. No sleeping position is comfortable — bundled up in blankets as another freezing winter drapes itself over the settlement.

It doesn’t matter too much though; Joel often staying awake to keep you company, eyes widening every time the baby jerks their foot or fist against your skin. The midwife — Ellen — says it’ll be any day now: your blood pressure looks good, their head is firmly down and ready to make an entrance into this world.

In all honesty: you’re fucking terrified. You talk it over with Joel often, Maria pitching in, Tommy offering a joke or two that usually gets him thrown out of the room by his wife. You practice your breathing, keep a diary, spend hours in the bath talking to the bump that swells well above the waterline.

Maria organises a celebration for you — baby showers, they used to call ‘em. The friends both you and Joel have made in Jackson come together to offer gifts: handmade blankets, tiny crochet sweaters, knitted mittens, scavenged toys and the promise of meals made to order.

You win the battle against your emotions for the better part of the day, until you see an empty chair in the circle. Maria tells you it’s for your mother, soft white satin wrapped round the arms, a beautifully embroidered pillow resting against the back. Joel holds you through your tears — both of sadness and joy.

He constructs the crib carefully: brows furrowed in concentration, the old-fashioned glasses he’d finally consented to wearing hanging off the edge of his nose as he measures, saws and hammers pieces together.

One evening, when the snow is thick and heavy on the ground, it’s finally ready.

“No peekin’,” Joel instructs gruffly, his hands over your eyes, walking you slowly from your bedroom to the nursery. His hands smell of the pine he’s been working so tirelessly with, body pressed close to yours as he escorts you safely.

“Alright, open ‘em.”

Clutching his forearm, you audibly gasp at his craftsmanship. It’s beautiful: smooth, dark wood, sanded and polished to perfection. You know how much he’s loved having a project, something to contribute for the tiny baby who’ll soon be occupying the small space in front of you.

The hours he’s put into it — making sure it’s safe and stable — make your heart ache.

“Like it?”

“Like it?! It’s wonderful. Joel — you didn’t need to make it this perfect.”

He wraps an arm round you, brushing off the compliment.

“C’mon, darlin’. You’re the one doin’ all the hard work.”

As if to prove his point, his hand skates across your bump, smoothing across the taut skin. Your hips are so sore, pelvis struggling with the pressure. “I just want them here now,” you whisper, folding into his broad frame.

“I know, sweet girl. You’re doin’ so good.”

“I just want to pee at regular intervals again,” you moan. “And wear my own jeans.”

“Yeah? Well, I think I’m gonna miss it,” Joel chuckles. “Y’look gorgeous, mama.”

You smirk at him in the low lamplight. “This does it for you?”

He hums his appreciation, hands travelling along your sides, taking his time with your body.

“Want you to have all my babies.”

Tilting your jaw upwards, he kisses your throat, featherlight and soft. It feels so good: Joel sucking and nipping towards your pulse point; thick fingers toying with the band of your panties, moving to push them down your thighs. Desire courses through your whole body, overpowering the discomfort, head thrown back as he continues to lavish you with teeth and tongue.

“Let’s see how we get on with this one first,” you giggle breathlessly, his responding smirk a good enough answer as any.

///

A few days later, the pain starts a little past midnight.

It’s enough to wake you, radiating across your lower back. You’re content to breathe through it at first; Joel snoring softly beside you, the tightening in your belly swelling and falling away in a rhythm that soon becomes familiar. A plan is in place — Ellen and Maria anticipating Joel’s knock against their front doors, towels and tools packed and ready.

Soon enough, you slip out of bed, pacing the floorboards as the discomfort increases. “Don’t make this hard on me, bug,” you whisper through gritted teeth, comforted by the pet name Joel had bestowed upon your bump.

“Mama just wants you in her arms now. Just want you here safely.”

You glance at Joel, asleep on his back. His features are relaxed; the lines on his face softer, jaw slack as he breathes in and exhales. You try to mimic the steady pattern, wondering when you should wake him. You’re almost certain this is no dress rehearsal: that your baby will be here soon, maybe before sunrise.

Everything you’ve endured up until this moment has been a form of preparation. The despair that drove you out of Boston, the anxiety twisting your gut on the road to Bill and Frank’s, the heartbreak of leaving a safe haven behind, the danger that came after.

You can do anythin’, Joel had said. You’re so strong, sweetheart. The bravest person I know.

You choose to believe him; trusting in your body, in a process that’s happened for millions of years. With him by your side, it feels possible — the same belief that brought you here, to a home like one you’ve never had before.

It’s time. You know it is.

“Joel,” you lean over him, shaking gently at his shoulders. His eyes blink open; groggily at first, but as soon as he registers the seriousness of your tone, he focuses. The man you’ve relied upon thus far won’t fail you now — not when you need him more than ever.

“The baby’s coming.”

///

Your daughter is born on the bathroom floor in a slippery rush of adoration and agony, bathed in the weak golden light of dawn.

Joel sits behind you, knees bracketed around yours. His encouragement is constant in your ear, your nails digging deep into his thigh. He lets you scream, a scarred hand against your sweating forehead, watching helplessly as the pain tears through you like wildfire. You have Maria’s hand, crushing it into yours as Ellen coaxes your baby into the world.

She’s sticky with blood and mucus, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Her wailing begins as yours ends, tiny body placed upon your chest. Nothing feels real; you’re not sure it ever will again, Joel’s cheek wet against yours, fingertip stroking her soft head — covered in dark curls, just like his.

“You did it, baby girl. You did it,” he manages, voice thick with tears. “Look at her. She’s incredible.”

Her cries quieten as she blinks up at you both: his eyes, ones that make it so easy to fall in love with her, just like you did with her daddy. You realise now that your heart will never live inside your chest again — it’s here: snuffling softly into your skin, weeping quietly into your ear.

“Joel — the cord,” Maria nods her head, moving to support you as he takes the sterilised blade from Ellen. Though his eyes are rimmed with red, damp across his hairline with fluids staining his shirt, his hands don’t shake. He cuts cleanly, helping the midwife with fresh towels and warm water.

You figure he regains his place beside you at some point; you’re too enamoured with the bundle on your chest to realise exactly when. His hands — ones he’s used to protect you, to kill for you — look even bigger next to her; thick fingertip touching the velvet smoothness of her nose, the perfect bud of her mouth, dainty curve of her ear.

“Hi, sweet thing. You look just like your mama — you’re so beautiful, sweetheart. So perfect.”

Watching Joel talk to your daughter unleashes a new wave of emotion; her heart-shaped face rooting around against your chest, mewling like a kitten. “Hungry girl, huh?” he chuckles, holding you both close. He’s as warm as ever, kissing you wherever he can reach as Ellen cleans you up.

“Do we have a name?” Maria asks gently, her hand on your shoulder. The baby tries to latch, Joel working to support her head as you shift up a little in his grasp. One singular name circles round your mind: one that you and Joel had discussed months back, one you’ve stuck to.

One that suits her, perfectly.

A word — a verb and noun — you’ve clung to for as long as you can remember. A feeling that carried you through it all; the darkness and the light that followed. A belief that begun the moment Joel met your eye across the QZ, exhausted and dirty and hungry for anything other than the life you were leading. A motivation that only grew when he held your hand in the forest that morning, the first time his lips grazed your temple — the first time you knew.

“Hope.”

///

The first eighteen months of her life pass in a millisecond.

You and Joel both grow older — his hair longer, greyer — but neither of you seem to notice all that much. The world as you know it revolves around your daughter; her first smile, words, tiny little steps. Joel’s arms were stretched out to her, and she gladly went into them without trepidation.

Hope seems to enjoy living her life that way.

Shrieking with glee as her uncle lifts her into his arms, her cousin scrambling onto Joel’s shoulders. Her tiny fist unclenching to let a butterfly land on her palm, only to frighten it away with her gasp of enthusiasm. Little fingers scrabbling at the manes of the ponies her daddy takes her to visit, crying when she has to leave them behind.

It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it.

Joel confides his anxiety to you one evening, climbing into bed when he’s settled Hope for the night. He reaches for you on instinct, thick forearm slung across your waist. A painting of the three of you, created lovingly by a friend at the dining hall, sits pride of place on his nightstand.

“She’s changin’ every day, that girl. Sometimes I worry might I miss somethin’, bein’ out there all damned day.”

You pull him into your chest, silver curls against your chin. “I know, baby. I’ll be honest, though — most of the time? I miss things. She’s just too clever for her own good.”

He looks up: the beautiful dark eyes he gifted to your daughter shining back at you.

“Gets that from her mama.”

“Sure. That’s about the only thing that is mine in there.”

Your laugh is quiet, lips against his forehead. Joel and Hope are thick as thieves, often tuckered out on the couch together after tea parties with ancient Barbies, Joel shirtless in the summer months as his little girl snoozes on his chest.

It’s a sight to behold, one that heats the blood in your belly. The tiny child you created together so safe and loved on the broad, strong frame of her father.

If you could, you would have all his babies.

You sigh into his mouth at the thought, tongue tracing along the seam of his lips. He holds your jaw, moving to hover above you — so big and imposing, greying hair littering his chest, thicker and darker along his belly.

You’re certain you’ll never have your fill of him; insatiable for the man who made you a mother and warms your bed every night. You’re overcome with the desire to have him inside you, to claim you and mark you like he so often does. “Please, Joel,” you whimper, his fingers flexing round your throat, other hand busy between your thighs.

Inching the straps of your camisole down your upper arms, the scruff along his jaw drags across your collarbones. He knows all your sensitive spots, the way to make your toes curl, have you scratching and sobbing in his arms for more.

An expert at getting you naked; it doesn’t take long before he’s inching inside you, huge hand braced against the headboard to save you being interrupted. “Goddamn it, baby,” he groans, watching you writhe beneath him in pleasure. You still have to work hard to take him, preening at his encouragement.

“Feels so good, darlin’. So fuckin’ pretty like this, all spread open f’me.”

You tell him you love him, over and over, watching him paint your tummy with his release. Fond memories of a long-ago time in somebody else’s shower surface, and you dream of it as you fall asleep in his arms.

///

“Honey — come look. New neighbours.”

Though you tut impatiently at Joel twitching the blinds, you hoist Hope on your hip, trying and failing to peer over his shoulder as you cross the living room.

“There goes Tommy, doin’ his Mayor of the Town shit. Surprised he ain’t got leaflets at this point.”

Your daughter begins to clamour for her daddy: hands fisting his flannel shirt, tiny crease between her brows — just like his. “C’mere, lovebug,” he grins, lifting Hope upwards above his shoulders to her screaming delight.

Sixty looms on the horizon for your lover, something Joel’s dreading. Don’t want anyone throwin’ me a party, he’d grumbled. Just want a day with you two — see what movie they’re playin’ in the hall. Maybe Maria can make it hotdog night or somethin’.

Birthdays. Movies. Hotdogs. A baby girl.

Looking out the window now, into the street, you count your blessings a million times over.

Tommy’s standing with a couple; their backs to you as he points out the house opposite. It’s stood empty for a while, Joel and a few others pitching in to fix the drainage, repair the ceilings. It’s ready to be a home now — to provide the refuge so desperately sought by the lucky few who make it to Jackson alive.

You ignore the crashing and banging of Hope’s train set behind you, Joel’s enthusiasm for her toys second to none. You watch as Tommy and the couple turn, your brother-in-law pointing towards your front yard. Breath hitches in your throat at their faces: haunted, frightened — the kind of look you can only recognise if you’ve suffered the same horrors yourself.

They clutch at each other, eyes wide with small, shy smiles. It’s then that you notice: the bump protruding outwardly from her threadbare jacket, her partner’s hand moving to rest over it protectively.

“Hey, Joel?”

He’s by your side in an instant, like always. Two halves of the same whole, the final piece yawning in his arms, his hand skating across her spine — soothing your daughter the same way he does you.

And will do, forever.

“I think we should go say hello.”

[macfrogrecs]

i am sat here reading and rereading this like a maniac. oh, my god. if i could quote the entire thing in my reblog, i would. but THIS PART —

It’s thick and bristly, a little rough, just like he is, not soft like the room at the end of the hall, where everything is fluffy and light, with butterflies all over. 

GODDDDD i NEED IT i need it SO BAD

this was such a dream. i love it and i love him and i love YOU 🥹

Joel Miller│520-some words│18+

a drabble gift for @macfrog 🤍 tags: fluff, angst/comfort, pregnancy prompt: me wanting to write Pixel Papi for my froggy friend Max I've been in the mood to write some drabbles as an early birthday celebration. If you are an avid reader of mine and would like your own 500ish word drabble, feel free to send me a DM to discuss :)

“I’m scared.”

It’s past everyone’s bedtime, dark beyond the twinkling Christmas lights wrapped around the balcony that Joel put up while I fogged up the glass. Out there, freezing in his leather coat, raising his eyebrows.

Here?

A little more to the left, I waved.

The dog huffs in his sleep, I can hear him from downstairs, along with the crackling from the fireplace. Joel leans back against the counter with his arms folded, brows pulling together, and his shoulder takes up half the mirror behind him. The lights that glow in strips down its sides reflect off the gold on his left hand. The sight of it still makes my heart trip. 

He smiles a little, unfolding his arms to reach out and pull me closer, while my toothbrush hangs limply in my hand, toothpaste in the other, both held with a pathetically loose grip he chuckles at when he glances down. 

“Nothin’ to be afraid of, sweetheart,” he says, lifting his hand to push my hair over my shoulder, and then slide his palm along the side of my neck. His thumb brushes slowly along the edge of my jaw, and his skin is rough but his touch is gentle. I want to wallow, I don’t want to admit that his voice soothes me, husky as it is, the tired tone of it at the end of the night. 

“But—” I try to protest, but he shuts me up just as fast while he straightens up from the counter, and right as I crane my neck to look up at him, into his eyes, little kicks push against the front of his t-shirt. 

“I know,” he whispers, and his lips twitch at those tiny little fluttery kicks, and I can tell he’s trying his hardest to keep it together, to calm me with two hands holding my face. “But I'll be there.” 

I pout at him, rolling my eyes, not wanting to believe his words that I know are nothing but the pure truth. More kicks bulge the worn-soft fabric of my own shirt when I look at his face again, when I look at the gray threads in his beard. It’s thick and bristly, a little rough, just like he is, not soft like the room at the end of the hall, where everything is fluffy and light, with butterflies all over. 

There’s rarely anything soft about Joel at all, aside from his tone when he says, with his hands on the sides of my belly, “And she can't wait to meet you.” 

So I concede, as I always do, letting my head fall to his chest while he wraps his arms around my shoulders. “Why did you do this to me?” I mumble into him, before I breathe in his scent, soothed by that too, embraced in his heat. 

And he chuckles again, “Couldn't help myself,” lighthearted for the sake of my whining, when we both know that it was with the deepest love I have ever felt, that he made me his the way he did eight months ago. 

“I hate you,” I mutter, flatly. 

“Yeah, I know.” He breathes a laugh while he kisses the top of my head, and our little girl kicks again, harder. I think her daddy is the one she’s excited to meet. “S’alright.” 

[macfrogrecs]

in case anyone wanted a glimpse of what @mrsmando and i go through every time elizabeth updates

Bigger in Texas

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Joel won’t fit.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Size kink (seriously, don’t read if you hate big dicks / disgusting descriptions) Penis and pussy pronouns. Virginity loss. Age gap. Praise kink. Daddy kink. Joel ‘hung like a fucking horse’ Miller is a soft dom and also a good teacher. Competence kink (?)

Note: Somebody made a fic challenge to use penis pronouns, and I can’t for the life of me remember who it was. If y’all find them please show them this and tell them I love their brain 🫠

Word count: 2.3k

This wasn’t the life Joel Miller had pictured for himself.

The dead coming back to roam the world and eradicate most of its population, for one. The cold. Finding his baby brother way out here in Wyoming with a wife and a child on the way. The looks he was getting these days. It’s not like he’d asked to get mixed up with a girl your age. It just happened. And since damn near every-fucking-thing that had “happened” to him since outbreak day fifteen years back had been bottom of the barrel, full-blown nightmare territory, the second he saw a good thing fumble across his path, he’d seized it—you.

You, who were young enough to be his daughter.

You, who’d never seen a man fully before meeting him.

You, who hadn’t squeezed so much as a finger in herself.

But much like his past, Joel Miller was a sordid and sick kind of man, and he had the cock to prove it: presently weeping precum at the site of your softest, tightest hole, smearing the pearly-white slick through your folds with a sound so sweet it was nauseating. Begging for entrance.

“Oughta have a boy your age pop your cherry, kid.”

It was simple.

“Ain’t right havin’ a man my age all in your guts.”

And true.

The head of his cock made another wet, sickening noise through your folds, and as though instigated by the sound, your eyes flitted to the source. You smiled.

“Probably. But I want you,” you answered. Soft.

Joel got harder, and he hadn’t thought that was possible. His gaze joined yours, and the sight nearly finished him.

Beneath him, your legs had spread wider, showcasing that perfectly glistening seam alongside the head of his cock. He looked huge. Or you looked small. Or perhaps it was both, and he was old, and he really shouldn’t be doing this at all, but then his hips stuttered a bit and his length pushed in. Joel hissed and seized the headboard.

It wouldn’t even go in. The tip just stretched the rim.

“Baby, fuck—” Joel whimpered.

“He’s so big.”

Three little words from your lips, and it almost did him in.

Again.

You wriggled your hips and flashed another happy grin.

“He wants in, daddy. I can feel him pulsin’ like I am.”

You volleyed a look up to Joel as if to say, ‘So that means we’re ready, right? Will you let me have him?’

And, strangled by guilt as he was, Joel couldn’t resist.

He let his big, bulbous, leaking head sink in the tiniest bit, and he let out a groan. Your walls were so tight. This was him, too—his tip was oversized, just like the rest of him—and when it notched in an inch, Joel could see the pain flash quick in your eyes. His hips moved to retreat.

But then your heels were lifting and digging in his ass, and though strained, your voice made it out, weakly:

“Don’t, daddy. I want him.”

Joel couldn’t dream of refusing.

And his vision blurred more at that word, him.

“I-I know. He wants you too, baby—”

Another quarter-inch.

“—so, so bad.”

“Daddy!”

Joel had to blink to try and wake from his daze. His tip was so warm, hugged so perfect and snug and wet, that he didn’t even realize that was all that fit. He was stuck.

You whimpered again.

“‘S’too big, daddy. Just make him go in.”

Your eyes rolled with indignation and overwhelming pleasure alike, and your hips squirmed again. This time, you tried to nudge him in deeper, but your body simply wouldn’t budge; you’d reached the widest part of him.

“Honey, it’s—”

“Hurtin’! I need you inside me.” you cried, impatient.

“Just takes a little time to get there, darlin’—”

“Well, get to it, then. A tip ain’t enough.”

Joel’s face flushed. He might’ve been forced to bite back a laugh under any other circumstances, but this was your virginity. His bed. Your naked bodies, together, tonight.

He wasn’t about to rush it now and fuck everything up.

“This tip’s about to paint your pretty insides white and make you wait til next week to try again if you keep it up.”

That made you go still.

You shook your head while Joel released the headboard from his grip and took your hip in it instead. He grunted.

“Sweet pea, you gotta see—” he resumed, voice low, “—it won’t feel good for you or me if I just…push right in.”

You sighed, feeling his hold tighten.

“Tongue and fingers only do so much. You gotta learn.”

You whined, digging your feet in deeper when his tip drew back to your entrance. Looking a bit squeamish.

“Be brave…and patient for me.”

From the look in your eyes, Joel could tell you probably hated him right now. That was just fine. He adjusted his hips to a more comfortable place, and then he pinched your hip bone. He nudged you back, and he let you wait.

Then, right when you opened your mouth, he sank in.

Joel thrusted with only his tip, the size of a small lime, and he fucked your hole gently. Back and forth. Shallow.

It did enough. You squeezed both his forearms.

“Oh, daddy.” Your bottom lip trembled as you said it.

With his free hand, Joel smoothed your hair back.

“Yeah, what is it, baby?” he murmured, dulcet as ever, “Thought you said the tip ain’t enough for you, sugar.”

His words came slow. His strokes were delivered quick, though tenderly. Your brain appeared to be in a fog, or a trance, as your chin dipped down toward your chest, and you watched him breach the first inch of you repeatedly.

“Curious little thing.” Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle now.

“He’s so…” you trailed off.

You squeezed his arms, and he squeezed your hip back. He let you watch him fuck you with only his tip, and when your head began to tilt back from the strain, he reached up with his other hand and held the back of your neck. He felt you clench at that, and you both groaned.

“So…big,” you finished, eyes glazed.

“I know.”

This went on for the longest time: Joel stretching the first precious inch of your pussy with the head of himself, you watching and breathing deeply, whimpering occasionally, and him holding at the nape of your neck like a softer touch might lose you to him forever. Was this teaching? When you clenched again, he reckoned it was.

“That’s it, honey. Watch her swallow me.”

“Stretches real pretty for the tip, doesn’t she?”

“Bet she can’t even fit another inch of this cock.”

Suddenly, your head was jerking up under his hold.

Eyes flaring with a hot, juvenile kind of anger: “I can!”

Joel clicked his tongue against the backs of his teeth and pretended not to hear. He also had to feign indifference when your walls tightened and all but choked his head and a wave of new pleasure surged up through his body.

“She can, Joel, I’m serious!”

Another two seconds of this and Joel sensed he might see tears. Though his gaze had trailed up to yours, and the look in his appeared stern, deep down, he was just as quick to want to cave. He just hid it better than you did.

“You think so, sweet pea?”

“I know so. I need it.”

“Need him?”

“Y-Yes.”

How sweet you seemed. How naive you must be.

Joel might’ve been mean, but he wasn’t cruel. He also liked teaching lessons as much as he enjoyed showing you the way, so in the next second, he obliged. He took the last shallow thrust of his tip and sank into your cunt.

As he filled you, you whined. It only took an inch or two.

“Da-a-ddy. Please.”

You must’ve been begging for lenience. Joel retreated.

Then, much to the man’s surprise, you kicked your feet. Not in relief but in protest, shaking your head up at him:

“Put him back. Please. D-Deeper.”

It was as though Joel’s brain had exited through the back of his head and all rational thought escaped him, for the moment. The only voice he heard was yours. It was pleading. And in between your legs, you were soaked.

So drenched to allow him another inch. Then another. Then another. Joel fucked in gently and felt a seismic wave of pleasure seize his limbs—and likely yours, as well. It was as though in two blinks, you’d forgotten the pain altogether. You were suffused with need instead, eyes wincing and lips curling and sounds leaving your throat like an animal in heat. Want him deeper, please.

Joel sawed back and forth with just those five or so inches and made you writhe underneath him. Felt you clamp down on his thick, slippery cock and heard the remnants of your shared arousal making sounds as your body accepted him. Stretching wider. Getting wetter. Bringing him closer to the edge with every breath.

“She’s doin’…so good f’me,” Joel told you, brainless.

His thumb drifted to your clit. He rubbed it gently. No sooner had he finished the first circle around that nub when your hips were stirring again—this time incensed.

“Daddy.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Joel kissed the top of your head, thumb insistent. When his eyes met yours, he was surprised to find them wet this time. Tears pooling and streaking down to your temples while your body bounced gently beneath his thrusts. A whimper trembled out, and Joel slowed.

He could tell from that look you didn’t want him to stop, though. It just felt so good. So, instead of dropping his pace too much, Joel cupped your chin in one hand, and with the other, he kept thumbing at your clit. Humming.

“Poor thing’s never had something this big in ‘er, huh?”

You shook your head. Cried a little more.

Joel kissed the tears on one side, lips smiling as he did.

“I can tell, baby. But she’s taking it so well.”

“Y-Yeah?”

His hips sped up a little. The thrusts were still shallower than they normally would be, given your state, but they seemed to be working well enough. You winced again.

Joel kissed the other side of your face to take more tears.

“Uh-huh,” he answered, “Openin�� up real nice for daddy.”

It was like his words worked as well as his thumb on your clit. You whimpered again, lips parting a little wider now, and the sound that came out was as desperate and feverish and fuck-drunk as Joel had ever heard it.

“S-Say it again,” you pleaded.

“Say what?”

“That he’s…stretchin’ me open. Makin’ me his.”

The soft, slick resonance between your body and his seemed to amplify even more—you were getting wetter, and Joel’s thrusts all but shook the bed with their force.

His eyes darkened when he felt you tighten again.

“Yeah? You like hearin’ all the filthy fuckin’ things your daddy’s doing? The way he’s breakin’ you in for him?”

You nodded. Your throat constricted with a moan.

And, just when a fresh set of tears seemed to be close on the horizon, Joel lowered himself to you. He held you to his chest, hips working relentlessly, and he watched your face screw up in pleasure. A trace of pain surfaced again, but it was soothed with a kiss. Joel grinned against you.

Between your thighs, his cock was throbbing with a feeling just as big. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. Hurting and aching and needing as you were, he had to make sure that you would cum first.

When his cock grazed a fleshy, sensitive patch inside your walls, he knew it wouldn’t take much. He went on:

“C’mon, sugar. Daddy’s split you open on his cock so nice, least you can do is cum for him. Can you do that?”

His nose brushed yours. His thrusts sped up. You nodded, quickly, and when he shifted in the bed with his thumb still on your clit and his lips and his stubble grazing your mouth with every push of himself, he felt it.

It was a small pulse, at first.

Joel thought you might be adjusting—clenching—again, when the lips that were trembling against his own parted more. Your arms wound around his neck, and suddenly the throb of your walls around his member got tighter and tighter and tighter. One more second and your cunt might’ve squeezed the hot, sticky seed right out of his body and flooded your insides with it, but then came release. The ‘o’ of your mouth let out a shriek, at last, and your body went soft around him, beneath him, whining in turn, ‘Daddy, daddy, please’ while the muscles once taut and unflinching gave him reprieve. Fluttering repeatedly.

Joel fucked you through it. He talked you through it.

He stroked your hair, and he held you tight. Called you his sweetheart, pretty thing, perfect girl, you’re doin’ so good f’me. Keep going. That’s right, cum all over daddy. He told you to take what you needed, and without another word, he felt just that. Your cunt spasmed around him, and you consumed every inch he gave and drank every drop of spend shooting out in thick spurts.

You fell boneless on the bed when all was said and done.

You looked happy, and that made Joel even happier.

He stroked your cheek, and you leaned into it, clearly drained while your gaze held his in a weak sort of look.

It was soft. Loving, even. It could’ve been romantic.

Then Joel’s hand slipped down to the nape of your neck again. Your muscles were limp, like all the rest of you, but somehow, he was able to hold you up. Tilt your chin a bit.

Make you peer down between your shaking legs, where his cock was still sheathed inside you—partly, anyway.

Your eyes widened. Joel grinned.

“You did great, baby. Ready for the other half of him?”

can y’all believe this image is what inspired this fic HA

it’s only Thursday i’m sorry 😔

[macfrogrecs]

The dancing hand pauses over a golden brown puff pastry, seemingly coming to a decision, when she turns to look up at him. The scent of her isn’t just shampoo, not just the blockers he’d shockingly picked up on before, sharp, burning his nose, it’s her skin now, too. The now dry sweat from hustling under her coat to make it to her first meeting on time salted along her limbs. Hot, sweet almonds. The shocking vermillion of the morning’s split maple comes to mind. He can smell her.

already so addicted to the way they orbit one another. obsessed with his pain-in-the-ass morning and her quiet delights. can’t wait to inhale the whole thing like it’s that dessert table. this is going to rock my world.

Busy, Dying. Part 1;

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: In an in-between place called his life, Joel Miller is alone. In search of a cure. In need of a miracle. In want of God.

Can I interest you in a cure for loneliness? She'd asked him in a language without words. Taking it is the easy part. Letting her go is impossible.

-OR-

an a/b/o soulmates AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No Outbreak AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Soulmates AU, Infidelity, Cheating, HEA!!!!!, Mating Bites, Knotting, Heat Sex, Breeding Kink, Group Therapy, Social Experiments, Basically puppy training for unsocialized Alphas, And by God that man will be house trained by the time she’s done with him!, Complicated family dynamics, Discussions of self harm, Depression, Existential Angst, Author returns not with a whimper but with a KNOT, I wrote this in a very unserious state of mind beware 

A/N: Gray November, I've been down since July - but we're so back, baby. I’ve missed this so bad. I’ve missed you all, I won’t drone on and on. I hope you enjoy, and please talk to me in the comments. Update me on what I’ve missed, let me know how you’ve been and what’s happening in your life.

A great heartfelt thank you to all of my wonderful friends who so supportively cheered me on while I struggled to write this. Sincerely the best people I know. 

Love you all madly.

Word Count: 6.5K

Read on AO3

Part 1;

The old linoleum tiles are the most peculiar shade of puce, and Joel has realized that there is someone sitting at the back of the room who smells… strange. 

More brown than purple—an ugly color. There’s something about it that fascinates him.

The woman that is currently speaking tells of her husband; it’s the only tale she has to tell. She’s been doing it for weeks, and they all know it well by now. Older, omega, the woman, and at the latter and less comely stage of life. Most of them here can say the same. They usually give their names, those that get up to share—although it’s never a requirement when you attend, it is highly encouraged—the sharing, he means—but he never pays much mind to them—the names, that is. That’s not what he’s here for after all—to make friends. Although, he does see how that’d be the initial assumption. 

Joel Miller is here for something more specific.

Six weeks he’s been showing up to these things now, and he’s yet to take a turn. He tells himself he’s working up to it. 

What that specific thing is…he hasn’t quite figured out. He’s listening for it, though, and intently, even if he does skip over the names. It’s the details of what they’re telling that matter to him. The hows and intricate whys of what it is that brought them here today.  

Her youth had been spent on a drunk, the woman is saying—her husband—and he’d been cruel to her in those days when there was still currency to spend in the form of her vitality. Joel nods at the puce—yes, he thinks, that’s usually the way of it. But later, there’s more to the story she reminds her audience, he drank himself into a fit, and had never been right since. The cruelty had been taken away from the marriage after that, and she’d been put in charge. 

“But I wonder,” she says, “If sometimes I don’t miss it, the way he’d been,” —if the reason she was here now, with all of the rest of them that were just like her in their own unique ways, was that she’d been left lonely after her cruel husband had been exchanged for a sick one. 

Joel nods again and wonders what sort of face the woman wears as she confesses but doesn’t bother to check. No matter, he knows they’re the same. If not in designation, then in heart. 

It’s easy, that thing, he does it too, to wish for the bad. To want to hold on to it, the thing that hurts. Addictive, even, in some cases. Missing it is easy. 

It’s why he’s here. 

And it’s what they promise you. In their flyers and pamphlets, when they stand on the corners of streets talking people up wearing that look in their eye and that slouch in their step, when they smell it on you—or in the lack there of—a mate or a purpose.

Welcome to our meeting. We’re here to find the cure for loneliness. 

That’s what they promise you when you come here. 

It’d been that word: loneliness, actually, that had caught him. L-O-N-E-liness. There was something attractive about it to him. Not a label but a state. 

You see, it was like this: Joel had seen a therapist once, several years ago, against his will and at the behest of another, who’d said all the wrong things in all the wrong ways. 

“You sound depressed, Joel,” the therapist had told him. 

He’d worn horn rimmed glasses and had a shiny bald head he could see the reflection of the overhead lights in. And worse—the non-scent of a beta which told him they’d never understand each other in the ways Joel longed to be understood. He’d—not hated him, necessarily—but felt an immense apathy for the man; more so than the regular apathy he felt for most things in his life. 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“Very, very sad,” was the official diagnosis.

Joel hadn’t liked the sound of the word. The label. He did not like that a word so succinct could be ascribed to him and all that had happened to him in his life. There was no word for it. It just was. 

But there was something different about a state of aloneness, which if attributed to himself, he could accept. He had been left alone, in ways. It was a tangible thing he could look around a room inside of himself and recognize. 

They’re meetings, is what this place is—encounter groups this coalition offers where lonely demi humans can come to congregate, discuss their aloneness, what had led them to such a state; their lack of attachments, connections, mates—alpha, omega. Held in the basement of the Emmanuel Episcopal Church on Newbury street, right between his shop and house, although they never talk about religion which he likes because he doesn’t believe in religion. 

God is still under review. 

He wonders if the Catholics wouldn’t have them. 

Sitting forward in his seat, the metal folding chair that always leaves his back aching something fierce, he presses his elbows into his knees to distract with alternative pressure. Focusing on his fingers woven together between his spread legs, he tries to pay attention to the man who’s stood up to speak now. Older than himself, late sixties, no children, no family, no nothin’; he’d run them all off. 

But Joel is distracted. 

The smell is stronger now. Stranger too. Something full bodied, but metallic like rust, astringent bleach, built in a way that forces saliva to pool heavy between his suddenly aching gums. A mask that sits atop something of a much different chemical architecture—that’s the strange part. 

Or—no. The back of his neck itches, and Joel lifts a palm to cup his nape, quell the sting, feel the tender mark. No. The strange part is not the illusion of the smell. What it is, actually, is that he’s fairly certain what he’s smelling is someone else's blockers. Something which he’s positive he’s never consciously noticed on another person in the thirty plus years since he’d presented as an alpha. 

He has, suddenly, the quite intense urge to peek over his shoulder, certain that he’ll be caught smelling things he has no business smelling. That there will be someone just there, breathing down the nape of his neck with accusation on their tongue—boo!

Silly. But he’d known today would not be a good day. 

It’d started off wrong. The milk had gone sour overnight, the check engine light had come on in his truck, all his socks were suddenly mismatched with not a single pair to be found, and his usual route to work had been waylaid by some freak accident. A tree split in half, one side into a house, the other into the road. Not a sign of lightning in the sky all night long. 

Perhaps he might be compelled to believe in God after all. 

Joel does not like it when things are out of order or out of the ordinary. His life was organized in a way that never caused him strife or excess. And it was not that he was stuck in his ways, only that he enjoyed his routine and disliked when things were not as they should be. And this—whatever it is he’s smelling, whoever—is not as it should be. 

The older gentleman, an Alpha too, is still speaking. He had a daughter, has, who no longer speaks to him. Won’t even take his money. He’d had a long career in government that’d filled him with greed and paranoia and a radical view of life that refused to align with the way young people saw the world now. Perhaps he’d tried to change at certain times, but he was old and set in his ways. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to change as badly as he should have when he still had the chance to. Happily stuck in the past. His wife had died, and his daughter had gone away from him. Too tired of his mediocrity as a father to give him another chance. 

The man sounds like he feels sorry for himself. Like he thinks himself the victim, and this one, Joel does look up at. He looks old and worn down, heavy beer pouch and thinning hair and sagging jowls. A sad and lonely man. Joel wonders if that’s how he looks to the other people in this room, as well. 

“No man knows how bad he is until he has tried very hard to be good.” Joel blinks, looks at him more closely, tries very hard to find similarities between themselves. But no—not quite right, not the thing he’s looking for. Their plight is different. This man is not alone, he’s got his weakness to keep him company. 

The one thing Joel had fought like hell to keep out of his repertoire of issues. He’d run from even the possibility of it as soon as she was dead, left Texas straight for the Northeast and from thereafter, everything he’d done, he’d done with a staunchness of character. If at the end of it, that staunchness was made up of apathy or numbness or dissociative fury, well, then at least he wasn’t still that man who’d been too weak to save his daughter. 

That counted very much in Joel’s book. 

An overabundance of cold numbness, little anger, everything a static haze—an abstinent winter. That was his whole life. But then, look at him now, he was here, wasn’t he? He’d taken that brochure handed to him on that last warm Tuesday weeks ago as he’d headed back to the shop from lunch. 

Hello, sir. Could I interest you in a cure for loneliness? The young omega had said. 

It’d started like anything—an experiment or a desperate ploy. The monotony had been steady going the past few years, getting older, colder. He’d grown hard and solitary around his wound, loneliness spread like a fungus, and he’d longed for any sort of change. 

“A cure…how?” The terrible shrink had come to mind.

“Oh, nothing to fret over.” The young man had a nice smile, Joel remembers. Kind and straight toothed. Honest in the way that a stranger knocking on your door to sell you a Bible seems honest. “We call it an encounter group. People come, share, tell the tales of their designation and their lives. In the end, the result is different for different people. Some move on to a second step if they need more. Others find what they’re looking for just through the connection of sharing. But no matter the result, you’ll see, you’ll be cured. Promise.” He’d winked, smile deepening, giving him an appreciative once over at the end of his spiel. Joel had blinked back, surprised, confused, but curiosity peaked enough he’d obsessed over it for three short days before he’d found himself stepping into the molted incense smell of the belly of a church so dimly lit he was sure not even God peaked in this sad space any longer.

“It’s that easy?” Joel had asked, childlike in his throat-strangled hope.

“That easy.”

It seemed the smile had been honest enough to sell him the Bible. 

The scent insists upon itself as the older gentleman finishes up, and Joel’s nose tickles with whatever it is it’s whispering at him. He wants to get up and walk out, run away, but suddenly his gut is tight and hot, and he isn’t sure he can actually stand up without disgracing himself in front of all these people. A wash of agonized heat moves through him, confused at what’s suddenly happening to his body. 

“We have a newcomer today sharing for the first time,” Maria, the woman who leads the group, says at the front of the room. “Everyone give her a warm welcome, it’s her first day and already she’s brave enough to jump on up here.”

There’s the shuffling of bodies in their seats, a cleared throat, the man sitting behind Joel breathes so loudly he thinks he’s gotta have some sort of medical condition, the puce turns more hideous by the second, and his own heart is beating so hard in his ears the rush of blood is dizzying. He feels each thump of the thing against his breast bone in some sick imitation of a fist begging to be let out. 

The new voice begins as nothing but a murmur. 

An introduction—he misses the name. His breathing goes shallow, he’d tip over in his seat if he didn’t have both boots planted firmly against the puce. The voice gains strength and with it, Joel wishes he’d been paying attention from the start. He didn’t get to hear her name. 

It’s a girl.

She’d run away from home in the spring of her sixteenth year to join the opera, she tells them. Had come upon the city in roaring spring and thought the rest of her life would be exactly like that, pure novelty in bloom, nothing like what she’d left behind. And was deeply disappointed when the reality was nothing such. 

And Joel hears it, that disappointment in her voice at what she’d not been able to find after searching for it so religiously. This is what makes him look up at her. This, unlike all the others, he thinks he can relate to—just by the sound of her voice. The search for a thing lost which can never again be found. The fruitlessness of it all. 

At that first vulnerable, terrified glance, she’s already staring at him, eyes catching like hooks. 

He blinks once, twice—color—is sure he can hear the movement of his eyelashes passing through the air, the stick of his lids meeting—color—bright. This is it.

That wash of heat turns into a blaze, every single bead of sweat blooming on his brow is a tell evaporating into the ether. This is what he’d sensed from the start of the evening. Maybe even from the moment he’d seen that split maple. 

“My mother always said I needed to be stronger, bolder, not so sensitive.” She looks away from him now. “I grew up in an angry house where you had to fight tooth and nail not to be overrun. Because of this, I left it at a very young age, and it was the greatest fight I could muster, abandoning that house of anger. I found myself something to bring me what I thought would be joy, a job and a city, and for a time, it was enough. But starting your lonely life so young…it’s hard.” After a pause of breath, “It’s been hard.”

“And it’s made me never want to have to—exert myself,” she says, searching for the right words, smiling when she finds them, and Joel has the urgency to smile back. “Now, I never want to have to be strong. I never want to have to try. I want to only be the way that I am. If that’s weak or sensitive or whatever it might be at any given moment, I don’t care. I don’t want to have to fight. I never want to be in an angry house again. I want someone who’ll see this in me and understand and never make me work for it, that they would give it to me willingly, easily, without me having to ask. Do you understand?” She looks about the room, and he hopes her eyes will land on him again, and even though they don’t, he feels she’s speaking directly to him. He nods, the hook of her temptation cast beneath his chin. “This is a fantasy. And it makes for a lonely existence. This idea of how I need it to be for it to be right—love.” She looks down at her hands folded atop the podium where they go to stand at the front of the group and share, and he wills her gaze to find him amidst the crowd again. “It’s so difficult. And this might seem very bad to you, weak willed, but it’s not. It’s only very honest. Which can never be a bad way to be.” That’s why she’s here, she tells them.

Finally, she looks back at him, and it’s that loneliness of two people amidst a crowd, facing one another, knowing themselves mirrored against the other and yet still disparate. There’s something indecent about the way she looks at him in front of all these people, the way he, in turn, looks back. A little bit like finding your own face on a stranger's body in a crowded room. Color rises to his face, and she gives him that same elusive smile from before. 

He’s the one to look away this time. 

As the crowd disperses for coffee and pastries after the last of the speakers, he searches for her. He needs to ask her name, feels as if he’s some blighted creature without it, swears he’ll never forgo attention during a meeting again if he can fish it out of her.

He finds her at the dessert table, Maria at her side and a hand at her shoulder. Something of a thank you is being imparted between the two women. The girl is saying she’s grateful for the welcome, grateful that they’d found each other. 

Joel has things to be grateful to Maria for, too. His brother, mainly. It’d been pure chance that Joel had met her here, that she knew Tommy also. She’d met his brother on a summer trek to Wyoming where they’d become friends and had kept in touch afterwards. The woman has a thing about her that ingratiates people by sheer force of will. Perhaps it’s that she’s an alpha, too. Perhaps it’s just the charisma and wide smile. The fact that she has a countenance that takes no shit from anyone, that makes demands of a person whether they’ve got any give or not. But whatever the case, they’d realize their connection through Tommy, and she kept Joel updated on his brother whom he’d not spoken with in many years. 

Watching the two women stand together and share that easy thanks that Joel so urgently owes, and yet which he cannot voice, he feels, suddenly, so angry. So awkward. So humiliatingly inexperienced. So unable to grapple with the pain of human contact, the fascination of it, the humiliating necessity. 

That decade old anchor weighing him in place and the guilt of even thinking of it as such. 

I feel decrepitly alone and odd, he thinks. And how strange, no? He was a normal man. He has a normal job. He lives in a normal house. Unexceptional in every sense. Everything in his life had been ordinary up until that one great tragedy. And then, as if none of the before had ever existed, it was as if everything afterwards was one great landslide of wrongness. The filth of it slinging mud all over his life so that nothing had ever been right after her. 

So that now he cannot even approach this girl whose name he needs to know, and Maria, to whom he owes the last surviving connection to his brother. 

As Maria turns to go, she gives him an encouraging nod, sending him into an agony of shyness. She’d sensed him hovering. 

The girl remains at the dessert table, perusing the pastries. He can see her fingertips dancing over the golden, sugared confections, before she settles on a plain, glazed donut. He watches the bend of her elbow, bringing it to her mouth and thirty seconds later, the empty hand reaching for a napkin. He can’t help the huff of laughter it draws from him. 

Watching the unknown creature with her back turned, he peers down the length of himself. Wood stain marred t-shirt, old work jeans and scuffed boots, he’d come straight from the shop. Looking back at her, she seems perfectly packaged and pristine. The two of them, different as chalk and cheese. He tells himself he shouldn’t do it, turn around and go, leave her alone, as he steps up beside her at the table. 

Immediately, there’s the heat of her skin, the smell of her shampoo, and he realizes, and it’s silly because it should’ve been obvious from the get go, she’s an omega. The epiphany, not that she is one, but that he’d been too stupid and oblivious to notice, leaves him feeling vulnerable and angry. 

Any sort of hello that’d been coming alive on his tongue immediately dies. And he’s about to make a run for it once again when she speaks up from beside him, “Would you like a donut?” Her small fingers are dancing over the pastries, searching once again. “I haven’t had one yet,” she lies, “I can’t decide which looks best.” 

The dancing hand pauses over a golden brown puff pastry, seemingly coming to a decision, when she turns to look up at him. The scent of her isn’t just shampoo, not just the blockers he’d shockingly picked up on before, sharp, burning his nose, it’s her skin now, too. The now dry sweat from hustling under her coat to make it to her first meeting on time salted along her limbs. Hot, sweet almonds. The shocking vermillion of the morning’s split maple comes to mind. He can smell her.

“A puff pastry?” She presses, quizzical crook to her brow at his silence and glower. “I think you really need something sweet. It’ll make you feel better.”

He wants to agree, to say he also thinks he needs something sweet. All he can manage is a short grunt because she smells…indescribable. Honeyed musk, something heady, like she herself had just got done baking, straight out of the oven and full of sugar into his waiting mouth. 

That earlier anger, it kicks up a notch. Why isn’t he fucking saying anything? 

She shrugs, as she lifts the puff pastry to her mouth he finally manages sound. 

“You stink.”

He doesn’t know when he became such a liar.

A pause, mouth open, straight, white teeth ready to bite into the fluffy sweet bread. He can see her small, pink tongue, and it makes him go a little woozy.

He might be losing his mind. 

She’s got elegant eyebrows that shoot straight up her smooth forehead. The look of her skin is glorious. “Excuse me?”

Now, there seem to be too many words spilling out of his mouth. “You need better meds or somethin’. Need to sort your shit out. Can’t go gallivanting about the world smellin’ like that.” Oh god, shut up. 

“Excuse me!” She takes a huge bite of the pastry. “I do not gallivant,” she shoots back, mouth full of sugar and Joel goes hot everywhere. “What is wrong with you?” she demands, the pursing of a prim little mouth as she chews, eyeing him maliciously. 

He hasn’t the damndest clue. 

She is not wary of him in the slightest, which in turn tells him he needs to be wary of her.

Another large bite, inexplicably she extends her free hand towards him—potentially going into shock and entirely out of his depth when he takes it, the vulnerability of tendon and muscle soft beneath his strength—offering him a firm shake. She gives him her name. 

In that moment, she has a look about her that tells him she’ll bite back if he isn’t careful, even if she hurts herself in the process. 

And now he knows you. 

-

“We might as well acquaint ourselves if you’re going to insult me. Don’t you think?” Peering up at him, he’s tall, well over six feet, and broad shouldered. Older, distinguished, but in a rough way, hewn oak, gray. “Are you typically this rude? Or is this a special occasion?”

Incredibly handsome. 

“I’m being serious.”

“I do not stink. No one has ever said that to me, and my blockers are quality. It must be a you problem.” The puff pastry really is very good. And this man really is very handsome. Coming here today was a good idea. 

One of the girls from the theater had suggested it, handing you a pamphlet with Looking for the Cure for Loneliness? emblazoned across the top, and even though she’d done it kindly, any other person would’ve taken the implication as an insult. Hey girl! No offense, but we all in the company think you’re super weird and have you heard about this support group for losers? Kind of like Omegas Anonymous!

Those hadn’t been her exact words, and you hadn’t taken offense. After the initial agony of embarrassment, you’d warmed to the idea. You’d heard of groups like these before. Congregations of demi humans where one could come to find community or connection. Be it socializing or support for people struggling with their designations and all that they implied, they served their purpose. And anyways, you weren’t in a position to be nitpicky. 

It’s true, you’re alone. 

So alone, in fact, that even the people around you could tell. Strangers, coworkers, your roommate and her girlfriend. Like some noxious cloud of loneliness following you around virtue signaling the desperate need for love and companionship and understanding you’re so in need of. 

You increasingly saw yourself as a dancer on her toes, trembling delicately all over, vying desperately to survive to the end of the song. A monster with too many heads. A Cerberus of the richest caliber. 

Two or three would’ve been acceptable—heads—but you'd long surpassed that and moved on to something unrecognizable and unpleasant. Desperately in need of a solution. 

“Maybe you’re the one that stinks. Maybe it’s your upper lip.” And voila, the monster makes her debut. 

“My—” The rude alpha, obvious, that one, lets out a choked sound, a deeper wash of color immediately flooding his cheeks. You dip your head sideways, appraising him as you polish off your second pastry. He has pretty bone structure, masculine, and after he’s done choking and spluttering, he can’t help but laugh a little bit. You see it. 

Beneath a mouth that looks forbidding, perhaps even a little cruel, you can sense that he is not an unkind man. 

Yet you’re not so green that you can’t recognize the gnawing hunger of loneliness in others. There’s always a reason people find themselves in places like these. His face, edged with the weariness of age, makes this obvious. He has good reason for subjecting himself to this. 

Reaching for the lovely eclair you’d been deciding between earlier, you take a large bite of it. Almond cream and a thick layer of icing on top, humming happily as you chew while he stares at you like the three headed dog. 

You hold the dessert out towards him, offering. Palm up, he shakes his head no, slightly disgusted look on his face. 

“So. You come here often?”

He blinks. “Really?” Patronizing look on his face now. 

“Why not? I am actually interested to know if this is worth my time.”

He rolls his eyes. Oh, he’s fun. “Yes, I come here often. Every Friday, for the past two months just about.”

“And you like it?”

“Is this the sort of place one likes?”

“Oh, come on. You never know what you might find.” He watches your mouth as you finish the eclair, swallowing hard. “Anyways, I think the world is kind of over out there. Don’t you? Might as well make the best of it in here.” 

Thumb pressed against the edge of the table, he looks down, suddenly awash with shyness once again. A shy alpha, who’d of thought. 

“What did you used to do?” He asks, motioning at the crowded room full of chatting alphas and omegas. You wonder how many of them will go home together for a fuck after this. 

“When?” You ask, sure he means in lieu of this group, if you’d ever had another form of demi human community. 

“Before this.”

“Before this? Nothing.” Smiling at him, certain he isn’t picking up on your teasing. 

“Nothing?”

“Nope. I’ve always been here.”

“But— Don’t you…I thought...” He’s cute, shaking his head like you’re just too confusing to sustain. “You sing, right?” He pivots. 

“Sing? Me? Whatever made you think such a thing?” The sly look on your face goes completely over his head and slides to the rest of the sweets. If he wasn’t watching, you’d have another. 

“You said. You said you’re in the opera,” he gruffs back, looking visibly aggravated now. 

Such fun. 

“I’m a supernumerary,” you concede as you turn, making your way to an old relic of a pew along the far wall, tragically abandoning the desserts. 

He follows as you go, sitting a respectful distance beside you. 

“I don’t know what that is.”

“We’re the actors that fill the stage at the opera.”

“No singing?”

You shake your head, flirting with him. “I’m a wench, I’m a courtesan,” You bat your lashes, fingertips pressed coquettishly beneath your chin, “Part of a harem. I’m every woman you’ve never known. It depends on the opera.”

“I’ve never heard of that before.”

“I started as a stagehand when I first got to Boston. Worked my way up.”

“How’s it work? Lines or somethin’?”

“No lines. No anything. I’m a background actor—an extra, basically. If anything, I’m given some simple choreography direction, laugh, sigh, show fear, horror, shock. Whatever. I’m playing pretend without actually having to do anything.”

“No working for it.”

Your smile melts to blandness. So he’d been listening, then. 

“Did you want to sing?”

“No. I wanted to be a supernumerary.”

“Strange. I’ve never heard of that,” he repeats.

“You did say, yes.” Now, the smile turns auspicious. Everyone’s here for something. “What do you do?” Perhaps this is it for him. 

You eye the rest of the congregation, at the far exit, there’s a large alpha helping an omega into his coat. 

“Got a shop, furniture, woodworking and such.”

“You make things?” He nods. “Ah, a man of creation.” 

Sitting back to take him in, he’s got the beginning insinuations of silver speckling the dark hair at his temples, a well groomed beard, and large, intimidating hands. 

His small huff of laughter is bashful, tinged with something disappointed. “No, nothin’ that grand.” And he’s got an accent heavy at the ends of his words, not Bostonian. Southern.

“But you know, I wanted to say…”

“Yes?” You press when he loses his courage, leaning towards him, inhaling deeply. 

“Well, that I know what you meant earlier. Sometimes I can be the angry house.”

You blink once. Sit back. “I see.” 

“It’s hard work. I have to try every day at it.” 

Hard work being the house, or not? Two opposite sides of the same coin. 

“How do you stop yourself?” You cast a line, fishing for his character.

“Don’t know. Keep myself cold, I think.”

“That’s no way to be.”

“No. It’s not.” He sounds amused. You want to bite him.

Everyone’s here for a reason. 

“Ah, well. Perhaps that’s what’s brought you here then,” you say, twisting the toe of your sneaker against a scuff on the old hardwood, leaning forward on your palms wrapped around the edge of the pew. 

“Maybe,” he says, but a sort of pained, exasperated sound follows it. Your hung head turns to peer at the handsome face, and he’s already looking at you. 

There’s something animal afoot. Perhaps in terms of designation, sure, of course, like the rest of the alphas and omegas here. Your designations weigh heavily in the air. But also intrinsic to your two personalities. You feel you know him. That the two of you might have the same sorts of problems, desires. And as you stare at him, you think you may be equally measuring each other’s character, finding that similarity in one another. 

His eyes move quickly between yours, over your face, and you can tell that prolonged eye contact isn’t his norm.

He has the most surprising set of bright hazel eyes like river stones. 

Suddenly, you feel desperate to pull out a flicker of sexuality in the man, hear it in his voice. Sure, that with him, the experience would be entirely different, exhilarating. Perhaps a challenge. He seems to be more quiet and more patient than any other man you’d ever come across, but also more stern—taking in that soft mouth held so firmly. Far more remote too, by the far away look in his gaze. You want to see how he could be moved and what the sight of it would look like. 

“Maybe not,” he finally continues. “I’m looking for something, I think.” 

“Something like what?”

“Someone like me.”

“An alpha?”

“No,” he looks away, cringing. The word out loud seems a shock to him. “Did you listen to the woman at the start—missing the bad thing? I struggle…with that. Holding on, not letting go even when I know I should.”

You’re at an age now which sometimes makes it hard to realize or accept that what you’re living is your life. That it’s been time to grow up. That you have to remember to move forward when it’s your turn in line. 

Which is to say, that you understand him—the difficulties of knowing when to hold on and when to give up.

“Sometimes you hurt yourself because you don’t have anything else to do. Sometimes, because the alternative is much worse.”

“Holding on ‘cause there’s nothing else to do?”

“Sure. Or you’re used to it.” You’ll be gentle with him, you decide. He’s in need of gentle handling despite the stern face; not a puzzle so arbitrarily solved. And those eyes are still so bright, he doesn’t seem like he needs any more hardship.

“Don’t know why I’m tellin’ you this,” he says, accent heavy. 

“Well you did come here for a reason. Didn’t you?” Discreetly, you slide closer to his side, but he doesn’t notice. Apparently lost in the realization that perhaps this was what he’d come here for, to talk to someone, to have someone listen and relate. You’re almost positive he’s never gotten up to share with the group before in all his time coming to the meetings; doesn’t look like the type.

“I came here because I’m going to take better care of myself,” you tell him. “I’m going to try harder.”

“Harder at what?” He blinks as if attempting to come out of a dream.

“Everything. I don’t want to end up like my parents; drunk, angry, alone. I’m scared of it. I’ve avoided at least two of them.”

“I’m afraid of getting older,” the dream moves in his eyes. “That I’ll forget,” he says, but you don’t ask what.

All of a sudden, he seems very real. The swells of grief and loneliness moving through him so similarly, so close to the surface. 

Springing up, you turn to face him and he follows to stand too. You can hear the crack of his knees unfolding, and when he lifts his left palm to stifle a gruff cough, the band of gold around his finger is paralyzing. 

All of a sudden, he’d seemed like what you’d been looking for here too. There’s laughter coming from the church rafters. 

“You’re a widower?” He wants to forget, he’d said he wants to let go. 

Hadn’t he?

But instead, “What? No.” You stare pointedly at the ring, and he looks down at it also. “No,” he repeats. 

“So’re you looking for a fuck, or what?” You try and hold back the bite it comes with, but you can’t.

“No. No. That’s not what I’m looking for.” 

You don’t understand, impaired by your youth, you forget you’d chosen to be gentle with him. “Maybe it’s what you need,” you tell him, turning towards the exit before you can watch him cringe.

He follows at your heels, grabbing his coat from the hook by the doors before he’s stepping out after you into the fall blister. It’s cold and wet and glorious out. 

“Don’t you have a coat?” He demands.

“Nope.” You start walking towards Arlington Street and the park. 

“Did you walk here? It’s freezing out.”

“I did,” you turn back towards him, still moving, and he starts to follow. 

“From where?”

“Downtown.”

“Where?” He scowls at your uncooperation, the married man. Alpha. The truth was that he’d smelt strange to you too. Like no one ever had before. As glorious and shocking as the cold. Like if snow had a scent. Disappointment churns in your gut alongside the excitement at the sight of him stalking after you. 

“I don’t think you know it.” Your backward walk is interrupted as a hurrying stranger bumps into you, sending you staggering. Watch it, the Boston snark spits. The alpha turns to scowl, heavy boot forward like he’s half a mind to follow after the person you’ve just inadvertently assaulted. 

And it occurs to you, “You didn’t tell me your name.” How silly of you. You’d been so distracted you’d forgotten to ask, and what if you never see him again after this? What if you can’t muster the courage to come back again next week? What if he can’t?

“It’s Joel.” 

You think it sounds right. 

“I might—know it.” Where you’re headed to. You smile at the dog with a bone. The disappointment pulses. “Is it far?” He presses. You shrug, looking over your shoulder. You’re going to lose yourself in the garden for a few hours, forget about him. “Why don’t you drive?”

“I like to walk,” you tell him, turning back. 

He looks at you like he doesn’t like the things you say much less the way you say them much less the way you’re grinning at him. Perhaps he can see the disappointment and is disturbed by the sight of it, but the possibility seems too altruistic. 

“You should try it sometime, Joel. You might like it too.”

His huge body seems to be shivering in the cold. 

“I think…” The look on his face has turned suspicious now. He takes a step towards you. “You’re very strange. And you’re very young. I don’t think we should be friends.”

Your heart gives a demanding thump. “We’re not going to be friends.” When you’d first spotted him in the crowd, the strangest feeling had come over you. A tug behind your belly button, a scalding heat at the back of your neck, at your wrists. Perhaps it’s merely imagination, the look of disappointment you think you see on his face right before you turn away from him to continue on walking. “And I’m not that young anymore.”

You’d known today was going to be a good day. Extra cinnamon in your latte, a late start to your morning, warm in bed, no rain in the sky despite the cloud cover. And your director, late for rehearsals after some freak accident had befallen the roof of his house.

“That’s what all young people say.”

Part 2;

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[macfrogrecs]

—all night

drunk!joel who watches you grind yourself down on his thigh with half lidded eyes and a devilish smirk. watches every lift and slide of your hips as you drag your soaking wet pussy across his jeans. groans at the trail you leave from the middle of his thigh to the edge of his knee.

“good girl,” he mutters as your hands grip his shoulders, trembling against his body with every rough grind against his thigh. he can’t stop himself from undoing the front of his jeans, shifting his underwear down just enough, and pulling his eagerly awaiting cock out. where he then slowly jerks off in time to your thrusts. groans when his fingers stumble over his leaking head.

the sight makes your throat tight. makes your hips move faster and faster as you quickly build up your release. your throbbing pussy drags along his jeans faster now as your core grows hungrier for him. for watching this gruff man jerk himself off to the sight of you riding his thigh made your head spin. drunk and dizzy and desperate for more.

so when you finally reach that point of no return, your orgasm spilling out, soaking and staining his leg with every grind of your messy pussy; you cry into the hot air between you two. his name slips from your lips in a high pitched whine as you cum against his jeans, softly sobbing from the orgasm wrecking your body.

joel huffs a deep groan at the sight. can feel and see your mess clearly even in the dim light. his groans turns into a partial chuckle, his hand slowly still jerking himself off as he watches you with hungry eyes. “don’t worry baby…we got all night.” he promises as he enjoys the view.

and you know he will keep that promise as this is just the start to the very, very long night you will share with him.

[macfrogrecs]

this was divine, julie 🧡 kicking my feet over tender, protective joel one minute, and losing my goddamn mind over sexy, dom joel the next. i can’t wait to inhale this series.

smother - one shot: ambrosia

dark!joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | kofi

summary: halloween only comes around once a year, but for you it's the first time ever celebrating. joel is kind enough shows you a few traditions with his own twist added on. 7.3k words. warnings: 18+ MDNI! big juicy age gap (reader is 19, joel is 55), ddlg relationship, daddy dom!joel, sub!reader, i'm so serious they're really leaning into the ddlg in this one so if you don't like that be warned, smut (cockwarming, piv), fluff, smother joel being soft and sweet needs its own warning, v minor depiction of blood, reader is picked up/lap sitting, reader wears a collar and leash. a/n: this can be read outside of the smother canon if you haven't caught up in the story yet or at all really, or if maybe you just want a smutty autumnal read! it's some silly fun on how i imagine halloween might go for these two. a little late on the holiday is better than never! 😋

All it took was one comment from Joel, talking about a kid running around Jackson dressed up as a ghost, a sheet thrown over his head with eye holes cut out of it.

Huh, haven’t thought about Halloween in a long time. 

Said with that nostalgic, sad air that Joel tends to carry as he mumbles the words out, scratching at his beard. It’s not even necessarily a comment to you, but more to himself, falling into the past. 

“What’s Halloween?” you ask him anyway, no stranger to having Joel have to explain things to you. It turns out, there was a lot you’d missed out on growing up in such a sheltered place. Even down to simple phrases that were common use, and as you were learning now, holidays. 

When he looks to you, you can see that cloud of the past around him lift slightly, and he lights up. “You don’t know Halloween?” he asks, and you shake your head, innocent doe-like eyes begging him for more. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Y’all didn’t celebrate a whole hell of a lot where you’re from.”

He goes on to explain it - the traditions of children all over the country every autumn. Pumpkin and apple picking, making or buying costumes of anything under the sun to wear as they gathered candy from their neighbors. You’d only had chocolate twice in your life, and yet from what Joel’s told you, candy was abundant back in his time. It all sounded a little strange, especially the part where he told you that people even carved scenes and figures into their pumpkins to display outside their homes. It was a time for all things spooky - even the undead, which made you shudder at the irony - but always looked at with an eye of scrutiny, as if it was never realistic. Scary things like the world you were living in had been fun back then. Entertainment. 

It was October, and Joel tells you that this was the time of year for it. The chill in the air is perfectly pleasant as you bask in the coziness of the overcast day while you amble along listening to Joel speak, one arm threaded through his. The trip here had greeted you both with the most stunning array of hues on the leaves, crunching underneath your boots and Willow’s hooves most of the way. Autumn always felt special to you, but experiencing it with Joel had you wondering if every season could be your new favorite as long as he was by your side.

You wrinkle your brow, trying to imagine a world where all of what he said was possible. You start to feel that familiar pull inside of you, one that comes whenever you hear about the traditions of the old world that became less important as soon as people were focused on only one thing: survival. It’s an aching that you know can never be satisfied, a strange melancholy that makes your chest feel heavier and your stomach drop, wishing for these things you can’t have.

“Y’know,” Joel drawls, seeing your now contemplative, downtrodden expression. “They might have pumpkins growing here in Jackson. Seems like something they’d have thought of.”

You breathe in sharply in surprise, whipping your head to look at him. “Y-you think so?”

“Sure, baby. You can eat all different parts of ‘em too, not just for decor, so it seems practical for a place like this. They grow real nice this time of year.”

For once, that was something that you knew already. In your community growing up, all kinds of squash had been part of your diet, pumpkins included. It was just that nobody had ever thought to allow any kind of whimsy surrounding them this time of year.

You grin. “Yeah, they do. Daddy, can we get some, then? Please?” Your voice, rapidly climbing with hopefulness, eyes widening, and lips pouting, makes Joel chuckle lightheartedly.

“Let’s see what we can do, sweetheart.” 

You’re perched on top of the kitchen counter, watching Joel setting up at the table a few feet away. The room is aglow with flickering hues of orange, warm and cozy from the old wood burning fireplace blazing in the living room. You’d needed it to fight off the chill that seemed to follow the two of you home from Jackson. 

You survey the scrounged up old newspapers, discolored with age, laid out underneath your two decently sized pumpkins. Joel comes back across the room after putting on some country record you can’t ever remember the name to. It’s nice with a folksy sound, and you suppose it is much better than the music you grew up listening to. In fact, you’re finding yourself starting to like his old country music, the lyrics slipping out of your mouth unintentionally when he plays them. Joel grabs one of the knives he’d laid out, and you gasp and then giggle when he drives it into the top of one of the pumpkins, cutting a hole around the stem.

“Should I help, daddy?” you say softly above the music drifting over your way.

Joel’s head shakes, his longer hair, curling around his ears, flops forward as he stares down at his project. “No, baby, you just sit there and look pretty while I take care of the dirty work.”

You smile, always happy to do his bidding, be the motivating little charm that hangs by his side. You hop off the counter and instead seat yourself at the kitchen table, wanting a closer view. The earthy smell of the insides of the pumpkins being pulled out hits your nose and you look closer at the mess of stringy, seed filled guts that Joel is plopping out onto the newspaper. You make a grossed out face, sticking your tongue out at him. 

Joel laughs when you pinch some of it between your fingers, scowling at the sliminess. “Told ya you wouldn’t want to do the dirty work,” he playfully chastises you. “We’ll save the seeds an’ all that, try to make ourselves a snack. You roast ‘em before?”

You nod. “Yes, daddy.”

“Maybe by next year, we can grow some pumpkins of our own, too. An’ I’ve got plans with the rest of it, if I can make it work,” he says, giving you a secretive smile that makes your heart leap. You love it when Joel is in a mood like this. When he’s taking care of you and being so sweet, anything feels possible.

Joel sets aside the mess to sort through later after scraping out as much as he can, plopping your now hollowed out pumpkin in front of you and setting his own at his seat across the table.

“So you’ll create a little outline for yourself ‘fore we cut them, you got it? We don’t have much that’ll do for that, but I figured maybe these pencils would work,” he says, coming up behind you and handing you one, planting a gentle kiss on top of your head before moving to his own chair.

You look up from your pumpkin, your pencil held in a careful hover next to the skin of it. You watch Joel, looking down underneath his dark, bushy brows at his own pumpkin, already concentrating on sketching it out. 

“What’s yours gonna be?” you ask him, watching with rapt fascination at how quickly he’s already seeming to find his stride. 

“Classic Jack-O-Lantern look -“

“Who?”

Joel laughs heartily, looking up at you now, eyes sparkling as much as his are capable of. “It’s - uh - it’s what we’d call ‘em back in the day. Jack-O-Lanterns. Hell, I don’t even know why actually, was just somethin’ we said. It’s like… a goofy face carved into the pumpkin. Wanted you to see what a lot of ‘em looked like on people’s porches back then,” he says, and you listen with your ears perked up, hanging onto each bit of his explanation of life from a different time. 

You give him a soft, appreciative smile for the gesture, realizing that he’d given it some thought. Without ever having to express it, he’s seen your fascination with all things about the ways of the world twenty plus years ago. To give you even a sliver of that experience makes you feel so grateful your heart could burst.

“And - and we’ll light these up after? Isn’t that what you said before?” Joel nods in response, going back to his sketching, prompting you to start on yours.

“An’ what’s yours gonna be, sugar? You got your idea?” he asks.

You smile, nodding coyly as you swipe the pencil across the waxy surface again, trying to make an imprint. “A cat,” you tell him.

His stern glare only serves to amuse you more. The more comfortable your life with Joel got, the more fun it was to poke at his boundaries a little bit. “This ain’t gonna convince me, you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, daddy,” you say sweetly - too sweetly - not bothering to hide your real motivation here. You fold your legs underneath you, sitting cross legged on the chair and give him a saccharine smile as you play with the ribbon in your hair. “I just like kitties.”

Joel huffs, rolling his eyes. Just like the many times before today, when the topic had come up, he’s less than impressed. “Yeah, been hearin’ how much you like ‘em for weeks now.”

He was of course referring to the stray that had somehow miraculously found your little cabin in the middle of the woods. One morning you had both gone outside for a walk and spotted her sunning herself on the front porch. A scrappy looking but gentle little gray thing, clearly too skinny and too alone, but with a big heart that seemed oddly unafraid of the two of you. She had reminded you of, well, you, when you’d first come to the cabin. Hungry, in need of a home, in need of love. 

You’d instantly dubbed her Mabel after one of the characters in your favorite romance book, while Joel just referred to her as “the cat” or “the stray”, staunchly refusing to get too involved. When you pressed him on why you couldn’t bring her inside, he complained that Mabel was just another mouth to feed, yet he hadn’t stopped you from putting out little snacks for her to sate her appetite. She’d started even eating right out of your hand, making you squeal in delight as Joel rolled his eyes, trying to hide his own smile at your joy.

As much as Joel pretended not to care about Mabel, you’d seen him once through the window in the upstairs bathroom after your bath, when he’d been on his way back from taking care of Willow in the stable. Mabel seemed to be trotting alongside Joel and he crouched down - bad knees and all - to pet her. You watched with gratification as Mabel pushed her head into Joel’s touch and he scratched behind her ears before he kept moving. You could have sworn you’d even seen Joel’s lips moving from afar, like he was saying something sweet to her. You decided not to mention the tender moment, keeping it as all the ammunition you needed to get him to move things in your favor.

“Daddy, I just don’t understand why we can’t have Mabel inside,” you whine as you draw out the crest of a moon onto your pumpkin. 

“We’ve been over this -”

“It’s gonna be cold soon, and she’s out there all alone. She found us! And she likes us. A-and I know you like her, too…”

Joel quirks a brow at the same time as his head cocks, studying you, wondering what you know. “She’s… she’s a good cat,” he says, placating you. “But not useful to us, like I’ve said. Just a mouth to feed.”

“What about just for the winter? So she doesn’t freeze out there?” you try to bargain, knowing it’s relatively useless. There isn’t a chance that Mabel would only stay for the winter, dutifully packing her bags and leaving the second that spring arrived.

Joel shoots you a cold, irritated glance, picking up the small paring knife from the table and ignoring your already used argument. “Careful with your knife, honey, when you start to carve it. Just let me know if you need help.”

You chew at the inside of your lip, picking up your knife with slight disdain and poking it into the pumpkin, trying to trace the lines you’d sketched out. But you’re distracted, irritated, that Joel is choosing not to listen to what you think are perfectly rational arguments to his unwavering disapproval towards Mabel.

Joel slices through the flesh of his pumpkin, tossing pieces of it onto the table as tension fills the air. You pull your lip between your teeth, trying to focus on your carving, but your mind races, sees a chance for you to persuade Joel here.

“Daddy… don’t you think -”

“Enough, blossom-” he barks.

“She needs a home?”

He sighs, his shoulders sagging as he rests his carving knife on the table, locking his eyes with your desperate ones. “I know this is hard to hear baby, but it’s not up for debate anymore. I don’t think we need to be usin’ our winter rations on a cat, right?” 

“I saw you pet her -”

“Sure, it ain’t that I don’t like her, or cats in general. Had one growin’ up. But it’s just not… practical.” There he goes again, ever the practical one in this house. That’s the price you pay for this ability to keep your naivete, your simple lifestyle of being doted on and letting Joel take care of everything for you. You love it, love that it feels like it chips away at all the wasted years you’d spent being treated as anything other than a vessel to spit out prayers and righteousness, to be trained up and married off to a godly man. All you’d wanted was for someone to cut you a break and simply care for you like the child you were. Here, you’d found exactly that. Yet at times like this it frustrates you that you know the house rules dictate Joel will always get the final say, no matter how much you appreciate his efforts.

“Y-you’re sure, sir?” you squeak out, praying the more formal denomination aimed his way might soften his heart just enough.

“M’sure. Not up for debate anymore, princess, I’m sorry,” he replies sternly, eyeing you for a lingering moment before he seems satisfied enough to start carving again.

You feel yourself deflate, but try to square your shoulders, nodding as you swallow down the lump in your throat. You understand, you know it’s fair to make sure that the two of you can last the winter up here with more limited trips out to stock up when the snow gets bad and there’s no garden to fuel those in between times. But that still immature and frivolous part of you has half a mind to stomp your feet and cry out at how unfair all of this is. That it’s just a cat, what harm could she really do? You feel your lip tremble but bite it back, putting your knife to the pumpkin again. You carve along the body of the cat you’d sketched out with slightly shaky hands, another tense silence falling between you and Joel.

You’re too preoccupied with your own thoughts, fighting the urge not to pout, when your hand slips, misreading the amount of pressure needed to go around a curve in your tracing. You feel it overshoot, the blade coming out of the pumpkin and into your finger before it clatters to the table. You’re yelping before you can help it and instinctively tearing your hand towards your body, gripping onto the now throbbing finger. Joel is on you in a second, worried brows turned down along with his eyes. 

“What happened?” he asks in a rushed voice as he grabs your wrist, a silent ask to inspect the hand. The authoritarian from moments ago has melted away, your protector coming out of the woodwork now.

“I-I dunno.” You clutch the finger tight, scared to see the damage.

“Come on, honey, let daddy see it,” he coos softly, helping you unfurl your fingers one by one until you reach the wounded one tucked inside. He breathes out a sound seeming like a relieved laugh when he reaches the injured one only to find a relatively minute scratch oozing out a bit of blood. “See? Barely anythin’ there. C’mon, let’s wash it up.”

You sniffle, peering down at it with him and feel a sense of ease wash over you. He leads you to the kitchen sink, helping you rinse your finger, his body pressed tightly to yours. His lips are perpetually on your hair, kissing your head in soothing little beats. 

“Stay right here,” he whispers against your head, disappearing to rummage around in the powder room across the way, returning with a strip of gauze. “Best we got,” he tells you, patching up the small cut with unusually gentle hands. Every movement is soft and doting, sending a flutter through your stomach before he brings the wrapped finger up to his mouth, kissing it. 

“Better?” he asks, his eyes swimming with something compassionate.

“Yes, daddy. Thank you,” you squeak out shyly, cheeks warm. 

Joel’s arms come around you, swaying with you from behind as his chest presses against your back. He hums along with the music, moving to the beat of the song that’s still lazing through the air in the background. It’s almost as if he’s… dancing with you. For all the times he’s put on a record since he found any worth a damn (in his words), you’d been the one swaying, swinging your hips, spinning around the living room while you couldn’t get Joel to do much more than tap his foot to the beat. Your heart fills with warmth, slowly melting away the icy irritation you feel towards him right now.

“You’ve got to be careful, okay? Were you too busy poutin’ to be careful?” he asks softly against your hair, slowing his movements down.

“Kind of,” you admit, twisting your lips to the side. “Just ‘cause I want it so, so bad, daddy. It wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

He contemplates you for a moment, locking his hands with yours across your chest. His lips graze near your ear before he says quietly, “More than you want to follow daddy’s rules?”

You squirm, trying to turn your head to face him. “No, of course not!” you blurt out obediently, the idea of that being a reality so far out of the realm of possibility for you. 

Joel clicks his tongue. “That so? ‘Cause it felt like you were deliberately tryin’ to get me riled up there, not follow my rules. Hm?”

“N-no, I just - daddy I just wanted to -”

“I think what you wanted…” Joel says, languidly drawing his words out, “Was to push my buttons when I’d already said no. Get daddy a little riled up so I’d give in to what little blossom wants.” He follows with a nuzzle of your neck that both tickles and sends a shiver down your spine as his hot breath touches your sensitive skin. You inhale shakily, fighting a needy little noise as he nips at the skin. “Does that sound right?”

“Daddy…” you whimper at him, feeling your bottom lip tremble the tiniest bit. You don’t like what he’s insinuating, even if parts of it are true. You had wanted to press him, to really understand why he was being so stubborn about Mabel, but it hadn’t been out of disrespect. “I didn’t mean to -”

“I know, sweetheart,” Joel says. “Maybe you just needed a little attention from me.”

Your body flashes hot with the overload of sensations. His strong arms against your pulsing chest, fingers holding tightly to yours. The absolute wall of him pressing into your back, keenly aware of how badly you want him to be pressed even closer, more close than is humanly possible, you think.

“You stayin’ mad at your old man for this, hm? Or… can we have a little fun while we finish carving our pumpkins?” Joel asks, sultry and low.

“N-no, we can…”

“Good,” he whispers. “I’ll help you this time so y’don’t hurt yourself again.”

He backs up with you still in his arms, the awkwardness of your steps together making you laugh, easing even more of the tension. You can hardly ever stay irritated with Joel for long, knowing his care for you runs so deep that while sometimes you can’t understand his decisions, he’s only looking out for you. 

Joel’s arms release you just as he goes to sit back in your chair, pulling it to the table and patting his leg. The loss of him immediately sends a devastating cold through you, and you frown. “Right here, baby.” His thick thighs are spread wide, leaving room for you to nestle your ass right between them, pressed in a very precarious spot. One arm slips around your middle, anchoring you down.

Your entire body buzzes as you feel the muscles of Joel’s arm flex around you, pulling you tighter before it slides down towards your waist, bearing you down harder into his lap. The now hefty, thick bulge of him presses into you, making a needy sound slip past your lips.

“Now ain’t that cute,” he says, admiring the shape you’d traced out on your pumpkin - a crescent moon with a cat perched inside of it, tail hanging off the side. It’s rudimentary at best, not exactly as you’d envisioned in your head, but Joel’s compliment rumbled right in your ear sends your cheeks blazing.

“T-thanks,” you mutter as Joel’s hands are quickly working up the hem of your already short dress while your mind tries to catch up, thighs and panties in full view in a split second before he’s shimmying them down your legs. 

“You’re bein’ daddy’s good girl now, aren’t you? Got you in my lap and suddenly you’re quiet as a mouse, huh?” he asks, his knuckles grazing all the way up the plush skin of your thighs until they reach between them, barely touching but sending a little jolt of pleasure as he parts your lips, finding you already starting to get wet. 

“Oh, you’re always so ready, baby,” Joel says, dripping with sweet condescension. “How do you do it for daddy, huh? How’d I get so lucky?”

“D-dunno, daddy…” you whimper, the name falling so sultry off your lips still music to his ears all these months later. Joel’s watches you writhe with eyes glossing over before catching your neck in a kiss, your head lolling back when stubble scrapes against skin, shooting goosebumps across your body in record speed. Whimpering your special name for him once again sends Joel into a heat, rutting his hips into yours.

The next moment is a blur, the quick jangle of Joel’s belt, the unzipping sound that triggers a response in you like a damn Pavlovian dog, sending you dripping, much to your embarrassment. It’s too easy, it’s always too easy. His thick, warm cock presses against the bare skin at your back and you lose control of your body completely, Joel’s hands now your guide as he places them on either side of your hips, lifting them up.

“Niiice ‘n easy now,” he drawls on the way down, pushing into you with his grip still tight, leaving you completely at his mercy. “That’s it…”

You grit your teeth as a moan slips through, welcoming the all consuming intrusion on your body. Every single thick inch of him, until you’re seated down against his lap again, spread wide and dumbstruck even after all this time that he fits. 

“Fuck,” Joel pushes through his teeth, his breathing heavy against your neck, one hand holding your head on the other side, possessively pressing it to his lips. “That’s my girl. Perfect.”

All you can do is whimper out “daddy” once again and wriggle, the fullness of him taking over every other thought. Your hips want to rock, desperate for the friction, but his arm drapes across your body again, holding you in place. You whine, the pressure nearly too much inside of you, each thick inch pressing on your sensitive walls. Needy, desperate panting comes out as you struggle slightly against his hold, not understanding why he hasn’t begun to thrust in and out of you in earnest like he usually does. By now, you’d typically be bent over the table, seeing stars from the way he punched deep inside of you, hitting all of those perfect, pleasurable spots.

“Shh, shh… Still now. Still, baby,” Joel coos soothingly, squeezing his arm tighter around you. 

“Wh - what’re you doing?” you whine, your voice sounding far away, your mind quickly devolving into a swimming mess. He’s not moving at all, and it’s driving you absolutely mad, making you more needy than you’ve ever felt. Every inch of you pulses around every inch of where he fills you up, hot and wet and in need of that sweet, delicious friction. You didn’t know the difference in feeling could be this staggering or that Joel could ever have this much self control to keep himself seated inside of you, perfectly still. 

“Focus, focus,” he hisses in your ear before his lips press against the shell of it, giving it a gentle kiss. “We’re gonna finish your pretty little carving together. Jus’ needed to keep a real close eye on my blossom this time. Can y’do that?”

You nod, breathing shakily and picking up the knife from the table, trying to ignore the distraction of his pulsing inside of you, this new sense of fullness beyond anything you’d ever have imagined. His free hand slips down your arm in a languid movement before it meets your own, resting on top as a guide for you to carve with.

“There we go…” His voice tickles your ear as he helps you work, your hands moving in concert together to slice through the flesh of the pumpkin. With a trembling hand enveloped by Joel’s, you just try to keep going, despite the utter distraction that is his cock nestled inside of you - large, throbbing, warm, making you feel insane. He knows he’s making it difficult to follow his instructions, that this is all but another game of his that he loves to play with you, testing your limits, finding your vulnerabilities. He’s found plenty of them over the months, and all of them always seem to have something to do with him and his cock.

“Very talented… My smart girl…” When he shifts slightly with his praises, sending his head nudging a spot deep inside of you, you whimper. “I know, I know. You’re doin’ so good.” Joel’s voice strains slightly, and you know he’s feeling it too - the desperation for more, the need to move. He’s always been stronger than you, though, and he will prove his stubborn point by lasting every second of this that he wants to.

“Daddy, please, I need it…” you mumble, your hips rocking slightly, trying to bounce. But the position he has you in, spread wide, one arm around your waist, leaves you helpless to all of it. You’ve nearly given up on the carving, a little layer of sweat breaking out on your forehead and neck as you fight the fire that Joel has ignited inside of you. “J-just a little… please please…”

Joel lets out an amused little hum, kissing the side of your face. “What about a pretty please for your daddy?”

“Oh, pretty please daddy,” you say more excitedly, trying to rock forward again to no avail. His arm tightens in warning, a tiny tsk coming from behind you.

“What about…” he pauses, as if he’s thinking. “A ‘daddy, you’re always right’, or ‘daddy, I shouldn’t have argued with you’?” He pushes his hips, slow and steady, lifting them off the chair just enough before bringing them back down in the most shallow, slow thrust. The sound is filthy - raw and raunchy, a drawn out squelch as you leak out around him. Joel can’t help but groan quietly, and you nearly let out a yell that turns into a strangled, pornographic whine, panting. 

“Hnnng, yes, daddy. Please, you’re always right, you are. I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have argued with you. Pretty pretty please… just help me.” 

“Oh, very good. Yes, blossom, you’re gonna be a good girl now, right? Remember who’s in charge around here, who makes the calls?”

You nod furiously when he makes that same slow, gentle movement of his hips. You flutter around him, your body screaming out as a strange sense of pleasure builds at the slow drag of him in and out. Every nerve is lit up, every other sense of yours seeming to flit away other than everything Joel. His scent, his taste - phantom on your tongue, his hot skin, the fullness of him that you could never tire of. If only… if only you could stay like this forever, a part of him. 

“O-of course, sir,” you mutter obediently, eyes rolling back, head lolled towards his. You feel his hand push on yours, slicing the knife through another bit of the pumpkin, but you can’t concentrate, you can’t care. Your eyes, unfocused, bleary, try to see what he’s doing, watching him wriggle another cut piece of the pumpkin onto the table. Then, with a widening, suddenly clear stare, you see it: your vision, come to life. It’s the cat inside the moon, and it’s beautiful. You break out into a smile, still panting, and Joel looks at it over your shoulder with you.

“Daddy’s proud of you, sweetheart. It looks real good.” He speaks softly, gripping the opposite side of your face, turning you to kiss him and you delve in, deep and passionate, taking his lips for all their worth, sucking on the bottom one before going back for more. You grind your hips down onto his lap, hoping to push him deeper, but there’s nowhere to go. Full up, aching and throbbing, your arousal coating every inch and dripping out to your intermingled bodies, Joel finally breaks.

He starts to move, shallow thrusts, just sending an inch in and out of you, and you gasp at the sudden burst of pleasure when his head nuzzles your insides perfectly on each inward roll of his hips. But it’s still not enough, not after the teasing you’d both endured, and Joel’s hand plants on your back, shoving you forward. The kitchen chair clatters behind him as he moves the both of you to your feet, swiping everything on the table forward, all while starting to wildly thrust in and out of you. You’re pressed down, ass popped out against his hips rutting into yours, laid flat onto the table. 

You scream out in sudden bliss, the change in angle sending you to new heights, pleasure unbeknownst to you before this moment. There’d never been so much anticipation for him, so much wildness building up inside of you before.

The second Joel reaches around, a steady finger strumming on your clit, you lose control, your climax crashing into you with the most world shattering vengeance. “Daddy! Daddy!” you cry out in ecstasy, little tears lingering in the corners of your eyes as your legs tremble and give out on you. Joel hoists you up by the waist and chest, his arms wrapped around your middle as he pulls you upright, flush with his own body, your legs flailing slightly as he gets you off the ground. He plunges himself as deep as he can go, your bodies melded together.

“Fuck - that’s - fuck - gonna fill you up,” he grunts out, giving your entire body a few jerks before he’s balls deep, groaning loudly. You’re full, so full, a blissful smile on your face as Joel holds you there for a moment before you both go limp. He catches you before you can crash to the floor, holding you up by the arms before spinning you to land in his arms, clutching you safely to his chest.

“God…” he breathes. “You’re too much for this old man sometimes, you know that?”

“Daddy, you’re not old,” you chastise him in a sweet lilt. You furrow your brow, meeting his eyes.

“Feels like it. About to break my damn back for your sweet little pussy, baby,” he teases, leaning down for a tender kiss, thumbing your chin. “Let’s clean you up, then we can finish our fun.”

You’re curled up in Joel’s lap again, nestled against him in the rocker on the front porch. You glance proudly at your creations, the orange glow bright against the dark backdrop of the surrounding woods. Joel’s goofy face next to the gracefulness of your cat makes you smile wide, chuckling.

Joel had let you help him finish carving his Jack-O-Lantern, considering you’d been a bit too distracted during your own to really appreciate ‘the art of it’, as Joel had said. He’d warmed up spiced tea for you two as a sprinkle of rain started a pitter patter against the windows, Joel draping a knit blanket around your shoulders the moment it began. It had been an utterly perfect evening with an utterly perfect end to Joel’s lap, right where you loved to be. 

“You said people always wore costumes, right? What would mine have been?” you ask him.

Joel ponders it for a few moments, rocking you two in the chair. It’s so calming, your ear to his chest, listening to it beat as the silence of the night sits around you both, you nearly feel you could pass out from the exhaustion of the day. “Well, maybe a little witch, ‘cause you get under my skin so much,” he says gruffy, his fingers finding your middle, tickling you enough to make you flinch and squirm. You bat at his hand, swiping it away with a squeal.

“But probably some kind of princess, ‘cause that’s what you really are,” he adds, giving you a wink.

You smile as your skin flushes at his flirtatious, low voice, biting your lip in between your teeth, snuggling up to Joel and saying, “That makes you… the king, right? King of the castle.” You waggle your eyebrows teasingly at him.

Joel chuckles, his chest rumbling the both of you. “Well, I s’pose it does, then,” he concedes quickly. “So what d’ya think, you like Halloween?”

You reflect on the events of the night, eyes fixed on the two glowing pumpkins sitting a few feet away, front and center on the porch. A place only the two of you will ever see, but it still invokes a sense of pride, seeing what you and Joel have built here together. All of the holidays to come, the traditions he can teach you, the care that runs infinitely between the two of you in a beautiful, never ending loop. A deep, warm feeling of home swells in your chest as you blink your heavy eyes, nodding.

“I love it.”

The morning, casting warm and golden hues from the yellow maple and larch trees in view from the bedroom window greets you as you stretch across the bed lazily. You take it in, relishing in the colors of fall dancing across the ceiling, the coziness of the flannel duvet that Joel had brought out last week, insisting you needed it at night even though he slept hotter than a furnace. 

The missing space next to you in bed has you frowning, but it’s nothing new. Joel almost always wakes before you. In fact, it’s a rare morning that you get to find him in that unassuming position, able to snuggle up and wake him with a soft kiss to that scar on his nose. You sigh, knowing that if you don’t get up soon, Joel likely will come to wake you, morning tea and breakfast at the ready.

You hear the unmistakable sounds of him in the kitchen - the tinker of cookware, him grumbling to himself, his heavy footsteps. Every noise carries in this house, but you don’t mind at all. You like knowing what to expect the second you walk down the stairs, know where to find Joel so you can fall right into his arms. And today, that’s knowing you’ll find him at the stove, judging by the smell wafting through the slightly ajar bedroom door.

Throwing a sweater over your naked frame and nothing else, you’re still pulling your arm through as you clumsily bound down the stairs. Joel sees just a flash of everything before the sweater falls over your hips, gone just as quickly as it had appeared. He smiles wryly at you as you approach.

“Well good mornin’ to you too,” he purrs, spatula in hand at the stove, always opening up one arm to welcome you in. Your arms wrap around his middle, pressing yourself close.

“Morning daddy,” you say with a tiny yawn. Your arm reaches out, gripping onto Joel’s mug, looking at the glossy brown liquid sloshing around inside. You take a sip with a sour face, plopping the mug right back where you found it, smacking your lips. “Still gross,” you tell him. 

Joel nearly howls, chuckling as his head shakes, the wrinkle between his brows deepening as he stares at you incredulously. “How many times are you gonna do that an’ expect a different taste? Coffee’s coffee, babygirl.”

You grumble a little, ready to tease him back, when your eye catches on the griddle on the stove. “Pancakes?!” You perk up, peering at the pan. It’s not often that Joel will use up the limited stores of flour and sugar, only reserved for special occasions to be savored. “Why do they… look like that?” you ask, the color seeming a bit off upon closer inspection.

“Pumpkin,” Joel says simply. “Added some spices, too. Been wantin’ to try somethin’ like this. Now go sit your pretty little ass at the table, it’s almost ready.” His hand presses on your behind with a soft pat, making you giggle as you dutifully take your seat.

Joel serves you a plate, stacked high with pancakes, bringing over a mason jar full of syrup. “Syrup, too?” you ask, wide eyed. It’s truly turning into a feast to remember.

“Mhm,” Joel hums. “Y’know that guy - uh, Darren - who we were talkin’ to in Jackson? The one who was askin’ a lot of questions about your special collar and leash? Too many if y’ask me…” Joel grumbles. You recall with cheeks flushing warm, how he’d seemed captivated by the leather dangling from your o-ring, his eyes roaming the leash to where it met Joel’s hand, gripped tightly. “He makes this stuff, I guess.”

You make an intrigued face, holding the jar and watching the contents slowly, mesmerizingly drip from side to side as you tilt it in your hands. 

“Now that I’m thinkin’ of it, I don’t think I want him talkin’ to you ever again,” he tells you flippantly, taking the syrup out of your hands and dousing your pancakes with it, setting a fork and knife in front of you. You smirk with butterflies in your stomach at his protectiveness, his untamed jealousy poking out, and nod in agreement.

“‘Course, daddy,” you say, digging into your meal. It’s delicious, your mouth immediately watering for more as the hot, fluffy pancakes hit your tongue. Joel has outdone himself with the pure amount of flavor packed in here, most of the time having your meals on the more bland side for lack of ingredients. You smile wide, shoveling in another bite, and telling him as much. He kisses the top of your head, thanking you as he brings over his own plate, stacked with far less food than yours. A detail that never goes unnoticed or unappreciated by you, and you usually try to pawn as much of your food off on him as possible the second you get full.

A sound interrupts your otherwise peaceful breakfast with Joel - tiny, almost imperceptible at first, but louder after you pause, straining your ears. 

Meow! 

You bolt upright in your seat, silverware crashing to the table with a loud ring. “It’s Mabel!” you cry out, scrambling to your feet before bashfully looking at Joel, remembering yourself. “May I be excused? I promise I’ll finish it in a minute, daddy. It’s just that we haven’t seen her in a while,” you beg, looking at him, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet.

Joel sighs, his lips moving to a lopsided smile. “Go on, sweetheart.” He waves you away, sending you rushing to the front door, whipping it open. A gust of chilly air hits your bare legs, but you don’t mind at all, hardly even notice it as you watch as the tiny gray cat weaves her way around one of the slats on the porch’s railing. 

“Mabel!” you squeal, crouching down to hold your hand out to her. She sniffs it carefully, but quickly rubs her head into your palm, letting you scratch her behind the ears. Her contented expression, eyes squinting, melts your heart. “She’s so cute, isn’t she?” you call back to Joel, who’s leaning against the doorframe, watching the two of you.

You see him sigh, deflate slightly in a way that makes your heart start to hammer hard in your chest with hope. Joel can’t help the way his chest tightens at seeing you so happy, so content at such a little thing. Your youthful excitement about things is what keeps him going so many days, and he feels guilty for being stubborn enough to keep that from you and himself.

“Go on then, both of you,” Joel finally replies, tilting his head back towards the inside of the cabin. You pause, staring at him, your hand frozen out into the space in front of you as Mabel scrapes her cheeks along your fingers.

“Daddy? Do you really mean it?” you cry out.

He gives you a single nod, his eyes soft and glinting in the sunshine. You spring to your feet, barely able to contain your excitement as you rush to the doorway with Joel, pushing the front door open wide.

“Come on, Mabel! This way!” you call to her, watching her ears perk up, her tail swishing inquisitively. She trots over to you, peering past to the inside, her steps ginger but intent as she puts one paw inside, purposefully brushing herself against Joel’s leg on the way.

You beam, throwing yourself into Joel’s arms, squeezing him tightly. “Thank you thank you thank you! I’ll never ask for anything ever again, daddy.”

Joel huffs out a skeptical chuckle, brows raised. “We’ll see about that.” He watches Mabel tentatively exploring near the entryway, her nose down to sniff every single thing along the way, getting her bearings. When he turns to you, you’re still looking at him, studying his face with gratitude.

Joel leans in to kiss you but pulls away at the last second, teasing you. His fingers slide up to your collar, gripping onto it lightly but possessively. When his eyes darken the tiniest bit, it quickens your pulse, steals the breath from your lungs. His voice rumbles with hidden promises for the day as he puts his lips to your ear, making you shudder.

“A little pet for my pet.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics !

[macfrogrecs]

He kneels in front of you to take off your boots and smirks. How many times have you done this? Peeling off each other's boots after a long day. When one of you is sick, when one of you is hurt. Your head is pounding and you almost certainly have a fever but Joel's gentle hands and familiar smirk sets you at ease. You're going to be doing this forever.

this pairing + ellie + dog + lumberjack joel…made in a lab for me, apparently 🙂‍↕️

all of it still matters

joel miller x fem!reader | 2.4k

you get sick and, much to joel's chagrin, refuse to take it easy.

jackson!joel, fem!reader, fluff, fainting, ellie and her dog that i invented for some reason, kind of plotless but who cares! it's all about love in the end, anyway.

a/n: welcome back to our lovebirds from just and just as. be gentle, please. it's been a while.

--

The sky is a brilliant orange. Golden hour, they used to call it.

It's probably a little too cold to be sitting on the front porch but you can't help it on an evening like this. You tug a fraying flannel of Joel's tighter around your shoulders. It's worn at the elbows and he reminds you that he'll fix it if you release it from your clutches but somehow that never happens. The journal he made you is open on your lap, almost full. You've taken care to write down not only your memories but the stories he and Tommy tell about their lives before, the day-to-day of Jackson, the jokes Ellie is particularly proud of. She recently recounted a birthday trip to a museum, laughing as she told you about pushing Joel into the water.

You take a sip of your pine tea. It's chilly through the whole day, now, and soon the morning frost will be snow. Winter was hard for a long, long time, but now it's comfortable. It means lights up in town, children throwing snowballs, community meals and dances. It means warm nights under your blankets with the furnace of a man you sleep next to, soft salve on chapped hands, a slowing down of the Infected sightings.

And it means Joel chopping wood. He should be doing it in the back yard -- usually does -- but this evening he's finishing up the trunk pieces Jesse left by the steps. A big tree had gone down at the edge of the town clearing and everyone got a few pieces once they'd split it up. Joel will no doubt give Ellie at least half of what he cuts.

The benefit of him doing it out front is you get to watch. His back is to you, but you can see the way his sleeves are rolled up, the damp hair curling over the collar. The exhale when he brings the axe down, the flex of his shoulder blades when he tugs it free of the stump. You could watch him do anything.

As if hearing your train of thought, Joel wedges the axe in the chopping block and turns to face you. He runs a hand through his hair, silver strands catching the orange light, and huffs.

"Enjoyin' yourself?" he says.

You grin at him. "I'd say so."

Two things happen at once. A headache blooms without warning at your temple, sharp enough that you wince and press your fingertips to the skin there. Joel notices and takes a step towards you but then a dog barks and his attention is drawn down the street.

"Naledi!" Ellie yells, jogging up the street after her dog. "Come on, we've talked about this!"

Joel glances back at you but you smile at him, ignoring the blooming pain in your skull. Naledi -- named after one of those characters from Ellie's comics -- runs right up to Joel and noses at his knee until he pets her. The animal loves him. You don't blame her.

"Jesus," Ellie says once she reaches the steps up to the house, panting. "She can run." She looks at the yard and scowls. "Aw, shit, Joel. Did you finish all the wood?"

Joel, one hand scratching behind Naledi's ears, levels her with an unimpressed look.

"Ain't gonna chop itself," he drawls. "Last thing we need is you holdin' an axe."

"Rude," she gasps. "You steal my dog and make fun of me. Are you hearing this?"

Ellie looks at you in mock outrage, cheeks pink from the cold. She's not a teenager anymore, but falls back into it so easily when Joel teases her. It's a treat to witness.

"I don't know, Joel, you've seen her --" You stand in the middle of your sentence and the words stop coming because your vision swims. Black spots dance across the yard and you pitch forward to brace yourself on the railing.

"Oh, fuck," Ellie says. Joel is up the porch and next to you in a blink, arm around your waist to steady you.

"You okay?" he asks, low and serious.

The spots disappear and you take some deep breaths. "I -- stood up too fast, I think."

Joel remains in your space for a few more seconds. Naledi barks, watching the whole thing with a tilted head from the grass below.

"Ellie," Joel says. "You wanna finish up the wood? I think we're gonna go inside."

"Totally," she replies. "Yeah, uh, go lie down, or something. We've got this."

Joel ushers you into the house and sits you down in the kitchen. The sun no longer peaks over the mountains so he flicks on the overhead lights, which make you groan. He's back by your side immediately, tipping your head up with a knuckle on your chin so he can look at you.

"Think you might've caught somethin'," he says. "Bout that time of year." He presses the back of his hand to your forehead and frowns.

You circle his wrist and tug his hand down. "Just tired," you say. "The overnight patrol is catching up with me."

"Hmm." Joel leaves you be and starts to fix you something to eat. You know better than to argue and, frankly, you don't have the energy to make something yourself. He sets some buttered toast in front of you and leans on the island to watch you take a small bite.

"Something to say?" you manage through a mouthful of bread.

He shrugs. "You should go to bed early." It's barely sunset but it sounds like a good idea. "You going to be okay to work tomorrow?"

Your shift at the stables with Ellie. Pretty easy, as far as labor goes. A good night's sleep should make it bearable. "Yeah, it's just mucking stalls."

"Hmm," he says again. You know what that means -- he's thinking, he's decided, he's preparing, but he'll let you reach the same conclusion in your own time. He won't force you into anything, never does, but he most certainly has an opinion.

You change the subject. "Did you grab my journal?" Joel nods and pulls it from his back pocket to set on the table next to your toast. You take another bite to appease him.

"Almost done with that thing," he says. "Gonna need another one."

"If only I knew someone who made them," you tease. That gets a gruff laugh out of him.

"What you writin' about today?"

"You, Tommy, and motorcycles." Tommy had told you all about the famed birthday ride at the last family dinner. Everyone had heard the story but you, so their voices overlapped about a hundred times as they fought to be the one to explain.

Joel chuckles. "You ever been on one?"

You take one more bite of your toast and push the plate away. He's on it in a second, taking it over to the sink.

"No," you reply. "I don't even know the last time I saw a working one. Just stripped metal out in the wild."

"Think you'd like it," he says. "Good way to see things. Bit of an adrenaline rush."

"Yeah, because there's a shortage of that these days."

The joke falls flat and your eyelids start to droop so you don't see Joel's reaction anyway. Your head throbs.

"Bed," Joel says, softly. Hands on your shoulders, rubbing up and down your arms. "C'mon."

He ushers you up, hand on your back on the staircase. He waits while you brush your teeth and helps you into an old shirt and threadbare pants with a gentle touch.

When you're settled under the covers he perches on the edge of the bed and lays his hand on your forehead once again. A frown makes its way back onto his face and he checks your cheeks, your neck.

"I'm just tired, Joel," you mumble. "It's alright."

"Hmm." He kisses the inside of your wrist lightly and stands. "Gonna go check on Ellie, alright? I'll be back soon."

You fight to keep your eyes open and fail.

__

You feel like shit in the morning. Your head is pounding, your body aching. But you've had worse -- you've had broken bones and bruised ribs. You've been sick, you've been tired, you've been scared. This is nothing compared to life and death. You can muck a few stalls with a headache.

Joel isn't here -- a note on the counter says he got called to fix someone's sink and that he thinks you should stay home. You ignore it and head to the stables, taking deep breaths and walking slow.

Ellie shows up not long after you arrive and finds you leaning on your pitchfork in one of the stalls. Your stomach is churning but you're upright, still.

"You look like shit," she says.

"Thanks, kid," you grumble. "Where's your dog?"

"Dina's taking her on the trails today." They've been training Naledi to smell and track Infected.

You sway a little and make some noise of assent.

"Dude, are you sure you should be here today?"

If you leave now, she'll have to do the stalls herself. "I -- let me do a few more. I'm fine. It's alright."

She gives you a look she almost certainly learned from Joel but doesn't argue.

You are fine...for a little while. Ellie seems content to let you work in silence but you feel her eyes on you as you shovel shit and old hay. Just one more, you tell yourself. Then you'll go home and lie down. One more turns into two turns into three until you're scooping a big pile of straw and the spots dance across your vision again.

"Oh," you say with a gasp, and reach out for the wall, for something, anything to lean on. But your hand finds only air and then you're tipping, tipping, and you hear Ellie's Oh shit! and then --

Nothing.

No, I caught her before her head hit the ground. Are you on your back? Wait til she wakes to move her. Sounds like Esther. God, it smells like shit in here. Someone's hand on your forehead. He's coming --

You blink a few times and the roof of the barn comes into view. A groan makes its way up your throat without permission.

"Fuck," you say. "What --"

"Jesus," Ellie exhales. She's on her knees on one side of you, tugging at her fingers. "God, why did you come to work today?"

"I--"

"Where is she?" Joel's voice echoes through the barn and you try to get up on your elbows when you see him. The sudden movement makes your head pound again and hands on your shoulders help steady you. You're blinking into Joel's face, his creased brow and frown deepening as he kneels next to you.

A warm, weathered palm cups your cheek and his gaze catalogs the scene. He does this a lot -- takes in as many details as he can and makes a quick choice on how to proceed. It's a well-honed ability, one that's kept him alive this long. It's kept you and Ellie alive, and countless others in his company, too. Knowing how bad something is, and whether or not you can fix it.

He huffs, some of the tension melting from his face. "Just tired my ass," he mutters. "How're you feelin'?"

"Guess I fainted," you say weakly.

Ellie snorts. "No shit."

"Guess so," Joel echoes. "You wanna get up?" You nod. He does most of the work, arm around your waist as you stand and sway and end up tucked into his side.

"Surprised your knees work this well," you mutter. He makes a low noise in his throat and squeezes your side but otherwise ignores you.

"Think we're gonna go home, if that's alright," he says. You realize the crowd is a little bigger than you thought. Ellie, Esther, and some of the younger boys who work the horses stand nearby. Your head pounds too much for you to be properly embarrassed. You'll have to thank Ellie later for keeping an eye on you but for now, you let Joel lead you out of the stables without waiting for a reply.

Joel walks you home slowly.

"Did someone come get you?" you murmur. He nods.

"Kid said you fainted," he says. "I see you ignored my suggestion this mornin'."

"Yeah, but if I stayed in bed you wouldn't get to be a knight in shining armor."

There is a small voice in the back of your head that reminds you how bad it can be to be sick in this world. You've all seen it -- sickness takes a few people every year, a handful in bad ones. This is probably just the flu. You know that and Joel knows that. And even that can be dangerous, but you're here with the one man in the world who could defeat pretty much anything. Joel, who will keep you safe, who will see you through it. You really, truly believe that. And you want him to believe it, too.

"How polite of you," he says.

Your boot catches on the ground and you stumble a little. Joel slows you to a stop.

"I'm fine," you remind him. "Just sick, I guess." He huffs but you start walking again. "You really looked worried back there, you know."

"Yeah, well." You reach the stairs up to your house. He tightens his hold on you, practically taking all of your weight as you go up them one at a time. "Was worried you fell into some horse shit. Smell up the whole damn house."

That gets a laugh out of you. He gets you up the porch, across the threshold.

"You gonna listen to me this time?" he asks, sitting you down on the entryway bench. "Stay home, rest up?"

"I'll think about it," you sigh. "You gonna take care of me, Dr. Miller?"

He kneels in front of you to take off your boots and smirks. How many times have you done this? Peeling off each other's boots after a long day. When one of you is sick, when one of you is hurt. Your head is pounding and you almost certainly have a fever but Joel's gentle hands and familiar smirk sets you at ease. You're going to be doing this forever.

"C'mon," he says. "You know I'll take care of you."

He tucks your boots under the bench and puts his palms on your thighs. You lean forward to kiss him and miss by a mile, lips landing at the corner of his mouth.

"My head hurts," you say against his cheek. "I love you."

Joel sighs. "I know, baby," he murmurs. "I got you."

He does.

[macfrogrecs]

hey, elizabeth. i’m gonna need you to write more of game joel, like, immediately. oh, my fucking god. this was phenomenal. if you ever revisit this pairing, just know i’ll be camped outside your blog like a 2013 directioner. un-fucking-real.

Easy to Please

Pairing: Sleazy Landlord!Joel x Reader

Summary: Months pass, and you can’t make rent—again. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Dubcon à la power imbalance / sex for money. Infidelity. Pervy!Joel. Talks of abuse. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk.

Note: This fic was loosely inspired by my three favorite songs about female adultery—‘Thinkin’ Bout Cheatin’ by Mae Estes, ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ by The Eagles, and ‘Cheatin’ Songs’ by Midland. No, I don’t support infidelity. Yes, it makes for fun fiction.

Word count: 3.1k

You hate the face he makes when he cums.

You hate the way he tastes when he’s done.

You hate the grit and the heft of the man, every lone hair that sprouts silver from his chest, and the way he pats the open space beside him in bed after you roll away.

‘Never seen a girl so goddamn allergic to cuddling!’

What makes his observation worse is that you know you’re hating it more and more with every passing day.

Today you have seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson tucked into your purse. You walk with a sluggish gait, knowing you’re $310 short of making this month’s rent and last. But you go on anyway. It’s not like Joel can’t see you from where he’s seated on the porch.

The pleasantries you exchange are short. By now, you have only to breeze past him in his lawn chair and say, ‘I can’t stay long,’ and he knows the rest. He grabs his six-pack, then his Pall Malls, and asks after you all the same.

“How’s the wrist?” he says.

You sprained it over the weekend. You aren’t sure how he heard. At any rate, you ignore the question and set your bag down on the counter before going to the fridge. You deflect with a question of your own—what the hell happened to the lemonade? He had a full jug last week.

“Got thirsty,” Joel answers, shrugging.

You’re always thirsty, you tell him, and you eye the case of Heineken that he’s placed by your purse. You don’t need to see his face to feel the smile starting to form.

“Don’t I know it,” he says. Insinuating.

You’d hit him over the head if you’d been able to reach. He’s still smiling when your shoulder checks his—closer to his elbow, from the feel of it—and when you leave the kitchen, he leaves too. He trails behind you with an ease that says this is the sixth time this has happened since August, and you’re hardly a week out from Halloween.

It’s not just rent you need to pay; it’s other things. Transmission in your truck’s gone to shit. Phone’s been on the fritz since you dropped it in the tub. Talking heads on TV say the country’s on track to get hit with another recession, and from the way your boss has been slashing your hours in half, you think they may be right. The crack in your bathroom window was tiny last week. Today it’s gone, because your husband put his fist through the thing on Sunday. You patched the hole with duct tape.

Joel’s covering the cost for the pane to be replaced, but that’s because he has to. He’s your landlord—proud owner of the Delta Commons trailer park since ‘97—and that’s what landlords do. Everything else is yours to pay.

You’re a part-time student, part-time waitress, and a full-time caretaker for your ailing spouse, or so you call him. Joel knows Stetson’s not sick, just perennially unemployed and drunk. You pay for most things, and it’s rarely enough to cover your rent. Stetson doesn’t care.

And that’s where Joel comes in.

No pun intended, but in his mind, there’s really no nicer way to say it: you fuck his brains out to make up for the shortfall in rent. You blow him before work to make sure your husband and you will have enough to eat that week. You bite the warm, freckled skin between his shoulder and his neck while you ride him, because you know that gesture will get you a little extra cash when you leave. You smile after swallowing him, and Joel knows that it tastes like shit. You’ve gotten good at faking it lately.

What he hopes isn’t totally fabricated is the way you call him big. Strong. Handsome. So stupidly well-endowed that you have to wince for the first few seconds when you sit on it, and go slow when he takes you from behind

“O-ow!” you whine presently.

His dick isn’t even in you yet. You just stubbed your toe on the edge of his dresser on your way to the bathroom.

“You alright?”

“Fuck me!”

I will, he thinks.

“Want me to get an ice—”

“Let go-OW! FUCK!”

Joel barely even touched your wrist and you were flinching away with a brand new pain. You rub it, almost defensively, then pin him with an icy glare. Nice going.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Now he’ll be lucky if he can swing a half-hearted handy from the one that isn’t hurt. That’s how mad you look.

You turn your body away, and for a second, Joel assumes that his fate has been sealed: you’ll bumble over to the rug by his bed, toss a pillow on the floor, and assume what he already knows to be your least favorite position. You’ll kneel, and talk of migraines and your long, grueling day and in the end find an excuse not to use your mouth. That’ll be okay. But with the debts you owe him now, it also won’t be enough, and Joel will have to ask you back again. He hates sounding needy, but baby, deal’s a deal.

Luckily you don’t give him the chance to use that line. Much to his surprise, you get on the bed. You lie down. You seem to take a little more care settling in this time, but you take off your clothes. It’s a lime green tank top and some ratty jean skirt, but it’s enough to tempt him.

And not just tempt, but oblige him to accept, unblinking. He crawls over the bed to get to you, and he finds that his spit’s filling his mouth a little quicker. His hands are starting to shake as they slide over the duvet, and the tree trunks he once called his legs are runny, like eggs.

He has to remind himself, bluntly, of your last name, the shiny ring on your hand, your husband’s name, your—

“Age—what’d you say your age was again?” Joel asks.

You look confused for a second, but you tell him.

“Twenty-one.”

Way too fucking young to have gotten hitched three years ago. But then he remembers this is Leakey, Texas, and your family hasn’t strayed more than ten miles from the center of town in four generations. You told him that.

“I thought you said twenty,” Joel says, a little uneasy.

“I did. Up until this past Sunday I was.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Happy birthday.”

You blink.

“You gonna take your pants off or what?”

And he does. Maybe embarrassed at first, but then the jeans come off, and his boxers go next, and without so much as a word or a breath, his worries are sliding away like water off his back. Like his clothes now peeling off.

Like your smile growing thin at the sight of him half-stripped on the bed in front of you. Joel doesn’t flatter himself to think he’s even half as handsome as he was in his youth, but he knows he has his draws. What endears him to you today is, unfortunately, his wallet. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be convinced to like him more.

More than Stetson, he thinks without humor.

Dumb son of a bitch can’t tell his ass from his elbow and yet he’s won himself you, living it up these last three y—

“Oh.”

He sounds like an owl now. His clothes are off, and you’re rubbing him, pumping him gently in your hand, which you were so kind to make wet with your saliva. It even sounds better than his, the way it squelches with every flick. Joel can only say so much in strangled breaths.

He tries anyway:

“Feel like a dream, sweet pea.”

Sweet pea.

Your pace quickens. Joel swears he can see the corners of your lips twitch, but then he thinks you’re just wincing. You move down to the floor beside the bed. Kneel almost politely while you nestle yourself between his parted legs

Your mouth is warm. It’s always warm. Joel wouldn’t expect a girl’s tongue to greet his dick like ice, but yours is always heated to a thousand degrees, it feels like. He enjoys the sting. Your lips envelop his big, leaking tip, and he swears he can stay like this forever—in you.

On you, too. He’s got his palm resting flat on your head, and he doesn’t mean to, but he pushes. He bunches your hair in a fist and drags your face to make you swallow.

Mean old man, you must be saying in your head when he stuffs your mouth full. Makes your eyes prick with tears.

Sweet girl. My sweet pea, he thinks, affectionately, and continues to rub your scalp. He holds your teary gaze.

And then you’re moving up. Down. Coating his length with shiny spit and tiny whimpers as your lips move gently back and forth, again and again. Joel’s grip tightens in your hair, and he begs for more. More.

“More,” he orders, jaw clenched, “Fit a little more’a me.”

From where you’re kneeling below, you look put off.

Then you pull off, and you wipe your wet chin.

“Chokin’ me,” you grumble, “‘S’too big.”

Normally, Joel loves to hear that.

Now, however, he’s sliding his touch to your chin and tilting your head up to him. Thumbing at the spit dribbling out on either side of your mouth and subsequently coaxing your lips further apart.

He slides back in, and you don’t fight it. You like it. Holding his gaze in a soft, docile look while your lips stretch deliciously around his shaft, you must love it. Every inch and every twinge of pleasure from the brush of his cock going in and out must be your favorite thing.

Joel hopes it is, anyway. He holds your face now, and your throat convulses involuntarily. You’re so pretty.

“Such a good, sweet girl, ain’t ya?” he presses, watching the coarse grey hairs at the base of him tickle your face.

You respond well to praise. You preen under those words, and try to nod. But his cock is so deep down your throat you end up choking again. Joel watches all of it smiling.

Petting your head and not pushing again. Grinning.

“Love my cock nice and stuffed in that pretty throat?”

You blink instead of nodding, but it’s more than enough.

“Love me deep?”

And the head of him sinks somewhere he’s never been. Your eyes are like two wide pools, and your lips leak everywhere—your chin, your cheeks, your neck.

Joel’s smearing it all with his palm and smiling so wide that he thinks he might pull a muscle. He pants heavily.

“Just what you’re made for. Just what you need.”

You look like you might agree. He keeps going.

“My fuckin’ mouth. My pretty, pretty mouth.”

He holds your face. He thinks he might cum.

“Ain’t a damn thing Stetson can do for this mouth, huh?”

And then he doesn’t. Joel barely blinks, and you’re already bucking your head out of his hold, mouth skittering away while the spit spills out. You’re practically drenched down to the chest when your face rears back. Your eyes are alight and no longer smiling when you grit:

“Don’t.”

Joel should’ve known better.

He’s hit a raw nerve, and now he really wishes he hadn’t.

It doesn’t stop there—but it doesn’t get better, either. Things progress in much the same way as they always have but with none of the need, or the warmth, of before. You climb back up and straddle him quick. Not meeting his eye, you just sit down, and slide down, and don’t wince at all. You don’t tell him that he’s big, and he doesn’t get the chance to even groan at the first influx of pleasure before you’re riding him. Bouncing and grinding your hips against his with all the passion of someone perusing the newspaper. You don’t whimper or moan.

Of course, Joel enjoys the feeling. He also wants someone to punch him in the throat for what he’s done.

“Hey, hon—” he starts, voice strained, “Hon, I’m sorr—”

“Shut up,” you snap.

Your movements hardly falter, and now your hand is seizing the headboard. You’re clenching him tight inside your wet, drooling cunt, and it’s obvious you’re trying to make him cum as quickly as possible. You swallow hard.

Joel isn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, his body is being flooded with pleasure, and on the other, he fears you may never do this with him again. Quickly fixing on the latter, he cups your face in one hand. It’s still wet.

His fingers smear the spit, and somehow you look even prettier. You keep grinding your body in desperate little fits above him, and really, you feel fucking amazing, but Joel is too focused on other thoughts. He squeezes you.

“Baby—” he tries again, but you shush him just as fast.

Your hips are moving viciously now. No matter how sore your legs might have been from a long day toiling away—just a couple hours before your shift at your next job, if Joel’s remembering correctly—you’re working him well. Doing him in. Fucking his brains out, but you aren’t his.

His fingers smear the spit even more. Never will be his.

“Sweet pea—”

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

Now he can’t deny that his climax is close. But this isn’t how he wanted it to end—with you so incensed you can hardly look him in the eye. His hand rubs more, helpless.

And just when he’s seconds away from painting your insides white, losing it all to the pleasure, he sees it.

His wet, sticky touch has uncovered a residue.

Joel pulls his fingers away in a blink, and simultaneously, your eyes are fluttering closed. You’re focused now on climax; because of that, you don’t see what he sees.

What he’s stunned to find on his fingers: makeup.

Lots and lots of thick, heavy makeup on your cheeks. Concealer, he thinks he’s heard it called once or twice.

No matter the name, he quickly comes to see what it’s for. Just as you’re hitting your peak, squeezing the headboard behind him, and coming undone with a shockwave trembling all through your body, Joel pales.

The makeup that you applied so heavy tonight hides bruises. Black and blue and awful hues of greenish-purple too, your whole face, he sees, is engulfed.

He doesn’t speak. He won’t ask.

He won’t cum tonight, either.

He’ll finish something else.

You leave Joel’s trailer angry. You don’t say goodbye. The screen door screams shut behind you when you leave, and silently, you wonder why he didn’t cum. For once, you wish he had—and hadn’t said half of what he did.

Six hours pass like molasses, and by the end of it all—the close of your second shift—Stetson’s name still echoes in your head. The way Joel said it. It hums along the walls of your skull while you walk, and as you draw closer to home, you remember that strange and infuriating tone.

Then you remember your own less than two months ago:

Don’t talk to my husband. Don’t talk about my husband.

They were two simple rules, and Joel broke them both.

He must’ve defied the first when paying a visit to make repairs that week, and that’s when Stetson mentioned your hand: how you ‘slipped’ in the bath. Tripped and conveniently sprained your wrist the same night he almost tore your arm out of the socket for looking at a waiter a tad too long at dinner. You’d bet any sum of money Joel didn’t get to hear that part from Stetson when he came over to see about the window, though.

No, your twenty-first came and went without so much as a word about your wrist. Your arm. Your face—used to getting caked with concealer every third week or so.

You wince as you open the door. You walk slowly.

At first, you’re met with silence, and you sigh with relief. Then you hear it, and shortly drop your purse to the floor.

You all but fall down yourself at the sight: your husband doubled over across from you, in the kitchen. His head in his hands. You don’t need to see the face to know that it’s bleeding. Profusely. You tread ever slower into the room, thinking somehow, some way he’s going to blame this on you. And when he straightens a little and shows off the full, gruesome extent of his injuries, you blanch to think that it might be. His body’s been beaten to a pulp.

Your pulse hammers in your head so loud you can’t hear him groan. You see him, but you don’t really believe it.

And when Stetson reaches for you, you stagger back.

Your hands skim the counter, but your brain barely registers it. Your husband’s calling to you now, ‘Quit standin’ there lookin’ stupid, do somethin’, huh?!’ He’s screaming, and you’re not hearing it. Barely feeling like a sentient person at all but just a doll stumbling backward on two wooden legs. As you walk, your palm stays stuck to the laminate underneath it, and suddenly, you feel it.

An envelope.

In this state, you aren’t sure why you grab it, but you do.

You take the lone white paper, and you turn to leave. Your hands shake as you hold the thing, and your legs are hardly any better, but they carry you, miraculously, from the kitchen to the threshold of the back door. Then out. Stetson’s not just yelling but bellowing, loud, every last obscenity known to man as he holds his bloodied side and limps in his perilous, pathetic way. Fortunately, you’re gone just in time to miss the bottle he hurls.

Outside, you walk. And walk. And in the still of the night you’re obliged to find your way through a miscellany of trailers and trucks and old, creaking vans by moonlight, and the throbbing in your head begins to slow. You don’t rush to get far, and you don’t have your keys even if you wanted to drive off. You keep walking. Watching nothing.

When your eyes drift to the envelope in your hand, you barely see that either. You’re just blinking as you look, and breathing as you wait for the sight to make sense.

Inside, you find seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson staring back. Next to them are a few dozen others—enough to cover August, September, October, and several months before that, if you had to guess.

You hope you’ll get the opportunity to thank Joel, and maybe tell him that you don’t really hate him, someday.

[macfrogrecs]

so many threads woven through this story — grief and longing and nostalgia and one of the most sexually charged relationships you’ve written, katy — and the way you bring them all together as one is so stunning.

fair warning that when you drop the third part, i’ll be at your door to scream in person, this time. love you love them love this

Good Neighbors | (joel miller x f!reader) (18+)

Part Two of Three

✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧A fic inspired by Fortnight by Taylor Swift✧˖°✧˖°✧˖°✧

Part One

summary: tensions build between you and joel, but so does the tension between you and jack. that's where the similarities end. warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] no outbreak!au, age gap (joel is 38/48, reader is 22/32), joel x ofc (no sexual content), reader x omc (pitiful sexual content), pining, infidelity, slowburn vibes, daddy!kink (I can’t escape my roots no matter how I try), unprotected PIV, brief oral (m and f!receiving), degradation!kink, praise!kink, unashamed sexualization of the term "kiddo", alcohol consumption, drunken assholery, food mention, unhealthy/toxic age gap marriage, reader's husband is an even BIGGER piece of shit - PLEASE READ DISCLAIMER. immersion notes: reader has hair, wears dresses/makeup, and is considered a "trophy wife" type. additionally, in this part, reader is specifically implied to be conventionally thin. apologies to anyone for whom this kills immersion for, but it felt very necessary in the context of the story. word count: ~9.8k DISCLAIMER: Please note that this chapter contains instances of unequivocal verbal domestic abuse that include slut-shaming, body-shaming, blatant criticism of reader’s weight, deflection and projection, circumstantial gaslighting, sexist insults, and aggressive undertones within a marriage with an inherent power imbalance, followed by brief lovebombing. Please read with caution if triggered by verbal abuse or domestic abuse in general. [None of the aforementioned are executed by Joel]. There is also a substantial amount of dialogue that is derogatory and harmful toward specifically American Southerners and rural folk in general. Damaging stereotypes are relayed by a character with the intent of being hostile and hurtful. This dialogue does not reflect my beliefs or opinions as a writer and is only included to enhance character development (or, rather, character deterioration). a/n: we are getting a bit intense with this one, y'all. please read with caution. but this is also a fun one :) [formerly atticrissfinch]

Available Only on AO3

[macfrogrecs]

hey, wifey. you’re insane for this one. heartfelt, tender, and deeply, deeply sexy. let’s goooooo!

stay awhile (joel miller x f!reader)

summary: you & joel are travelling to jackson, and make the most of a well-needed rest stop along the way.

warnings: age gap (29/56 — if this isn’t for you, that’s fine! you don’t have to read it), canon typical violence, no ellie, cursing, food, alcohol, mention of parent death, unprotected piv (don’t do that), smut, kissing, shower sex, joel miller being in love and not knowing how to say it, soft!joel, anxiety, weapons, insecurity, panic attack, fluff & comfort, 18+ mdni.

notes: my first foray back into fic writing! yay! nothing much really happens in this one: i just wanted some soft, comforting vibes from joel <3 enjoy 🫶🏻

this is a gift for @ovaryacted 🤍 thank you for inspiring me to write again, babe, by being horny about slick-back joel. i love you. as ever, a huge big gorgeous shoutout to my @macfrog, without whom this fic wouldn’t be seeing the light of day. love you forever.

Dirt clings to your shoes, dry and heavy like sun-baked concrete. Shoulders twinging as you shift your pack across your back, your stomach rumbles. Loudly. Joel looks over his shoulder at the sound, ahead on the path as always.

“Not much further now.”

Your sigh of relief is muted, not wanting to show your struggle. You don’t want him to ever think you’re a burden, that you’re just a girl out of her depth. You want to prove you’re worthy out here past the walls you were raised in.

Time has become meaningless since you left the Boston QZ; a rinse-and-repeat cycle of waking up with the dawn, chewing rabbit, walking ‘til your feet bleed, and Joel fucking you under the stars every night.

You can’t recall the last uninterrupted sleep you had; the last night he wasn’t inside of you. It marks the end of another day you’ve both survived, helps you to forget the shit you’ve seen — and undoubtedly will again, the next time the sun raises her weary head over the scorched Earth.

Some nights, it’s Joel who’s works you up: touches you all day, innocently at first, until it isn’t. Most of the time, however, you’re the one pulling at the zipper of his sleeping bag, finding your way underneath his shirt, toying with the buckle of his belt. He’d lit a fire in your belly only he can put out.

You’re always pinned beneath him, rifle next to his hand as it drives into the dirt beside your head. His thick fingers wrapped round your throat, your back arching off the thin material beneath you as he pushes you over the edge, telling you to take it.

Just like Joel takes what he needs, over and over, and gives you more than you’ll ever be able to tell him. Namely, a tiny, jagged piece of his heart: pulled unwillingly from his chest and dumped into your fragile grasp for safekeeping.

You wondered, at first, if it was purely physical. If you were just a body for him to pour his frustrations into, a tight space for his pleasure only. You wouldn’t resent him for it: crossing your ankles over his back to feel him deeper, scratches from your nails adorning his shoulders.

But then, one morning, he held your hand.

His huge, warm palm over yours, his lips at your temple as he thanked you for taking the overnight watch. Joel’s eyes had twinkled, and you knew from that point on you meant something to him. Something undefined, lingering on the tip of his tongue — something he can only convey with the way he takes care of you.

Joel stops, now, and waits for you to catch up. He offers to take your pack, slinging it over his thick forearm and kissing your sweaty forehead; allaying your earlier fears. “It’s just past this clearin’,” he tells you, squeezing your hip lightly. Your throat is parched as you carry on, the township coming into view past the trees.

The street must’ve been nice, back then. It’s obvious someone’s tried to spruce it up here and there; white picket fences and a vegetable patch seemingly out of place with the barbed wire surroundings. Must’ve been Frank, you muse, remembering what Joel had told you this morning.

They’re decent people. Well, Frank is. Stay out of Bill’s way, ‘f you can. They’ll house us for the night — feed us, let us shower, all the good stuff. Then we make tracks for Wyoming.

Jackson, Wyoming. The place Joel’s taking you to.

He’s had word from his brother that they’ve set up a community, which is thriving by all accounts. There’s a place for both of you there, if you could make it. Free of FEDRA, rations and rats. It sounds like a pipe dream — you’ve told Joel as much. He’d responded with a wry smile, and little else.

Whether it’s real or not, you know you’ll follow Joel to the ends of the Earth. You’d rather be pulled apart by a pack of clickers than left behind in Boston to rot without him.

Joel stops at a gate, indicates for you to go on ahead. The house is beautiful: littered with thriving plants and flowers you’d forgotten existed, besides illustrations in old books. The front door opens, and two men emerge: one wearing a wide smile, the other seemingly chewing a wasp.

Joel introduces them both: Frank and Bill, respectively. The latter eyes you both with suspicion; something you’ve already been warned to expect. Frank’s kindness is a strange but welcoming contrast, adding to the absurdity of their picture-perfect home in a town time forgot.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Joel?” Frank grins, and Joel clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Your eyes remain rooted to the lush grass bordering the pathway, unsure of how to aid him. You hadn’t discussed this, hadn’t found a reason to. Until now.

“She’s — uh, she’s my —”

“Your daughter, or something?” Bill’s eyebrow lifts towards his hairline disapprovingly.

Joel’s lip curls. “Partner.”

Bill’s face screws up incredulously, Frank intervening with a hand over his chest. “It doesn’t matter who she is,” he smiles, mostly at you. “Any friend of Joel’s is a friend of ours.”

///

Dinner is an experience you’ll never forget.

A smooth wooden table, elegant candlesticks, polished cutlery. Succulent meat, fresh vegetables, red wine — a night of firsts for you, your eyes widening to take it all in. Life before, with treats and trinkets like these, is hazy to you: nine-years-old when the fungus took over, the next twenty years of your life clouded by trauma and violence.

Joel checks in with you throughout, pressing his lips to the inside of your wrist when the two of you are alone, Bill and Frank bickering in the kitchen.

“Feelin’ any better?”

You hum contentedly, belly full and warm. “Can’t fucking wait for a shower.”

He smiles; small and lop-sided, the one you think might be reserved just for you. Your hosts return, and small talk resumes. Joel empties his pockets, the medications you know are paying for your stay lined up on the table. Bill examines them closely, rattling pill bottles and poring over labels.

Frank takes your hand in his. “The guest bathroom is stocked for you — well, as much as it can be. Use whatever you’d like, and take it with you if you want.”

A lump rises in your throat unexpectedly, tears sprouting to the corners of your eyes. They don’t have to provide anything for you — you’re imposing on them, really. Your parents have been gone for so long, and Frank’s soft voice and quiet kindness makes you ache for them.

“Thank you,” you mutter, squeezing his hand. “I really appreciate it.”

///

As soon as the plates are cleared, your eyelids are drooping. Frank ushers you upstairs, Bill having shut himself away in the garage. “Joel can show you how to work the shower,” he tells you, both of you following his lead up the stairs.

“Any clothing you don’t want anymore — just leave it in a pile. We’ll use them to make cleaning rags,” he grins. “There are boxes in your room, marked with sizes. Take what you want.”

You wring your hands, returning his smile shyly. “Like shopping?”

“Exactly,” he chuckles. “And tips for the staff are always welcome.”

Joel is quiet, lingering behind you both for a while. You sense his eyes on you, though. You always can.

“If you need anything else, just ask. Joel knows his way around,” Frank tips his head towards him, squeezing your shoulder lightly. Joel thanks him, and he leaves you both in the semi-darkness, footsteps echoing down the stairs.

“C’mon,” he sighs, holding out his hand. “Shower.”

///

The water is heavenly. Hot and burning across your skin, dirt and sweat disappearing down the drain. Eyes closed, you tip your head back and submerge yourself fully, losing yourself in the sensation, blood rushing in your ears.

A pair of hands on your hips bring you back: Joel’s close behind you, his lips against your shoulder. Stripping off in front of him felt different on this occasion: you’re not dipping yourself in a freezing river, and he doesn’t have a gun close to hand. You took your time, his gaze dark and watchful.

You turn to face him, his cock hard and insistent against your belly. He bends to kiss you, hands sliding across your slippery skin, finding purchase on your ass. Your whole body is relaxed, fluid — the luxury of time meaning you can enjoy the sensation of Joel’s tongue in your mouth, focus on nothing else but the way he’s touching you.

There are no threats here, just the two of you indulging in one another over the clean white tiles. Every movement is languid, determined to stretch the minutes into hours. At some point, Joel lifts you into his arms, pressing you against the wall as your legs wrap round his waist instinctively. He winces in pain as you move, brows drawn together.

You’re not the only one with back problems.

You kiss his nose, droplets clinging to his lashes. “Put me down, old man.”

“Take no notice of Bill,” he smirks, both of you remembering his earlier comment. “He’s never liked me all that much.”

You hum, eyebrows raised, fingers in the grey streaks of his hair. “Well, I like you. A lot.”

You’re not sure what’s made you so bold, if it was Joel’s constant, reassuring touches along your thighs beneath the table all night, or the fact you’ve just washed the soap from his body like you’ve done it your whole life. Like it’s routine for you both to be here: naked and content in somebody else’s shower.

Joel’s lips drag a path of fire down the column of your throat, and you’re whimpering like he’s touching you for the very first time, like he’s mapping every contour and curve of your body and committing it to memory.

“Wanna fuck you like this, baby,” he groans, nosing at your pulse point. “Make you feel it for days.”

You think you could come already just from his words; the way his thick forearms support you, broad chest pressed into yours. Joel lets you beg for a moment, but soon enough, he’s filling you up deliciously, stretching you at a torturous pace to have you feeling every last inch of him.

“Good girl,” he groans, damp forehead against your own as you grind down on him eagerly, his thrusts meeting yours in a rhythm you’d established long ago. Joel’s big — sometimes overwhelmingly so. The sensation of him splitting you open has you clawing at his shoulders, moans caught in your throat. “So perfect f’me,” he reminds you, breathing short and laboured as you both reach the point of no return — your favourite place to be.

///

Joel flicks the light switch, boxes stacked high around the room. You don’t even know where to start; sleepy eyes bewildered by the sheer amount of choice.

“We’ll make this quick.” His hands find your hips again, kiss pressed below your ear. You nod, tugging at the first box you can reach.

A pile of items begins to grow — new jeans, socks, sneakers, and sweaters. Joel finds himself a flannel and packs it away, pulls on a plain black t-shirt and fresh underwear. You sneak glimpses at him as you continue rifling through the clothes; tanned biceps pushing against the fabric, thighs dusted with the same dark hair that spreads across his belly.

Arousal claws at your insides, white-hot and agonising. You’re still reeling from the orgasms Joel had pulled from you half an hour ago; watching his release paint your tummy, washing it away as his chest heaved with the aftershocks. Thinking about it has your thighs clenching, and you busy yourself with your task as a distraction.

The next box in your search is full of pajamas: plaid pants and graphic tees, camisole vests and matching shorts. Dropping your towel, you pull the silk vest over your head, shimmy the shorts along your thighs. “What d’you think?” you ask, adjusting the straps over your shoulders. Joel’s on his knees, distracted by a pair of boots.

“Hm?”

“Do you like this?”

He looks up, eyes wide. You watch his throat bobbing as he swallows, taking in your bare legs, the lace trim. You’ve never worn anything like this before, never had cause to. You like the way it feels against your skin, how it makes you feel in front of Joel, who’s still struggling for words below you.

You approach him slowly, cradling his chin in your hands. You feel powerful; his pupils dilated as his calloused palms drift along the back of your thighs. His hair is combed back from his face, silver waves flat against his head. Your fingertip runs along the curve of his nose and comes to rest on his full bottom lip.

You pull Joel to his feet, his thick thumb sneaking underneath the camisole strap. He plays with it absentmindedly; eyes heavy with tiredness. “You need to sleep,” you murmur, running your hands along his biceps. His brows raise, grin tugging at his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m serious, Joel.”

“I, uh, don’t mind takin’ the couch, ‘f you…” he trails off, chest slumping as he exhales. “Oh,” you mutter, taken aback slightly. “I mean, I could take the couch, if you didn’t want to — y’know, share.”

Something akin to hope lingers on his features, eyes flitting between you and the bed.

He takes your hands in his, rubbing over your thumbs.

“There’s no way you’re doin’ that with your back.”

///

You’ve never slept on anything this soft.

Back in Boston, your bed was propped up on pallets; blankets scavenged and traded for, pillowcases stuffed with clothing past repair. On the road, the forest floor sufficed. You don’t remember your bedroom from before, although you know it must’ve been nice — soft shades of pink, a story to lull you to sleep, your mom kissing you goodnight.

Joel’s arm circles round your waist, anchoring you to the present. His warm palm against your tummy, you feel his soft exhales of breath over your ear. The moonlight throws shadows across the room: both your packs ready to go in the morning, an assortment of weapons and stores of food, a reminder that this safe haven was only ever temporary.

Tears prick suddenly at your eyes, and soon enough you’re sobbing quietly; tears soaking the mattress beneath you. Joel stirs, looming over you in an instant. “Hey, don’t cry,” he hushes, gathering you into his arms. You go into them gladly, Joel tracing his fingertips along your spine to soothe you.

“Long day,” he murmurs after a beat.

“But a good one.”

Joel kisses your damp cheek, pulls back to check in on you. “You wanna talk about it?”

Wiping your eyes, you curl into his chest: greying hair tickling your face, his steady heartbeat thrumming in your ears. You feel your own begin to regulate as a result, encouraged by his presence. Now you can’t see his face, your tongue loosens.

“I just — I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back out there. Infected, raiders, God only knows what else.. I want us to stay here, with our nice bedroom and hot water and proper fucking food.”

Joel is silent for a moment, digesting your confession. Your earlier fears begin to surface — he’ll think he’s made a mistake. That you’re a burden. He’ll take you back, leave you on the road. Leave you to die.

You’ve fucked up everything for him.

“Breathe for me,” his voice pulls you from the depths of your despair; not even realising your heart rate had spiked again, fists curled into the floral coverlet. You inhale deeply as per his instructions, breathing out as he sits upright, pulling you into his lap.

“I wish we could stay too, baby. But that’s never been the arrangement — n’ trust me, Bill can be meaner’n any clicker when he wants to be.”

You laugh shakily, Joel’s lips at your temple.

“Sorry for being pathetic.”

“Got nothin’ to apologise for. I should be the one sayin’ sorry; I didn’t think about how overwhelmin’ this might’ve been for you.”

Fingers brushing against his chest hair, you sigh heavily. “Do you think Jackson will be like this?”

“Maybe. Not sure about fancy plates ‘n all that, but Tommy’s sure been talkin’ it up.” Joel scratches at his chin, shifting you a little across his thighs. “Been meanin’ to ask you somethin’.”

You loop your arms round his neck, nose to nose in the silvery white light. His hands move to your waist, flex across your ribs. “Go ahead.”

“When we get there —” you notice there’s no if. Joel has no doubt; certain you’ll make it through whatever horrors lie ahead, “— I wanted to know.. ‘f you planned on stayin’ with me. Livin’ together, wherever they put us.”

You swallow, feeling tears threaten once more. The comparison clutches at your heart: the risks and perils that lie in wait on your journey don’t trouble him, but asking you if you’ll remain in his company has Joel averting his eyes, lip caught between his teeth.

“If you’ll have me,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

The kiss that follows is long, both of you breathless when you break apart. Joel’s hand drifts under your camisole, squeezing your breast as he hardens underneath you. The smile he saves for you is back: half obscured by the darkness, but you trace along his lips anyway, feeling it for yourself.

“You got room to pack this?” he asks, voice deep and guttural, tugging gently at the silk.

You push him back into the sheets, pin his wrists above his head. “For you, Joel Miller, I’ll make room.”