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theinvisiblewoman73 · 10 hours

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as you've always been [pre-outbreak/no outbreak!joel miller x f!reader]

summary: Life didn't turn out the way you thought it would. the only things keeping you going are your daughter, the PTA, and the strong, steady presence of Joel Miller. Chaperoning an overnight field trip changes everything. Or: there are two beds, but you only need one. rating/warnings: E [themes of infidelity and motherhood, slow build-up, teen pregnancy, reader is a mom and wife, named daughter/named husband, emotionally unfulfilling marriage, extremely hot Joel Miller, girldad Joel Miller, flirty Joel Miller, look he’s a fucking dreamboat in this idk what to tell you, angst, fluff, smut, unprotected PIV, oral (f receiving), spitting, bossy/dom Joel, breeding kink if you squint] wc: ~9.3k a/n: Please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! This was written for moth & bird's mother's day challenge! It turned out much longer than I anticipated. I've never written infidelity or really anything to do with motherhood, so I hope I did it justice. Thank you to my @mothandpidgeon, and happy mother's day to her and all you beautiful mamas out there! Please enjoy Joel being a babe.

masterlist | joel miller masterlist

No one’s supposed to marry their high school sweetheart, not these days, no matter how many books or movies romanticize the idea. You’re supposed to go off to college and find a good job. That’s how your mother raised you—be independent, rely on yourself.

When you got pregnant at seventeen in a small town in Texas, there were no options. You’d be having the baby and dealing with the consequences of your actions, as your mother said. She was furious for months, while your father stayed decidedly neutral.

Rob wanted to get married immediately, and you didn’t see any other way. He was ecstatic, supportive; drove you an hour each way to all your Teen Parenting classes in Dallas. He found a job while you finished your high school education, walking across the stage eight months pregnant in June heat.

And then the baby came.

Casey was a blessing, but Rob was wholly uninterested in the harder aspects of fatherhood, as it turned out. He liked to come in and pick her up and snuggle her, but the moment the diaper needed changing he disappeared again. He worked long shifts for the electric company and brought home good money, so you tried not to complain or ask for too much help.

It stayed that way.

Rob was never mean or abusive, not in any way you could articulate, but it was like the boy you’d met in the tenth grade had disappeared completely by the time Casey turned two. He wanted dinner on the table and a clean house and a quiet kid.

You were very good at playing the happy, if somewhat exhausted, housewife and stay-at-home mom, and he was very good at pretending he was happy with the life he’d insisted upon. The only thing that saved you from eventual mental collape once you moved with him to Austin for work was the Parent-Teacher Association, of all things.

JOIN US WEDNESDAYS AT 7 PM, OPEN TO ALL

On the fourth day of Casey’s first grade year, a flier flew at your feet on the breezeway outside of her classroom after drop-off like a movie. Like fate.

Rob seemed pleased that you’d found something to do.

And so you went, hoping none of the other parents noticed how much younger you were than everyone else. Whether it was Austin’s more liberal mindset or if life had just made you seem older, you’re still not sure, but they welcomed you with surprisingly open arms.

That’s how you met Joel Miller.

He was on the younger side, about five years older than you, and ridiculously handsome. He stood out with, especially with the lack of other men in the room.

“He’s in PTA?” You’d asked Melissa, the new secretary who’d been going over membership qualifications. She’d glanced over her shoulder and laughed.

“Kind of,” she’d said. “That’s Sarah Miller’s father. Joel. I think she’s in the same grade as Casey. He’s more of a floater. If we need him for heavy lifting, he shows, but he doesn’t come to many meetings.” Melissa had leaned toward you conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “He’s raisin’ that little girl all on his own. Her mama ran off to Europe with another man when she was a baby and never looked back. I hear she sends money every now and then. Can you imagine?”

You thought of Casey’s little hand wrapped around your index finger the day she was born. “No,” you said. “I can’t.”

It was a casual thing at first, just attending as an active parent, but the more years that went by the more involved you became.

You didn’t have a conversation with Joel for an entire year. He was only around a little, just like Melissa said, and spent most of his time building when he did show up. H

Not that you could complain about that. Sometimes he brought his much more personable brother around and you got an eyeful of the beginning of every eighties porno. Especially when the weather got warmer.

He was polite to you, at least. Maybe there were no conversations but he did smile and say, “Afternoon, ma’am.”

You tried to pretend you didn’t find him attractive; that you were happily in love with your successful, supportive husband. You even tried to make yourself believe that for another ten years.

Ten very long years.

You thought of going back to work, but who’d hire you? All you have is a high school diploma and your employment history consisted of three months at Burger King between your sophomore and junior years of high school.

So you make the most of it. You can focus on being the best mom you can be until Casey leaves for college, and then, when she’s out of the house, maybe things will be easier between you and Rob.

So what if you never get to experience the kind of love or passion you read so much about?

That doesn't exist.

That’s why you don’t feel too bad about flirting with Joel. Just a little; just for fun. After your first real conversation with him over your coffee preference, he started to approach you more.

Sometimes the other moms raised their eyebrows, but no one ever said anything. Except Melissa, but Melissa’s more concerned with finding reasons for you to spend time with him, like making you stay until ten at night to paint a set for the sixth grade play knowing good and well Joel Miller wouldn’t let you stay here doing that all on your own.

It’s a safe crush to have. You only see him at school activities and soccer games, and Casey and Sarah have never really run in the same friend groups, so he has no reason to be in your life more than a few times a month for a few hours at a time.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

Casey asks if Sarah can spend the night.

“Sarah Miller?” You ask. This is a legitimate question. There are a lot of Sarahs in Casey’s eighth grade class. Sarah J, Sarah S, Sarah P, Sara with no ‘h’.

“Duh,” she says, all fourteen of her years showing at once.

“Did she ask her dad?”

“She said he’ll bring her over at six and pick her up in the morning. Please, Mom?”

You sighed and wiped your hands on a dish towel. Casey rarely asks for anything.

“Y’all’ll both be needing to eat, I guess?”

“Mister Joel said he’ll pay for pizza,” she says. You’re too tired to decline that. A night off cooking sounds too good to be true.

“Is your room clean?”

“Technically—”

“Go clean up your room and take out the trash and she can stay over. Deal?”

Casey beams at you and disappears up the stairs—she’s never been more agreeable to a chore in her life. You forget to ask when she and Sarah became such good friends, but you doubt you’d get more than an eyeroll and a heavy sigh if you did. You’ll have to clean the living room and kitchen tonight rather than tomorrow, but that’s okay. As long as Casey’s happy.

The doorbell rings at 6 pm precisely, and Casey streaks past you in a whirlwind of excitement. The girls scream like they haven’t seen each other in years. Casey grabs Sarah’s hand and pulls her into the house, straight past you and to her newly-cleaned room.

Clean-ish, at least.

In Sarah’s absence, Joel Miller stands in the doorway with two large pizza boxes and two smaller boxes. It looks expensive, and you make a mental note to get some cash for him.

“Hey,” he says, smiling at you as he steps over the threshold. There’s something uncanny about seeing him in your home—he’s only supposed to exist in a school building or on a soccer field. He’s not supposed to be real.

You saw him once at a grocery store and fled before he could recognize you. He’s not supposed to be part of your life.

“Hey there yourself. Come on in,” you say. You should’ve worn something more flattering. Just to be a good hostess, obviously. Not because you want him to want you. Not that he would want you.

Right?

“Where can I set these down?” He asks, still holding the boxes.

“Shit! Right in here.” You lead him into the kitchen and point to the breakfast nook. “Sorry for the mess, I’m still cleaning up.”

He glances around, one eyebrow raised. “I think me and you got different definitions of mess.”

You laugh. That’s not the first time you’ve heard that one.

“You got a lovely home,” he says, and it’s such a sweet compliment it catches you off guard.

“Thanks. Girls!” You call. “Y’all gonna come eat?”

No answer.

“Girls!” Joel shouts, so deep and loud it startles you. Sarah and Casey run into the kitchen giggling. “Come eat.”

“We’re in the middle of something,” Casey says.

“Yeah, Dad,” Sarah confirms. “It’s important.”

“Sounds like trouble,” he says as he puts his hands on his hips. “Come eat this.”

“We will! Just a few minutes,” Sarah whines.

“It’s fine, really,” you say. “They can always heat it up in the microwave.”

Joel squints toward the stairs. “All right. S’long as Sarah behaves herself.”

You move to the cabinets and pull out some plates. “Would you want to stay and have some?”

He blushes. “That sounds good, ma’am, but I doubt your husband wants someone imposin’ on his night.”

“Rob?” You ask, like you’ve forgotten he exists. Which is not entirely wrong, honestly. “He’s out of town for work for the next couple of weeks.”

Joel’s face falls a little. “Oh,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t know that. Well, I still…I got a date in a little while.”

That should not make your heart sink, should not disappoint you so much that your daughter’s friend’s single father has a date, but it does. And you’re either crazy, or he looks a little disappointed, too.

“You should really go get ready for that,” you say, but he lingers. Or you’re being delusional. “Go on, women don’t like it when men are late.”

He gives you a sweet smile, and you resist the urge to poke your finger right into that disarming little dimple. “Y’all have a good night. Let me know if you need anything, all right?”

“Thanks, Joel. And thanks for the pizza! I’ll get you some money—”

“That’s not necessary,” he says. “My treat.”

You envy the girl he’s taking out without shame, trying to remember the last time Rob took you anywhere at all. He always talked it up—saying he’d take you out to dinner at a nice place when he got back into town after being gone for a few weeks, but you know better these days. He’d get home and be too tired—not too tired to have sex, of course.

You eat your pizza and try not to think too much about it. Joel sprung for extra cheese. You don’t know why it makes you want to kiss him.

This is a mess.

After that night, Casey and Sarah are inseparable. They spend all their free time together, and when summer finally rolls around, Sarah becomes a staple at your house, despite Joel trying to drag her home every now and then.

“I work late a lot,” he explains. “But her uncle can usually watch her if it’s too late. I just don’t want her imposin’ on your good hospitality.”

But you don’t mind at all. Sarah’s polite and cleans up her messes and is, to your delight, a very good influence on Casey. And you hate the idea of her sitting there alone until it’s late enough for her uncle to come over.

“Let me give you some grocery money at least. The kid’ll eat you out of house and home if you let her. She’s a skinny little thing, but don’t let that fool you.”

He’d slipped a hundred dollar bill into your hand before you could protest.

“Sarah says the shower in Casey’s room’s not workin’?”

You freeze, turning from your task of arranging the cupcakes for the Halloween carnival bake sale.

“Uhhh.”

There’s plenty of stuff not working around the house, but that one’s probably the most embarrassing. It’s been like that for a month now, and you’ve obviously had the girls use your shower instead, but your husband was supposed to fix it the last time he came home.

He’d promised, but it just didn’t end up happening. Trying to find a plumber with an affordable rate and openings for non-emergencies was almost impossible. You’d tried to fix it yourself and ended up with water all over you, the bathroom, and two giggling teenagers who’d insisted on watching.

That’d been earlier in the week, and Sarah had gone home wearing Casey’s clothes. Joel must have noticed.

“Yeah,” you say, still clutching Cindy Malone’s famous raspberry buttercream cupcakes and trying to decode his tone. “Sorry, Rob hasn’t been home—”

“He was home for three weeks, wasn’t he? Sarah said it’s been a couple of months.”

Joel Miller just has to pay attention, doesn’t he?

You shift from one foot to another, not sure what he’s getting at with the scowl on his face. “Well, yeah, it’s just—I mean, I have another bathroom they use, and a plumber’s really expensive, so I didn’t think it was a big deal, but—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he says. “I’m not scoldin’ you, honey. Was just gonna ask if you’d let me come take a look at it. Sounds like a water pressure issue, and that’s simple enough.”

“Oh, um, that’s sweet, but it’s the end of the month and we’re strapped right now.”

“Ain’t chargin’ you for it,” he laughs. “One shower and three women in the mornin’ sounds like hell, and since Sarah’s usin’ it half the time I might as well help out.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, finally setting down the cupcakes—which you suspect Cindy gets from a local gourmet bakery and pretends to have made—and looking down at your fingernails. “I don’t mind having Sarah over, really, she’s a good kid. You don’t owe me anything for that.”

Joel squints at you and rubs the middle of his brow with his thumb. “I know that, honey. I’m offerin’ because I want to.”

This goddamn crush.

It’s only gotten worse since the girls became friends. In your heart you know you should tell him no, thank you; hire a plumber with Rob’s credit card and just deal with his foul mood later.

But you accept. It’s too tempting to have your bathroom back.

“And that’s Miss Honey to you,” you tease as he walks off.

“My mistake, Miss Honey,” he says, holding his hand to his heart and bowing his head.

You are in trouble.

Joel is not the type of man who spends his time chasing married women. He’s not the type of man who chases women, period. He’ll ask once, maybe twice, but if she says no, he’s not one to push too hard, no matter how pretty she is. Before the girls became friends, it was easier to pretend he wasn’t chasing you.

He never liked Rob. They met a few times when the man was actually in town during one of Casey and Sarah’s soccer games; watched him play the role of good dad as Casey’s eyes lit up, basking in the glow of a supportive father.

It irks him, all this work you do and the credit that man gets. Joel reckons he knows more about Casey than Rob does, and he never could abide a man completely absent from his family. He almost loses it the day Rob tries to give Casey an apple slice in the middle of a game.

“No thanks,” Casey says, like she doesn’t want to upset the man one of the few times he shows by just telling him the truth.

“It’s good for you,” Rob insists.

Joel stiffens, trying to let Casey handle it, trying not to get involved. He knows damn well the kind of reaction he could get from stepping in.

“I don’t want it, Dad,” she says.

“You said you were hungry, eat,” Rob argues, his patience burning thin.

“She’s allergic,” Joel says suddenly, squaring his shoulders.

“Excuse me?” Rob asks.

“She is allergic,” Joel repeats. “Face swells up, throat closes up, whole thing.”

Who brought apples, anyway?

Rob, to his credit, doesn’t argue with Joel. Instead he turns to his daughter to confirm. “That true, sweetheart? Since when?”

“Since always,” she mumbles.

You’re in the stands, watching the conversation.

“Aw, baby, I forgot. I’m sorry,” he says.

It’s not enough for Joel, a man not knowing about his kid’s allergies, but he tells himself it’s not his business. He’ll mention it to you, maybe, and you’ll handle it like you always do, but you deserve better.

You try not to be alone with Joel, and you always fail miserably. It’s not just the physical attraction—and God, are you ever attracted to him—but he makes you laugh. He compliments your new shoes, your new hair, your new necklace.

He notices.

The other moms notice him noticing, of course. They ask, they giggle, they tell you he definitely has a thing for you. And you deny it—no, no, the girls are just friends so we see each other a lot.

You don’t exactly shut the attention down when he gives it to you, though, even if you know you should. It’s not like Rob’s given you a compliment over something other than your cooking since Casey was in diapers.

So you lap up Joel’s words; you let them wash over you, repeat them over and over in your head with a vibrator pressed to your clit, buried under the covers to dampen the sound.

When’s the last time someone made you come?

Joel could do it; you know he could. He could throw you around with those big strong arms, make you shudder with his lips on your neck, make you moan as his hand makes its way up your skirt.

You should’ve been paying better attention to the door. It was late in the afternoon, and just a few of the PTA had stuck around to help with decorations for Homecoming.

Joel still didn’t come to meetings often, but as always, if there was work to be done and he had the time, he was there. Especially if you were there—and you were always there.

This gym was unfamiliar to you. The girls had just started high school a couple of months ago. There’d been a glitter spill—there was always a glitter spill—and you needed a broom. The janitor’s closet was the obvious choice.

Joel followed behind you, insisting that he didn’t want you in a creepy closet all on your own at a new place, but you don’t know if you believe that even now.

Something distracted Joel, and to this day he claims he doesn’t remember what it was, but the heavy metal door slammed shut behind it.

“Well, shit,” he’d murmured.

“Seriously?” You whined, ignoring his laugh as you jiggled the handle. “It’s locked. How is it locked? What if a kid gets stuck in here?”

“S’pose they ain’t supposed to be in here, anyway,” Joel said. He was far too relaxed for this situation, but his slow drawl kept you calm.

“Yeah, teenagers are famous for following rules. I’m complaining,” you griped. “If Casey’s anything like I was in school she’ll be looking for these spots soon. I’d rather her not get stuck in one of these.”

“She’s fifteen,” Joel laughed.

“Don’t I know it.”

You’d spent a couple of minutes hollering for help, but no one came.

“Fuck,” you sighed. “Of course.”

Without the rustling of your movements to distract you, you finally noticed just how close he was; how tiny this little closet was. And it didn’t even have a broom.

Joel, you think, realized the same thing at the same time you did.

The only light came from a crack between the door and the concrete flooring. You could just make out his face looming over you, and you sighed at just how handsome he was.

“Hi,” you said, leaning back with your hands trapped between the door and the small of your back. As if that would keep you from reaching up and running your thumb over the patchy salt and pepper beard.

“Hey, Miss Honey,” he said. He didn’t keep his hands behind his back. He got closer, in fact, resting one hand flat against the door beside your head, the other hovering in mid-air as though he was thinking of what to do next.

Your shaky exhale was deafening in this tiny space. He rested his hand on your hip and you didn't protest.

“Really a tight squeeze in here, huh?” He asked.

“Yeah,” you said.

“You all right?” He asked.

You had no answer for that. Your heart was beating out of your chest, but not from being locked in here. It’d been a long time since someone had been this close to you on purpose, leaning over you with less than innocent intentions.

He wanted to kiss you, and you wanted him to kiss you.

“Someone in there?”

His hand flew from your hip and you jumped apart in the tight space you had.

“We’re in here!” You called. “Can you open the door?”

An amused custodian found you both rumpled and annoyed. “It locks from the outside,” you found yourself fussing, trying to distract from the situation.

The custodian shrugged. “Kids don’t go in there. Take it up with the principal.”

“I will!” You said, and marched away, the feeling of Joel’s big hand burned on your waist.

You’d started to suspect he hadn’t seen anything in there at all.

You never mentioned that day in the closet to him, and he never brings it up, either. Joel half expected you to never speak to him again, but you go on with life like usual. Still your bright, beautiful self, no matter how tired you are.

He tries to ease that trouble, even if it’s inappropriate. He doesn’t really care what people have to say.

Joel’s office phone rings, startling him awake from a nap he’d dropped off into. He works from home when he’s not out on a job, so he doesn’t have to worry about a boss catching him sleeping, but he’d rather not be nodding off at all. Sarah, however, had kept him up three nights in a row watching old spaghetti westerns. She’d fall asleep at ten, and he’d be up watching the damn thing under it was finished.

“Hello?”

“Joel?” He smiles to himself.

“Miss Honey?”

You groan at the nickname. “Still?”

“Still.”

“Listen,” you continue, but he can hear the little smirk on your lips. “I hate to ask, but you know the girls’ game is in Houston this weekend?”

“Yep,” he says, glancing at his calendar. Sarah had drawn a little soccer ball on every game day.

“I know I was supposed to take them, but my car’s in the shop and Rob’s still in the field. I’m in a loaner from the dealership, but I can’t take it out of town, and I know you just got that new truck with the backseats, so I thought maybe—”

“Of course,” he says, sitting up straight. “No problem, I can drive. I don’t have anything else.”

That is a lie. He has a date, another damn date with another perfectly nice woman who will fail to keep his mind off of you, but he might as well cancel. No sense in wasting her time.

“I’d really wanted to go,” you sigh.

“Got room in the truck for all of you,” he says.

“Huh. I guess that’s true,” you say. “And you’d be okay with us all staying in a hotel room together?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

You pause, then laugh. “I’m not sure.”

But he thinks he knows why.

“I’ll pick you up Saturday mornin’,” he says. “Seven?”

“Sounds good. Thank you, Joel.” You sound so relieved it makes him sad.

As if he was ever going to say no.

You can count on one hand the number of times the earth has shifted under your feet, knocking you off kilter and sending you careening into some dark abyss. When you got pregnant, when your mother passed, when you realized it was really just you and Casey all on your own with or without a marriage certificate.

This might be the time the dirt finally opens up and swallows you whole.

Nothing prepares you for what to do when you walk in on your husband of fifteen years balls deep in the new next door neighbor. Do you scream? Do you cry? Throw his clothes on the front lawn? Cause a scene?

You watch him for a moment as he slows his movements, the neighbor trying to hide her body and push him away before you see too much. You look away from her, give her some kind of dignity as she scrambles off his cock.

She’s so young—not much older than you were when he got you pregnant. Barely twenty, if you had to guess. You should feel worse, you think, more heartbroken at the actions of this man you’d put your whole life on hold for, but the only thing bubbling in your chest is the stab of incandescent rage.

He has the audacity to chase behind you, tripping over his own feet as he tries to stuff his pathetically flagging cock into his khakis.

“Baby, I can explain—”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Robert,” you snarl. “What are you doing here? What if Casey had seen this?”

He winces, confirming he hadn’t thought of that at all.

“You’re supposed to be in Houston,” he explains, handing you his phone to show you the texts. He’s right—you did, indeed, send the wrong date.

“Oh!” You laugh. “I’m so sorry! My fault! Next time I’ll be sure to send you the right days so you can fuck the new neighbor uninterrupted!”

You haven’t even introduced yourself to her yet. How had he met her?

It doesn’t matter—she’s fleeing from your house, and you doubt you’ll ever see her face again if she can help it.

“Honey—”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap. “I want you to get your shit and leave. Casey and I will be gone tomorrow and will come back Sunday. We’ll talk about it then.”

“But—”

“Leave.”

He doesn’t argue—of course not. You wish it was more of a relief; that your feelings weren’t all mixed up in the leftovers of first love and the only man you’d ever been with fucking someone else on a bed he barely sleeps in.

It hurts.

You strip the sheets and throw them out, and when Casey gets home from soccer practice, you ask if she wants to go to Olive Garden.

“Can Sarah come?” She asks.

“Whatever you want, baby girl,” you say.

Joel has spent too much time wondering what’s on your mind to not notice something’s wrong. You’re quieter than usual as you and the girls pile into the truck, and even quieter on the way to check in at the school.

“Go sign yourselves in,” he tells the girls, and they run off, leaving him with you in the passenger seat, not saying a word.

“Everything all right?” He asks gently.

“Fine,” you sigh, but it’s definitely not fine. You look like you’re going to say something else, but the girls come back before you can.

“Mommy,” Casey says, and Joel recognizes that tone. Sarah looks up at him, the picture of innocence.

“What do you two want?” He asks suspiciously.

“Why would you think we want anything?” Sarah asks, batting her eyelashes.

“Spit it out, kid,” he says. “Ain’t got all day.”

Sarah scowls, her ruse . He chuckles to himself.

Casey’s still trying.

“Mommy, if Mister Joel says it’s okay, too, can me and Sarah ride with Tiffany Malone? Ms. Cindy says there’s plenty of room in her car.”

Uh-oh.

He doesn’t have much issue with Cindy Malone, other than the occasional flirtatious comment he sidesteps with ease, but something about that woman irks the hell out of you. Your lips thin out, but hope sparks in his chest.

He could have you alone for a while.

Across the parking lot, Cindy Malone waves cheerfully from a very shiny new minivan. You sigh and step out of the truck. After a quick conversation you cannot run away from fast enough, Casey and Sarah grab their things, barely listening as you and Joel yell for them to behave. You bite your lip as you watch them climb into the van and shut the door behind them.

Maybe he can get the truth out of you now.

He circles the truck and opens the door for you.

“You ready?” He asks, leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest. You turn to him, a little lost, and he stretches his hand out to you. “C’mon, Miss Honey. We ain’t got all day.”

You smile, eyes on the ground, but you take his hand and let him help you into the truck.

“Thanks, Joel,” you murmur.

Three hours.

He has you all to himself for three hours.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You’re not usually in the passenger seat holding a set of directions printed from MapQuest as you keep an eye on the exits and hope there aren’t any detours or closed roads. On Texas roads, you know this is a lot to ask.

“You hungry?” Joel asks, and you aren’t, really. You haven’t had much of an appetite since it happened. But you can feel yourself getting crabby and tired already, so you nod, and he pulls into a McDonald’s.

He won’t let you pay.

He got gas before he came to get you, too.

Sneaky.

Joel turns on the radio, some station playing inoffensive adult contemporary. It’s perfectly fine background noise, but you’d rather listen to pretty much anything other than Sheryl Crow right now. You glance around the front seat and twist to the back, bobbing your head like a meerkat until you find it.

A big black CD case.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Joel asks.

The case is weathered, like he’s had it for a long time, and at some point it looks like Sarah got ahold of it and painted little flowers all over with pink nail polish. You pull it to the front and he groans.

“Half that is Sarah’s,” he warns.

“Mmhm,” you say, unzipping it. “Worried I’m gonna judge your taste, Mister Miller?”

He chuckles. “Just sayin’.”

You flip through the cracked plastic casing, warm in the sun despite the chillier temperature. Some of them obviously belong to Sarah—Destiny’s Child, Britney Spears, TLC, Christina Aguilera—but Joel gets antsier the further back you go.

“Not bad. Garth Brooks, classic. Trace Adkins. Toby Keith? Ugh. Nirvana. Three Doors Down? Hm. Ooooh, Linda Ronstadt. It’s not so bad in here, Joel.”

You keep flipping, finding mostly a mix of nineties country music and alternative rock, until you get toward the back and find what it looks like he’d been worried about.

Mix CDs.

“Ohhhh my god,” you giggle.

Some are from Sarah, decorated in little flowers and labeled in her neat handwriting, and some are clearly just Joel’s attempt at organization—ROCK MIX #3—and you manage not to ask what happened to numbers one and two.

Others, though, are not either of theirs, or Joel’s brother, for whom he blames the almost obscene amount of Linkin Park. “Y’aint done yet?” He asks, when you come upon one just labeled Joel with a heart instead of an ‘O’.

“Dare I ask?”

He just scowls at you.

“What happens if I try to play it?”

You’re not really going to, but it’s too much fun, teasing him like this. You make a move to pull the CD from the case, and he moves just as fast, reaching one big hand over the middle of the truck bench and squeezing your knee. You shriek and drop the CD, giggling as he squeezes again.

“Fuck, Joel, that tickles,” you gasp.

“I know it,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Bastard.” You shove the disc back into its casing and close the binder, tossing it into the back where you found it. His hand lingers on your knee, drifting very slightly up your thigh before he pulls back. “I’ll find out one way or another.”

You stretch out, suddenly more comfortable than you probably should be after that little bit of physical contact. Your gaze drifts to his fingers wrapped tight around the wheel, calloused from his work, and wonder—not for the first time—what they’d feel like on your bare skin.

Joel is very careful around you. He’s only touched you a few times in all the years you’ve known him, and never so casually as he just had. You set your hand on the seat beside you, palm down, pinky finger twitching with nerves. He glances over, just out of the corner of his eye, grunting as traffic slows to a crawl in front of you an hour outside of Dallas.

You keep your eyes straight ahead.

“You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?” He asks.

You shrug.

Solid, calloused warmth engulfs your hand. He squeezes it, drawing your full attention, those big brown eyes full of sincerity. “I’m serious. Something’s wrong. Know you better than you think I do.”

You don’t move his hand, even though you probably should. Instead you flip your palm up, breath catching in your chest as he interlocks his fingers with yours. Electricity crackles between your palms, and his big thumb strokes the back of your hand.

Safe.

He makes you feel so safe. Safe enough to ignore the guilt, safe enough to open your mouth and give him what he asks for.

“I want to tell you,” you say. “But I can’t right now. Not yet.”

“Is it Rob?” He asks. His jaw clenches at your husband’s name. You don’t answer, and he nods. “All right, Miss Honey. You let me know when you feel like talkin’. I got all the time in the world for you.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, leaning over to turn up the radio.

He only moves his hand—reluctantly—as he gets into the city. You read off the directions, and for once, the roads give you a break.

The last thing you want is to leave this truck, to be away from him, but parenthood waits for nothing, not even the smallest crackle of something new.

Watching Joel with both of them, you let yourself dream. Casey with a present father; Casey with a sibling you always meant to have. You shove the guilt, the dread, the anger, all of it, as far down as it’ll go.

The most painful part, you think, as your daughter runs and kicks and yells with the kind of uproarious joy only children have, is knowing that you wouldn’t change a single thing if it meant you never had her.

You’re too exhausted to even think of saying no when the girls ask to stay in Tiffany’s room. Cindy Malone got adjoining rooms, apparently, because of course she did.

“Behave, please,” you tell Casey. You always tell her that, and she always does, and you tell her you love even if she didn’t behave, too. And she rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue, and you have to tell her that her father slept with another woman and that’s why he’ll be around even less.

Fuck.

You watch Joel lug the girls’ bags five doors down from your room, and it hits you as Casey waves from the doorway and leaves Joel in the hallway that you will be alone with him again.

All night long.

Something soft and needy catches in your chest as he makes his way back to you. He’s always been beautiful, and you’ve always had to deny, deny, deny.

You open the door and wait for him.

The room is only lit by the dying sunlight filtering through white curtains. It looks like every other economy hotel you’ve ever stayed in, two queen beds with lumpy-looking pillows and scratchy bedspreads. When you and Casey (and rarely, Rob) travel you almost always bring spare comforters, but you’d had other things on your mind today.

Joel shuts the door. Your back is turned to him, and you can feel him hovering behind you, waiting.

“Honey,” he says softly, and you turn around, heart hammering in your chest as you close the gap between the two of you and press your lips to his.

He’s not a gentleman, thank God. He doesn’t try to stop you, just cradles your jaw in his big hands and lets your tongue slide across the seam of his lips. Joel yields easily, and he feels so different from the only thing you’ve ever known.

Joel tastes like Chapstick and spearmint. He smells like Old Spice deodorant, and you want to bury your nose in his skin and inhale that and only that forever. His mouth on yours is soft and plump, and you finally lick the divot on his bottom lip just like you always wanted.

His hands slide over your shoulders and down your waist, and for a while you just kiss him, panting and moaning, lost in this feeling until he pushes you gently toward the bed. You just barely find the strength to press one hand to his chest and he freezes, pulling his lips from yours.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“It’s…look, I think you should probably know something,” you sigh, sitting on the too-firm mattress. He sits next to you and turns his body so that your knees touch, waiting for you to speak with pinched eyebrows. “I found Rob with another woman yesterday afternoon. Like, inside her.”

“Jesus Christ.” His nostrils flare out like an irritated bull, and he clenches one fist open and closed. “You tellin’ me he came home early to fuck another woman on your bed?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “I sent him the wrong date for the trip. He was trying to be discreet, I guess. That’s why I’ve been upset, and why I…you know I’m not…”

“I know,” he says. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll get another room if—”

“No,” you interrupt him, and he falls silent. “No, I don’t think I want you to get another room.”

“What do you want?”

The air’s heavy again. “I’m a mess, Joel. And I’m angry. I’m so angry. I wish I was sad or heartbroken or anything else, but I’m just mad. I spent my whole life raising his child and waiting for him to come around, just so he could fuck the twenty-year-old neighbor.”

He curls his finger under your chin and looks at you with those big eyes. “I don’t blame you for that,” he says. He opens his mouth, then closes it. After a pause he continues, “You could get back at him.”

You cock your head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you could…s’just us in here. And you gotta know I think you’re fuckin’ gorgeous by now,” he says. His voice is low and soothing, like warm water pouring over your skin. “You could use me.”

You part your lips, saliva pooling in your mouth as you process his proposal. You should say no, probably, because what if this ruins everything? What if it’s weird, what if it affects the girls, what if he doesn’t like you with your clothes off?

“When’s the last time you had someone’s mouth on you, Miss Honey?” He asks softly. You shiver and dip your head down—it’d been years since Rob had done anything as risqué as go down on you. “Uh huh. Thought so. Don’t worry, pretty girl, I’ll make it good.”

You don’t doubt it. He kisses you again, hungrier this time, one hand curling around your hip and squeezing.

“Let me take your clothes off,” he murmurs.

So you do. He undresses you slowly, like he’s savoring the moment, until you’re naked in front of him. You try not to think too hard about your body, about how wet you are, about how you never quite managed to lose that last bit of baby weight even now. He doesn’t seem worried about any of it.

“Prettier than I even imagined,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. How often had he imagined?

There’s a growing bulge in his jeans. He spreads his legs and holds out his hands. “C’mere, mama, lemme see you.”

“You got all your clothes on,” you sigh as he rests his hands on your hips and kneads the soft flesh.

“You want me to take my shirt off?” He grins at you, teasing you, and you do—you really, really do. You tug on the fabric instead, pulling it over his head with no resistance. You push him down to the bed, rougher than you mean to, but he looks at you with pupils blown wide and you don’t think he minds it at all.

You’re not sure what you’re doing, really, just that you want to explore. Sex with your husband is wash, rinse, repeat, and you want to see if Joel can do all those things you thought he could; if he’ll let you be needy and desperate and maybe a little domineering.

The outline of his cock sits right underneath you where you straddle him, and you give one curious roll of your hips. It feels good. He bares his teeth as you grind down. “Goddamn, you’re sexy.”

It feels good, pressing yourself against him like this, like he’s all for you to use how you please, but you want him naked. If this is the only time, you want him naked, inside of you, all of him, so you unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans. He sits up and pulls you even closer, pressing sloppy kisses against your lips.

“Let me get it, baby,” he says against your mouth. “These damn boots are a pain in the ass. Go get comfortable for me.”

You really like when he calls you baby.

He doesn’t let you go immediately, too busy kissing you and massaging your tits in his big hands, but eventually he rolls you over on your back. “Get up there,” he orders, pointing to the pillows. You waste no time obeying.

He’s right—those work boots don’t come off easy—but eventually he’s pulling off his jeans and you’re biting your lip at his thick, strong thighs and chest hair, drooling over the hair that trails down his soft belly into the dark thatch of curls.

You expect his cock to be big—you don’t know why, you just do—and you’re pleased to see that you’re right. It’s gorgeous, too, leaking precome as he grabs the base and pumps himself while he stares at your body. There’s something so primal about his expression, like he’s a wolf that’s come upon the loneliest little deer.

“Show me how you like it,” he says, crawling up between your legs and kneeling. Your breath hitches at his implication—you don’t even remember the last time you touched yourself in front of someone else. He picks up on your hesitation. “You don’t need to be shy around me, baby. Been thinkin’ about this for a long time.”

Your lips part in surprise, and your legs follow suit. “How long?”

“You touch yourself and I’ll tell you,” he says. Your fingers glide down to your pussy and he gives you a satisfied hum. “Good girl. Relax for me.”

Your head reclines, eyes closing as you dip your fingers between your slick, puffy lips and rub circles around your swollen clit. “That’s it,” he murmurs.

“Tell me,” you demand. His encouragement makes you brave. “Tell me how long.”

“That night we stayed late paintin’ that set. Wanted to make you scream my name instead,” he admits. Your eyes fly open at the sounds of his tugging on his cock in earnest, soft slaps of skin filling the room. For the first time in what has to be years, the only thought in your head is this feeling and the way Joel’s lip is curled, his eyes not sure where to rest.

“Joel,” you sigh, and he grits his teeth.

“Let me taste you,” he says, stroking himself slowly.

“Oh,” you say. “You don’t have to do that. I know that’s not…I know men don’t really like that.”

Joel stops, frowning, and he’s quiet for just long enough that you start to squirm. You’d said something wrong already, embarrassed yourself already. You pull your hand away from yourself, waiting for him to tell you this was a bad idea after all.

He sets his hands on your knees and rubs his thumbs back and forth, face softening. You still can’t read his face.

“Why would you think something like that?” He asks quietly.

“Well…I mean, that’s what Rob said,” you tell him, stomach churning at having to mention his name at all. “He said…he said that no one really wants to do that.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. “Sounds like he don’t wanna do that to me,” Joel says. “Because let me tell you what I want, all right? All I want is to bury my face in that perfect little pussy. Wanna make you come all over my tongue. And then I wanna make you come again, and again, and again all over my cock. You gonna let me do that, Miss Honey?”

He inches down your thighs with each whispered word, lips brushing against your skin until his face is level with your cunt, clenching around nothing. “Hm?” He prompts.

“Yes,” you whimper. “Yes, please do that.”

Joel chuckles, cupping your ass with his big hands and squeezing as he slides his thumbs up and down the sides of your lips and pulls gently, opening you up and sighing as he just looks at you.

Your legs shake, cheeks burning—you don’t think anyone has ever been this close to you, not even when you had Casey. You swallow all the insecure questions dancing on the tip of your tongue—is it okay, do I look good, do you like it?

“Shh,” he murmurs, squeezing with his thumbs, the pressure sending shockwaves through your body. “Just feel it.”

Warm saliva dribbles from his mouth onto your pussy and you writhe at the obscenity of it. “I’m gonna make you come,” he warns.

His tongue, soft and wet, licks at your clit, zoning in on just the right amount of speed and pressure, and he barely comes up for air. Your hands find their way to his curls and he moans at the little tug, louder when you pull.

It’s never been like this; the bedsheets are drenched, and you’re not sure if it’s your arousal or his saliva, or vulgar mixture of both.

One thick finger circles your entrance, and you gasp as he slips inside. “Fuck,” he grunts. “You feel so fucking good.”

But it’s nothing compared to the way he feels.

You can’t help it—you bear down, fucking yourself against him, and all you can hear are his grunts and the squelch of him pushing in and out and in again, until he adds a second finger. Some thin, reedy noise comes straight from your chest as he curls his fingers up and toward himself, sending pleasant tingles from your cunt all the way to the tips of your fingers.

You’ve never been able to reach this far yourself.

“Joel,” you whimper. He doesn’t answer, too busy latching his plump lips around your clit and sucking. You can feel your body tense up, muscles clenching as he holds you in place with his unoccupied arm.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

Your moans come out all high and breathy, with star showers in your peripheral vision and hips bucking against him as he tries to hold you down. He’s traded his fingers for his tongue, lewd groans vibrating against your cunt. Your slick release drips onto him, and he spends a moment with his forehead pressed to your mound, kissing your pussy in a beautifully reverent way.

You come back down to Earth still panting to find him hovering over you with slick lips and lust-blown eyes. He smiles at you, peppering kisses on your forehead and eyelids before he presses his lips to yours.

You expect him to push his cock inside of you now, take his pleasure after giving you yours, but he doesn’t. “How do you want my cock, honey?” He asks.

Oh.

That’s a question Rob stopped asking years ago.

You swallow harshly—you know exactly what you want. You shouldn’t, maybe. You should want to see him for your first time, should offer to suck his cock before—God knows you’d love to get your mouth around it—but that’s not what you want. What you want is for him to pound you so hard you’ll have trouble walking.

“Behind,” you whisper. His mouth slackens, eyelids fluttering with desire.

“Turn over,” he grunts.

You can feel him looking at you again on your hands and knees, spreading your ass cheeks apart and spitting there, too. He’s so nasty it makes you clench. He says nothing, just grunts and pushes his cock into you with embarrassing ease.

You learn that Joel is noisier than you thought he’d be. You thought he’d be quiet, with a grunt here or there, but you’re wrong. He matches your noise level, hissing and moaning as he slams into you from behind.

“Perfect—little—pussy-”

He praises you, calls you a good girl every time you grind back to meet his hips. The room smells like sweat and sex, and in the back of your mind, you think you might have to send Cindy Malone a thank you card.

“Arch that back for me, sweetheart, that’s it—just—like—that—”

He hits something deep inside of you, encourages you with his fingers curled around your thighs, pulling you against him. Your second orgasm takes you by surprise, gentler than the first but just as pleasurable, and his grunts as your throb around him are drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears. It’s like being underwater.

Your legs are shaking, and Joel notices, murmuring, “On your tummy, baby.”

You like when he tells you what to do.

He spreads your legs a little further, draping himself over you and holding himself up with his forearms. His face is buried in your neck, grunting and sweating and whispering your name.

“Where do you want me, baby?”

You’re both old enough to know better, and it doesn’t stop you. Disconnecting from him now is not an option. “Inside,” you sigh.

He comes with a long growl, biting your shoulder and grinding deep, deep inside of you, pumping you so full of himself you can feel it start to leak out halfway through. It’s like he’s trying to get you pregnant, trying to make sure it takes, and even though you know that’s not in the cards or even appropriate to think about, something about it sends a thrill of need up your spine.

It takes a moment for everything to go still, for Joel to stop running his tongue over the teeth marks he’d imprinted earlier. He doesn’t move immediately, just stays inside of you until it’s too much. You can feel him pouring out of you as he does, cooling rapidly between your legs.

He rolls you over, still panting. “You okay?” He asks, and you nod. “Hang on. Be right back.”

Joel leaves you on the bed, naked and dripping, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. He comes back quickly with a washcloth and cleans you, gentle and warm between your legs. He discards on the floor and wraps his arms around you. Neither of you speak.

Emotions bubble in your gut, guilt and relief and freedom and anger all swirling around inside you. Tears prick the corners of your eyes and you let out a long, loud sob.

Joel doesn’t stiffen, he doesn’t let go—he holds tighter, says nothing. He kisses your shoulder and rocks you back and forth, and it just makes you cry harder. You don’t know the last time someone held you like some delicate thing deserving of comfort, and it makes your chest tight and your stomach ache.

You sob and sob and sob; everything breaks, finally, years of frustration and restlessness and unworthiness at the hands of the father of your child, swaddled tight in the arms of a man who has waited. “Joel,” you choke out.

“Yeah?” He asks softly.

“I don’t want to use you.”

“I know.” He nuzzles your shoulder, waiting for you to finish.

“But I can’t—I can’t just jump into something. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do now. I don’t know if I can be what you would want, or need, and I’m so scared. I’m so fucking scared—”

Joel shushes you, gently; not interrupting, just calming your spiraling thoughts.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” he says. “I got nothin’ but time. You’ll get through it, and I’ll be right here. Whatever you need.”

You look at him, lips parted. Is he serious?

“You have enough going on. I can’t ask you to do that,” you say. You felt bad enough for asking him to drive this weekend.

“Didn’t say you had to ask. I got you. I got Casey, too. S’gonna be fine. You’re amazing, baby. Too bad that sorry motherfucker can’t see it. You let me know what you need,” he says.

“But—”

“Honey,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Miss Honey, sweetheart, I been waitin’ for you for a long time, and that’s just how it is. I don’t expect nothin’ from you, but I’ll be here regardless. You understand?”

His eyes are wide, sincerer than you’ve ever seen him.

“What if you don’t really like me? Rob didn’t really like me,” you whisper, your worst fear slipping out and hanging in the air.

“His loss. I like you just fine. I—”

He stops, and you thank God he does. It’s too delicate right now. You believe him, you might even feel the same, but you can’t do it right now.

“Let me help you,” he says quietly.

Help.

It was a new concept after doing everything on your own for the last fourteen years.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay, Joel Miller. On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You let me listen to that CD.”

He nuzzles you. “Hope you like Careless Whisper, darlin’.”

You’ll have to face everything in the cold light of day. You’ll have to tell Casey as much as is age appropriate. You’ll have to find a lawyer, a new place to live, a job. You’ll have to explain to your family that, yes, they were right all along. But for now it’s still dark, and Joel’s still nuzzling the back of your neck, and you smell like him, like leather and wood chips.

And you are safe.

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theinvisiblewoman73 · 20 days

Text

Just a Graze | Joel x Reader oneshot

One-shot Joel/Reader. Previously posted in two parts but thought I'd make a masterpost for this one.

Summary: Joel comes back injured, and while you patch him up the tension that's been building for several months threatens to break.

Tags/warnings: dirty talk, explicit content, language, injury detail (not explicit), MDNI, sexual tension, PIV, oral (F receiving), FILTH

Word Count: 4.3k

Joel’s bleeding when he gets back. The screen door clatters shut behind him, wire shuddering against the wood, and you look up from the table. His face is set, a solid frown painted across his features – nothing unusual – but there’s a downward turn to his mouth that you recognise as a pained expression. He steps in and leans against the counter, one hand on the warped wood, the other pressed against his shoulder. Blood seeps through his fingers, clotting around his knuckles, staining his jacket red.

“I’m okay,” he says as you spring up from your place at the dusty kitchen table, “it’s just a graze.”

“Bullet?” You ask, ignoring his attempts to wave off your concern.

“Barbed wire,” he says, letting you lead him further into the cabin, toward the misshapen couch, “stupid mistake, I didn’t see it.”

The shotgun clatters onto the floor at his feet as he collapses onto the couch with a groan. He doesn’t protest as you pull his fist away from the wound, your hand warm against his wind-chilled fingers. The cut isn’t deep, but the wire has torn through his jacket and shirt down to the flesh of his shoulder, leaving a jagged cut that’s oozing blood.

“You must be getting old,” you say, standing to search through your pack for the first aid kit, “your eyes are going as well as your ears.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my eyes. Or my ears.”

“Sorry?”

“I said, there-” he notices your grin, the glint of mischief in your eye. He sighs heavily. “You’re a damn pain in my ass.”

You huff out a laugh and pull a kitchen chair across to sit opposite him. You open the first aid kit – which is really no more than a small washbag stuffed with a bottle of Lysol and a handful of bandages – on your lap, pull out the disinfectant and start unscrewing the cap. “Can you take your jacket off?” You ask, and he nods, starts unzipping it and pulling it off of his uninjured arm. He winces a little as he peels it past his bad shoulder, shakes it down his arm and lays it over his lap, frowning at the gash in the fabric.

“I can patch that up when we get back to Jackson.” You say.

“Ain’t going back ‘til we’ve something to bring back.” He replies, and now it’s your turn to sigh.

“We’ve got two deer and a whole family of rabbits, Joel. There’s nothing else out here for us to get.”

“We both saw that clinic complex, and I ain’t arguing with you about this again. Winter’s well on its way, and we need as much medicine as we can get to make it through. I almost got in today – would have, if I hadn’t got caught on that damned barbed wire. We’ll both go back tomorrow.”

He fixes you with a hard stare, one that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, though whether it’s through fear or something else, you’re not sure. You’ve been partnering up for a couple of months now, going out on hunts and supply runs, growing slowly closer over long hikes and cold nights camping out under the stars.

At first, he intimidated you. He was cold, harsh; a solid bulk of a man who never smiled and rarely spoke, except to tell you to keep your voice down or stop walking so loudly. But then, gradually, he’d started loosening up around you. A few weeks ago he’d cracked a smile at a joke you’d made – something stupid about a bird in a tree, the kind of joke your dad used to make when you were a kid – and then that smile had grown into a deep chuckle a couple of days later, and then a conversation, whispered and illusive, under a starry sky last week.

This latest trip outside Jackson had been the most enjoyable yet, conversation flowing easily between you, and you were starting to suspect that the strange swooping feeling in your stomach that arose each time he looked at you, or bumped against you as you walked had a lot less to do with how intimidating he could be, and a lot more to do with him.

Now, locking eyes with him over the opened bottle of Lysol, his eyes dark and with an argument boiling up between you, that feeling blossoms into something hot and delicious, stirring a fire in your belly that makes you bold.

“From where I’m sat,” you say, tipping the bottle of Lysol so that the disinfection pours out onto a clean swab, “you don’t seem to have much choice about what we’re doing next. You’re hurt, and I need to patch you up, so stop arguing and take your shirt off.”

He opens his mouth to argue but shuts it again, eyes flicking up to your face. A hint of red creeps up his neck, settling high on his cheeks, tinging them scarlet in the low light of the cabin. You keep glaring at him. He lets out a long breath through his nose and moves to unbutton his shirt. The shirt is old, vintage, even – probably older than you – with mismatched buttons and a crumpled, frayed look. It comes apart easily, Joel’s fingers working down the buttons nimbly until he reaches the bottom. He pauses there, looks up at your face. You look away, because heat is creeping up your own neck now, hot and unbridled, as he pushes the shirt off of his shoulders and lets it fall open onto the couch behind him.

After his dark eyes, the most notable thing about Joel is his stature. He’s tall, and broad enough to fill any room he’s in. You’ve seen him lift grown men like they weigh nothing, watched him pick up a dead deer and throw it over one shoulder without so much as a stumble. Last month you went out on horseback to scope a potential hunting ground, and, sitting behind him in the saddle, you couldn’t see anything past the triangular bulk of his shoulders, your hands clasped easily around his waist. So, yeah, you know he’s strong, could tell anyone that the man is built. But when you look at him in the half-light with his shirt off, uncovered by layers of leather or plaid, the sight still sends blood rushing to your face.

His shoulders are broad, curving into thick biceps that tense as he raises a hand to scratch, self-consciously, at the back of his neck. There are small scars littering his chest, running down in narrow white slices to his belly, which is softer than the rest of him, sloping and scattered with coarse hair that continues below the buckle of his belt. You want to press your face into it, kiss the contours of his bellybutton and the plains of his chest, up to the juncture of his throat, which bobs as he swallows, eyes shifting to catch yours.

“You gonna patch me up or just stare?” He asks, and there’s something teasing in his voice, something that causes heat and slick to pool in between your thighs. “I- you’ve got a lot of scars.” You say, stupidly, tipping more Lysol onto the cloth you’re holding.

“Had a lot of run-ins with barbed wire.” He replies, the words turning to a hiss when you press the wet cloth to the cut on his shoulder.

“Should be more careful.”

“Now where would the fun be in that, darlin’?”

Oh, that’s new. You’ve heard him call Ellie pet names before, laughed when she rolls her eyes and shirks away from his affections, all fifteen years old and too cool to be coddled. But he’s never called you anything but your name – never so much as shortened it to a nickname like almost everyone else does. You flick your gaze from his wound to his face. His eyes are dark, expression unreadable, but the intensity of his gaze makes you look away, cheeks reddening. You pull the cloth away from his arm and start wrapping a clean bandage around his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he says, after a pause. “I forget, sometimes. Recently.”

“Forget what?”

“That you’re young enough to be my-” He cuts himself off here, “that you’re a hell of a lot younger’n I am.”

This makes you laugh out loud, a huff of breath exhaled. You’re still opposite each other, him on the sofa, knees spread wide, you in the kitchen chair. If you inched forward only slightly your own legs would be between his.

“Old days I’d have been old enough to drink and drive, and more than old enough to flirt, Joel.”

“That what you want? You want me to flirt with you?” His voice is low, almost a whisper.

You shrug and hold his gaze. “I think it’s what you want too. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I can’t see you.”

You have. He thinks he’s being discrete, but you’ve seen how his eyes linger on your legs, how he can’t help but drop his gaze to your chest when you wear something low cut. A few weeks ago you’d seen him adjust himself in his jeans when you stripped down to your underwear to bathe in a stream you’d come across after two days out searching for supplies.

“And how’s that?” He asks. You have to hold yourself back from leaning forward and kissing the worried crease of his mouth.

“Like you’re a man dying of thirst and I’m an oasis.”

He scoffs at that. “Shoulda been a writer, sweetheart.”

“And how does this story end?”

“Ends with you walking away from me like you should’ve months ago. This,” he flicks a finger at himself and then you, “ain’t happening.”

“Why not? You want it, I want it. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“Problem is,” he slides his arms off the sofa, reaching back to pull his shirt back up over his shoulders, “you think you know what you want, but you don’t.” He starts buttoning the shirt, fixing you with a stern look. “Trust me.”

He tries to stand but you put your hands on his knees, holding him in place.

“No way,” You say, your heart thumping in your chest, “you don’t get to decide what I do or don’t want.”

“What do you want? You want me to fuck you? Want me to spread your pretty little legs out across this couch and make you come on my tongue?”

Yes. God, yes.

“What if I do? What if that’s exactly what I want you to do?” You slide your hands further up his legs, holding him down on the couch. If he wanted to, he could push you off easily, but he doesn’t. When your fingertips reach the tops of his thighs he slides his hands over your wrists and pins them where they are, stopping you moving any higher.

“Find someone your own age, sweetheart. Someone whose knees don’t creak when the stand up. Someone who can make you happy.” And then he’s standing up, moving your hands off of him with ease, stepping around you in the kitchen chair to stride to the other side of the room, the tension collapsing in on itself as he tells you to get some sleep, that there’s more work to do tomorrow.

*****

The next morning brings rain. It hammers against the walls of the cabin and drips in through the leaky roof. Joel stands at the window, one hand on his hip, silently looking out at the downpour.

“Tell me you’re not considering going out in this?” You say, moving up behind him to peer out at the lashing rain.

“Might ease up later.” He says, turning to face you. “There’s enough to do in here to keep us occupied, anyway.”

“Guns?” You ask.

“Guns.” He agrees.

Joel’s fanatical about keeping the guns clean and working. It makes sense, you suppose. You don’t know much about his past, about how he and Ellie ended up in Jackson, but what you’ve heard, the snippets Ellie’s confided in you over quiet conversations, makes for grim listening. To Joel, those guns mean the difference between life and death.

And so you both sit at the kitchen table, meticulously cleaning Joel’s shotgun and your pistol, passing cloths and gun oil between you. You make casual conversation as you go, neither of you touching on the events of the previous evening. After he dismissed you last night you’d gone straight to bed, tucked yourself into the dusty single bed in the bedroom while Joel took the couch. Your dreams had been hazy and pleasant, and you’d woken up flushed.

You’re sliding the magazine back into your pistol when Joel jumps and swears, pulling his hand back from where he’s trapped his finger in the loading mechanism of the shotgun. A tiny bead of blood wells up and spills over his fingertip and he sighs heavily. You reach out and take his hand in yours to examine the cut. It's tiny - you've seen paper-cuts do more damage - but Joel's frowning like he's in pain.

“You’ve gotta stop being so clumsy.” You say.

“I’m not clumsy.” He replies, letting you turn his hand in yours, watching you watch his thick fingers, take in the breadth of his knuckles.

“No?”

“No. It’s-”

You're not sure what makes you do it - maybe it's frustration still boiling over from yesterday, maybe it's the way Joel looks at you as you clasp his large hand in your own smaller one - but before he can finish speaking you pull his arm across the table and wrap your lips around his finger. You snake your tongue over the pad of the digit and the noise he makes then - a breathy, broken groan - sends fire surging through you, heat coiling between your thighs.

“Distraction.” He finishes.

When you pull your mouth away and place a wet kiss to the palm of his hand, he slides his fingers across your jaw and up into the mess of your hair. His hand is hot against your scalp, curving around the back of your neck, leading you forward so that he can fit his mouth against yours across the table.

Pleasure flutters out from the pull of his fingers in your hair, and his lips are soft and dry until he opens his mouth to you, guiding your tongue into his mouth, pressing his into yours. It’s slow at first. Tentative, as though he’s waiting for you to push him away. But you’ve never wanted anything more, and when you moan against his lips he stands, bracketing your face with both hands to pull you up from your own chair.

It’s a messy walk backwards from the table. You bump against the broken coffee table, pull away from his mouth to curse and rub your shin, but then he’s falling back onto the couch, pulling you down into his lap so that your thighs are bracketing his legs.

You pause like that, looking at each other, both breathless and dazed, lips bruised.

“This what you want?” He asks again, placing his hand at your jaw gently. His fingers are thick, hand so large that his thumb rests at your temple and while his index finger sits under your chin.

“I want you, Joel. Please.”

When he kisses you again, it’s hungry and animalistic. All pretence of hesitation is gone. He presses his mouth to your throat, lets his teeth scrape the delicate skin below your ear.

“This is still a bad idea.” He says, voice breaking when you roll your hips against his. ”Shit.”

“Please, Joel.” Your voice sounds tiny, shrill to your own ears, desperate and pathetic, but Joel bites at the juncture of your neck and it doesn’t matter, nothing matters except the feel of his hands on your hips, guiding you against him, pulling your clothed cunt against where he’s impossibly hard in his jeans.

“I’m gonna take this off.” He says, pulling at your shirt, tugging it up over your head. “And this.” He runs a hand over your covered tit, pinches your nipple beneath the thin fabric of your bra, rolls it between his finger and thumb while his other hand slides up your back and unclasps it. It falls between you, forgotten immediately.

“Fuck, darlin’, look at you.” He says, running the knuckle of his index finger over the swell of your chest, down along your ribs and across one hip. He lets his hand fall away, brings it back up to the side of your face, pulls your lips back to his and drags your bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth.

Pain and pleasure blossom through you, make you scrabble at the buttons of his shirt, fingers shaking as you try and get them undone. He helps, slides the shirt off of his back, careful where his shoulder is still sore. He balls it up and casts it across the room, then grips your hips and lifts you, turning you onto your back on the sofa, pressing himself between your open thighs. The change in angle presses the seam of your jeans against your clit, a jolt of pleasure rocking through you.

“You ever done this before?” He asks, hovering over you, dipping down to press a chaste kiss against your collarbone.

“I ain’t that innocent, Joel.” You reply, gasping when he pulls your nipple into his mouth, teasing it with his teeth. “Have you?”

This earns you a deep chuckle, a hushed whisper against the back of your neck, “I’ve been doing this since before you were born, baby.”

And, fuck, that shouldn’t turn you on so much but it does. It has your hips lifting up, seeking out friction. Joel notices and slides down your body, dropping onto his knees on the floor. He runs one hand up the inside of your thigh, presses his thumb expertly against your covered clit.

“I’m gonna take these off now, and then you’re gonna come on my tongue. That sound okay?”

You nod, voice lost as he undoes the button on your jeans and pulls them down in one motion, pushing them away in the direction of his discarded shirt.

“Look how wet you are for me already.” He glides two fingers over the front of your soaked underwear, up to the waistband to hook them off.

And then he leans forward, presses light kisses up your thighs until he reaches your cunt. He pauses, blows a cool strip of air against you that has you trying to close your legs, but his hands are there, pinning them open for him. When he seals his lips over your clit and drags his tongue over it you thread your fingers through his hair, pull at the black-grey strands. You squeeze your eyes shut but he pulls away, chastises you gently.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.” His voice is like molten chocolate, rich and dark, pulling you back so that you gaze down at him.

He swipes his tongue over your slit, gathers the slick that’s pooling there. He’s like a man possessed, eyes dark, hair standing up on end from where you’ve run your hands through it, cursing and moaning as he slides his tongue over your clit, starting up a firm and consistent rhythm that has you bucking against him. His hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises, his forearms corded with muscle, biceps flexing up to those impossibly broad shoulders.

“You gonna come on my tongue?” He asks, hardly breaking away from you to grunt out the question.

“Yes, Joel, fuck, please.” You can’t seem to form a coherent sentence, can hardly force yourself to keep your eyes on him where he kneels between your thighs like you’re an altar and he’s a lonely priest begging for repentance. It’s this thought – the idea of him worshipping you, tongue lapping over your clit, his eyes blazing with lust – that tips you over the edge. Your cunt clenches around nothing, body wracked with pleasure as you come, hard, on his tongue. He grins into your cunt as he feels you come apart against him, continues pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your pussy as you come down from the high, limbs shaking. When you finally push him away, overly sensitive and buzzing with pleasure, he rocks back on his heels, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Your pleasure is painted across his face, his greying stubble wet with your slick.

He crawls back up onto the couch between your thighs, dips his head to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lip; on his tongue when he sweeps it against the back of your teeth, heady and sweet. He presses himself against you, drags the front of his jeans over your bare skin. The buckle of his belt catches against your bare stomach and you hiss into his mouth, reach down to unbuckle it. It comes off easily, falls to the floor with a dull thud, and then you slip your fingers through the buttons of his jeans, undo them quickly, desperate to get them off. He stands briefly, pushes them the rest of the way down his thick thighs and then kneels back between your legs. Immediately you slide your hand into the waistband of his briefs. He feels like velvet wrapped around steel, hot and delicious in your fist. He groans into your mouth as you palm him desperately, sliding delicate skin over the head of him, feathering the pad of your thumb against his slit. When you draw his cock out you break away from his needy mouth to look. He’s big: thick, curving slightly to the left, head already weeping precum.

“Fist feels so good wrapped around my cock, sweetheart.” He tells you, “You gonna let me fuck you?”

It’s the easiest yes you’ve ever given. He chuckles darkly at your needy reply, pushes his briefs the rest of the way off and wraps his own fist around his cock. He slides himself over your cunt, coating himself in your juices. Then he’s notching the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, sucking in a breath as he pushes in gently, slowly, stretching you out deliciously.

“Good girl,” He murmurs, easing himself deeper, feeling you flex and clench around him, “good fucking girl.”

He stills when he’s fully seated inside you, sucks at a spot under your jaw that makes you gasp with pleasure, runs one big palm up your body to paw at your breast, trying to collect himself, twitching inside you with the effort of staying still.

“Cunt’s so goddamn tight, baby.” His voice is broken, pitchy and breathy against your ear.

You run your hands over his back, feeling out the breadth of his shoulders, the thin scars that lace across them, his muscles bunching and flexing beneath your fingers when he finally – finally – starts to move inside you, rocking his hips into yours, dragging himself all the way out and then gliding back in. The head of his cock hits something inside you that sends white hot pleasure jolting through your belly. The cabin is silent now – the rain has stopped – the only sounds are your frantic breathing and low, breathy moans, and Joel’s whispered praises as he rocks against you.

Good girl, so fucking good for me, letting me fuck you like this, cunt so tight around me, could come just thinking about it.

It’s dirty and sloppy and fucking incredible. The power you’ve seen him exert on infected and drunkards and raiders suddenly coiled over you, his muscles pulling you taunt against him when he changes the angle, sits up, pulls you with him so that you’re riding him, his cock somehow buried deeper in your cunt, your thighs bracketing him. You can feel yourself growing closer to release again, pleasure notching up in your belly like fire spreading. Joel shifts slightly again, makes space for his hand to come between you, places his thumb against your clit and presses, draws out slow, gentle circles that match the pace of his thrusts.

“Need my thumb on you clit while my cock’s buried inside you, sweetheart? Gonna come again just like this, huh? Dirty fucking girl.”

His words are like fuel on the fire and within seconds you’re moaning and shaking, cunt clenching around him as you come, harder than before, on his cock. Joel fucks you through it, keeps the steady pressure on your clit.

“Gonna make me come in this tight little pussy,” He says, and you know you shouldn’t, know you should make him pull out, but he feels so good inside you that you grind down on him telling him yes, please, fist your hands into his hair to pull his mouth against yours. The kiss is desperate and messy, all teeth and tongue. He hisses into your mouth as you buck your hips and drive them down on him, and then he’s swearing, fingers digging hard into your hips.

"Jesus, you feel so fucking good, baby, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna- shit.” He pulses inside you, painting your cunt with his come, hot and wet inside you.

You continue rocking against each other, slowly, coming down from the high. When he slides out of you and shifts away the old sofa groans out in protest, springs creaking. It makes you laugh, breathless, racking laughter than drives away the sudden realisation of what you’ve just done, of how you’ve indelibly changed the way you look at each other, the relationship between you.

“That was… fucking hell, Joel, that was incredible.”

He’s looking at you sideways, his hair still a mess, stubble still coated with your slick. He’s naked and vulnerable and you think it might just be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. When he leans across to slot his lips against yours you grin against him, trying not to think about what happens next.

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