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inasunlitroom · 14 days ago

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offers

pairing: joel miller x f!sex worker!reader

wc: 5.2k

summary: Joel comes back to you like clockwork. He has a proposition for you.

part 1 & 2 to cherry

warnings: age gap (20s/50s), smut [f!receiving oral, semi-public car sex], praise kink, reader is a sex worker, protective and defensive Joel, misogyny, smoking (reader), reader briefly soliciting a man who is not Joel and is fairly degrading to her (they don't sleep together), poverty and issues and dangers that come along with that, mentions of hunger and eating, mentions of violence and self destructive tendencies, very hurriedly edited

a/n: please let me know what you think! thank you for reading!

Joel becomes your regular.

Each Friday, you shimmy into a too short dress and make the long drive out to the club, far enough away from the town you live and work in to avoid anyone you might know.

You smoke, and drive with the windows down, listening to the ancient rattle of the engine, the whine that sounds like a threat, the slow buckling of delicate machinery.

The very last thing you can afford is a mechanic. The tenuous tightrope you walk would snap beneath your feet, send you plummeting into the abyss of true financial disaster.

It makes you sick, a curl of dread settling in your chest, writhing in the pit of your stomach along with all your other woes, until you turn on the radio to drown out the thoughts, drown out the sound of the failing engine.

One wrong move and your whole life collapses before your eyes. The shame that wells up into the back of your throat is debilitating, to have to return home and look your mother in the eyes and say she was right, going to school was a fool’s dream, a mistake that could fill oceans of other worlds.

So each Friday, you swing through the doors of the club, little red purse on your shoulder, fingers adjusting the hem of your dress that barely covers your ass, ready to work.

Since meeting Joel, things have been a little easier. He tips well and you’ve been able to afford better groceries, have time to relax on Saturdays because you don’t need to work again.

He pays you so much, you feel guilty for accepting it. Then nauseated because you’d fucked him for it, and finally shame for the whole terrible cycle. Guilt for being paid, when he was the one seeking out a whore in the first place.

Still, he’s gallant compared to most and you don’t dare to let yourself assume Joel will be there.

But each Friday, Joel is already there, patiently waiting for you at the bar like he never left in the first place.

The static edges of your brain immediately settle, your worries fade from your mind. It gives you one less thing to fret over. Joel is familiar now. You know how to handle him, what he probably wants you to say and do, what gets him off the quickest, what he enjoys the most.

You don’t have to try on a new personality, carefully consider and construct each word you speak, be the fantasy they want for a few hours.

With Joel that all sloughs away. You don’t have to think for the next few hours.

You aren’t willing to admit to yourself that you hardly put up a front with Joel. Often, the real parts of you unspool in his lap, your real worries and fears, desires and wants. He satisfies you like no man ever has, and you’ve told him things you don’t dare speak aloud in your real life.

Crystal chastises you, reminds you of the few things she’d taught you, the few rules that get her through this life unscathed, the first night you tossed yourself to the wolves and got burned.

They’re all the same. And if you start to think a man isn’t, he’ll just disappoint you. Her brow had lifted, lips puckering around a cigarette. Or break your heart.

Chastity, on the other hand, seems to think you’re in the beginnings of a Pretty Woman situation. She’s a romantic and not yet broken, peering out at the world through rose colored glasses, even here.

She encourages you. Even keeps Joel company until you get there some evenings, when you’re late on purpose just to see what he’ll do, half hoping sometimes that Crystal will smile and say someone else took him home with a knowing glint in her eyes.

But he’s always there, waiting patiently, guiding you out with a hand softly laid against your back, finger tracing your spine.

This evening, Joel is nowhere to be seen.

You’ve stalled long enough that Crystal stopped by the bar. She’d dug her nails into your arm and cautioned you again against relying on one man, smoke from her cigarette billowing into your face. “What are you going to do? Go home empty handed and cry? He isn’t here. Get over it and get on your knees.”

You’d shaken her off roughly. “I’m deciding.”

“Baby this is the busiest we’ve been in months. Take your fucking pick, huh?” Her cigarette ash had landed on your arm before she spun away, angry for god knows what reason.

Five minutes have passed since then, time allotted to yourself to cool down and stop the shaking in your hands, overstimulated from the amount of people in the room, Crystal’s closeness.

The room sways with heat, bodies jostling in cresting waves around you, bathed in unholy red light, neon and flashing. One of the dancers takes her top off and the din of men roaring at her makes something better ignored twists in your gut.

Before you can go work the crowd, a man sidles up to the bar, a beer bottle already in hand. You don’t look at him but you can feel his gaze, appraising, assessing.

You can’t wait any longer than you already have for Joel so you push your chest out and squeeze in your elbows. You let out a dreamy little sigh that sounds more like a moan, so your tits lift and fall, strain against the neck of your top.

The neckline of your dress is low, plunging between your breasts, already not much left to the imagination.

“Well, look at you. You don’t look like you’ve been run through yet.”

Men have said much worse to you. The disgust you feel barely registers, so it doesn’t show on your face, in your body language.

Not that he would notice if it did.

Instead, you assess him quickly.

What kind of woman did he want you to be? More like what kind of girl. He clearly thinks you’re young, maybe new to the job, naive even.

You giggle and turn toward him, fluttering your lashes. “Am I being that obvious?”

“Nah,” his eyes flick over you, hungry and wolfish in the dim, ruby light. “I’m just no stranger to a whore. How old are you, honey?”

Joel had once asked you the same question, though in a different tone, an agonizing, guilty one. This man clearly has no such qualms.

The back of his free hand presses into your thigh, sliding back and forth over your skin. His touch feels wrong, after so many weeks with only one man, too warm and a little damp and uncomfortable.

His hand looks ancient against your skin, leathery and unforgiving; the skin between the fingers dry and cracked.

Joel’s broad palms flit to the forefront of your mind, the familiar creases and grooves, scarred and seasoned and skilled. You dream of those hands, long for their firm touch on your skin, between your legs and in your mouth.

You like the way Joel’s hands look against your skin, aged by not old.

You push Joel from your mind and keep your eyes down, blinking shyly. Nineteen year old you, new to this, embarrassed at being called a whore maybe. “Just turned nineteen last week.”

“Well happy birthday, sweetheart.”

You giggle again and fidget a little when he curls his hand around your leg, then shifts his fingers to the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your cunt. Testing you, seeing if you’d squirm.

You do a little and he grins. “You like that?”

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly and turn toward him. “I could, um, I could make you feel good too?”

“Aw,” he lifts his hand to run a finger along your cheek, the edge of your mouth. “How many men you fucked so far?”

You count on your fingers, pretending to think. In your peripheral vision, you watch his grin grow. “Four? So far. But one of them fucked me a couple times.” Your voice is bright, a little defensive of your single digit number.

“Only need one hand to count ‘em all up? You are green, girl.”

He releases his beer and runs his finger along the bust of your dress. Crimson light pulses over his face, convulsive and metamorphic. His touch makes your skin crawl, beads of moisture slip over his fingers and onto your skin.

It’s unpleasant to say the least. The wooden bar feels far away and sticky beneath your elbow, his touch rough and demanding when he gropes you, pinching your nipple.

You moan quietly, biting your lip until he releases you. “Oh, I guess so.”

This corner of the bar is dark, and although the club is packed, there’s a breadth of space between you and the next person at the bar. It’s clear he wants to look at your tits, so you turn toward him, your back to the crowd, and push your chest into his hands.

“And so fuckin’ sweet,” his hand trails higher on your leg. A familiar floating feeling overcomes you, your mind slipping away from your body, the comfortable distance your mind provides from the world. Only distantly do you realize you haven’t felt that with Joel in awhile. “You wanna suck my cock and I’ll be your lucky number five?”

“Yes,” you murmur.

He laughs and squeezes you hard. “How much you cost?”

You open your mouth when you catch sight of a familiar shadow across the room. Joel, ever faithful, apparently, just a little late.

Dizzying relief washes over you, followed by a self loathing so intense you feel it curdle and squirm in your belly.”

You widen your eyes at him, then glance away. If you want me, come get me.

The man next to you doesn’t notice, too busy staring at your chest, sliding one finger beneath the neck of your dress, pinching your bare nipple when he gets to it, muttering in your ear about fucking you right here, showing everyone what a little slut you are. His breath is hot on your skin.

A shadow falls over you.

“Howdy, Cherry.”

“Joel!” You jerk back in feigned surprise.

The man releases you reluctantly, hand sliding back from your leg and chest. Your chest feels sore from his clumsy ministrations and not in a pleasant way. “Oh god,” you say, clasping the man’s hand against the counter. “I’m so sorry. I totally forgot I was meeting Joel.” You roll your eyes, the picture of a too ditzy girl.

“Well, now, honey, see, we already agreed—”

The shadow looming over you seems to grow thicker. Joel’s hand slots firmly against your back.

The man clears his throat, “Hey all right, I get it.” He looks at you again, one last soul sucking appraisal. “I’ll find you some other time then, baby.” His hand lands on your ass and squeezes before he pulls away.

Joel starts to turn after him, but you hook a hand against his elbow. “No. Don’t, please. That’s just part of it.”

“He ain’t got the—”

“Joel.”

He meets your gaze, eyes flicking over you, assessing for a long moment. “All right. You okay?”

“Of course I am,” you dismiss.

You tuck your hand in his elbow and tilt your head toward the door. But he doesn’t budge. “I’m serious.”

You blink. “So am I, sweetheart. That was nothing.”

“Nothin’,” he scoffs and shakes his head, but gently guides you ahead of him.

Joel walks you across the crowded club as he has for many, many weeks in a row now. Too many weeks. You feel the penetrating, disapproving gaze of Crystal on your back.

No doubt she saw him start to turn, how defensive the slope of his shoulders have been. It scares you a little, too, that he apparently feels that protective over you. A bigger part of you likes it, feels safe in the cup of his palm.

The air outside is hot, penetrating in its humidity but not stifling with the acrid tang of sweat and wanting bodies. Spring had long since transitioned to summer. Even there, in the desolation of the long concreted strip of this poor industrial area, you can hear the songs of night bugs.

“Not everyone is as gentlemanly as you, as I’ve been telling you for many months,” you remind him. “That’s just how they are. They want to treat me like a whore and I let them.”

Joel’s jaw is clenched tight, and for a moment he doesn’t answer. “Yeah,” he acquiesces when you reach his passenger side door. “Don’t mean it’s right.”

“Remember the night we met? And I said if you were a different kind of man I’d say I was freshly eighteen?”

“Yeah,” he answers warily.

You lean against the side of the truck. “Well, he’s that kind of man, sweetheart.”

He’d wanted to defile you, make you feel the grimy life you’d entered into. The worse part was, as used to it as you were, it still would have stung. He still would have made you feel like trash.

Joel doesn’t say anything for a moment, his gaze persistent in sweeping you from head to toe and back again. You wish he wouldn’t have seen what he did, because it seems to have unsettled him. He buzzes with a violent, rattled energy. “I didn’t like seein’ him touch you like that.”

Your stomach sours, a pit opening up that your anxiety plummets through. Fuck. You’re ruined in eyes. Can’t pretend you’re anything other than what you are now.

“I’m sorry you had to,” you breathe. “Really. I thought you weren’t coming. I’m saving to fix my car so—”

Joel shakes his head. “Ain’t what I meant.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He opens the door for you, and, like always, gives you a palm to balance on as you settle into the cab.

The answer never comes.

Instead of shutting the door and moving back around the cab, he braces one thick forearm against the open door, and looks you over. Joel hooks his opposite hand against the back of your knee, thumb rubbing a soft circle into the flesh.

You reach for him, untucking the hem of his shirt from his jeans to run your fingers along his belly, the indents of hidden hipbones. You get as far as unbuttoning his jeans when his free hand captures both of yours. “Hold up. I need to. . .We gotta talk.”

“Oh?”

“How do you—” He stops and thinks for a moment and you wait, touching him lightly again when he releases your hands. Joel’s skin is warm against your hands, sweat beading on his sides in the heat.

You tuck your fingers in the waistband of his jeans. His face is shadowed and hard to read. “What? Whatever it is, I want to give it to you.”

“Ain’t that,” he says, breath hitching a little. He coils his fingers around your wrists and holds them still. You let your fingers go slack in his and he squeezes. “Hell with it,” he mutters, glancing up at you to search your eyes. You tilt your head, waiting. “I worry about you damn near all the time and—”

A bright red flag swings up in your mind and you bristle, hackles raising. You keep your voice sugary sweet anyway. “Do I need to remind you of what this is? I’m not your girlfriend, Joel—”

“I know.” He interrupts, thumb tracking back and forth over the back of your hand. It sparks a confusing warmth. “That isn’t what I meant. We go through this song and dance every week, me comin’ here and pretending like we don’t know what’s about to happen.” He shakes his head and doesn’t continue, eyes fastened to the ground for a long moment as he thinks.

His jaw works, muscle straining in his throat. Sweat beads in the hollow and you wish more than anything to taste him, sweep your tongue up his throat, feel the bristles of his beard on your lips.

You meet his gaze and hold it for a long moment when he glances back up, deciding that you believe him, that he understands. “Say it,” you murmur softly, sitting up so your faces are close together, his breath falling over your lips. “Tell me.”

The muscle in his cheek twitches, fingers tightening on your wrists, like you might disappear once the words flood out. “I want you to come to the hotel, stop comin’ to this godforsaken place. Just come to me.”

“You’re asking for—you want. . .exclusivity?”

“I guess so,” he sighs, slowly releasing your hand to rub his jaw slowly, nodding almost to himself. “I’ll send you money every Friday, even if I can’t make it out here. Book the hotel, so you can still get away if you need to. If you need somethin’ I want you to tell me. For groceries, rent, hell, I can get your car fixed—”

He seems in no mood to stop talking for once, so you cut him off, shock rolling through your body from head to toe. Already the lines between you are blurred, twisted together into something more than just paid for sex.

This is something else altogether. Uncharted, dangerous waters.

“Joel, wait, hold on. I think. . . you’re describing a sugarbaby,” you point out and he winces. “I don’t mean to offend you, but can you afford something like that?”

“You don’t gotta worry about that.”

“Kinda do,” you say, tilting your head to keep his eyes on yours. “It’s, like, the whole point.”

“I mean I’m good for it.”

You eye him, still unsure. You like Joel, but you aren’t stupid enough to trust any man at his word. “Are you serious?”

He dips his head. “Yeah.”

It’s a much more intimate and personal, formal, arrangement. How much he would expect from you, what he would pay you?

You say as much.

“I know. We got things to talk about. For now, would ya consider it?”

“Yes.” The agreement jumps out of you before you can stop it. There’s no harm, you tell yourself, no harm in thinking about it, talking about it.

Joel slides his broad, warm, achingly familiar palm up your thigh instead, leaving your fingers hooked into his belt. You stroke your thumbs there, and his breath catches, sways in the warm breeze around you.

It’s quiet for a long moment. The lot is desolate around you, the buzz, pop, and flicker of the streetlamp at the corner, the distant hum of traffic on the main road, and the ever present hum of cicadas your only company.

“Well, okay. Good.”

Your favorite word on his tongue, the sweet caress of it lodging in your belly, wanting.

“Do you want me to start calling you daddy?”

He chuckles, the sound pleasant and surprised, like a balm to your worry.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.” His eyes slide over you, hook into your gaze as his fingers trail up the inside of your thigh. “Don’t mean much, but I’m sorry for being late.”

“It means something. I really didn’t want to suck that guy’s dick.” You pluck at his belt buckle again, but leave it in place when his shoulders go still. “You want to tell me about it, sweetheart? Why you were late?”

He pushes you back across the seats, the leather is warm against the wings of your shoulders. The encroaching darkness paints him in shadow, hands warmer than the humid air when they press your knees wide. “This is what I want.”

“Okay.”

Joel looks up at you, then around the deserted parking lot. Some of the lust clears from his gaze.

“This parking lot has seen much worse, Joel.”

You get the sense that he’s forcibly letting go, unfurling, untangling the hesitation. You spread your legs wider, trying to show him it’s fine, you don’t mind. It’s not like you have a whole lot of honor to defend in any case, and the parking lot is deserted besides

He leans over you, huge in the door of the truck, imposing.

Thick fingers tug your underwear to the side, slide through the folds of your pussy, already damp. “C’mere,” he says, the slurred word like a command, arm threading behind your back to tilt your hips in his direction.

The position is slightly uncomfortable until Joel squeezes your thigh and shifts your leg a little, bent against the seatback.

His gaze locks on yours, intense and dark, one finger pushing into your slowly.

Heat blooms in your chest, travels to your throat to lie there in a thick heap. He slides a second finger into you, treading now familiar ground inside you. His fingers move at an agonizingly slow pace, building up the pulsing heat inside you. His face is shadowed, brows tugged down over his eyes in concentration.

You arch your back, a moan caught in your throat when he strokes your walls, thumb heavy against your clit, messily trailing back and forth across your pussy.

He fucks you slowly, watching your face until you squeeze your eyes closed and roll your hips against his hand, back arched against the seat.

You gasp when he presses his mouth to your cunt, lips sealing around your clit, tongue flicking before he sucks harshly.

You comb one hand through his hair, blinking down at him to watch him finger you, eat your pussy like a starved man. He groans quietly when you pull his hair, short locks falling through your fingers softly.

He grips your ass and pulls you closer, encouraging you to close your legs around his head.

The warm weight of an orgasm curls in your gut, twinning around your spine, reaching feathered hands between your ribs, a sharp contrast to the way his facial hair feels on your thighs, a rough burn that you adore.

He’s patient about drawing it out, taking it slowly from you, to wind your pleasure around his fingers like puppet strings.

Joel groans against you when your cunt pulses around his fingers, the pleasure he gives you like a slow moving storm, a gradual blooming through your veins, body straining to keep his mouth against you, until it passes and exhaustion replaces it.

His tongue sweeps through your folds, he retracts his fingers and you shiver when you feel his tongue dip inside you instead. Only when you whine does he pull away, swiping his fingers on a napkin in the door.

You sit up slowly and adjust your skirt, flip down the vizor to glance at your face. There’s something in your features that you like and don’t like, like you’re freshly fucked but, rosy eyed too, virginal.

It’s terrible.

Maybe Crystal is right and you’re playing with fire, asking to be ruined, but you don’t care. Not at that moment.

“Are you at the same hotel?” You ask, just to say something, snapping the mirror closed with a bit more force than you mean to.

“Yeah, same place as always.”

You lean forward and reach up to swipe your thumb against the seam of his lips instead of lingering on whatever you saw in your own face. “Did you think I’d agree?” You ask, pulling your hand away, sucking your thumb into your own mouth for just a second, to taste yourself from his mouth.

“I was feelin’ optimistic we’d, uh, spend the night together even if you told me to fuck off,” he answers, sounding distinctly flustered. The blue night air crests in gentle waves around his features. Nighttime seems to soften him.

You smile, “Well I still haven’t really said yes.”

“Yeah,” he nods, patting your thigh, tongue running over his bottom lip. “But I got a good feelin’. You hungry?”

“Hungry?” The word is foreign to you. You can’t remember the last time someone asked you if you were hungry. And the truth is you really are. You’ve been short on groceries for days and you can’t spare the money for that sort of thing. “I, uh—”

“Yes or no?” The question is gentle. “And I’m payin’. Clear?”

This is what he wants, you realize. Someone to take care of. The realization smarts, you aren’t good at being taken care of.

This is what you’ll have to deal with, if you say yes to him.

A fist closes around your lungs. The word is hard to produce for a long moment. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good.” Joel stokes your thigh again. “Good girl.” He pulls back and closes the door, leaving you momentarily disoriented. It feels as though your whole world has spun on its side with one question.

The drive is an exceptionally short one. It doesn’t even give you time to offer to blow him.

Five minutes down the highway, a lone shack sits at the side of the road. Yellow and pink neon light blinks down at you, an electric buzz in the air as Joel parks and you stand in line together. It’s the first time you’ve been in public with him somewhere other than the club.

Does he want everything that usually comes along with a sugarbaby? Paying for you and fucking, sure. But being out in public together? The companionship aspect?

You watch him, wondering if you want it. Wondering if you aren’t already living some part of it. Crystal’s words flash through your mind again.

“So, what’re you thinkin’ about?”

Joel is squinting at the sign, bathed in a pink glow. Your legs still feel shaky from his mouth and fingers and something in your belly clenches at the sight of him just standing there.

You peer at the menu with more ease than Joel seems to manage. “Need me to read it to you?” You ask, digging an elbow into his ribs softly.

“Ain’t that old.”

They have ice cream, which seems to be what most people have ordered. But you need real food, something that won’t make you sick after a bite or two on an empty stomach. “Fries. And a cherry coke.”

“Cherry, huh?” He slides an arm behind your back and squeezes your hip. Aside from a middle aged woman that glances at you sharply, no one pays you any mind. “That where the name comes from?”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, Yeah. So maybe I have a penchant for cherry.”

“Uh-huh. You sure you don’t want a burger or somethin’?”

The thought of having to perform for him later, fuck him, with a full belly makes you feel ill. “Very sure.”

He orders and pays and you try not to feel weird about him buying you a three dollar basket of fries and a coke. Especially when he apparently wants to help you with rent and to fix your car. It chafes. You hadn’t sacrificed, entered this life at all, to have someone else take care of you.

You sit on the lowered tailgate of the truck and listen to the fuzzy sound of the radio playing from the shack, slowly eating one fry at a time, watching Joel’s hands, the curve of his knee hitched on the bed of the truck, pressed into your hip, the other extended toward the ground.

The night is exceedingly calm, the air balmy and a little cooler than in the city.

One by one the other diners toss their trash and drive away in a cloud of red dust, leaving you and Joel looking out over the pocked, jagged landscape alone.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says eventually. “You sure you’re all right?”

He’s still thinking about that other man.

You grin and rub a comforting hand against his forearm. “Just thinking about what you said. Do you come here a lot?”

He shakes his head and lets you put your legs into his lap as you sip your drink, crushing his burger wrapper in his hands. “First time. I drive by it every time I come through this way though. Usually busy.”

“How’d you know I was hungry?” You ask, offering him your drink.

“I pay attention,” he says, taking a long sip.

You chew on your bottom lip. A ring of truth crowds his words. By Friday, you’re usually on your last couple bucks and hungry. Have you been hungry every time you were with him? You hadn’t even noticed.

You don’t have a sharp, witty come back for him, not this time. Being exposed to the night air, stars winking bright in the sky above you, the soft singing of the shack’s owner makes an intense melancholy wrap around your chest. You feel small suddenly, and like you’re making all the wrong choices, that none of it will matter in the end. Your family will still be right about you.

Joel rubs your calf slowly and seems content to sit in silence. You chew on the end of your straw and watch him. “You know you’ve never kissed me?”

“Yep.”

If he were any other man, you wouldn’t dare ask. You brace anyway, because you’ve learned the hard way that they can flip on a dime. “You don’t want to?”

He thinks for a moment. “I wasn’t sure it was somethin’ you did. And I didn’t want to—Jesus, I already felt so bad about what I was doin’.”

Expectation lingers in his gaze, a question unasked. “Some men don’t like it, so I always wait for them to do it.”

“Don’t like it?”

“Who wants to kiss the mouth of a dirty little whore?” You say lightly, a joke but not really. “Putting your cock there is fine, of course.”

He clears his throat and seems ashamed for some unfathomable reason. “Don’t get all guilty about it, Joel. I really do like blowing you.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. He hesitates, then says, “I like eating your pussy, since we’re exchangin’ truths.”

You laugh, the sound exploding out of you. He grins when you clutch your belly. He doesn’t often smile with his whole face, and he’s more handsome for it when he does. “Well,” you laugh, “I didn’t need you to tell me that. It’s painfully obvious.”

“Uh-huh. C’mere.”

Tears of mirth are still rolling down your cheeks when he pulls you close and kisses you. It’s surprisingly chaste, or at least begins that way. His tongue sweeps in against yours when you open your mouth. It’s intoxicating and intimate and you don’t ever want to stop. You can feel his beard scrape your cheeks and lips and you like the sharp feeling of it.

He tastes like cherry coke.

“Cherry,” he says against your mouth when he eventually pulls back, “Yeah, I get that now.”

#fucking obsessed #so excited you’re back!!#fic rec

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inasunlitroom · 16 days ago

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so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

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inasunlitroom · 16 days ago

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warm winter tones

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inasunlitroom · 21 days ago

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you would fuck that old man. i would fuck that old man. we are the same. hold my hand

#me with my beloved mutuals

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inasunlitroom · 24 days ago

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not to be that person but after regularly talking about it with a few friends and nothing ever seems to change, i wanted to put my thoughts out there in hopes that people are more mindful of some things going forward.

once again one person says something negative about taboo kink and tropes in this fandom (y’all know exactly where i stand on this so don’t even play) and (rightfully) everyone comes together with their pitchforks to fight that one person.

but when other writers and i post about the perpetual racism and ableism we face in this fandom; being called racial and ableist slurs, just to give y'all a slight idea of what we have to deal with — one of my closest friends on here was told, only a month ago, that they should become a SLAVE again (you read that right), on more than one occasion hateful anons have called her the r slur — the f slur — the b slur, and i was told that my people deserve the genocide they're facing and that i have no place in this fandom and instead should "fuck goats" and was called a terrorist, and on top of all that we’re continuously sent graphic rape and death threats. and yet when one of us makes even one post about it, it is crickets from y’all — from our fellow white writers and mutuals within a predominantly white fandom.

this might just be me and it may ruffle some feathers (obvs because it directly affects me and my poc friends in this community so i’m very tired and very pissed off) but y’all can complain about the fandom being isolating, unwelcoming, and torn apart all you want but until y’all actually talk about the blatant racism and ableism that is becoming increasingly more frequent around here and unless you rally in support the same way you do when some puritanical eighteen year old freak complains about the kinks we all collectively indulge in, we won’t see real change within the fandom. and someone once told me i was “too woke” for saying this but it needs to be said. minorities quite literally make up the backbone of this (and many other fandoms) and the literal hate speech thrown at us should take priority over a post about what some naive kid has to say about kink. i’m not saying it’s not a valid concern — it is, but i just think the fact that your poc peers are battling literal nazis regularly in this fandom should be talked about as well.

so until then, your takes and think pieces about the discourse and disparities within this fandom and all your words about hope for a safe, more inclusive and welcoming community don’t hold any weight because your actions don’t align with your words and it's deeply upsetting and disappointing. your poc followers/readers/writers/friends DO notice you not saying anything in our defense — we DO notice the lack of support. and honestly, i think there needs to be some serious self-reflection and action ASAP otherwise it will result in more of us leaving — never to be heard from again and that, to me, is a real fucking tragedy.

#this needed to be said

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inasunlitroom · 1 month ago

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Fran Drescher as Fran Fine – The Nanny (1993)

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inasunlitroom · 1 month ago

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Well, I am the romantic type.

#joel

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inasunlitroom · 1 month ago

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ROSEHILL COTTAGE The Holiday, 2006

#comfort film

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inasunlitroom · 1 month ago

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the only way to get what you want is to be brave enough to move towards it. if there is a willingness to be momentarily uncomfortable in order to live the life that calls from your heart then fear loses much of its claim over you and your decisions

#<3

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inasunlitroom · 2 months ago

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i really try my best to keep my blog discourse/drama free and i don’t want to keep dwelling on this but i do want to say my piece, since apparently people take such issue with woc speaking about the vitriol they’re facing on this site, but this is the last i’ll say about it. this last little while i’ve been noticing a pattern. a lot of you see minorities in fandom spaces and try to drive us out by sending us hate, abusing the anon button to say the most vile abhorrent things (using slurs, threatening rape, and telling us to kill ourselves and that we don’t deserve to be here, and on and on and on) and it’s unacceptable.

and if us speaking up about it upsets you, then you need to take a step back and sort out your priorities. we have every right to express our feelings when we’re being relentlessly dragged through the dirt. if we don’t talk about it and don’t support each other while shit like this happens, people will continue to ignore it and this behavior goes unchanged.

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inasunlitroom · 2 months ago

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you have me, you have me only

joel miller x reader you get (minorly) injured on patrol. joel does his best to patch you up and not worry too much. | jackson!joel, hurt/comfort, wound-patching, some blood, a jesse cameo, joel being joel, all that good stuff. | 4.2k a/n: part of the just and just as verse. not too soft but not too angsty, either. just another day after the end of the world, you know? thank you @mrsmando for your eyes on this! <3

___

"Almost there," you mutter. "Fuck."

The icy winter wind dulls the stinging in your palms to a numbness. The leather gloves you've had for half a decade stay tucked in your pockets. You don't want to ruin their lining with dirt and blood.

"How's the head?"

Jesse pulls up alongside you in a trot. The adrenaline from your patrol-gone-wrong pulses heavy at the top of your spine, your vision sharp and the whole world a little too loud around you as Jackson comes into view at the bottom of the hill. Your head, like the rest of you, throbs.

"I'll live."

He scoffs and his horse snorts as if agreeing with him. In truth, you're more pissed than injured, though it certainly looks like you lost a fight. Jesse's cheekbone will no doubt bloom purple tomorrow and his lip is still bleeding sluggishly. His jeans are splattered with gore, same as yours.

"Thanks for back there," he says.

You shrug and wince when it pulls at the skin of your side where you fell.

"You, too," you tell him with a grimace. "That was quick thinking with the brick."

You like him -- he's good at his job and he's a good friend to Ellie. You know Tommy and Maria are not-so-subtly training him to run this place someday if he wants to. As a patrol partner, you can't ask for much better. He knows all the routes and he's a good shot and his mom knows everything there is to know about everyone in town and sometimes he passes tidbits on to you.

But knowing your shit doesn't mean a damn thing in this world, sometimes. You can still get ambushed by infected on patrol and it can still fuck up your day.

He waves you off. "I just can't believe an elk chose our station to fucking die in."

"Tommy is going to shit himself when you tell him," you laugh. It pulls at your ribs. God, is there any part of you that didn't take a beating?

"He'll just be pissed he wasn't here."

Your horses reach the bottom of the hill and Jesse hesitates, the green scrap of cloth in his hand. The red one indicating an injured party peeks out from his pocket.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the clinic?"

"I'm fine," you say firmly. "I can patch up at home."

He eyes the cut on your forehead and your scraped palms but caves under your glare and waves the green flag.

"Joel makes the same face," he mutters. "Ellie does, too. Freaky."

The gates open and you grunt when you get off your horse, palms back to stinging.

"Joel's two expressions are pissed and annoyed," you say. “Not hard to pick one up.” You press the back of your hand to your forehead and it comes back tacky with blood. "Fuck."

"I don't think you'll need a stitch." Jesse holds his hand out for your patrol rifle and pats the neck of your horse. "I'll debrief and get these guys settled. You go home."

Normally, you'd protest. But you really just want to take a hot shower and sleep for twelve hours, so you nod and shoulder your pack carefully.

"Make sure you tell Tommy about beating a stalker to death with a brick," you call over your shoulder. "He'll be impressed."

Jesse laughs.

Snow crunches under your boots on the way home. Fuck, you're exhausted. The adrenaline fades with each step and the aches become sharp pains. There aren't too many people out today on account of the cold but you nod and wave, ignoring the double takes at the blood on your clothes.

It'll be a pain in the ass if you can't patch the ruined knees of your jeans. Maybe you can convince Joel to carve something for the woman down the street who can sew better than anyone in town. Finding new pants is damn near impossible.

You’re practically dragging your feet by the time you reach your house. The mailbox labeled Miller, the wind chimes gently swaying on the porch, all of it puts you at ease. You made it home.

The porch steps groan as you climb them and the front door opens from the inside as you reach the top. Joel steps out, hand still on the knob when he looks up and sees you. His eyes widen.

He was on patrol today, too. You left at the same time but he had a shorter route and must have gotten back a while ago.

"Are you coming to meet me?" you say with a grin that's genuine despite the way your body pulses with pain. He does this sometimes -- milling around the gate, chatting with people on the wall as he waits for you to return. You never really feel like you're home until you see his face.

Joel does not smile back. His eyes rake over you the same way he surveys a room, cataloging all of the important things. The gash on your temple, the rips in your jeans, the way you're favoring your left side. The blood, too -- it's everywhere, you're sure. Palms, knees, collar. Jesse helped you wipe your face before you rode back so that you could see without blood in your eyes, but you must look pretty fucking rough.

"Jesus," he says. His hand twitches like he's going to reach for you. "You okay?"

"I'll be better when I'm not standing out in the cold."

His nostrils flare and he heads back into the house, you on his heels. You dump your pack and sit down heavily on the bench to take off your boots. Joel beats you to it, lowering to one knee with a slight groan, fingers working at your laces.

Normally he'd ask how patrol was, how Jesse did, if you saw anything interesting. Instead, his cheek twitches like he's clenching his jaw so hard it hurts. He unties your double knots with practiced ease and his silence fills the entryway of your house.

In another life, the sight of him on one knee would set your heart aflutter. As it is, you want to run a hand through his hair and smooth the worry lines on his forehead. You know him and this is how he handles it -- he chews on blame that doesn't belong on his shoulders until he can fix it.

"I'm fine," you say softly. You open and close your hands, resting them on your knees. You got most of the gravel out but there's dirt and god knows what else embedded in the tender flesh. Joel pulls off one boot with a firm hand on your calf and then the other before finally looking up at you.

"You wanna explain...this, then?"

His hand waves up in your general direction. There's no tremble in his palm but his brows are furrowed, his shoulders set in that way of his, like he's bracing for bad news. You have a rule about not lying to each other. So if you say you're fine, you're fine. Achey, bloody, and gross, sure. But you made it home in one piece and now you'll let him take care of you and he has to be okay with that.

But you don't mind reassuring him. He worries, and you know the feeling.

You shrug and fail to hide your wince. Joel wraps a hand around your ankle and squeezes lightly.

"I've had worse," you say. "I'll tell you about it if you patch me up."

He softens a little and sighs. It won't do anything to remind him that he can't go back in time and stop you from getting hurt. Joel knows he can't fix everything, can't keep everyone he loves away from harm, can't save the world. Won't, if it comes at the expense of the people in his heart.

But you can give him something to do -- a way to make it better. You could probably bandage your hands and your forehead and the rest on your own but it'll help him just as much as you if he does it.

Life in this world is a constant give and take. You have to be okay with some things, with cuts and bruises and ruined clothes if it means you survived. There's no safety, not anymore.

"Alright, c'mon," he says, standing with a groan. "Upstairs, 'fore you bleed on the furniture."

He holds out a hand for you to stand but you show him your mangled palm. Joel clicks his tongue and grips your forearm gently instead as you rise.

"Gotta clean that," he says.

"That's the plan." You leave your coat and pack behind in a heap and head for the stairs. "A hot shower sounds so fucking good right now."

Joel stops you with a hand on your elbow and you turn on the bottom step. He traces the cut on your forehead with light fingers and you try not to wince.

"Shower," he says. "I'll patch you up after." His tone leaves no room for argument.

You ghost your fingertips along his jaw and smile at him.

"Yes sir, Mr. Miller, sir."

More tension melts from his shoulders and he rolls his eyes at you. You laugh all the way to the bathroom, even though it hurts a little.

It's been a while since one of you returned from patrol with any sort of injury. Winter means the hoards are sluggish and easy to track and tends to keep groups of people from coming to the valley and making trouble. Today was bad luck and could have been much worse.

You both know how quickly all of the good in your lives can be snatched away. Everyone does.

But you just can't dwell on it. Joel knows it, too, and letting him fuss over you in that way of his will remind him. You're home. You're okay.

You leave the bathroom door cracked as you shower under the gentle spray. Your various injuries sting but you manage to clean the scrapes on your knees and hands and wash the blood from your skin and hair, the water rusty brown as it swirls around the drain.

Joel knocks when you're almost done and the hinges groan when he steps into the bathroom.

"Leavin' you clothes," he says, voice raised so you hear over the spray. "You okay?"

"Still alive," you call back. "Almost done."

The water starts to turn lukewarm so you switch off the stream and drag back the curtain. Joel is nowhere to be found but he's left you loose shorts so your knees are exposed and a big, faded graphic t-shirt that you brought home for him as a joke last year as well as fresh underwear and warm socks. You gently pat your skin dry with an old and scratchy towel and do your best with your hair before sliding them on.

Joel knocks again and this time he has the bag with all of your first aid stuff in his hands. The steam from your shower rushes out into your bedroom and you shiver.

He jerks his chin at the counter. "Wanna get up there?"

You haul yourself up with a groan and he stands between your knees, arms crossed and head cocked.

"What're we dealin' with, here?"

You look down at your messy palms and rattle off what hurts.

"Cut on my forehead, bruised rib, probably, fucked up hands and knees, and..." You look up and find Joel running a hand down his face. "That's it."

"You sure?"

You glare at him. He glares back. His eyes drift to your forehead gash.

"Cut could use a stitch."

He's still tense, you can tell, probably will be until he wakes up tomorrow and you're still next to him in bed. Until the wounds turn to scabs turn to scars. Maybe not even then.

"I think I've had enough cuts over the years to know what needs a stitch."

His eyebrows rise just a little bit, turning his expression from interrogative to exasperated, but he knows better than to tell you to do something when you’ve set your mind against it.

"They're offerin' medical degrees on the Creek Trails, now?"

"Joel."

He holds his hands up in surrender. "Fine," he says. "Let me feel your ribs."

You raise your arms a little and he slides his palms under your shirt and up your torso, pressing gently as he goes. Braless as you are, he brushes the underside of your breast, and your breath hitches. His eyes are soft with quiet amusement but he doesn't tease you.

"Your hands are warm," you murmur. He reaches the place on your side that took the brunt of the impact and you hiss.

"Sorry," he says. "Doin' real good. Deep breath for me." You obey and he withdraws, satisfied.

"Nothin' broken," he says.

"Told you."

He hums and pulls out the precious few disinfectant wipes from your first aid kid. You can get Joel to do a lot of things just by asking, but arguing with him about wasting supplies on you never works. He washes his hands in the sink and glares are you like he knows what you’re thinking.

"Forehead first, then hands, then knees," he says. "Okay?'

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. He grips your face with gentle fingertips to keep you still.

"How was your patrol?" you ask him.

He makes a noise low in his throat that's halfway to being a laugh.

"C'mon," he says. "You don't want to hear about mine. I know you're dyin' to tell me what happened."

The alcohol wipe stings as he swabs at your forehead and you tense. Joel's thumb rubs slow circles at the corner of your mouth and you press your knees into his hips.

Funny how you've had broken bones, been stabbed, shot, pretty much everything over the last twenty years but it's the small stuff that hurts the most. Stubbed toes, sliced fingers, alcohol wipes on shallow wounds. Some things just don't change.

"Okay," you say. "Well, you'll never believe it, but a damn elk decided to die in the station where the logbook is."

You tell him how you and Jesse rode up and saw the blood trail immediately and heard the moans and groans. You kept the horses on the other side of the fence and checked the first floor and the overlook, but the elk had weaseled its way under the collapsed staircase.

It smelled like death, rust and decay heavy in the air. The animal must have died just after the last patrol.

But it wasn't the problem. It was the group of Infected it attracted -- two runners and four stalkers. You have no idea where they came from but, since you were on patrol, the priority was eliminating them. The runners were easier, although one of them was responsible for the gash on your forehead when it managed to push you into the wall. You and Jesse cleared them quickly, one bullet each.

You thought you got all of the stalkers. One of them was munching on the carcass and went down fairly easily with your good aim. Jesse helped you clean your forehead so you both could clear the passage to get to the upper level and sign the logbook. The corpses went over the side of the station into the forest below. The Infected had eaten so much of the elk that it wasn't too heavy, though you both were sweating and dirty by the time you finished.

"Lemme guess," Joel says. You open your eyes as he carefully pulls the wound closed with two butterfly bandages before he gestures for your hand. He holds your wrist gently and tilts your palm side to side, looking for dirt. "There were infected inside the station, too."

"Look at you," you tease. His eyes flick to yours for just a second, intense as always. "It's like you were there."

"Smartass," he grumbles. The disinfectant stings on your palm, too, but you keep talking and keep your gaze on his face.

"Jesse climbed the rope up to the control room first but had to fend off a stalker at the top so he didn't see when another one grabbed my ankle and pulled me down mid-climb, which fucked my hands. The fall is how my rib got bruised and I tore up my knees fending it off."

Joel's cheek twitches. He wraps one of your palms in gauze and turns his attention to the other.

"Fuckin' hate those things."

"Me, too. When I got to the top, finally, Jesse was tugging a pipe from the head of a corpse. There was one more -- it jumped out of that supply room on the side, the one where Ellie found a bong, once, I think. I dodged it but my gun jammed and my hands were bleeding."

"Should've been wearing gloves."

You tap his leg with your foot and ignore him. Not taking your bait about the bong means he’s still pissed. "And then Jesse killed it with a brick."

"I taught him that," Joel grumbles.

He ties off your other palm and as soon as he's done you frame his face. Joel allows it, allows you to stare at him for a few seconds like you're memorizing him. You're telling the story like it was a fun adventure -- and it was. You're plenty capable and he knows it, too.

But you were scared. You don't tell him that right now, instead grounding yourself in the man in front of you. His hands are rough and dangerous to most, but tender and careful to you. The broad, firm line of his shoulders, always braced for the next hit.

The gash on the bridge of his nose, the lines at the corners of his eyes. His beard, greyer every year. You swipe your thumbs along his cheekbones and he sighs.

"Lucky me," you say softly.

You lean in to kiss him, just a light press of your lips to his. His wide palms rest on your bare thighs and he kisses back with a kind of desperate firmness, as if he's proving to himself that you're real. That you're here in front of him, under his hands, in his care.

Joel drags his lips along your cheek.

"Knees," he says.

He steps back and releases your thighs with a squeeze. He treats more of your torn skin, a frown back on his face.

"I do want to hear about your patrol, by the way."

He shrugs. "Not much to tell," he says. "Didn't even get to shoot anythin’.”

You swing your foot back and forth, tapping the side of his thigh with every pass.

"But you had the nice route," you whine. "Tell me what the lake looked like."

"Quit distracting me," he grumbles.

"Like you don't have the steadiest hands in all of Jackson," you say softly.

He snorts. "Are you flirtin' with me?"

"I'm always flirting with you, Joel Miller."

You lied to Jesse earlier -- Joel has hundreds of expressions. He just keeps most of them for you. For Ellie, and Tommy, too. You know every one of them by now.

The look on his face now says he's thinking about kissing you again, maybe just to shut you up.

You grin at him. "Tell me about your patrol, now, seriously. Unless talking and using your hands at the same time is too much for you."

He smirks back. "Think we both know that ain't true."

"Now who's flirting?"

Lazy heat curls in your belly but fatigue stops it from turning into anything. Joel must see that in your eyes because he simply taps your chin with a knuckle and starts talking.

You start to slump as his Texas drawl wraps around you. He tells you how the lake was still, how he and Astrid saw bear tracks but no bear. How he found a tape for Ellie that he's going to give her tomorrow, how he wore his gloves today like you've been telling him to.

Some people might say that Joel is a man of few words. You thought he was the quiet type when you first met him, another stoic survivor in a world that demands hardness of everyone. But not shy, never shy. Just...waiting. Watching.

He and Ellie can shoot the shit for hours -- a dynamic they've fallen back into easily enough since they started spending time together again. He's funny, he's clever, he's annoying as shit when he wants to be.

And Joel is quite the storyteller. If you had to guess you'd say it comes from having to entertain Tommy when they were kids, from getting Sarah into bed on his own over and over. Keeping Ellie occupied, keeping her talking when things were scary and hard and fucking awful.

It's just another way he takes care of people.

"Still with me?" he says. You realize your eyes have closed. When you open them you find Joel looking at you with tenderness and a spark of amusement. The tense line of his shoulders is nowhere to be seen. "All done. Tired?"

"And hungry."

He washes his hands and throws away the various wrappers and blood-stained wipes.

"Sure you're awake enough to eat?" he teases.

You roll your eyes at him. He laughs.

"Joel," you say, catching his elbow. "Thank you."

"C'mon, now."

He looks like he wants to argue with you for saying it but reaches for you instead. He traces the cut on your forehead just like he did at the bottom of the stairs, brow drawn again. You can't tell what he's thinking as he drags his thumb down and around your eye, cupping your cheek fully for just a breath before releasing you and stepping towards the door.

"I'll heat some soup."

Dinner is quick and quiet, your energy sapped from you to the point of exhaustion. Everything aches, despite Joel's thorough care. When he suggests turning in early you don't protest.

He takes longer than you to get ready for bed. You slide under the worn duvet and wait, trying very hard to keep your eyes open. Your bruised ribs throb in time with your heartbeat and when Joel finally turns off the light and gets in bed next to you in his threadbare sleep pants he practically hauls you into his embrace.

You go willingly, tangling your legs and laying your head on the juncture of his neck and shoulder. You press your palm to his chest, fingers threading in the coarse hair. His heart thuds and it grounds you.

"I didn't get any good gossip off Jesse," you whisper. "On account of the whole surprise-infected thing."

He yawns. "S'pose it's a good excuse."

"Can I tell you something else?" you whisper. "A secret?"

Joel hums, lips brushing your temple as his hand snakes up your sleep shirt to press against your lower back.

Even though you know each other down to the bones, some things remain inexplicable. Parts of your pasts that linger in the darkest parts of you, the parts that stay shrouded until the moments like this. You don't have to be brave in the quiet hours of the night, entwined with him as you are. It's the safest place you'll ever be. Safe enough that you can crack open and let Joel in, let those steady and worn hands keep you together.

"I was scared today," you say into his neck. "When the stalker dragged me off the rope. I panicked, I --"

You don't tell him how your initial thought when you hit the ground was of him, how you closed your eyes tight and thought of your name from his mouth, of his smile when you come through the door. The stalker had its bony fingers digging into your ankle and you wondered if you'd ever feel Joel's hands on you again.

Death will come for you sooner or later and when it does it'll be Joel's face that you hold in your mind before it all ends.

But today, you kicked death until its stupid fucking mushroom skull caved in.

Joel presses his lips to your temple. You can feel his heart beating faster, as fast as yours. It's the only thing that betrays his own fear.

Wounds in this life often go deeper than the skin. When Joel comes home with bloody knuckles and shuttered eyes it's one thing to stop the bleeding, to bandage him and get him to eat something. It's another to hold him, to coax out the story, the fear. To follow him downstairs when he has a nightmare, to look for him in every room. It's all part of what you do as partners, as lovers, as people in this world. You take care of each other.

Neither of you can fix a lot of things. But you can ensure the scars heal into something light, something you can barely see.

You can hold each other in the dark.

"Scared me, too," he rasps. A secret for a secret. "Lotta damn blood."

You kiss the underside of his jaw. "Can't get rid of me that easy."

Joel pulls you closer, somehow, mindful of your side.

"Rest, now," he says. "You ain’t goin' anywhere."

It's a command, a promise. You hum your agreement and let sleep drag you under.

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

#<3 #fic rec

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inasunlitroom · 2 months ago

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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.

#crying #sobbing #this is so beautiful #fic rec

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