#joel miller x ofc

[visionsofyouandme]

pull the plug, make it painless

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜: A reveal changes everything for you and Joel.

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 2.7k

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜/𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜:  No Outbreak!dbf!Joel Miller x F!Reader. Reader has absolutely no descriptors other than having messy hair. Legal age gap (reader is at least in her 20s, Joel is in his late 40s-early 50s). Established secret relationship. Angst (and I mean ANGST). Reader has a named dad and a named major in college. Reader has MAJOR daddy issues. Swearing. No Sarah or Ellie. Open ending. Not proofread, as usual.

𝙰/𝙽: Well, I was craving some angst and, well... Here we are. I apparently love writing dbf!Joel because of my unresolved daddy issues? Idk. My therapist or a psychologist should definitely look into that... Anyway, if you guys want to see more of this dynamic let me know :) Happy reading!

“I can’t do this anymore.”

A beat of silence. Tension skyrocketed.

“Why?” 

Joel sat on the armchair in the corner of the hotel room, his eyes flitting up to yours. He was leaned over, about to tie his boots up. Sunlight was trying to peek in from behind the curtains, keeping both you and Joel in secrecy.

Secrecy that couldn’t be tolerated. Not anymore. 

He watched you as you pulled your suitcase onto the bed, facing it and started to attempt to fold things neatly to put in there. It was like you were struggling to find normalcy in the sea of emotion that caused the room to become too hot, too stifling, despite the icy weather outside of the lodge’s hotel room.

“Because. It’s getting to be too much. We’re rounding closer and closer to the edge, far too close to the sun. Somebody’s gonna find out.” 

Joel rose slowly, his heart hammering in his chest.

No. No, it couldn’t end like this.

“Darlin’, please-” he began, but you threw a pair of jeans down with an alarming force, rounding to him. You look infuriated, tears brimming in your eyes. He could see how upset you were, he knew all the tell-tale signs of it now. He knew you better than the lines on his hand, better than the certainty that the seasons will change. 

It had been a year of this. Of the sneaking around, of the stolen kisses, glances, touches. It was fun at first, you had just said moments before. But, he could see the slight tremble of your shoulders. That’s when you started folding clothes, itching to do something with your hands, with your energy. But, I just.. It can’t happen. Not anymore.

And then you said the words that completely shattered him.

“Joel, be fucking realistic,” you hissed, and he swallowed. You looked so angry, like the fury of the gods were behind your gaze. He had seen it before, focused on outside factors, on your ex, your father, your life, but not him. 

He felt small and weak under your gaze. Not in a good way that humbled him, but a way that made him feel horrible. 

“Dad’s gonna find out. I mean, Tommy already knows- He could tell Dad at any second. We’ve been getting worse at this, sloppy, harder at hiding things. Dinner the other night, that- that was too much. Too close.” you said, and he knew you were building the case against him. Against the two of you. Damn your pursuit of a law degree, damn your commanding personality and observant mind. 

But, he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

You were always pulling him into your orbit. It felt like a trap at first, but over time, his mind became clouded with you and your wants, your needs- but also your hopes and dreams that he wanted to help you with. He knew all about your wanting to move away from town, to do something substantial in your life, to make a difference. You had such a big heart, and that was what drew him to you in the first place.

Now, you were slinging him lightyears away from your field of gravity. Cast out, creating distance. He knew he would lose sight of you soon and be on his own in the galaxy again. 

That was the last thing he wanted. 

“I know, and I’m sorry. I can fix it-”

“This isn’t a goddamn fence or a leaky faucet that you can just fix. This isn’t simple, it’s not! Not anymore. We- It’s just gone too far. I don’t want-” you said, and he could see the hesitation in your eyes. You could be honest, or use that sharp, quick tongue of yours to tear him down easily. He wouldn’t believe you if it were the latter. He just knew you too damn well.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” you whispered. Joel took a few steps towards you, and your eyes moved down, turning your body back to the suitcase. More distance.

“Don’t worry about me. I know what I did, and I don’t regret it. Not for one goddamn second.” he said firmly, his voice having more strength than he thought. He saw you visibly flinch, and he reached out for you, putting his hand on your arm but you quickly swatted it away, turning to him and taking a few steps back. 

“Yeah, well… It’s done. We’re done, Joel.” 

“Let me talk to your dad, we can work something out. Come on, darlin’-” 

“Stop fucking calling me that!” you shouted, and it was Joel’s turn to flinch. You wouldn’t back down, though. You never did. “You don’t get that luxury anymore. I’m not yours, I-I never was.” 

Ah, there it was.

Your voice broke. A crack in the tough exterior.

“That’s a damn lie, and you know it.” Joel hissed, and you shook your head, like you were trying to rid yourself of the feeling. 

“I told you I loved you. I meant it. You’re telling me you don’t feel just… just a bit of it, too? You never let me in all the way, you always left me out. But I don’t care. I just want you, I want every piece of you-”

“Stop it!” you cried, and came closer to him, pushing him with every ounce of strength. It caused him to take a few steps back, and when he reached out for your extended hands, you quickly withdrew them like he was a flame you got too close to. Like he would give you third degree burns if you lingered. “You can’t have me, Joel. That’s… that’s just not how things are. They can’t be this way-”

“Goddamn it. Just…” he said, and turned to the side, feeling exasperated and exhausted, something twisting in his gut. It was fear now, not guilt. He had accepted that a long time ago. He didn’t feel it anymore. All he could feel now was you. He said your name softly, coming out like the last breath of a dying man, and he turned to you.

“Stop. Stop acting like a child-”

“ME?! Acting like a child?” you cried, and then started laughing. But, it was strained, sarcastic, and scalding. Like pouring boiling water over his head. “You’re the one who’s still- who’s still living in this fantasy. That things will be fine, that we’ll have some kind of fucked up happy ending-”

He said your name firmly now. Commanding. 

“You want this to stop? Fine,” he said, and you finally looked at him. Whatever emotions you were feeling fell from your face. You were in lawyer mode now. Nothing could betray your feelings. You were shutting him out again. But, he would pull you out of it. He had to find a way. “But, you better look into my damn eyes and tell me you feel nothing. That all this was just stress relief- a way to forget every shitty thing in your life. You look at me, and you tell me that.”

The neutral face continued, and he thought you would actually admit it. Maybe not truthfully, but enough to push him away. He was bracing for it. Your silence was deafening. He wanted to shake you, to beg you to give him a chance. He would get on his knees if he had to.

But, he saw it. That look in your eyes that was coming back, the slight droop of your shoulders, and your lips parted. Lips he had kissed so many times, that he had heard spill the most lovely sounds, lips that he could remember and come back to.

“Joel-”

But there was a knock on the door, so firm and loud and jarring that you both jumped. You looked over your shoulder at the door, and Joel’s stomach twisted so hard and so fast he thought he would double over. Your dad’s voice called out your name, muffled by the wooden door. 

“Hold on, I’m- I’m on the phone-” you called back, and Joel’s hands began to tremble. 

Fuck.

“I know he’s in there.”

You looked at Joel, and he was staring holes into the door. His chest was surprisingly steady, and his hands curled into fists. 

“Dad-”

“Open the door.” 

He wasn’t asking. You knew that. Joel knew that. 

Joel knew you and him couldn’t hide in this room forever. Just like you couldn’t hide what you had together. Not anymore.

Joel was the first one to move, and you stepped in front of him to stop him, but he put a hand on your shoulder. He looked down at you, and you swallowed. He knew this may be the last time he touched you, the last time he would look at your face. 

You shook your head, mouthing a “please,” and he smiled gently, sadly, apologizing.

“I love you,” he mouthed, and touched your cheek gently. You stood, watching him, and leaned your face into his hand, and he could see the tears in your eyes. He looked away and let his hand drop, walking to the door. He gripped it hard, and then opened it slowly. 

Your dad stood, and he didn’t look mad, or upset. But, he shared that similarity with you that you would shut down all emotions until it got too much. It terrified Joel, if he was being honest.

“Mike-” Joel began, but then Mike’s fist swung, and collided with Joel’s jaw. He heard you cry out, and he stumbled back, your dad pushing the door open to step into the hotel room. Your dad was never violent, never lifted a hand to anyone. He typically used words as his weapon, so his outburst took you both by surprise. But at the same time, it was warranted.

“What the fuck, Miller?! I- I can’t fucking believe this. You- She’s my daughter-” Mike stammered, his voice trembling with anger and Joel stood straight, hands raised in defense as he stood between you and your dad. 

“Come on, Mike, just- just listen, okay?” Joel pleaded, knowing he probably sounded pathetic. Mike shook his head, coming into the room and the door shut behind him. 

“Dad-”

“You,” he said, raising his finger and shook his head minutely. “You stay out of this.” 

“I’m a full grown adult. I don’t need anyone speaking for me-”

“You’re my daughter and you’ll do as I say!”

“You’re being fucking ridiculous, Dad! I’m not a child-”

“I trusted him with you! And he threw it back in my face, God- You’re disgusting.” Mike said, shaking his head and Joel’s heart dropped in his stomach. But, he refused to let it end like this.

“I love your daughter, more than anything. And you can’t-”

“Like hell I can, I can press rape charges.” Mike said, and Joel nearly stumbled forward as you shoved past Joel, standing in front of him now. 

“Oh, can you? Cause I’m your property? I’m damaged now? No, Dad, this isn’t fucking 1950 and I’m not a minor. If you so much as lift a finger against him, you’ll never hear from me again.” 

Mike looked at you, and Joel thought he would relent, that he would back down. He could see his chest rise and fall a little slower, but that anger was still in his eyes. 

“Fine. If you’ve found yourself someone, then you don’t need my help. You don’t need to live with me, you don’t need my money for school- It’s all over. You can be on your own to make your own goddamn decisions.” he said coldly, and Joel began to see red.

“Jesus Christ, Mike, do you hear yourself?!” he yelled, his chest feeling like an elephant was crushing it. “She’s your daughter, you can’t do this! You’re just going to abandon her?!” 

Joel was stopped by your hand smacking against his chest and he nearly doubled over. His hand flew over yours, and he looked at you with glassy brown eyes. You weren’t looking at him, though. You were looking at your father, and Joel knew the gravity of this situation was monumental. 

“You’ll get nothing from me. Nothing. Do you understand that?” he said, and Joel shook his head. Your father was the one helping you through law school, the one who was giving you this opportunity. You had worked so hard, worked every damn day and night to get yourself through this. You still had a year left, and you would be free. This was your life, your future, everything you ever wanted… And he was just going to take that away?

“I’ve never wanted anything from you. Ever.” you said, your voice steady, biting, sharp. He looked down to see your hand still on his chest, holding him back or giving yourself something to hold on to. He wasn’t sure which. 

“You can have your fucking money. I don’t want it. I don’t want anything to do with you.” you said, venom in your voice and a fatal blow with every word. If your father thought he was ripping the rug out from under you, he was clearly wrong. At least, that’s how it appeared to Joel. 

“Good. You’ve always been so ungrateful. Just like your mother.”

“You- Oh,” you laughed mirthlessly, “You asshole! You mother f-!” Joel’s arm wrapped around you so quick before you were able to lunge at your dad, and you kicked and clawed at Joel. “Joel, get off of me!” you shouted, and there was a knock at the door, loud and insistent. 

“Security, open up.” A stern voice said, and you slumped against Joel’s chest, your breathing heavy and angry as Joel’s was quick and anxious. Mike shook his head and opened the door, two security guards standing there.

“We had reports of a disturbance. Everything alright?” One of them said, and Joel could feel you begin to tremble in his arms, your hands wrapping around his arms like a vice. Not to push him away, but to keep him there.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?” The other questioned, eyes locked on you as Joel was holding you tightly. You shook your head, and pointed at your dad,

“Get… get him out.” you said, your voice wavering. The security men regarded Mike with a quick glance, and one extended his arm out,

“Sir, you better come with us.” he said, and Mike looked back at you and Joel, his eyes sharp, cutting deep into Joel’s chest.

“I better never hear from either of you again-”

“Don’t worry, you won’t.” You spat, and Mike looked like he wanted to say something more, spout some more poison, but the security guard called for him again. Watching you, Mike only scoffed and shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he walked out with the two guards. 

When he disappeared from view, the first guard still stood. He looked between you and Joel,

“Are you sure you’re-”

You nodded, sniffing, and Joel’s heart broke a little more if that were even possible. 

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry for the interruption, sir.” you said, and Joel’s grip lessened on your waist, and you stood on your own. The guard nodded, looking at Joel and then let the door close behind him. 

You stood, and Joel was about to let go completely until you halfway turned and collapsed, causing him to wrap you up in his arms once more. Your face pressed into his shoulder, and he felt it grow damp, your body shaking slightly in silent sobs. Your hand reached up to curl around his arm, holding on for dear life. He held an arm around you, supporting you, holding you, loving you. He knew you needed it now more than ever. 

His other hand pressed against the back of your head, and he rocked you gently forward and back. You didn’t let out a sound except the occasional sniff, but your grip never lifted from his arm. 

“I've got you, babygirl,” he whispered quietly, the uncertain future growing before him like a vast, never ending, terrifying void. But in that void, you were there, too.

You two had each other, faced against the darkness.

Thank you for reading! Comments, likes, reblogs are appreciated <3

Divider by @/saradika-graphics !

[stylesispunk]

WHEN I SAY THIS IS PURE PERFECTION I'M NOT LYING.

If you haven't read this story, what are you waiting for? It's the best thing on this app 😭

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part xii)

THEOREM OF BECOMING—Transformation is not a moment, but a process.

summary: The journey back to Jackson is full of make-believe of a life that almost feels like it's coming true.

a/n: woohoo, happy AAPI month! I'm sorry this update took so long, I was so indecisive on how I wanted this chapter to end, and what I wanted to depict, especially at the end when it was hard for me to decide where I wanted to place all of them... I just hope it turned out okay! one more chapter left before the epilogue :)

word count: 12,800+ words (dare I say, a short one?)

Joel tried to imagine himself at university. Outlandish things like, what would’ve happened if the world had given him a second door to open?

Because being here—goddamn. It was hard not to wonder what it might’ve felt like, walking into a place like this with a backpack and purpose instead of a rifle and regret.

What kind of kid would Joel have been, sitting in one of those chairs? Twenty years old, maybe. Hell—eighteen if he'd played it straight. No Sarah. No mortgage. No busted-up drywall jobs. No worry about gas bills or whether the AC would hold another summer.

Fuck no, he wouldn't do whatever it was Leela was doing in that lab, with data and diagrams that looked like chicken scratch to him. He would want a degree in something that lets the brain wander. A major in liberal arts, maybe. History. Music theory sounded nice. All that ��not real work” crapola folks in his neighbourhood used to scoff at.

He’d always had a good head on him—just never the time or the cash to spend chasing someone else’s definition of smart. See, college wasn’t for men like him. Places like this weren’t made for people like him.

It was a gate you needed a key for, and that key used to cost fuck-ton loans and inevitable debt. More than he ever had or would have.

But that never meant he wasn’t curious. Never meant he didn’t know things.

Truth was, Joel used to like ideas. He liked stories. He read when he could. Listened. Paid attention. Watched old movies with Sarah, sometimes caught the way dialogue turned into meaning. Took in books secondhand, borrowed from neighbours, dog-eared and scribbled in. Kept his head and hands busy. When he worked construction, he could out-measure, out-calculate, and out-plan any of those stiff-collared pricks with their clean hands and degrees nailed to their office walls.

Tommy used to joke that Joel could memorize a script better than a foreman could read a blueprint.

“Man, you ain’t dumb,” his baby brother said once, picking dried cement off his hands. “We’re just poor.”

And he'd agreed. Their whole academic system was a racket, just a way of putting a price tag on knowledge.

Places like Caltech were always for them—it was for the bright ones, the born-lucky, the rich kids with trust funds and internships lined up like bowling pins. Kids like Leela, in fact. He'd never set foot in a real university, let alone one like this. All that prestige and legacy. Hell, even the labs looked like spaceships.

Joel had never even been on a real campus before the world went belly-up, and now here he was, boots echoing in a dead lecture hall, listening to Leela piece together the last remnants of science like she was born for it.

He stood halfway down the sloped aisle, one hand dragging along the edge of a long desk. The laminate was peeling at the corners. He could picture a thousand students slouched here over the decades, bent over laptops or spiral notebooks, yawning, scrawling notes they’d forget the second finals ended.

Behind him, Ellie climbed onto the stage at the bottom of the hall, testing the strength of the lectern like a kid playing teacher. Her voice carried, all grin and gravel.

“Bet you’d sit in the back row. Right, Joel?”

Joel smirked. “Only place I could get away with nappin’.”

“Or so you think. I’d definitely be front row. Raising my hand. Asking annoying questions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

“Pft, whatever.”

Beyond the doors, down the corridor, he could just make out the faint click-clack of keys—Leela, working in the lab with that same eerie calm she always had when the world dropped away and it was just her and the numbers. Her silhouette had barely shifted in an hour. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, half in the light. She looked like she belonged in there.

“Y’know,” he drawled out to Ellie from somewhere inside his head, “I think she and I… if we’d met like that back then… we’d’ve found each other.”

Ellie didn't tease him about it. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d be the guy just tryin’ to keep up. Probably complainin’ about the campus coffee and the goddamn parking passes.”

She grinned. “She’d dodge you for two whole weeks.”

“Hm. Sounds ‘bout right.”

“Then one day you’d say something too smart that’d make her stop and think. And boom. Now you’re study partners.”

He sighed. “I ain’t smart, kiddo.”

“Nah, you’re smart.”

“Not that kinda smart.”

“Bullshit. You literally remember everything. Details. Faces. The way you describe a guy’s boots, I feel like I was there.”

Joel clucked his tongue. “You learn to read people when your life depends on it.”

She shrugged. “Still counts.”

He didn’t answer, but his mouth twitched—somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Hey, know what else? She’d’ve helped me cheat on a math exam.”

“Ha, no way. Leela would smack you across the face.”

He rubbed his jaw, the beginnings of a smile ghosting across his mouth. “But she’d tutor me. Make me memorise some dumb equation by makin’ it a song or somethin’. She hums that stuff sometimes, y'know? 'Spretty cute.”

Ellie gave him a look—half fond, half exasperated. “Jesus. Jesse was right. You're cuntstruck.”

“Ellie,” he muttered, more warning than scolding, but it didn’t carry much heat.

“Aw, c’mon, Joel. Can you just imagine a life where,” she sighed, “you just live that time-honoured, grey area of life? Be a normal dude with a college sweetheart or some shit?”

“How the hell do you know all that?”

“I'm just that baller.”

“Jesus.”

Now, Joel meant to leave it there, but the thought had already taken root.

He let his eyes drift toward the broken chalkboard at the front of the room, and the lecture hall around them seemed to grow in his mind—less ruin, more memory of something he never had.

He imagined Leela sitting at a desk beside him, in a school that let smart kids like her and dumbasses like him sit together—just one of those big halls with sticky floors and ceiling fans that clicked when they turned, where the smart ones always found the front row and the tired ones sat wherever the sun didn’t hit their eyes. She’d be chewing a pen cap, probably, maybe twirling a strand of hair around her finger, nodding all serious while some professor went off about Gödel or Fermat or one of those names that felt more like hexes than people. Joel wouldn’t understand a lick of it—not even on his best, most caffeinated day.

But maybe—she’d lean in, whisper it in Layman's for him. Not to make him feel dumb, but because she wanted him to know. All sweet, patient, gracious Leela.

He’d pretend to follow along, nodding at the right times, but mostly he’d be watching the way her mouth moved around the words, the way her brows bunched up when she really got into it. Watching the gears turn in her beautiful, brilliant head. Joel still did that, when she went off on a tangent in their living room between her blackboards, he'd just want her to kiss her until she was blue in the face.

He nevertheless would've fallen so damn hard for her. Right on his ass. No question about it.

Wouldn’t have taken him long to ask her out, either—not if they’d met like that. Not if she didn’t already know all the things the world had done to a man like him. He would have acted like his balls had just dropped or something—nervous as hell, but trying to play it cool. Sweaty palms, rehearsed lines in front of his mirror. Something about those big, dark eyes of hers, her fancy shoes, or her mint-condition books. Something along the lines of: I promise I’m more interesting than I look… though I realise the bar’s low since I’ve been standing here staring at you for the last thirty seconds.

And if she’d fold and giggle ‘okay’—and he liked to believe she would—he’d take her out someplace decent. Someplace with candlelight, silverware, suited waiters, cloches and folded napkins. He’d pick her up in front of her building. Show up with a fat bouquet of daisies. Pull her chair out for her at dinner. Hold the door. Call her ma’am without even thinking. He would be flat-broke in that life too, but he was raised right with Texan manners imbued upon him by Mr and Mrs Miller, after all.

Leela would probably tease him a little, maybe make fun of how stiff his shirt collar was or how he kept checking the long-ass bill like it was going to change. But she’d smile through it and offer to go Dutch instead. That rare, toothy smile of hers that made her look so young, unguarded and just a little bit shy.

He imagined them walking back across campus after—quiet, inseparable, arm around his. Maybe it was autumn. Maybe the crimson maple leaves crunched under their feet, and she kept pushing her hands into the sleeves of her coat like she always did when she was cold but didn’t want to say so. Maybe he’d offer his jacket. Maybe she’d take it. Maybe he’d blow into her hands in an attempt to kiss them.

Maybe that night, standing outside her place, she’d look up at him with that same quiet challenge in her eyes she had now—like she was daring him to be gentle.

And he would’ve been. Gentle as fuck. Their first kiss wouldn’t have been some clumsy, rushed thing. No desperation. No fear of the dark coming back. Just... time. Time you don’t know you’re wasting until it’s gone.

He imagined her fingers curled into his coat on maybe their fourth date, maybe he'd just taken her out ice-skating or bowling, and she would push the coat off him, and pull him a little closer. Stay with me tonight. A breath caught between their lips. And maybe—God help him—maybe they’d have stumbled into the fancy elevator of her expensive off-campus apartment, shoes kicked off halfway, giggling when she nearly tripped over her own purse left by the door. He’d catch her waist, steady her, and she’d glance at him with those mischievous eyes that already knew what he wanted. I want all of you.

They’d lock the door behind them, not because they had to, but because they could—because no one was chasing them, nothing was breathing down their necks. Just a night in. Quiet. Private. Theirs.

The desk lamp would still be on, casting light over her math books still open, forgotten now, pages fluttering. Her room would be warm, a little cluttered, with too many books for one person. A corkboard with pinned movie stubs and Post-it reminders. A polaroid of them, maybe, from some campus event—Joel squinting at the lens, Leela mid-laugh as always, her nose scrunched in that way he loved.

They’d peel off layers slowly. Clothes in a trail from the doorway to the bed. His shirt, her dress, his belt, her tights, his boxers. Her bra hanging from the lamp. They’d laugh a little, giggling some, fumbling with the condom in his wallet like it was a joke they’d made earlier in the week—about how just in case that had suddenly become now.

No pressure. No pain. First times. A night they got to have too late. No urgency, no hunger born from grief or fear. Just intimacy. Just plain, affectionate, stumbling, careful sex. Earned. Trusted. Wanted.

He pictured them afterwards, her curled against him beneath tangled sheets, tracing lazy shapes on his chest while the radiator clanked in protest against the cold. Nodding while they discussed their upcoming test, how she’d incentivise him with a kiss for each question he scored, fingers moving through her hair, catching on a tiny braid she must’ve done while studying.

The window would fog up by morning. They’d sleep through their alarms. Maybe skip class like dumb rebels. Maybe make breakfast instead—pancakes from a box, the batter too thick, the frying pan too hot. He’d burn the first one and she’d steal it anyway, kissing him with syrup on her lips. Good fuckin' morning to me.

They’d graduate together, in this life. He’d be in the back row on ceremony day, shoes shined for once, hair swept back neatly, watching his best girl stride across the stage to grab her scroll. Top of her class, honour roll, summa cum laude. Maybe he didn’t get a diploma of his own—maybe he took night classes, taking the slow route out—but he’d be there, standing up before anyone else, clapping like hell, hooting her name with his hands cupped around his lips.

And she’d find him later, tassel on her crooked hat flying, gown wrinkled, eyes shining, leaping into his arms, and he’d spin her about. Kiss her right there in the crowd like he was the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

And in that life—the life he never got—maybe they’d go on like that for years. Their families are all tight-knit, spending holidays together, all of them waiting on hand and foot for Joel to pop the question, but he promised his girl all the time in the world. No muss, no fuss.

Graduation photos in front of some ivy-covered wall. Travel photos of the two of them from roadtrips and weekend escapes—mountains in Telluride, coasts in Monterey, lighthouses in Nantucket. Maybe later they’d rent a shitty apartment together in a big city even if he hated it—New York, or London, or some big German town with a zigzag skyline and a bakery on every corner—while she chased her PhD dreams and he’d just be happy to take care of them. Joel would take on carpentry jobs to keep the lights on and fix things around the building in exchange for rent. He'd play gigs, strum his old guitar, in pubs and bars all night for a good sum of cash. Patch the leaky sink with elbow grease. Assembling furniture that they couldn’t afford to buy. Shelves full of her notes. Coffee rings on the floor. Late-night supermarket runs. Eat dinner for breakfast and fall asleep with her textbooks open between them. The laughter of a life being made from scratch.

And maybe one day, not in a church, not even in a courthouse—but under that oak tree just outside her big, white house in Jackson, they’d say their vows. Soft ones. Barely louder than the wind. Just a handful of people who mattered, a patch of wildflowers in springtime, and the gold ring he’d carried in his pocket for years. Her hand in his, sliding the band into place. Her thumb brushing his knuckles while he tried not to cry. I offer you all I have, my dumbass and beating heart.

And she’d laugh when he picked her up, white dress, veil and all, just to prove he still could, and carry her over the threshold, whilst her sandals dangled from his fingers. They'd make love like it was the first time, on a nice, month-long honeymoon in the Maldives or Bali, on a linen, canopy-frame bed that wobbled by the time they were through.

And one day, he’d come home—sawdust still in his hair, tired to the bone, aching for his long shower—only to find a positive test on the bathroom sink, and they’d smile at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Those soft, teary eyes they’d share. You think we've got room for one more around here?

And from that moment on, Joel would've been all in. No half-measures. No second-guessing. Just him, right in her pocket. He wouldn’t leave her side unless he had to—work, maybe, or some emergency—and even then, she’d be on speed dial (not that she already wasn’t). He’d check in constantly. Make sure she was drinking water, eating enough. Sitting her antsy ass down.

Late at night, he’d press his ear to her belly, grinning when their baby kicked like she already had her mama’s fire. He’d murmur promises against her skin—about giving her the world, about love, about never missing a thing again. And he’d mean every damn word.

He wouldn’t miss a single ultrasound, even if the clinic was across town and the truck was coughing smoke. He’d be there for all of it—Lamaze classes, nausea, mood swings, sleepless nights, midnight drives for god-knows-what. He’d baby-proof every damn inch of the house, stock the cabinets with baby items, triple-check the crib screws, read every parenting book he could find, even the ones with goofy cartoon covers.

Overbearing? For fucking sure. She might threaten to divorce him half a dozen times before the third trimester—but he’d take it, all of it. With a grin and a kiss and a Yes, ma’am.

And when it was time—when the world narrowed to a hospital room and the sound of her hurting wails—he’d be right there, surgical gown and all, holding her hand through every contraction, brushing damp hair from her face, whispering through the panic, through his heart tearing in two: I’m right here, baby. I ain’t going anywhere.

And Maya would come hollering into their lives. Of course, that’s what they’d name her in this life, too. Radiant, beautiful, nascent Maya, looking just like her mama and holding his heart in her tiny fist. All that imagining he’d ever done—every if, every maybe—had somehow led to this little girl he called his.

He pictured Maya clearly in that other life—the one that never got to be. Toddling around their grad-school apartment, leaping onto his stomach in PJs on a lazy Sunday morning, giggling through a mouthful of sugary cereal while Leela chased after their little thief, trying to snatch the box from her sticky hands. One sock is on, and the other is always missing. Her wild curls bouncing as she ran to him when he walked through the door—always early, maybe this time in a stable job which involved him wearing a suit and tie, lugging a briefcase—arms outstretched, shrieking Da-da! like he was some kind of superhero, and without fail, he'd rain at least a hundred kisses on her before letting her go.

She’d throw a fit in the toy aisle over exactly the faulty stuffed animal, with lopsided eyes and a ripped tag, and Joel would fold like wet paper the second she pouted.

And if the bad times did come, the only arguments he and Leela might’ve had were the soft kind, inconsequential—disagreements over something like Joel’s brief, doomed venture into stocks, or Leela being scatterbrained with the grocery runs, or whether Maya should go to that elite preschool an hour away with the long waitlist and sterling reputation. Joel would’ve wanted the best for her, the kind of start he never had. But Leela would just want to keep Maya close a little longer, probably even attempt to homeschool her if she could swing it.

They’d make up over pizza on the couch—Maya asleep between them, still clutching that faulty toy, cartoons flickering on the TV. Their fingers would find each other over the back of her blanket, apology and forgiveness exchanged without a single word spoken.

And thereafter, the mornings were ones where he'd juggle coffee cups, lunch bags and backpacks, dropping Leela off at her university, her hair still wet from a rushed shower, pencil skirt on a tight ass that waited for it's morning squeeze, a thick binder clutched to her chest, a soft lingering kisses shared over the console; and then Maya in the backseat, singing along to the radio, squealing when he pulled up to her school next. She’d barely get her backpack on before she tore across the pavement to her friends, flashing Joel a quick flying kiss and a grin that damn near knocked the wind out of him every time.

And at night—the three of them crammed around a too-small kitchen table, Leela would sit, drafting her research papers or scribbling in a notebook, Maya in her lap, doodling in the margins, asking about black holes and dinosaurs in the same breath. Leela would answer every question like it was the most important one she’d ever been asked. Joel would just listen, smiling into his beer, tuck the moment away somewhere safe inside him, like a man who knew exactly how fragile good things could be.

And Maya would believe everything her mama told her. Because why wouldn’t she?

Joel blinked, staring at the cracked chalkboard. The room was silent, save for Ellie’s soft humming and the hum of distant power from the lab down the hall.

But that life—that life—wasn’t the one they got.

But maybe... maybe it wasn’t too late for some piece of it. Not the degrees or the papers.

But the love part. The quiet part.

Maybe that kind of life still had a place in this one. Maybe that was still real. Maybe it was standing just down the hall, surrounded by equations, stubborn as ever.

He smiled to himself, soft and stupid, like a man who’d just lived a whole other life in three minutes.

A loud metallic clatter broke the spell.

Joel turned—slow, blinking like he'd just woken from a dream—and found Ellie grinning at him, holding up a dusty diploma frame like she’d just pulled a sword from a stone. The glass was cracked in one corner, the name beneath faded and half-eaten by sun and decay. But scrawled across the middle in thick, unapologetic black marker was something brand new:

Dr. Leela Miller.

“Well,” Ellie said, lifting it higher like a trophy, “I didn’t know her last name, so…”

Joel stared. His breath caught on something warm.

“Reed,” he said, slow and quiet, like the name had weight. Affection weaved through it like a thread. “But this… this is fine.”

He could almost see it—this on the wall of that little apartment they never had. Over a desk cluttered with paper and empty mugs and one tiny sock, someone still hadn’t found the match for.

Ellie held it out to him like a kid offering a crayon drawing. “It’s probably not, y’know, technically accredited,” she said with a crooked smile. “D'you think she'll feel a little better?”

He snorted, folding his arms. “That's a ten-dollar word from a dollar-sized person.”

“Hey, fuck you.”

He gave her a look, soft and knowing. “Well, Leela won’t say it right now, but yeah. She will.”

Then he glanced across the hall.

There she was—his smartass, hunched on a table littered with papers and old, curling printouts. Leela had one hand braced against the edge, the other pressed over her mouth like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her fingers moved through a page, tracing lines of ink like a woman touching scripture. Like she was holding a piece of a language she'd thought was long dead.

Joel brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp, low whistle.

Across the hall, Leela jolted a little—more like a reflex than real surprise—blinking over at him with a stunned, empty look. It cracked after a second, softening into something small and sheepish, but Joel didn’t miss the way she moved, like she was dragging herself up from somewhere far away.

He tipped his head toward her, half a smirk pulling at his mouth, trying to keep it easy, light.

“Weather’s turnin’,” he called, voice carrying across the dusty floorboards. “We oughta get movin’ along before it gets any worse.”

“Um...”

Leela hesitated, staring back at the whirring, flickering monitor like it was something alive she’d been charged with keeping breathing. Her hand lifted slowly, clumsily, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist.

She gave a stiff little nod—obedient, automatic, like she wasn’t even aware of doing it.

Joel opened his mouth—half-ready to tell her it was fine if she needed more time—but Ellie piped up behind him.

“Ooh, we gotta head down to the coast first. Ay, you promised the beach, old man!”

Joel felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes. He turned slightly, cutting a look back at Leela for silent backup.

And Leela just shrugged. Just the barest hitch of her shoulders, like even the decision didn’t mean much anymore. Her mouth twitched at the corners, a hint of old amusement surfacing and dying again all at once.

“I've almost finished the upload,” she said, tapping the corner of the monitor, where some ancient progress bar crawled along painfully slow. “Just... eleven more minutes.”

Eleven minutes.

It used to drive Joel a little crazy, if he was honest. He’d thought it was grief or obsession. Maybe denial. He’d even thought as much, once—there wasn’t anyone left who cared about prime numbers and proof sheets. Leela's long nights hunched over scavenged paper, her fingers smudged with graphite and ash, scribbling until her wrist cramped. A fucking waste indeed.

No one needed the big hypothesis solved when there were clickers on the road and medicine running thin.

And now he saw it.

She wasn’t trying to bring the old world back. She was trying to make sure some vestige of it survived.

Not the comforts. Not its power grids or grocery stores, or monuments. But it's thinking. It's questions. The bones of the mind that had once built bridges and satellites and figured out how to split atoms. She was keeping that, preserving hope for the world that would eventually look back.

And she was sending it forward like a time capsule in the shape of code—across a patchy uplink, through battered infrastructure, to a settlement that might not even know what to do with it.

One day, someone would.

Someone with a mind like hers. Someone with less blood on their hands and more time. A student, a child, a generation down the line who’d never seen the world fall and might still wonder how it once stood.

She was sending it all to Jackson—not as salvation, maybe, but as seed.

Something to plant. Something to grow if they ever got a spring again.

And if that someone asked, if they searched—she’d be there. In the pages, in the math. In the margins, scrawled with her restless handwriting. A woman who had no lab, no colleagues, no safety, but still sat down and thought.

Joel rubbed his thumb over a dent in the metal of the desk. It was humbling, what she was doing. Quiet and unadorned, the way most real things were.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel far from her work. He didn’t feel like it belonged to a world he couldn’t touch. He was somehow a part of it, too.

He exhaled through his nose, scratching the back of his neck. Eleven minutes. Seemed like a small enough thing after everything they'd been through.

He shifted his weight, the old floor creaking under his boots, and his gaze caught on the diploma again—still cradled in Ellie’s hands, the cracked glass catching the faint grey light.

Dr. Leela Miller.

Miller.

His name. His... wife.

He hadn't expected it to hit him like that. The word sitting there plain and heavy, stitched onto her like it had always belonged. The beginning of his other life.

His name stitched there so plainly, so firmly, like it had always been meant to sit against her like that. A jolt went through him—sharp and unexpected—settling low in his gut like a stone thrown into deep water.

He could almost see it, just for a second—clearer than any dream he ever allowed himself to linger on: Leela standing beside him at some clean, sun-warmed courthouse, signing her new name across the marriage license with a little grimace, muttering about how bureaucratic nonsense would outlive them all. Joel, laughing under his breath, taking the pen after her, signing his name next to hers. The flash of a cheap camera. The clap of a judge’s hand on his back. Her grinning face turned up to his, awaiting a congratulatory kiss. And he would make it linger, pressing two, three, four kisses before he murmured against her lips: You alright there, Mrs Miller?

Yes, Joel didn’t feel the press of the world closing in.

He just stood there, hands planted firm on his hips, heart too big for his ribs, and thought, Maybe it ain’t the life I thought I'd have.

When he was young—back before the world cracked open—he thought he understood what a good life was supposed to look like. Steady work. A home. A little backyard for Sarah to tear around in. A dog, one of those loud mutts that drove the neighbours crazy. Bills paid on time. Supper on the table by six. Simple. Straightforward. A line you followed if you kept your head down and your hands busy.

He’d built toward that life once. Brick by brick. Sweat and sacrifice and stubbornness. And he’d watched it all turn to ash in a single night, leaving nothing but the brutal math of survival behind.

Wake up. Choke down rations. Shoot. Kill without a thought. Stay alive. Sleep with one eye open. Repeat.

Hope had been a dangerous thing after that, an unaffordable luxury. Like college.

But standing here now, and Leela hunkered over that blinking screen like she was fighting the universe itself to save what little good was left in it—Joel realised he’d been wrong about what makes a life and what was worth holding onto.

It wasn’t about clean houses or paid-off trucks or picture-perfect little towns.

It was about this.

It was about watching the woman he loved refuse to give up on the world, even when the world had given up on her. It was about Ellie clutching a battered diploma like it was the goddamn Declaration of Independence, blinking out the window like a daydreaming college kid who still believed she’d make it here. It was about Maya somewhere back home, waiting, safe, growing up in a place that hadn’t been paved over by fear.

It was about them.

So, why not... breathe life into that other reality?

Joel shifted slightly, his hand drifting to his pocket—more out of habit than thought. His fingers closed around the small thing he’d stashed there weeks ago, careful not to draw attention to it.

Rolled it between his fingers sometimes, in replacement for the brass button that Maya had bestowed on him—in quiet moments, when no one was looking. Like maybe if he kept turning it long enough, the edges would smooth out, the crack in the band would seal, and time would forget whatever broke it.

It wasn’t much to look at. Just a beat-up old ring he’d pocketed back in Vegas, half-buried in dust beneath a shattered display case. The stone was gone. The band was thin and cracked, barely holding together. Still, he’d kept it. Couldn’t say why at first. Just felt right in his hand—small, broken, stubborn. Reminded him of someone.

Lately, he’d been thinking about what he might do with it. How he could fix it, in his own way. Maybe shave a sliver of intricate wood into the place where the diamond used to be. Not anything fancy, maybe a flower. She liked sunflowers. Just something honest. Pine, maybe—she always smelled like pine sometimes. Or walnut, strong and durable, like him. Something alive, something that wouldn’t shine too bright, but would still catch the amalgam of Leela.

He didn’t know if he’d ever give it to her. Or when. Or if she’d even want it.

Hell, he didn’t even know what he’d say.

But he carried it with hope anyway.

That was the strange part. It wasn’t really the ring that mattered—it was the idea. That someday, there might be room for something like that between them. Not as some big gesture. Not to fix anything. Just to say: this is still yours if you want it. Just to prove he still believed in what could come next.

Maybe sometimes love looked like a broken ring in a calloused hand, waiting for a world soft enough to give it back.

The sharp things—the grief, the anger, the failure—they were still there, rooted deep under his skin like old thorns. They always would be. But for once, Joel could see something else threading through it. A quieter kind of ache. Not the pain of losing, but the ache of wanting.

He wanted the kind of life that didn’t just survive the world’s ending—but stubbornly, stupidly, beautifully outlived it.

He wanted her, and Ellie, and Maya, and every goddamn scraped-together piece of a future he never thought he'd deserve.

And in this dead place, in the flicker of failing light and old dreams burned onto curling paper, Joel believed—just a little—that maybe this had all been for something. After all, maybe they hadn't come all this way just to bury what was lost. Perhaps they were here to carry it forward.

Maybe they were the ones meant to build what came next.

His throat felt tight, but he welcomed it. A man could learn to carry that feeling. He should carry it. Get used to it. All these good things he was doing.

He slipped the ring back into his pocket, careful, like it might bruise. Gave the pocket a small, reassuring pat.

He glanced at Leela, at the way she leaned into the light like a plant aching for the sun, and felt that wild, wordless thing rise again inside him.

Ours, he thought. Not just hers. Not just his.

Ours.

X

The ocean resembled a busted mirror.

Not glittering or big or blue. Just slabs of grey and darker grey, churning slow under the breadth of a sky that didn’t give a damn. The wind came off the water in lazy fits, carrying salt and rot and the memory of heat that had long since packed up and gone.

Wind tugged at what was left of the boardwalk nearby, a few slats still clinging on like they didn’t know how to fall properly. Rusted carnival lights hung in strips. Booths were gutted. A souvenir shack had collapsed into itself, hurling faded postcards and cracked plastic mugs across the ground. He saw a cracked one half-buried in the dune: I Survived Santa Monica Pier. Bit fucking ironic.

The sea had taken it all back. The joy. The noise. The crowds. It felt biblical, in a way. Like the tide was the big guy's long exhale.

Joel stood at the edge of it all—boots half-buried in wet sand, stepping over a tangled snarl of sea-bleached fishing net fibres, arms crossed against the cold that kept slipping under his jacket. The pier beyond was a half-collapsed skeleton, stripped bare, its spine curling out into the surf with broken ribs of wood jutting upward. Boats still rocked gently in the distance—untouched, paint peeling, sails long since devoured by saline winds, hulls soft with barnacles and time. No lights. No squalling. Not even of birds.

Funny. He used to think that if they ever made it to the coast, something would change. That maybe it’d feel like the end of the road—or the start of something. No, this was just another place the world forgot.

Ellie was already out near the waterline, her boots discarded in a heap beside a tide pool. She’d rolled up her jeans and waded ankle-deep into the cold muck, laughing as she scratched her name into the sand with a busted piece of driftwood. She looked so small like that. Innocent. Her shoulders loose, grin so secretive. He didn't get to see that often.

He watched her kneel, tongue poking slightly out in concentration, and for a moment—just a flicker—it wasn’t Ellie crouched in the sand.

It was Sarah.

Not imagined, not hoped. Saw. Not older, not younger—just as she was the day he lost her.

Kneeling beside her, seaweed looped over her wrist like bracelets, giggling about how it was going to get washed away but doing it anyway. He could see her—clearer than anything. Her head of sunlit curls, tossed by the wind. Making a heart out of the seaweed. Lining the letters with broken shells. Elbowing Ellie with that half-teasing grin she used to have, the one that always said, Do not mess this up for me, Dad.

He clenched his jaw. Swallowed hard. Blinked until the double image snapped apart again, rattled the thought loose from his head, and it was just Ellie again, whistling tunelessly, digging up dead coral to decorate her crude scrawl in the sand.

Goddamn, was this what it was going to be now?

Visions. Ghosts. Fantasies of another life. Wishing, wanting. His mind folding over itself. Losing the thread.

Or was it just the many extremities of grief? The accumulation of too many years? Or was this the beginning of something slower and crueller? Alzheimer’s or some shit. Some fucking cordyceps variation they didn’t have a name for yet. Maybe he’d start forgetting the way back to Jackson. Maybe he already had.

He rubbed a hand across his face, dragging grit from his cheek. The salt clung to his stubble, and the ocean made his eyes sting even when the wind didn’t hit them.

A little ways off, Leela sat cross-legged on the sand, her back to the surf, little haphazard strands from her long braid slapping at her cheeks. A neat little pile of small seashells sat beside her, most of them dull with age and wear—but one, a tiny conch, recently vacated by some poor creature that hadn’t made it. It was still freshly pink inside, gleaming, faintly iridescent.

She had a needle gripped between her fingers, her brow furrowed as she carefully worked it through the shell’s spire. Every movement was methodical, like she wasn’t thinking about what she was doing, like it was all buried muscle memory. When she threaded the bit of twine through and tied a knot, she held the shell up between two fingers, inspecting, squinting at it like it was some precious thing instead of beach trash.

“For Maya,” she said quietly, flashing him a smile—small, lopsided, but real.

Joel let out a soft grunt of recognition. Awful lot of jewellery to be taking back to Jackson.

“Cute.”

He remembered that story—the one he hadn’t meant to overhear, but things stuck. Something about her old life, before Jackson, before her parents, before a child of her own. How she used to make little shell necklaces just like that one and sell them to dumb tourists along the coast back in her hometown. Overpriced junk, she’d said. That weird, lonely kind of pride people have when they remember who they used to be.

Maybe this was her way of passing it on. A sliver of childhood she could carve off and give to Maya. A small thing that said I was here. I was whole once.

He took a step closer, boots sinking into the sand, hands in his jacket pockets. “Still remember how to rip folks off, huh?”

She glanced up at him, just barely. “Who says this one’s not priceless?”

Joel smirked. “Better be. Our baby girl’s got high standards.”

That got a laugh. A real one—small, scratchy, but it cracked the stillness in a way nothing else had all day. Leela shook her head, still smiling, eyes on the necklace, watching the shell sway from its string.

A beat passed. Wind was threading through the bare bones of the city. Maybe this place had once been paradise. Joel didn’t know. All he saw now was wreckage. Absence. A ghost town choking on salt.

Behind them, far away, Ellie whooped, triumphant. “I told you, little bastard! Joel, look, that’s a motherfucking crab!”

Joel glanced over. She was crouched in the wet sand, a long stick in one hand, something small and wriggling and furious in the other. Her sleeves were shoved to her elbows, knees soaked through, hair wild in the wind. She grinned like she was twelve again. Like the world hadn’t burned down.

Another shriek from Ellie. “Holy shit—there’s more of them! A whole Jackson community!”

“Well, don’t just play with ’em. Grab a few. Might be good eatin’.”

Ellie wrinkled her nose, poking one with the tip of her stick. “Eat this? Dude, it’s got, like—claws. And it’s hard as shit.”

“That’s how you know it’s good,” Joel called back, deadpan. “Hard shell means there’s somethin’ sweet inside.”

Ellie gave him a look. “Oh, hear, hear—Wordsworth over here.”

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. “Just get a few, kiddo. We’ll see what we can do.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if it kills me, I’m haunting your lying ass.”

Then she dropped the crab anyway, watched it scuttle sideways into the surf with all the drama of a jail break, and burst out laughing—real, unguarded. Her laugh rippled across the beach like it didn’t know how rare it was. Like it didn’t think it was a goddamn miracle.

Joel turned back to Leela. His voice dropped, not meaning to get soft but unable to help it.

“So, is this what you pictured?”

He didn’t say the beach. He didn’t mean California. Didn’t mean the long road behind them—full of blood and breath and quiet, feral hope. Didn’t even mean the life they’d clawed together with broken fingernails and dogged luck.

Leela didn’t answer right away. She just looked out toward the horizon, the sharp line where grey sea met grey skies. Where the world used to open up into possibility, into summer vacations and shipping routes and postcards with skipping dolphins. Now it looked more like an ending. A sentence with no period.

Then she shook her head, just once. “Not even close.”

But she was still holding the shell in her hand. Still tying another knot in the twine. Still smiling, just barely. And somehow, that answer—quiet, and unfinished—was more honest than anything else she could’ve said.

Joel sat down beside her, his knees cracking like firewood. The cold bled through the seat of his jeans, but he didn’t flinch. Just sat. Facing the water.

Leela didn’t.

She was turned slightly away, angled toward the sand, toward the ground, like she’d taken some quiet oath never to look at the sea again. As if it had taken something and she wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of her eyes.

Joel laid his hand over hers, careful.

She stilled.

His palm was unpolished against hers, but he could still feel the tiny shape of the shell necklace beneath it. Warm from her skin. Light as a breath.

“Joel.”

Before she could ask him to get the fuck off her, he said, “Look, I just—”

“What do you think Maya’s going to be when she grows up?”

Leela’s voice was soft, half-swallowed by the sea wind. Not wistful, not dreamy. Just plain and curious, like she was asking about the tide.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His eyes slid back on the water—on the slow, thick roll of it, the lazy collapse of each wave as it dragged itself onto the sand. This landed hard—not because it was tragic, but because it was so normal.

And yet that question hung there. He rubbed his jaw in deep thought. That wasn’t a question people dared to ask anymore, not seriously.

Honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?

He'd asked Sarah that plenty of times. And her answer had been no-bullshit: a rockstar. He used to joke to her about it, how maybe she'd take her old man backstage one day and sign T-shirts with her primped face on it.

The world was too fucked-up now, no rulebook to follow. See, back in the old world, kids had answers ready. Doctor. Firefighter. Astronaut. Singer. Shit like that. You dreamed, you planned. You had options. Only now, the world didn’t want anything from its kids but survival. To grow up at all was a feat. To grow up and become something? That felt like a pipe dream.

Joel breathed out through his nose. He shifted in the sand, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched against the wind.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Ain’t somethin’ I let myself think about too much. We used to imagine the future. Now we’re just glad to get through the day.”

Leela said nothing. Just waited, steady, patient, the way she always did when she knew he wasn’t finished.

A bitter little smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Baby girl’d probably be a scavenger. Some real slick trader. Hustler like her mama used to be.”

Leela huffed softly.

“Maybe a sharpshooter,” Joel added. “Takes after Ellie. Bossy as hell.”

That made her laugh again—just a little. Joel felt it in his chest like the thinnest crack of sun through stormcloud.

He kept talking, quieter now. “Could be she ends up one of those quiet ones. People listen when she speaks. Not ‘cause she’s loud—but ‘cause she means her shit. Maybe that makes her a leader. Or a target.”

He hated that last part. But it was true.

The truth was—he didn’t really care what Maya became. He just wanted her to have the space to choose between gentleness and survival. To live long, safe, and full enough to even ask that question. And he hated the world for making him think all this shit.

“And maybe she’s just alive long enough for it to matter,” he finished. “It’s enough for me.”

Leela’s fingers paused at the shell’s knot.

Joel looked over at her, and she still wasn’t looking at the sea. Her face was turned away a little, but her eyes were distant—thinking hard, probably thinking too much.

“Does it scare you?” he asked.

She blinked slowly. “What does?”

“The future,” he stated. “What she might become.”

Leela was quiet for a long time. She pulled the twine taut, tied another knot. Maybe the third one in the same place.

Then she nodded, but it wasn’t sharp. As if something she’d carried for years, only just now saying out loud.

“I just can’t have Maya become like me, Joel,” she said.

Joel didn’t say anything because he knew what she meant. And she was fucking right.

Not just Leela's impossible intellect that she carried like a blade. Not Joel's desiccating anger. Not the endless spinning logic or the obsessive calculations that had driven her across the country in a haze of grief and purpose. Not the math or the memory or the way she could see ten steps ahead while the rest of them were still tripping over the first one.

No—she meant the burden. The self-blame. The detachment. The constant need to understand everything instead of just feeling it. The survival that looked like a function but was really just a retreat.

The way Joel disconnected. The guilt that never left. The way he didn’t flinch at corpses anymore because somewhere along the way, his empathy had learned to ration itself. The way he lived in his head because that was the only place he could guarantee no one would hurt him.

And because of all the ways they taught themselves to cope—none of them were life. They were pauses. Contractions. Damage control.

She sighed. “I thought I wanted that. I did. But after everything back there…”

She nodded toward the road that led back to the university. Toward where she'd left her hopes and regrets. A whole piece of her past.

“I realised that…” She tapped her temple, fingers light, like she was knocking on the side of something hollow. “She doesn’t need this.”

He didn’t press or fill the space like he normally would with some muttered acknowledgement, because this wasn’t a moment for patch jobs.

“This saved me,” she murmured. “The logic. The focus. It’s how I kept going after—after what happened. If I could just understand enough… if I could predict things, calculate the worst-case scenario, I could keep her safe.”

Her voice tightened. Just a bit. Joel heard it.

“She deserves more than that.”

Joel’s throat was dry. He swallowed hard, barely managing. “And now?”

Leela let out a long breath. Not weary. Just… stripped bare.

“Now I just want her to scream,” Leela said. “To run fast. To fall hard. To be loud, and wrong, and stupid—and free. I want her to feel so much that she doesn’t know where to put it. I want her to hit back, punch hard, when someone corners her. Not stand there frozen, plotting some clever escape like that’s gonna save her.”

Joel’s eyes flicked toward her.

She wasn’t looking at him. Still had her gaze fixed on the necklace in her lap, the shell swinging gently as she tied and re-tied the same knot like it was muscle memory. Like if she stopped moving, she’d splinter.

And goddamn.

That’s when it landed. What she was really saying.

He’d seen people go quiet in the worst moments of their lives—seen them freeze, let it happen, disappear behind their own eyes. Not because they were weak, but because someone, somewhere, had taught them that silence was safer than screaming. That survival meant outthinking, not resisting. That pain was something to calculate your way around.

Leela had been that sort of survivor.

“I couldn’t even save myself,” she said, bitter, flat, after a beat.

The fuck kind of thing was that to say? Making it seem like it just made sense?

Joel’s fingers tightened gently around hers, unable to unclench his jaw. “That ain’t your fault,” he reassured to an extent, teeth gritting. “You sayin’ that like it was your choice.”

She said nothing. But the silence was answer enough. And Joel couldn’t sit with that.

“I don’t give a damn what you think you didn’t do,” he muttered, heat rising in his throat like bile. “Someone took... somethin’. They did that. You think being smart, or planning a way out—fuckin’ hell—none of that would’ve mattered.”

She shook her head once. Not in argument—just acknowledgement. “No. But it still happened. And I did nothing.”

Then, finally, she looked at him.

There was no shame in her eyes. Just a brutal clarity. The kind that only came from staring something dead in the face for years and deciding to live anyway.

“I know what I am, Joel. I know what it took to survive. I know what it turned me into. And I don’t want that for her.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. There was nothing to fix. Nothing to deny. He understood her too well for that. She wasn’t afraid Maya wouldn’t make it.

She was afraid Maya would—by becoming someone like her.

“Baby, she’s gonna carry us,” he said, a promise in his voice. “But she ain’t gonna be us.”

Then he reached out, covered her hand with his—rough skin on hers, grounding her.

“She’s got us, Leela,” he added, more quietly.

And he meant every word. He knew what it was to survive through retreat. To mistake numbness for control. To wear grief like armour and call it strength.

Leela didn’t flinch. But she didn’t smile either. Her face softened—like she wanted to believe him, that she was someone worth having.

“I hope so,” she said.

They sat there a while longer, the tide crawling up toward their boots whilst Ellie shouted at them about a jellyfish. Joel felt the sting in his joints when the winds picked up, faster, saltier, sharper.

He looked down at the shell again, their hands twined around it. Small. Pink. Still shining faintly inside. Something you’d pick up on a beach day with a little girl who didn’t know the world yet.

They couldn’t offer Maya that clean world they had lived in. But they could hand her a few pieces worth carrying. And she’d figure out what to build.

For one brief moment, he let himself believe his baby girl would have the chance to answer that question one day—for real.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Maya?

X

The fire had sunk lower to the forest floor, just embers now, red, pulsing like a heartbeat under ash. Shadows lean long against the trees. Night smells like salt and old leaves, smoke in cloth, and distant sea. Boots scuffed quietly on dirt. The silence that only came late, when everyone else was asleep, or pretending to be.

“Can’t sleep either?”

“No.”

“You okay?”

“Just thinking.”

“Night too loud? I've got headphones.”

A pause. Then: “Thanks... I'm missing home.”

“Oh. Me, too..”

“Hm. It's the longest I've been away from it.”

Another pause. “Yeah?”

“I keep wondering if I’d feel different if I got back. Things just magically change.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Fabric creaks. One of them tugs their sleeves down.

“Still mad at him?”

Pause.

“…He just left. You saw how bad it got.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And he didn’t tell me a word about the Fireflies. Or Caltech.”

“He thought he was protecting you. You know how he is.”

“That’s the problem.”

Another pause. “He said nothing. Just packed up and left. Like I’d only get in the way.”

“I know.”

“You think I meant it?”

“You sounded like you did.”

“I think I did, too. Then. I was just... so angry.”

“But now?”

A defeated sigh. “I don’t know.”

A beat.

“Maya watches the world like he does, too. I noticed.”

“She does that because she learns from him. You can’t raise a kid halfway in, halfway out. You can’t teach them to trust and then disappear when it counts.”

“Yeah, but—” Someone exhales sharply. Tosses a pebble into the fire pit. It hisses. “He came back, didn’t he?”

“Only because we followed him.”

“He came back because he’s never gonna stop coming back. That’s the whole point of him.”

Silence. A reckoning in the dark.

“You know what he told me once?”

“What?”

“He said—he didn’t think people like us got second chances. That we ruin too much. And still, every time he looks at Maya, it’s like he believes she’s the one thing he didn’t fuck up.”

Silence.

“He loves her more than he knows how to say. But he shows it. In everything. That’s the closest someone like him gets to a promise.”

“…he still left.”

“I didn't say he's good at it. He's a goddamn dick. And he was wrong.”

The voice is calm, blunt. Not trying to win. Just telling it as it was.

“But so were you. Saying you’d take her. Like she’s a thing you can lift out of him.”

Quiet again. Then: “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

“I just—she’s all I have. Everything good in me went to her. I had to follow him, and I have to keep her safe. Where do I win?”

“Jesus, she is safe.”

“No, I mean... he’ll break her heart someday, I know it.”

“Fuck no. Never Joel.”

“Hmph. You sound sure.”

“He didn’t break me. And the world gave him every reason to.”

Silence again. A longer moment, this time.

“Maya asks about you when you’re not there, right? She misses you. She asks for you. But when Joel’s gone? She watches the door. She won't leave it. That’s the difference.”

A breath.

“You take her away, and you’ll still have her. But she’ll never stop watching that door.”

Then the fire popped. A shift of posture. The brush of hair against cloth.

“He didn’t get to do all that before, you know. The whole marriage and two-parent household thing. Not with…”

Another breath.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Mm-hm.”

“And you’re still thinking about kicking his ass out.”

A creaking silence.

“I’m not good at staying.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why do you?”

A small sound. Could be a laugh or a sigh. “Because he’s good at making me think I can. I’ve seen what that man does when he loves someone.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

“No.”

A beat. “It really should.”

“I guess that’s the difference. I'm not scared of him. Not like you are.”

“I'm not scared of Joel.”

“Bite me.”

“It’s more about what he’d give up. For us. For her. What it would turn him into.”

“A dead man.”

No response. But from the dark—

“You think you’re protecting him?”

“I think I’m trying to keep us all breathing.”

“Well. That’s one stupid way to live.”

A rustle. Someone folding their arms. “Do you hate me?”

“What?”

“For saying all this. For thinking it.”

“Of course not. If anything, it makes you more real to me.”

“…But?”

“But if you take her from him—really take her—it’ll kill him.”

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

The silence after that settles deeper. One of them pokes at the embers with a stick, ash dancing up like fireflies.

Then, softer: “I know. That’s why it would.”

X

As if into the mouth of some ancient beast, the Jackson gates shut behind them with a final clank, steel locking steel, rusting, slow, a reluctant welcome, and for a second, it sounded like a cell door closing.

Joel walked under the shadow of it and didn’t say a word.

The sun hung low on the horizon, flooding the snow-melted streets of Jackson with a weary saffron. Familiar smells maundered through the air—woodsmoke, cattle, hay, pine needles thawing on the wind. There was boisterous laughter somewhere. Hammers. And it all felt just close enough to touch, but not quite real. Like something playing behind a looking glass.

He was back.

Somehow, again, he was still standing. Luck—or stubbornness, someone up there still not ready to let him rest—was still with him. He’d gone to California half-dead and half-stupid, and still made it out. And more than that—they had come for him. Ellie. Leela. They’d followed. Chosen to come after him.

Because he was worth saving. Because someone out there still cared if he lived or died.

That part stuck like a splinter in his chest.

He barely had time to register the weight of it before Tommy was on him, hauling him into a rib-crushing hug, laughing through a wet voice.

“Goddamn, you tough bastard. You just don’t die, huh?”

“Too much to live for, baby brother.”

Joel didn’t hug back. Not at first. Then he did—hands slow, uncooperative, gripping Tommy’s shoulders like he had to feel the bones to believe this was real.

Joel pulled back from Tommy’s grip like he’d just come up for air.

The noise of Jackson started to creep back in—the call of someone on a ladder, boots on pavement, a dog yapping in the distance. All the moving pieces of life.

He turned to his brother, voice low. “Maya?”

Tommy smiled, but it was tight around the edges.

“She’s doin’ just fine,” he said. “Caught the sniffles crying her eyes out, but she’s fine.”

Joel stiffened. “She sick?”

“I said she’s fine, Joel,” Tommy said, firmer this time. “She… she just missed her daddy, is all.”

Joel looked away.

Of course she did. And he hadn’t been there. Not for her fever. Not for the nights she cried herself hoarse. Not for the mornings when she didn’t understand why he hadn’t come back. He’d walked out with nothing but a note and the ghost of an apology, like that would hold up in a house full of silence.

They passed through the main square, Joel’s boots heavy on the stone. It all looked the same; that was what struck him most. The tedium. The cruel, gutting way the world carried on like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t nearly drowned. Like Ellie hadn’t pulled him back from the brink. Like Leela hadn’t followed him into hell and back.

Like Maya hadn’t cried herself sick.

Then, they turned the corner. And there it was.

The big, white house.

For a moment, Joel took it in. How much he missed this place.

Its porch was half-shadowed, steps dusted with snow. The gate creaked in the wind. He used to hear it from the bedroom. Used to fix it every two weeks, he could never find the right hinges. Used to—

He swallowed.

It used to be a shape in the distance. Something he’d catch through the branches of the old oak tree on mornings, sitting like a clean dream against the sky. Back then, it was just a house. Then it was her house. Then his. A home that was anchored in history and laughter, and Leela’s quiet hum as she flipped a page in her notebook. Full of Maya’s shrieks, toy horses skittering across the floor, her squeaky boots thumping against the wood.

Now, it just looked... tall. Unreachable. Like he’d have to climb back up the whole goddamn mountain to get inside again.

He had left something whole and returned to find it grown in his absence, evolved without him—carved deeper, tighter, stronger. Or maybe that was just him. His fear of losing.

Tommy called out, “Maria’s up ahead—she brought baby girl down the block to get some fresh air. Cranky all goddamn morning. She won't listen to anyone unless it's me.”

“Why's that?”

He sighed. “Guess I remind her of her old man.”

Jesus Christ, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

Joel’s head lifted.

And then he saw her.

A small figure on the porch.

Standing just like she used to, on the top step—like she always did when she waited for him after patrol. One mittened hand resting on the railing, the other clutching that old stuffed horse, ears chewed and fur matted from love.

She was watching the path. Waiting. Lips trembling like her whole world had been breaking every hour they were gone.

His feet wouldn’t move.

Her curls were a little softer now, matted, darker. Her coat was buttoned crooked, boots mismatched, nose splotchy from a recovering fever and maybe something else—like she knew something was coming. Some part of her did.

He took a half-step forward and stopped himself.

Then—

“Mama!”

The word left her like a crack splitting open. Her eyes widened. Her whole body leaned forward as if pulled. Arms out. Little hands grabbing at the air.

“Mama, mama—ha—come—Mama—”

It was the kind of sound only babies could make. Too raw to fake, too loud for their size.

And she teetered on the step, wailing.

Not to him. Not even a glance.

Just attempting to barrel forward to her mother, stubby legs churning, the toy horse flopping from her hand.

Joel felt it like a bullet.

Every effort she took—away from him, toward Leela—landed heavy in his gut. It was instinct. Pure. Unforgiving. She had learned that when someone disappears, you hold tighter to the one who doesn’t. The one who stayed.

Joel barely noticed Leela rush past him, knees bending, a ghost trying to reassemble a body—and didn’t even register the blur of movement until she was halfway to the porch, arms already outstretched. Her eyes were wet but unshed, her mouth twitching like she was keeping herself stitched shut by force.

Maya crashed into her, as if her mother made her real.

“Mama, Mama…”

No trembling. No collapse.

And the sound she made then—Joel had never heard it before. Not from her. Not from any baby. It was half-relief, half-fury, all heartbreak. Like something in her had cracked wide open from the waiting.

He staggered, stopped walking altogether.

Leela lifted her, spreading kisses on her cheeks, nose and hair, rocking her like she was trying to put every second of the last few days back inside her arms. Maya’s sobs were hiccuping now, her face buried in Leela’s neck, her whole body trembling.

She pulled Maya in like she meant to disappear with her. Pressed her face into her curls, kissed the top of her head and closed her eyes like that was where all the warmth lived now, shushed her with slow, circular bounces, murmuring nonsense in that gentle, rhythmic tone only mothers had.

“It’s okay, Maya. Shh, Mama’s here now. Mama’s here.”

While Joel stood frozen on the road.

He didn’t know when his hand had clenched into a fist or when his breath had left him.

He didn’t feel anger. Not at Leela. Not even to himself. It was something deeper. Older. Like watching a life he’d dreamed of grow old without him. A desolation.

And Maya—was still crying. Still hiccupping. Her fists balled into Leela’s coat. She hadn’t even looked at him. Or maybe she had, but didn’t know what she was looking for.

He wanted to step closer. Just one more step. Reach out. Soothe her. Say something. But his feet might as well have been nailed to the frozen earth.

He had nothing in his hands. Not even the strength to say her name.

Ellie moved up beside Leela, brushing Maya’s curls back from her sticky, tear-wet face. She said something. Leela nodded. And they all began to walk up the porch steps together.

Joel didn’t follow. Not yet.

He just watched.

Watched how tightly Leela held their daughter. Watched Ellie glance back at him once, her face unreadable, before she jogged past him and followed Maria and Tommy down the road, and away.

Watched his whole life move ahead of him, step by step, without turning around.

Leela’s arms were tight around Maya’s little body, the baby’s sobs quieter now but still hiccupping against her mother’s shoulder.

All he knew was that he’d left all of this behind with nothing but a note and a mission and the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could do something that mattered. Maybe he could fix something.

He eventually trailed behind them like a ghost.

They reached the porch. Leela didn’t pause. Just hitched Maya higher on her hip, the little girl whimpering against her shoulder, and stepped inside.

Maya twisted as they crossed the threshold, her arms flailing, her cries rising in volume. A shrill pleading screech.

“Da-da! Come, come!”

“Maya,” Leela tried to shush.

“No, no! Da-da, pease!”

Her voice punched through him, sharp and high and raw.

“Da-da-da-da—...”

The door closed with a soft, final click. Over.

Somewhere inside, the baby girl's cries still carried over in fresh pricks at his pummeled heart.

Joel stood there, one foot still planted on the step below, like a man halfway to salvation and halfway to hell. He hadn’t moved. His hand—useless at his side—twitched, searching for something it had forgotten how to reach.

The latch echoed louder than any gunshot he’d heard these past weeks.

He stared at the wood grain of the door, the same one he'd walked through a hundred times before, and now couldn’t seem to approach. A stupid part of him still thought maybe it’d open again. That she’d come back, that she’d say—something. Let him hold Maya just once.

But the house stayed still.

So Joel sat. Dropped like a felled thing onto the top step, legs spreading, elbows propped on his knees, fingers pressed to his lips. Because where else did he have to go?

He stared at the dirt packed under the railings, at the porch slats he’d helped mend last summer. He wasn’t sure he had the right to look at any of this anymore.

It hurt to breathe. Not from the bruised ribs or the deep-healing wound in his side. The knowing. The understanding that he’d done this. The rot. The shame. The guilt. The want to fight Leela, argue, and bash against the door.

And when he rubbed a hand over his face, he felt it—wet.

Tears. Real fucking ones.

He stared down at the shine on his fingertips like it was a new language he didn’t speak.

Crying. Goddamn. So he was still capable of that.

After all this time. After the blood. After the fear. After the killing.

It wasn’t the pain of the trip. Not the near-drowning, not the way his ribs still clicked when he breathed too deep. Not even the damage done to Leela’s precious math notebook, still folded at the bottom of his pack like a prayer he couldn’t read.

It was this silence that used to be his favourite harmony. This porch. This big white house across the street, standing like a lighthouse in the middle of the Wyoming snow.

His big, white house.

Or maybe it never had been his. Maybe he’d only been borrowing this life. A thief in someone else’s dream.

In this big dream, he might not be welcome anymore. He’d left thinking he could prove something. That there was still good he could do. That it mattered if he bled for it. That the sacrifice would mean some shit when he brought it back.

Only now—he was just a man sitting on the porch, hands empty, spine bent like a penitent.

He was still the loser. Always had been, hadn't he? A man who couldn't hold onto what mattered, even when it was pressed into his hands. Slipping through his callused fingers, sand in an hourglass.

“Da-da.”

A tiny voice. Raw. Exhausted from crying.

He blinked. Looked down.

Two tiny fists rested against his knee, barely covering them.

She stood there—his baby girl—in her yellow footie pyjamas, curls plastered to her forehead with sweat and tears, her cheeks flushed and snotty, a fist now halfway to her mouth. A warrior, somehow. She looked like she'd marched out here on stubbornness alone.

“Up, up, Da-da,” she said, her voice barely more than a breath, lips rounded to an 'O'.

He didn’t move. His hands stayed clenched on his knees, like he wasn’t sure if they were still allowed to touch her.

He just looked at her—like he was seeing a miracle and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it. This small miracle with her tangled hair and her crooked little mouth, trying to be brave. Her big brown eyes stared straight through him, full of a deep, solemn thing children shouldn’t carry but sometimes did.

Maya wobbled slightly, off balance, still reaching. Her coat sleeve bunched at the elbow, her fingers finding a fold of his jacket and tugging. It wasn’t strong. It wasn’t a demand. Just a little pull. A tiny act of faith.

“Pease, da-da.”

That was it.

That was all it took.

He broke. Open like a thundercloud. A dam giving way after too many winters.

No big sound. No shudder. Just a quiet, helpless noise from the back of his throat, a beam giving out in a storm, as he leaned forward, reached for her with hands that shook, that had pulled triggers and choked men and now dared to try and lift someone so little and innocent. Someone still his.

He drew her in like she was the only warmth left in the world.

She wrapped her arms around him, little boots stomping onto his ribs, one arm locked around his neck, her fingers fisting the collar of his shirt, and burrowed in like she’d never left him. Like there’d been no time apart. Like he hadn’t abandoned her.

She just clung. The way babies always do. She didn’t care about the mess. Her dainty love hadn’t learned conditions yet.

His throat narrowed, his chest hitched once, sharp—then again, then again. He dropped his face into the crook of her neck and let it come, loosening that lock in him that had been latched since Sarah died. The kind of crying that doesn’t make sound, that just happens. Tears soaking into the fabric of her coat, into her hair, into his beard. He breathed her in like it might fix something, might make him whole.

“I got you, baby girl,” he sniffed.

She smelled like cinnamon. Like sleep. Like their kitchen in the mornings when Leela was fresh from her shower, Maya would toddle in and reach for a bite of breakfast with both hands.

She smelled like everything he’d fought for. Everything he might’ve lost.

Maya leaned back slowly, the softest untangling of her arms, her tiny body still half-draped over his chest. She blinked at him, her brows drawn close in a look far too serious for her little face. Her mouth tugged slightly downward, curious and concerned all at once.

Joel tried to smile for her. Tried to smooth his face. “I'm okay, it's okay.”

But she saw it anyway. The tears, still clinging to his lashes, streaked into his beard.

She stared, her little hand floating uncertainly in the air between them, fingers flexing like she knew there was something she was supposed to do but wasn’t quite sure how.

Then—clumsily, earnestly—she reached up and touched him, just one little hand against his cheek.

Joel looked from her eyes to her palm.

So small, it barely registered, but he felt the gentle tap, the warm pressure. He felt her try to wipe it—like she’d seen done before—dragging her palm across his stubble, awkward, too hard, leaving a streak of baby drool behind.

She sniffed. Then tried again, this time gentler. The way her mama would do it.

“Mm-mm, no,” she told him.

And then—her other hand went to his hair.

A soft, patting motion. Adorable, pure toddler comfort. No finesse, no words.

She looked at him like she was waiting for him to stop crying. Like she believed he could. That he should. Because Mama always did, when she wiped Maya’s tears. Because after the tears came warm arms. And sometimes applesauce.

Joel let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob—just breath. Cracked, quiet. “You takin' care of me?”

His hand cupped the back of her head. His forehead rested against hers, their noses nearly touching. Her fingers were still in his hair.

“Da-da, no, no,” she resonated.

Joel’s heart clenched again—but differently this time. More like remembering what it was for. Beating for her. Alive for this.

He kissed her temple, the warmth of her skin soaking through his bones.

For a moment, the world held still.

No howling wind. No boots on snow. No years of silence pressing down between now and what he’d lost. Just this: the tiny weight of her heart against his chest. Her trust, folded into his jacket like a brass button or her mama's ring in his pocket.

The floorboard behind him creaked.

Joel didn’t lift his head. He felt her before he saw her. The air changed when Leela entered a space—like some internal pressure recalibrated. Softer, but tighter. She didn’t take up more room than she needed, never had. But somehow, her presence always rearranged it.

She stepped to the railing beside him and leaned, arms resting along the wood. The porch light behind her cast a low, golden ring along her dark, frizzed-out hair on her shoulders. The fire inside flickered behind the curtains.

She said nothing at first. Just looked at him. Looked at them.

Like she was trying to map it out—this man, this child, this picture she couldn’t quite trust yet, this picture that didn’t match the one she’d carried around for too long—of absence, of damage, of a man who left too much behind.

Joel didn’t look at her straight on. His eyes stayed on the horizon past the railing, that dim stretch of pine and powder blue, mountains against the dusk that bled into dark. He could feel her gaze, though. The questions in it. The ache. The absence they were both pretending didn’t sit between them like a third body.

“Joel,” she murmured, the first ripple on still water.

He swallowed. His arms tightened almost instinctively around Maya, who shifted with a faint hum, fist tucked against her mouth once more.

“Just let me hold her for a bit,” he said. It came out low, like an apology, or a prayer through gritted teeth.

A breath passed. Then, quietly—

“You can hold her as long as you want.”

He finally looked at her. Her face was turned to the dark, but he could see the fine edge of exhaustion there. Not the kind that came from no sleep—but from too many nights spent enduring what no one saw.

Her voice was softer when she added, “Do you want to shower first?”

Joel blinked, the words hitting him sideways. What a normal fucking thing to say. So regular.

His mind fumbled with it—like she'd offered him a cup of coffee in a warzone. Like there hadn’t been a canyon gaping between them only days ago, carved out by silence and anger and too many things said too late.

The absurdity of it almost made him laugh. Almost. But the sound got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled with something older and harder.

The wind stirred again, tugging at the hem of her sweater. She didn’t smooth it down. Just let it flutter around her thighs like she didn’t feel the cold.

“Leela,” he said, low, worn, like gravel under tired boots.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak right away. Just leaned a little further into the porch railing, her fingers curled loose around the wood. Shoulders rising. Falling.

Quieter this time—less like she believed it, more like she needed to—“Come inside, Joel.”

Not an invitation. Not a plea. Just something said because it had to be. Like muscle memory. Like faith said out loud.

“You don’t belong anywhere else.” A beat. Then, “And it’s cold outside.”

Joel looked down at the little girl in his arms. Maya’s cheek was pressed to his chest, her lips parted, her breath warm through his shirt. Her small hand clung to the collar of his jacket like she thought he might still disappear if she let go.

He felt it again—his daughter. His reminder. His consequence.

She came to me, he thought. She still comes to me.

Even now. After everything.

He shifted his weight and rose, careful not to jostle Maya. His knees ached. That old pain in his spine flared, but he barely felt it. She was heavier than he remembered. That, too, was a gift.

Across from him, Leela didn’t move. She didn’t offer him a hand. Didn’t clear the way. But she didn’t block it, either.

The door behind her stayed open.

Oh, here they were again.

Same porch. Same house. Same damn man, more or less.

But different. He wasn’t pounding on the door this time. Wasn’t driven half-mad by a baby that wouldn’t stop crying. He wasn’t walking in blind and bitter and ready to do a good thing just to silence a bad one.

Now he carried that baby in his arms. His baby. His girl.

And Leela—she was the one with the door now. Not just the one behind him. The one she kept closed for years, locked and latched and bolted from the inside, because too many people had barged through without asking.

Joel stepped forward.

Not past her. Not through her. To her.

The space between them was close. Intimate. He stopped just short of touching her, close enough to feel her breath ghosting warm in the cold.

She turned her head, finally. Just enough to see him.

Their eyes met. A half-second. A heartbeat.

There was no forgiveness in that look. Only recognition. And maybe—God help them both—want. A bit of love. Still there, under the rubble and the ruin.

He didn’t say, Thank you. Couldn’t. Didn’t think they’d be enough if he did. And she didn’t say, Welcome home.

When he stepped through the door beside her, the warmth met him like a memory.

As he crossed the threshold, this time he came to carry it all. To be part of it.

Maya stirred in his arms, murmuring something soft and wordless. Her thumb found her mouth again. Her head dropped against his shoulder like she knew this place of hers. Like her little body remembered what his mind kept trying to forget.

Joel blinked hard, the air in his lungs thick.

It was the same spot he’d once stood when he almost didn’t come back. When he’d looked at Leela in that doorway and thought about forgetting this ever happened.

Now she stood just behind him. A quiet key turning in an old, rusted lock.

And he thought: This is how it happens. Not with a grand gesture. Not with a reckoning or a flood of apologies. Not with big dreams of another life coming crashing down.

But like this.

A door not closed in anger. A man not barging in. A home not yet reclaimed, but not lost either.

Step by step. Word by word. Warmth bleeding slowly into cold skin.

Not a finish line or a full repair.

A place to start again.

One last time.

X

taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

“”

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 9

Series Summary: In order to save money for law school, you accept a job working as a maid for high end clients. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in more than just your curiosity peaks.  Word Count: 5k CW: see small red lettering below the cut AN: I'm going to miss them!! I'm absolutely heartbroken that I'm done, but so fucking proud of myself for what I've created. Thank you to @lotusbxtch for being my beta from pretty much the very beginning. I am so grateful to you and so honoured (yes, with a u because I'm Canadian lol) to call you my friend. Also little shoutouts to @for-a-longlongtime, @alltheirdamn, @mermaidgirl30 and @littlevenicebitch69 for listening to me go on about them for 80% of 2024. As always, graphics and dividers by @saradika-graphics

My Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: unprotected p in v, one spank, multiple orgasms and Overstim hinted at, pining, heartbreak

Eight Months Later

Joel

“I got yelled at by a feisty brunette last night at that gala,” Tommy says as the two of them sip whiskey at the bar of the club. 

“Probably deserved it.” Joel deadpans and closes the folder of invoices he’s looking over.

He should be doing this in his fancy, and newly renovated, office across the street. He was in the large office for all of three minutes the day after you left when he could only see the ghost of you. From the chair you sat in when you first asked him to teach you how to be a sub, to the door he pinned you against and confessed how out of his mind he was over you, everything was you, and it had to go if he had any chance of following what you needed from him. Joel hasn’t even been in his room at the club out of the fear of what it would do to him. Would I still be able to smell the lavender of her shampoo in there? Still be able to hear her beautiful cries of pleasure and pain bouncing off the walls?

“She thought I was you,” Tommy says, glancing over at his brother and interrupting Joel’s impending spiral.

Joel sighs, slipping his reading glasses from his face before taking a long pull of the amber liquor from his crystal glass. Tommy looks straight ahead as he continues.

“She’s doing great, by the way. Or at least that’s what her friend said when she was scolding me.”

 Joel winces at his words, “Of course she is, Tommy.” Even though it's been almost a year since you left, just the mention of you rips his barely-mended heart back in half. It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes, he still feels like he did in his kitchen. 

The very fibers of his being ache just as hard for you now as they did then. He longs to see you and touch you, to feel your warm, soft skin under his hands again. Anyone before you was always, ‘Yes, Mister Miller,’ even when they weren’t in a scene; but not you. You weren’t afraid to be curious and unapologetically yourself. He hasn’t laughed as hard with anyone, including Tiffany, as he did with you. But the part that he misses the most is the way you look at him the first time you see him. Your eyes soften, velvety pink lips parting slightly before they curl into a smile that makes his heart hammer behind his ribs. Then, he watches your shoulders relax and it makes him feel like he hung the moon and stars for you, and if he could have, he would have.  

He clears his throat and then rasps, “She’s too smart to not be doing well.”

Tommy stands, bringing his hands to rub at Joel's shoulders. He squeezes his tense deltoid muscles and with a hint of mischief in his voice he says, “Lots of pretty girls here tonight if you feel like moving on.”

Joel shakes his head and pulls away from Tommy’s grasp with a grunt. “Never gonna happen. Get outta here before you get yelled at two nights in a row.”

“Just too bad for me that you aren’t a hot brunette,” Tommy says with a laugh.

“I have brown hair,” Joel replies defensively, running his fingers through the grown out curls. 

“Not to kick you when you’re down, but it’s mostly grey at this point.”

Joel holds up a single finger at Tommy over his shoulder as he laughs and walks away. 

Two and a half years later

You

You’ve been up to your eyeballs in studying as you prepare for your finals. These last few years in California have been the hardest yet most fulfilling time of your life. Two nights in a row now, you’ve fallen asleep in the library, only waking when your Spotify would switch from the white noise playlist you use to help you focus, to your “getting ready” playlist. After dragging yourself to your dorm room in the dead of the night, you’d get a few restless hours of sleep before heading right back to your favourite studying spot. You can’t believe that in just a few short weeks you’ll be graduating and stepping into the life you’ve always envisioned for yourself.

The unmistakable FaceTime jingle fills your AirPods. Jamie’s name is splayed across the screen of your phone, along with a photo of the two of you at Albany Beach when she visited this past Christmas break. You put your highlighter down and slide the answer toggle over. 

“Hey!” She says, her warm smile shining up at you. You squint, trying to place where she is. You don’t often let yourself think of Joel, but the cracks across your screen make FaceTiming difficult, and the selfish side of you always wishes you had grabbed that new phone before you left. Your head cocks to the side; broken screen or not, you don’t recognize the background.

“Where are you?” You ask.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks. How are you?” She jests with a mocking eye roll.  “I’m at a cabin.”

“What cabin?” You say, glaring at her jokingly. A deep laugh comes from the otherside of the phone and your eyes widen. “Who’s that?”

The man's voice comes from offscreen, “I can’t believe you thought she wouldn’t ask where you were. She’s going to be a lawyer, for god's sake.”

“Jamie, who is that? What is going on here? Blink twice if you need rescuing!” You joke. 

Jamie blushes, looking over the phone at whoever that voice is coming from. “I just wanted to call to see how the studying is going, and to let you know that I got the graduation tickets.”

A glass of white wine appears in front of Jamie and she smiles before puckering her lips in a kissing motion towards the man in the room with her. “Ok, seriously, who the fuck is that and where are you?”

“I was also calling to let you know that Laren can’t make it anymore and Odette is in New York,” she takes a small sip of her wine.

“Oh, well that’s ok,” you say, trying to squash the disappointment and hoping it doesn’t show in your voice or face. You wished that at least two of your three best friends would be there for you. “It can just be me and you, baby!” 

“Well…I’m wondering if I could maybe bring my boyfriend? Might be a good opportunity for you two to meet.”

“What? What boyfriend?” You say, officially abandoning all study materials until you get some answers. Jamie raises a perfectly manicured finger and calls the mystery man over. 

You swallow hard as Tommy Miller appears beside her. 

Jamie glances up at him, her bright green eyes full of admiration, his mirroring hers. The starry look in their eyes tells you everything you need to know; they’re so far gone for that even a search and rescue team wouldn’t be able to save them. She looks back at you. “Meet again, I guess.”

You try to push for answers, but either of them give in, claiming you need to focus on finals. Before you hang up, Jamie promises to tell you the entire story when you see each other next. You’re happy for your friend, especially seeing the way Tommy looked back at her. Even through your cracked screen you could see the love, but as you try to go back to studying you have a hollow feeling in your stomach.

Graduation Day

You

The late afternoon sun fills your dorm room, boxes of your belongings stacked haphazardly around you. After walking the stage tonight, you are going out to dinner with Jamie and Tommy, and then he has paid for a hotel suite so the two of you can have a girls’ night. You can’t wait to hear how Tommy went from, in Jamie’s previous words, “my dad’s new asshole friend” to her boyfriend. 

You step in front of your floor length mirror, zipping up the black graduation gown over your knee length, form fitting, deep emerald velvet dress. The California sun has been good to you, your tanned legs and sunkissed nose and cheeks are glowing. You place your blue and yellow Berkeley Law stole over your head and then grab your cap, ensuring the ‘Class of ‘28’ tassel is secure. You fluff your curls one last time as a light knock comes from your door. 

“Ready to graduate, gorgeous?” Ronan smiles at you, eyes trailing down your gown. He’s the type of handsome that’s almost painful to look at, but more importantly - you wouldn’t have made it through these last three years without him. You met the first day - the lock on your door wasn’t working, and he waltzed in on you half naked when he mistook your room as his. 

You smile at him in your doorway now; remembering the way you screamed at him that first time, trying to cover your chest, and him scrambling to close the door. His eyes were clamped shut, and he slammed his finger so hard that you had to take him for stitches. Now, several years later, he fills out his graduation gown perfectly with those wide rugby shoulders, a sight you couldn’t even have imagined back then. Whichever angel made him didn’t make a single mistake - he’s tall and insanely broad, with dark sandy blonde hair, and clover green eyes that in the right light are a golden hazel. He’s easily one of the smartest men you’ve ever met and an incredible athlete. The cherry on top, because of course there’s more: he’s an international student and has a panty-melting Irish accent. 

“Beyond ready. Let's become lawyers, babe.”

He steps aside, one arm out in a ‘ladies first’ gesture. Handsome, charming, and thoughtful - a dangerous trifecta. You slide your hand in the crook of his muscle-lined arm and walk across campus together.

Ronan jerks his head towards the coffee cart. “Remember when you spilled your entire coffee on your new puffer jacket?”

You glare up at him, you saved for weeks to buy that jacket. “No, but I remember you throwing up in that trash can after the Halloween party last year.” 

“Well, if Beach Party Barbie had helped Lifeguard Ken with all those shots we wouldn’t have had that problem, would we?” You laugh as Ronan puffs out his chest, but you both know he was more than willing to take your half of the ‘Best Couples Costume' shots. 

Finally, you reach the courtyard where the law students will be walking across a stage that acts as the symbolic bridge to the rest of their lives. I’m a lawyer, you think to yourself and try to force a smile. The magnitude of the day only really starts to sink into your bones as you see the friends and families of your classmates start to take their seats. The excited feeling you had earlier starts to morph. You’re proud of yourself for what you’ve done these last three years, and this was just the first step. You have so much to look forward to, so why do you feel a sense of dread building in the pit of your stomach? 

Ronan walks you to where you need to line up alphabetically, kissing your cheek and then, after leaning in and placing his large hand on your lower back, he whispers a joke about how you better not trip. You glance around the thick crowd for Jamie and Tommy. After realizing it’s hopeless to try and spot them in a group this large, you slip your cap over your hair and get in the procession line. 

You try to soak in every minute of the day, from the speeches to the birds chirping in the background, but something akin to loss flutters at the base of your spine. You’re just as sad to be leaving Berkely as you are excited to carve out your future. Leaving here isn’t what’s causing you to feel this way, however. You try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just nerves; even with all the job offers coming in from your internships, it’s normal to be nervous about what comes next. 

As the student union president gives his toast to the family and friends, you look down at your lap, pushing back the cuticle on your left thumb. Maybe it’s leaving Ronan. He’s been an anchor for you, grounding you almost every day of the last three years and you don’t know how you let yourself become this dependent on anyone, especially a man, again.  

You shake your head at yourself and try to move your focus to the cuticle on your other thumb. Seeing the skin clean from the nail bed eases the tension slightly for you. ‘I’m allowed to be nervous when leaning on people, but not everyone will leave me,’ you recite almost automatically in your mind, the mantra you’ve had these past few years whenever you feel yourself getting this anxious. Just as you finish the thought, a car revs in the distance and the realization of what - or who - you’re actually missing slams through you so hard that you almost feel winded. Your lungs ache, tears pushing behind your eyes as his name rings loudly through your mind.  

Joel.

You kept yourself busy since the minute you left Austin. The busier you were, the less time you had to focus on the void in your heart. During the school year, you didn’t have to find things to stay busy with; law school nearly chewed you up and spit you out. Over the summers, you worked as an intern and visited your friends. There was never a quiet moment, never too much time alone with your thoughts, and it was better this way. You can confidently say that you’d only thought of Joel six times since you walked out of his house that day: when you fell asleep on the beach and were so sunburnt you could barely move for three days; when you failed your first test; when your rusted SUV, that acted as your ticket to freedom at eighteen, died on the freeway in rush hour (from that point on you had to rely on public transportation to get you to the homes you cleaned). When you experienced your first earthquake; when you stayed up for forty-two hours straight after your partner in a group project didn’t have their side of the work done; and, lastly, this past New Year’s Eve when you were in Austin and thought you saw him at a party. 

“Is he here?”, that little box of feelings that you shut away in a vault long ago wonders. “Has anything changed for him in the last three years?” 

The small smile that pulls at your cheeks, and the excited flutter of your heart when you think about the possibility of seeing him again, proves that maybe nothing has changed for you. As the minutes tick by, your mind races with all the possible scenarios for after the ceremony. What if he is here? What will you say? What will he say? How will Ronan react, you know he has strong feelings about what happened between you and Joel. Even worse though, what if he’s not here? But maybe he’s at the hotel where Tommy and Jamie are staying?  

Before you know it, your row is standing and walking single file towards the stage. With each strike of your high-heeled strappy sandals against the concrete, a memory of Joel floods your system. The toast he made you in his kitchen, the kiss in that dimly lit hallway on your birthday, the way he walked you through his club and how calmly he talked about you being in charge before going into the voyeur room. The multitude of orgasms he gave you within the four walls of his private room. Him singing on the small stage of the dive bar you found, followed by him spanking you right there in the bathroom with his hand clamped to your face to keep you quiet. His strong hand grasping your thigh as he drove you to his house. The way he tasted on your tongue. The smell of his skin: all ash and leather, occasionally mixed with whiskey or mint. The feel of his body: hard, broad and hot. His shuddered breaths as he confessed so many things in so few words. 

‘It’s only you, sweet girl.’

‘Just call me Joel.’

‘I know, and I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.’

You carefully walk up the stairs, forcing the thoughts of Joel from your mind, just in time to hear your name announced as a graduate of Berkeley Law. You float across the stage, grabbing the piece of paper that acts as your degree until the real one comes, shaking the hand of the Dean who flips your tassel before you walk to the stairs on the other side; the stairs that symbolize the ending of your time here and the beginning of the rest of your life. 

As you reach the top of the steps, you look out into the audience and see Jamie. She pumps her fist in the air and before you can process the empty seat beside her, you feel it; a strong tug from behind your navel. It takes you less than a heartbeat to find him and the sight before you floods your body with a familiar warmth. Standing under a large tree at the edge of the audience, dressed in all black, and holding his Stetson hat to his heart, is Joel. For the first time in years you feel whole again.

 You keep your gaze on him, worried that if you so much as blink that he’ll be gone. You are supposed to follow your classmates, but you veer left, walking towards Joel. The closer you get, the more at ease you feel. He’s real, you think, he’s here. You stop a foot or so in front of him. 

“Hi, Freckles,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes dance around your face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize this moment. You can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling exactly how you are.   

“Hi, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, the same tremble in your voice, as you try desperately to hold it together. “You’re here.”

He nods and you give him a tight-lipped smile as your mind races. There’s so much you want to say, but now that he’s standing right there in front of you after three years, you don’t know where to start. 

Joel breaks the silence, jutting his chin in the direction of the other graduates as he says, “I saw you come in with your boyfriend. When I saw you kiss, I was going to leave, but I made you a promise.”

You knit your eyebrows together and take a step closer. “Boyfriend?”

“The man you walked over here with,” Joel says, his black Stetson sliding down the chest you so desperately want to touch as he drops his hands to his sides. He’s left no barriers between the two of you except the heartbreak that’s evident on his face. 

You laugh quietly, “No, he’s - that’s Ronan.”

Joel nods. “Okay.”

“He’s my friend,” you clarify, and when Joel’s face stays the same, you add, “And he’s still as gay as the day we first met!”

Joel lets out a whoosh of a breath and closes the distance between the two of you, his free hand comes to one of your curls, twirling the end of it around his thick fingers. Soft and silky meets rough and calloused. “I’m so proud of you, Freckles.”

You don’t miss how he watches your tongue dart between your lips, “Thank you.”

“So? How does it feel?” He gives you a soft crooked smile, his dimple carving into the short facial hair of his salt and pepper beard. Between that smile, and the way his brown eyes wash over you, you’re overcome with affection. He let you go. He did exactly as you asked him. He didn’t chase you or try to convince you to stay. You told him if he really loved you, then he’d do exactly this; and in turn, he did what he said he would. 

He showed up. 

“I love you,” you state and the air between you turns electric, almost like this moment could either set you both aflame or act as a generator for your future together. Joel gives you that look, the one that makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. He lets the curled end of your hair slip from his fingers, reaching up towards your graduation cap but hesitating.

“May I?” He rasps and swallows hard.

You nod, and knowing exactly what he’s going for, you take the Stetson from his other hand and place it on your head after he removes your cap. The brim of it blocks out everything but the two of you.

“Say that again, sweet girl,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper this time. “Even after three years apart, you are everything to me. I asked you to let me go so I could accomplish this, and you did. You’ve always done what I asked, what I needed. I’m not sorry for what happened between us, but I am sorry that I missed out on getting to spend the last three years with you looking at me how you are now. I love you, Joel Miller.”

He brings his lips within a breath of yours, and your body practically vibrates with the knowledge that if you leaned just a bit forward, you’d finally have his mouth on you again. You can almost taste the mint on his tongue as the familiar fragrance of ash and leather surround you. “I have dreamed of hearing those three words leave your beautiful lips more times than I can count, baby. You’re it for me. I’ll do anything for you, even if it means breaking my own heart, but I’m always going to be here for you, rooting for you and encouraging you. I’m glad you’re not sorry, because I’m not, I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you, too, my sweet girl.”

Finally, he presses his warm, firm lips against yours while pulling you tight to his body. You wrap an arm around his neck, holding the black cowboy hat against your head with your other hand. It doesn’t matter that the ceremony isn’t done, or that there are hundreds of people to your right. For the first time in three years, everything goes quiet. He hums contentedly and you feel yourself melt against him, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. He parts his lips, letting you take the first swipe of your tongue against his. Need floods your system, and based on the way he grinds into you, he’s feeling the same. 

He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours. “Take me home,” you practically purr.

“Where do you want home to be? I’ll go anywhere,” Joel rasps, running his nose down the bridge of yours. 

“Austin,” you respond, your breath catching as his lips ghost along the side of your mouth.

“I sold my portion of the club to Tommy and Tess. I don’t have anything holding me in Austin anymore, sweet girl. If you have a job offer you really want, that’s where we’ll go.” You pull back to look at him. You can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s serious. 

“I want to go to Austin. I have a job offer there.”

“Good thing I told Tommy not to touch my room at the club then.”

“That’s a very good thing,” you moan and then pull him in to kiss again. The audience behind you erupts into cheers, celebrating the accomplishments of every student in that crowd. 

You’re a lawyer, and suddenly, the future doesn’t seem so scary.

Joel

Taking you home to Austin that night unfortunately wasn’t an option. After finding Jamie in the crowd, and being formally introduced to Ronan, he called the car to pick up the three of you. You all met Tommy at the restaurant, celebrating with all the expensive homemade pasta and overpriced wine that you wanted; even though seeing you in that curve-hugging velvet dress was slowly killing him. Joel had kept at least one hand on you since seeing you again, and he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon. 

He didn’t want to rush you on your big night, so he waited patiently, listening to you tell stories of your last three years, and revelling in the evident joy that you and Jamie share over being together again. When dessert comes around he catches Tommy’s attention and gives him a small smile. It’s fitting that the two brothers, who have been so close their entire lives, would fall in love with best friends. 

Once in his room, he spent two hours stripping you down at an almost painfully slow pace. He kissed every inch of your skin twice over and has pulled five orgasms, and counting, out of you so far. 

Now, Joel is seated in the wide velvet arm chair in the corner of his hotel suite. His cock is buried deep inside of your tight cunt as you straddle him. Your skin feels like butter under his hands as he trails them along your back and the globes of your perfect ass. He’s missed tying you up, but this is what he longed for: the earth shattering intimacy he feels with you in these moments.   

“Please,” you mumble into his neck, desperate to move your hips.

“Not until you answer me,” he demands softly. “How many times was it that you needed me, but were too stubborn to reach out?”

Earlier tonight you told him about the six times you really needed him. He’d kissed you softly after each confession, returning the trust with a time he needed you. After the last one, he’d pulled back to look at you with dark eyes. He’d hated that you needed him and he couldn’t be there. He’d clenched his back molars twice before he said you’d be denied six orgasms the next time you were at the club, but tonight you have permission to come as often as you need to. 

He swats your already reddened ass cheek and your pussy flutters as you cry out. “Mister Miller, stop. Please, just let me move.”

“Do you need to use your safeword?”

“No,” you respond with a pout. 

“How many times?” He says again through gritted teeth, even though already knows the answer. 

“Six,” you sob. 

He tuts and then growls, “That doesn’t sound like my good girl, does it?”

You shake your head against his throat and moan a sound of disagreement.

“Do you want to come for me again?”

“Yes, Mister Miller. Please!”

He trails his fingers up and down your back again, the thin sheen of sweat on your skin makes it easy for him to caress you. He smiles to himself at the shiver that racks through your body at his touch. You react so beautifully to him. “Yeah? You wanna grind your swollen little clit on my piercing, baby girl?”

“Please,” you whine again, stretching out all the vowels in the word.

“Show me. Ride my cock, take what you need.” 

You lift your head from the crook in his neck and pull back slightly, rocking your hips back and forth; a sultry laugh leaves his lips at your eagerness. You look at him with hooded eyes, hair stuck to your forehead. His eyes trail down your neck to the bruises he sucked into your collar bone earlier and then to your breasts; both of which are covered in his marks. He watches the little gold nipple clamps, and the chain that connects them, bounce with each flick of your hips. 

“That’s it, sweet girl. You look like a goddess, my goddess. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m yours, baby,” you say through shallow breaths. He pulls at the chain and you cry out in pain. “S-sorry, Mister Miller.”

“Again, sweet girl. Tell me who you belong to.”

“Oh fuck, y-you, Mist -” his hands come to your face and when he whispers your name the rest of your sentence dies on your tongue.

“Just call me Joel.” The commanding voice of his alter ego is gone as he says it. 

Your hips slow, changing from a frantic back and forth to a sensual swirling motion. “I’m yours, Joel. Forever.”

He kisses you softly, a silent telling of how vulnerable he is at this moment. “Don’t ask me to let you go ever again.”

The smile you give him causes his heart to skip, “I won’t.”

“You might, sweet girl. I won't survive it if you do, so I’m going to remind you of this moment as often as possible for the rest of my life. Remind you how much you’re loved and supported. You’re mine, Freckles.” Your hips swirl and he feels you tighten up around him. “Come for me, my sweet girl.” 

“Fuck, fuck, Joel!” It’s a cry and moan all at once. 

“I’m here, it’s ok, baby.” With that, your body shudders and you fall into him as you shatter. Your pussy clenches and releases rapidly around his length. His cock twitches, and once he can’t hold it anymore he relaxes, letting his orgasm rock through him in time with yours.

“I’m yours, too,” he gasps as he melts into you.

The End

Coming Soon:

Curious how Jamie ended up with her "dads new asshole friend?"

Part 2 of the BDSMaid Trilogy coming mid 2025!

Also, stay tuned for the epilogue for Joel and Sweet Girl.

[lokischocolatefountain]

Denial || Men Like Me

Part 2 of the Men Like Me series. Part 1

Masterlist

Fandom: The Last of Us Pairing: Joel Miller x Virgin!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: girthy age gap, virgin!reader, eventual loss of virginity (not in this chapter), masturbation (male & female), cis fem reader, descriptions of reader's body, somewhat creepy!Joel, fetishization of youth, dom!Joel, Joel ignores you until he can't, slightly insecure reader, very insecure Joel, corruption kink, mild fem!dom, reader turns the tables a little, name calling, fetishization of virginity, face fucking (not the mouth, but cheek), kneeling, stripping, moneyshot, fingering, sexual discoveries. Word count: 10.4k Summary: After your steamy encounter, Joel ignores you out of guilt, leaving you feeling unworthy. But you make a discovery that makes you turn the tables on him. A/N: The reception that chapter 1 got gave me enough serotonin to keep me going, you guys. I hope everyone likes this chapter at least half as much if not as much as the first one. Even the half would give me a lot of joy. And do say hi in my inbox or my asks. I would loooove to talk about these two. As always, pleaaaaaase give me reblog and/or a comment to recharge my writing batteries. Most importantly, a big thanks to @tobuildahomeinthewoods because the smut part was from their idea in the last chapter's comments .

“Long day, huh?” 

“What?” you asked, your brain taking a second too long to process the words. “Yeah. Yeah, yeah,” you said, going back to your glass of whiskey. 

“I heard about the kids. They gotta be more careful,” Tommy said, looking to his brother for some kind of confirmation. Joel nodded hesitantly, his eyes looking everywhere but you as he traced the rim of his glass with his middle finger. So cavalier like he didn’t fuck you with that very finger. Asshole. 

“Yeah, yeah. Climbing trees is not wise,” you agreed, willing yourself to look away from his brother. You didn’t want to get caught staring, or worse glaring. The chatter of the dinner crowd at the Tipsy Bison drowned into the sound of you tapping your fingers on the wood counter of the bar. You got up abruptly, the bar stool going down from the force of your actions. You bent over to pick it up, a hand moving to your chest instinctively to keep from flashing everyone. With no such protection for your ass, you could feel familiar eyes on them. Eyes that you’d become accustomed to having on you no matter the distance. 

“You ok–” Tommy began, but you cut him off.

“You have a good one, Tommy,” you said, grabbing your bag from the bar counter and slinging it over your shoulder. “I gotta go. I’m really tired.” 

Like the fool that you were, you picked your glass up and downed the rest of the whiskey, your throat rejecting the choice with a cough that had you spit out half of the burning liquor. Great. Now you’d have to wash your scrubs before going to bed so it didn’t stain. Fucking great. 

There were some protests from the younger Miller brother, some words of concern. But you ignored him as you hurried out of the Tipsy Bison and into the night. At least one of the Millers had some manners. And it wasn’t the one that broke into your house and showed you what a clitoris was. It was fucking embarrassing that he was ignoring you after that. Even more embarrassing that you had to learn it from a random guy when you were the one poring over anatomy textbooks trying to become a doctor. You should know anatomy better than anyone else. Your mentor should’ve taught you. You’d learned how to conduct a safe childbirth. Even been allowed to close up the last c-section patient. But you didn’t fucking learn how the baby got in there. 

Alright well, you did. But you hadn’t been told about some of the especially sensitive parts of the body that would be involved in the process. 

You tossed your bag on your couch, got yourself some cookies that you traded for last week and climbed up the stairs to your bedroom. It wasn’t a nutritious dinner, but it filled your tummy. It came in handy when you didn’t want to spend time chopping vegetables and boiling pasta or whatever the hell you had to do to cook. 

Your bedroom had become your prison in the last two weeks. You felt trapped, unable to see beyond it. How could you, when it ironically was right here that you found freedom? 

Even as you did something as mundane as eating cookies on bed and spilled crumbs on your sheets like a child, the chair in front of your dressing table was in sight. From where you sat, you could see very clearly the scratch on the black paint that revealed the light wood underneath. Evidence of how you had to hold on to dear life as Joel worked your pussy expertly. Like he knew it as well as he knew the tools of his trade. Like weaving his fingers between your folds was as familiar to him as it was for you to weave through skin with your suture needle and thread.

You felt yourself dripping at the mere memory of his thick fingers pumping away inside you, unraveling the fibers of your being. The sight of him at the bar– his finger tracing the rim of the glass– it took you to the memory of that very finger teasing your pussy.

The pornographic magazines, the entertainment for men, no longer saw the light of day from their box under your bed. Pictures of nude women you wanted to model yourself after in order to be attractive to men no longer sufficed. All you strived for now was to be attractive to him. To be strung like a puppet in his hands while all he seemed to want was to get away from any place where you were. 

You felt a pang in your chest as you recalled the first time you went to the house of worship after your time with Joel to find that he’d been replaced with the younger Miller. Tears stung in your eyes as you felt rejected by his absence. Like he no longer wanted to be in the same room as you, hammer nails into wood as you spoke to your fellow townspeople about their wellbeing. You told yourself it was just a temporary thing. That the brothers just liked to alternate shifts and he would return soon to fix the windows that shattered during a storm in the winter. 

He never came. 

You’d never experienced such rejection before. You’d never wanted before. To want was to risk rejection, to feel the pit in your stomach as you felt now. You never wanted to feel less than, undesirable, unwanted. So you pulled away from all the men you dated. If you could even call that dating. Maybe it was your own fault for thinking it would be easier with Joel. What did you think? That he would fold immediately because you showed off your legs and touched his arm and pushed your breasts out to present your femininity? 

Naive, stupid girl. 

“Been experiencing longer than you’ve been alive, Ma’am.” 

Something twisted in your belly and you lied down, pulling your covers over you as though it would contain the shame coursing through you. 

You probably looked silly to him, like a little girl playing adult. Like a kitten picking a fight with a lion. Less than half his age, just a fucking preschooler on outbreak day when he would’ve been a fully grown man. Maybe already beginning to gray, the skin by his eyes crinkled from the years he spent smiling at and wooing women. Why would he want a girl? He’d want a real woman. Someone like Tommy’s wife, perhaps. Someone he wouldn’t have to teach.

“Don’t know your own fucking body but you want a man?” his taunt rang cold in your ear, sending chills down your spine like he was still behind you, fingers buried deep inside the most intimate part of you. You pressed your thighs together, heat pooling between them as it always happened when you thought of what he did to you. 

Shame didn’t deter you as you brought your fingers to your pussy, brushing one against your clit with curiosity. With fear. It felt so good, like its sole purpose went beyond the animal need to survive and propagate. You bypassed it to touch your weeping slit, more comfortable with what you were already used to for carnal pleasure.

Your own fingers had always been enough. Out in the wilderness when you needed to release pent up energy. After long days at the clinic and sharing notes with the other students. When you were tired to the point where you couldn’t sleep. Your fingers always took you to where you needed. You were always satisfied.  

Not anymore. 

You whined as the different angles you tried failed to work. The physical pleasure was the same. But not quite like how it felt with him. His hand was larger, his fingers longer and thicker. He showed you sports inside you that you’d never been able to touch yourself. Maybe this was what people meant when they said ignorance was bliss. Knowledge of pleasure you could have but couldn’t give yourself was torture.

As much as you resented Joel now, you couldn’t help but conjure images of him as you brought yourself closer to release. His deep brown eyes, his large hand that he wrapped around your throat, the way he carried you from your chair and deposited you on your bed. Like a human being weighed nothing to him. Like you were his toy that he could bury his fingers in, play with and set aside when he was done, when he was bored. Entertainment for Men came to your mind again and you cried like you never had at your own touch. 

Your thighs trembled as you imagined yourself as one of those women in the magazines, but only for him. Entertainment for Joel. Splayed out on the center page for him to look at and fuck his hand to. You wouldn’t mind being tangible entertainment. Laid out on his bed, limbs arranged in an attractive manner for him, so he could access whatever part of your body he wanted to play with. To be bent to his will and fucked, to be used, given an affectionate pat on your pussy and put away when you’d outlasted his needs only to be given attention when he wanted to get off the next time. 

You shook uncontrollably, your eyes squeezed shut and the world went blank as you reached your peak. You pulled your spare pillow to your chest, needing some physical comfort after experiencing such a high. You wished it were him instead of an inanimate object. That he would make you feel good and hold you and kiss you all over. That he would stay when you woke up the next day and do it all over again. 

Once the haze of your orgasm cleared up, you cringed at the feelings it had brought out of you. How stupid… Wanting a man who broke in, fucked you with his fingers, and began ignoring you like you did something horrible to him. Fuck Joel Miller and fucking his stupid fucking face. As he said, there were other men in the town. Men who wouldn’t ignore you.

⌘

“How are the windows lookin’?” 

“Fixed ‘em up in time for the cold winds. No thanks to you, fuckin’ asshole.” 

“Sorry. Y’know I ain’t the church going type.” It wasn’t a lie. He wasn’t the church kind before Sarah died and he certainly wasn’t anymore. That the young aspiring doctor he fingered in her bedroom was the real reason behind him swapping work would remain his secret.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy grumbled, playing with the now cold fries on his plate. “It ain’t a church, by the way. Maria keeps correctin’ me. It’s the house of worship.” 

Joel rolled his eyes at that. He got the reasoning behind it. The town had people who believed in different Gods and had different religions. Calling the place a Church would be as unfair as calling it a– whatever, he didn’t know any other kind of place for worship. But it still pissed him off when his little brother came to him and went on about something his wife said.

Go off and do whatever your wife tells you, motherfucker.

No matter how he tried, the snide voice in his head that hated Maria never went away. He never said anything to her or Tommy. Maria was decent to him too, unlike the time he first arrived with Ellie. She trusted him with Miles. Invited him and Ellie over to family dinners. But they kept their interactions to a minimum, as though there’d been a silent agreement that it was best they kept it civil so as to not sow discord in the family. 

“Whatever. No point in worshiping, be it Jesus or whatever stuff they got goin’ these days.”

A shudder went down his spine, triggered by the talk of religion. As it became colder, Ellie had begun to revert to the empty shell of a child she was after the events in Colorado. There’d been grifters in the past hiding behind religion to cheat people out of their money, to damage children irreparably while preaching the word of God. The end of the fucking world somehow didn’t stop them from going on. Didn’t stop people from believing that an all-knowing, all-powerful guy in the sky was still watching and would protect them. 

If what protected people was God, guns were God. And Molotov cocktails. Sharp rocks and shoelaces.

Ellie didn’t tell him much, but from what he could piece together, it was a religious group with one guy leading them. And they were fuckin’ cannibals. Sounded like a goddamn cult.

“It’s a nice place to meet people,” said Tommy, snapping him out of his descent into the void of the recent past. 

Joel simply snorted and took a sip of his glass of water. He couldn’t handle his alcohol like he used to. Age and that he had been off his usual cocktail of oxy and whiskey for a long time now. He had to resort to having a lot of water to sober himself up after the occasional evening drinks with Tommy. 

“What? It is! I go there, catch up with everyone in town. Usually people go there when they’re going through some shit. It makes them feel conscious if you visit their house. So I just run into ‘em at the Chu– house of worship– and I just talk to them about their lives ‘n see if there’s anything I can do for them.” 

“Guess you’re right,” he said, slotting his thumbnail in the ridges on the bar counter absentmindedly, scraping off bits of the old softening wood. 

He could go again. Only so many days he could ignore you. But the reminder of the shame coursing through his veins when he saw you this evening made him shake the thoughts off. There was no way he could be anywhere you were without shriveling up and dying of embarrassment. 

You were so young.

Relatively unblemished by the world. A fuckin’ virgin. Never known the touch of a man and moaning his name as you touched yourself. 

Nope, nope, nope. Shouldn't have gone there, he thought as he felt himself hardening in his pants. Shouldn’t his dick be non-functional by now? He was dangerously close to sixty and spent a good two decades without adequate nutrition. Shouldn’t that be enough to turn his dick limp forever?

“Come over tomorrow, then. We’re doin’ a little memorial thing in the back of the house of worship. That young doctor’s idea, actually. She put the idea forward at the last council meeting. Thinks it’ll help people to have something physical to remember their people by.” 

Young, sweet, and so fucking thoughtful. 

Not meant for men like him.

Yet he went the next day. 

The topic of Sarah hung in the air around him and Tommy like a fog beyond which they couldn’t see. It sat heavy in his chest, the memory of his baby and worse, everything his shit brain had forgotten. He remembered that she gave him shit, mocked him over everything. But she didn’t have a voice in his head anymore. He could describe the sweetness of her voice, but it no longer sounded out in his mind. No matter how hard he tried. 

Her favorite color was purple and she loved soccer. He couldn’t recall the name of her team. She loved reading. He didn’t remember her favorite author. She liked animated movies. He couldn’t remember a single one. Just the vague memory of her falling asleep on his lap as cartoon characters chirped away on tv. Even her face was beginning to blur. When he recalled her features, it was only through images of the last seconds of her life.

“We could just do alphabetical order. Simple.” 

“Not really,” you said, scribbling lines on the paper. “We get new people in the town sometimes and we don’t want the names they add to stand out, away from the alphabetically ordered list. Might make them feel bad.”

“Yeah, you’re right. What about age?” Tommy suggested. 

“Still the same problem. It would force newcomers to have their own separate list at the bottom.” 

“How about a first come first serve system? We tell people when we’re taking names down for the memorial and they can come over, form a queue and give us the names they want included. That way, people can keep the names of the people they love in one spot on the memorial instead of having it scattered all over because of age or alphabetical order.” 

“What do you think, Joel?” Tommy asked, making him fold his arms over his chest and sigh. He didn’t give a shit. But that wasn’t the most amicale thing to say when someone was trying to do an objectively good deed. Unlike the other people in this town, he didn’t deserve to add the names of his people to a memorial. He failed in protecting them. He didn’t deserve to mourn like he wasn’t the reason they went into early graves. 

“Yeah, ‘s good. I agree.” He said, finding no faults with your proposal to order the names of the deceased by the order in which people gave it to ‘em. He didn’t know why he was being asked all this. It wasn’t like he was on the council like them. He was just takin’ measurements when he got dragged into this. 

“How many names do you think we’ll get?” Tommy asked him in yet another attempt to get him involved. 

Taking pity on his brother, he began a rough estimate of the number of names they’d get for the memorial and how much surface area they’d need for carving them in. “Six hundred people in town. Babies don’t have names to give. Kids wouldn’t have too many and if they had any, it would be on their parents’ list too. How many kids in this town?”

It was a fucking nightmare, sitting there at the table with you and doing calculations when all he wanted was to throw you over his shoulder and take you back to his place. Make you pose like you were posing in front of your mirror that day. Like women in those porno magazines he sneaked into his teenage bedroom and jerked off to. The fuck were you even thinking? Door left open, tits out, fingers in your cunt and his fucking name on your lips. 

Did you notice him at your door and decided it would be a fun trick to play on an old man? Or did you always scream his name when you fucked yourself? When was the first time? Did you always come so prettily on your own fingers like you came on his? Being in the dark drove him crazy. But part of him felt that getting the answers would drive him absolutely fucking insane. 

The thought alone was enough to make him feel uncomfortable in his pants. He adjusted himself on his seat and looked away from you, afraid that somehow you’d be able to tell that he was having improper thoughts about you when you were talking about honoring the dead. If thinking about you sexually in a church was bad, he was sure it was worse to think it when you were trying to help people memorialize their dead.

You had an air of innocence about you. The brightness of your eyes and the way you moved your hands about as you planned the details of this memorial and scribbled them out on your little notebook. He’d been attracted to that innocence from the very start. A rare thing to find out in the world. When even babies were born into violence and oppression, innocence was a luxury no one even thought to acquire. 

A virgin, too. 

His cock twitched in his pants. He gulped and looked around to check if anyone had caught his shameless response. Nope. 

He was surprised you were a virgin. For all your innocence, you were also fucking beautiful. There were plenty of guys in town. Ladies too, if you liked that. Anyone would’ve snatched you up quick and made sure to show you a world of pleasure. It didn’t take him long knowing you to give in to temptation. It was fucking impossible that no man had worshipped with his head between your thighs. That no man who saw you in your pretty little dresses bent you over and filled you up with his cock.

You were beautiful. Even more so when you came on his fingers. Made all those pretty little sounds. The way you said his name… Nobody had said it like that in such a long time. Not even Tess. 

It rang in his head whenever he found himself alone at home. Being in possession of your panties didn’t help matters. White cotton. Innocent. Covered in your dried up release. When he left that day, he made sure to suck on his fingers. Moaned like a fucking creep while going down your stairs. Eyes closed, he could still taste you on his tongue. After so many days. A little tangy with a hint of salt from your sweat and all woman. 

It had been embarrassingly long since he felt like a man. He’d been father, brother, smuggler, and father again. But long since he was just man. Never someone desirable. Out there, sex was just for release. Purely biological. The end of the fucking world did not afford good hygiene. You fucked someone because they were the safest option. Not because you were attracted to them.

You, however… You had others in this town. You were here before him. Younger, smarter, with a body that worked perfectly fucking well. You could have anyone but it was his name you were moaning out in the privacy of your room. 

He grunted as your voice crept back into his mind. The ‘Joel, please’, and the ‘Sir’. 

He grabbed on to the railing as his thighs trembled, afraid he would have an embarrassing fall. His breaths grew quicker and his mind void of everything but you. 

On your knees. On your back. On your front so he could fuck you from behind. Your hand around his cock. Your lips stretched out around him as you struggled with his size. Fistful of your hair as you begged for release. Please, Sir. Please, Joel.  The heat of your tight velvety cunt. Tears blurring your wide eyed innocence as he stretched out your rear hole. He wanted to take you everywhere, leave you burning with him. Mark you so deep every man you let in after you would know who fucked you first.

It didn't take long. The mental images of you were far too effective. His last time was too long ago. He was too old to last. Too old to want you. Somehow the reminder only pushed him further along. Sticky white cum coated your panties, mixing your scent with his. The mirror showed him a reflection of himself. Old, gray, crow’s feet by his eyes. He dropped your panties in the hamper, the warmth of his own release on his hand and the shame on his face sobering him up quickly. 

He wanted to teach you sin. But you had taught him more of it already than you would ever know.

⌘

“Cool jacket, dude!” 

“Uh…thanks. I traded for it years ago” you said, digging your thumb nail between the teeth of the zipper. It didn’t fit perfectly, but it worked well on cold nights that weren’t cold enough to warrant a sweater. “Is Joel in? I need to talk to him about a building project.”

“Yeah,” said Ellie before pressing her lips into a thin line. “I mean, he was awake half an hour ago when I left, but he could be in dreamland by now. Cause he’s old.” 

“Ah. Of course,” you said, smiling awkwardly at the girl. Joel’s kind of, sort of daughter. You were closer to her than Joel in age. You rolled the memorial plan tighter and tighter, your hands needing to be occupied with something as your mind reeled at the inappropriateness of your desires.

“I’ll make sure I don’t wake him up,” you said before leaving the girl to return to her group of friends. 

He was old enough to be your father. It should disgust you, scare you. Maybe it would’ve if you’d had an actual father in your life. A point of reference to know how vile a man of that age would have to be to want a girl your age. You tried to force some disgust into your veins, hoping that would help in putting out the fire in you that threatened to consume you whole. But it was hard to convince yourself that this was wrong when he’d made you feel so good. 

Your fingers had become inadequate overnight. If his fingers were so powerful over you… You shuddered to think what he could do for you with his penis. It had to feel better. The organ was made for it, unlike fingers.

You stopped outside his door and knocked without giving it a single thought. If you’d thought about it, you would’ve fled. It had already taken you hours to muster up the courage to make the walk to his house with the draft sketches for the memorial. You wouldn’t let your desperation ruin it. 

He looked surprised to see you, mouth opening and closing as though he’d forgotten how to process language. His dark brown curls and the silver that decorated it sat messily atop his head. Like he’d run his fingers through it. An old t-shirt stretched over his chest and struggled against his arms. A pair of dark sweatpants sat on his hips, the drawstrings hanging in the front. 

“Hey? Uh…what’s wrong?” he asked, bringing a hand up to his face and scratching his beard. Why was that hot? You had to be out of your fucking mind.

You cleared your throat and looked up into his eyes. “Does something have to be wrong?”

“You’ve never come here, so I thought…” 

“I’m here about the memorial plans. I have a few designs I want to run by you,” you said, holding up the rolled up sheets of paper.

“Ah. That. Sure, uh come in,” he said, opening the door and stepping aside to allow you passage. You looked around his house, careful to seem disinterested so he didn’t have more reasons to think you were a stupid little girl pining after him just because he made you come once. 

Shit. He probably already thought that. 

“A virgin. Pretty young things like you ain’t for men like me.”

You swallowed at the reminder as he led you to the dining table and offered you a seat. You looked around while he cleared the table. Plates, tools, some worn out novels. So he was the messy sort. You didn’t know who you would be if you’d had the chance to just be. You didn’t know if you would leave things lying around like that if you’d had a normal start to life. Like Joel. Like the others who were old enough to remember life before the cordyceps.

The place didn’t scream Joel Miller. There were no personal artifacts decorating his living room. No framed art. No books. No throw pillows or even a blanket on the couch. 

You knew what it was like to have nothing in your house. When you were still new to the town and it hadn’t hit you yet that you were allowed to have your own things. Collect stuff and not worry about having too many things to carry with you when you had to run. You didn’t own anything you couldn’t fit into your backpack. And you took that backpack everywhere when you managed to step outside your new house. 

But over time, you’d decorated your house. People you helped out at the clinic often gave you things as a token of their gratitude. Kids drew pictures for you. A lady once gave you the art off her wall that the previous owner had put up. Tommy and Maria gave you a new sweater that she’d knit when she was pregnant. New yarn from new wool from the town’s sheep. The first time you ever got something truly new. 

“No decorations, huh?” 

“What?”

“You don’t have any decorations here,” you pointed out again and licked your lips nervously.

“Uh, yeah. Not really the priority. Have’ta trade wisely. Can’t be gettin’ pictures when ya need bread.” 

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “But you don't have to trade for it, you know? You could put up something of what’s in the house already. Surely the previous owners left some stuff.” 

“They did. Traded ‘em all for things we need. Fresh fruits, bullets, that kinda shit.” 

“Well, it doesn’t have to be framed art. You could cut up a nice picture from a magazine or something.” 

Joel looked up from the plans, head tilted and an eyebrow raised. Shit! Of course he thought you were talking about your magazines with the naked women. 

“I didn’t mean it like that!” you said, your voice coming out squeaky. Embarrassed, you cleared your throat and looked down at the plans. 

“Let’s discuss the plans,” he said, his voice all gruff and his tone so stern. 

“I-I- uh… May I use your restroom?” you asked, unable to look him in the eye after what you’d said. After how he’d reacted. You really didn’t mean it like that. But you could see why that would be hard to believe when the last time he saw you, you had a box full of those men’s entertainment magazines on your bed and one open in front of you as you touched yourself. 

Touched yourself and moaned his name. 

“Upstairs, second door to the left.” 

You squeaked out a thanks before you bolted out of his dining room and made your way up the stairs. There were two bathrooms. One decorated with band posters and a poster of a girl with weirdly cut black hair sitting on a motorcycle. Had to be Ellie’s. The second door to the left was another bathroom. Joel’s, apparently. There was just one bar of soap, a toothbrush, and a pot of toothpaste. No shampoo bar. You pulled the toilet seat and lid down before taking a seat. 

You let out a groan and planted your face in your hands. Why the hell did you have to go and make it awkward like it wasn’t already that way. After he made you come that day, he’d refused to be anywhere near you. You hoped it was just coincidence, but after over a week it became undeniable that he was avoiding you. 

He probably thought you were going to catch feelings. A girl in one of the romance novels you read fell in love with a guy who took her virginity. And there was the time you overheard this guy talking about not wanting to sleep with a girl because she was a virgin. He was afraid she would catch feelings and get clingy. 

Now here you were in his bathroom because you thought it was wise to make small talk and ended up insinuating he should put up dirty pictures on his wall. You could scream. But you wouldn’t. There was already enough awkwardness with him. 

You could always jump out of the window and run off to your house. Never speak of this again. Pretend nothing happened if Joel tried to talk to you about it. But something told you that he wouldn’t. He would probably be happy if he never had to interact with you again. You had been acting desperate. He caught you touching yourself moaning his name, for fuck’s sake! 

Your hands, permanently dry from all the times you scrubbed them clean for your patients, found some moisture from your salty tears. It was embarrassing, sitting in the bathroom of a guy who wanted nothing to do with you after you scared him off with your stupid little infatuation. 

You were a grown woman. Still young, but too old to be acting like this. You should have some experience already. Not sniffling over a man more than twice your age. He was right. He had been a grown man with experience longer than you’d been alive. Of course he wanted nothing to do with you. 

The window looked more and more attractive as the seconds passed. It had been a while since you did something like that. You didn’t need to jump out of buildings or trees anymore. You didn’t go on patrols like some residents. With no need to fight for your life and having all the food you could need to never go hungry even once, you’d become a little unfit. If you broke a bone jumping out of Joel’s bathroom window, there would be questions. And everyone would know. You’d have to avoid the whole town instead of just Joel. 

You’d just have to face it. Even if facing it was doing as little as just bidding him goodbye and bolting out of his house without an explanation. You got off his toilet and pressed the flush just so he didn’t think you were weird. Like it fucking mattered. He already found you weird and desperate. 

You washed your hands, letting the water wash away the tears on your hands before wiping your wet hands over your face in an attempt to remove traces of your crying. 

You should’ve just left after that. Not looked around. Not snooped like a creep. You didn’t ever dig. You didn’t have to look too deep to catch it. But a sliver of white peeked out through the netted walls of the laundry hamper. A sliver of white cotton with a light blue stitch. 

Without second thought, you dug into his dirty laundry. You came up with the white cotton fabric, going straight to the gusset where the blue thread stitched the fabric pieces together. The original stitch had given out and you sewed it back together just some time back. The blue thread was all that you had at the time. 

As though the sight of your panties in Joel’s bathroom wasn’t jarring enough, next came the smell. Of you. Your cum. You felt practically hear your own heartbeats as you recalled how he’d cleaned you up with your own panties. You recalled that he stuffed the fabric in his pocket as you lied on your bed, pussy still pulsating from his handiwork, brain melted, and life changed forever. 

You took another whiff of your panties, goosebumps raising the hairs on your body as you felt it. Your cum and something else. It was still damp.

Blood rushed back up to your face and you felt yourself getting tense. 

This fucker. How dare he? You’d been embarrassed just a minute ago over your desires and he was doing this the whole time? Noticing you on the streets and running away for days. Running back to his home where he kept your fucking panties, apparently. Avoiding you for so long only to cum in your panties. 

So he wanted you. 

If not you, he at least wanted sex. Dirrty old man who liked attention from you, but you weren’t even disgusted. Just angry he was pretending to be better than that. He could’ve used any old rag, but he used your panties. 

You brought your defiled panties back up and smelled them again. Strangely, it smelled something like bleach. Or you could be wrong. You’d never… You didn’t know what a man’s release was supposed to smell like. Was it different for each man or did they all smell the same? 

Wetness pooled in your panties as you imagined him touching himself. Large rough hand wrapped around himself. Did he think of you when he did it? Think of you naked in your bedroom and taking his fingers? What did his penis look like? What would it feel like? Soft? Rough? You’d wondered about having one inside you, but never about a particular man’s anatomy. But this was Joel. Joel was the only one who’d gotten this far in your head. 

He couldn’t deny it to you anymore. If nothing else, you could at least call him out for ignoring you when he was wiping his ejaculate off with your stolen panties.

“Joel!” you called out before your fears could talk you out of confronting him. Unsure if he would’ve heard you, you opened the bathroom door and yelled his name out again. “Joel!” 

“What?” 

“Come up here!” 

“What happened?” 

“Just come here.” 

You heard him sigh, the sound followed by the typical grunts and groans he made when standing up. Fuckin’ old man, ruining your life. Ruining your self-confidence. Ruining your fucking panties. His heavy footsteps thudded against the stairs as he climbed up, the sound getting louder as he got closer to the bathroom. 

“Why were you screaming my name like y–” he stopped mid scold, frozen in place by the door as he saw what you had in your hand. He opened and closed his mouth, as though attempting to explain but deciding otherwise. He licked his lips and scratched the back of his neck, his eyes looking everywhere but at you. 

“Do you not have rags, Joel?” you taunted, taking a step towards him and enjoying seeing him step back. You felt powerful, moving a large man with just your voice. It was very unlike how he made you feel all the days he ignored you. Weak, insignificant, undesirable.

“You weren’t meant to– Fuck, I’m sorry!” 

“Which part are you apologizing for? For breaking into my house and touching me? For ignoring me ever since? For stealing my underwear? Or for doing whatever you did with it?”

You moved him out of the bathroom, making him walk backwards in the hallway you hoped led to his bedroom. Even if it didn’t, you’d be fine. You’d exact revenge in any place you can. As long as you got to make him feel the way he made you feel. Pleasure. Shame. Want. 

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I never should’ve—”

You took your last step towards him, finally trapping him against a wall. You stood close enough to place your hand on his chest. You licked your lips, the rock hard muscles beneath your touch storing itself away in your mind for later use. 

“Imagine what would happen if I told someone? You sister-in-law, perhaps… She hates you, doesn’t she?” You smirked, though you were screaming on the inside. You didn’t know where you got all this courage from. You didn’t know you had it in you to threaten a man as imposing as Joel. 

He turned pale, his hands up against the wall in surrender. If you’d asked him, he wouldn’t tell you the truth that it was to keep himself from touching you. “Please don’t tell anyone. I won’t do this again, I swear.” 

“Maybe I want you to do this again…” 

“You don’t. Trust me.” 

“Shh!” You said, placing your index finger on his lips. Pink, perfectly shaped, and so damn kissable. “Don’t tell me what I want. You ignored me ever since you walked into my house without my permission and shoved your fingers inside me. I was walking around town believing I wasn’t good enough for big old Joel Miller. What did you say? That you’ve been experiencing longer than I’ve been alive?” 

You raised an eyebrow at him when he didn’t answer. Then he nodded reluctantly.

“Why were you coming in my panties then if I didn't measure up? ” 

“I won’t do it ag—” he groaned when you grabbed his cock through his pants. He let out a low grunt and his Adam’s Apple bobbed in his neck as he swallowed. You replaced your index finger with your thumb, tracing his trembling lips as you lazily stroked his cock with your other thumb. 

He filled your whole hand and there was still more. It took everything in you to not moan at the sheer size of him. To not grind your belly against it to feel it against you. You didn’t know how big it was supposed to be, but the romance novels you read always described the big ones as more desirable. 

“I don’t want to hear excuses. I asked why. Why did you steal my panties, Joel Miller?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Did you come on it? Don’t fucking lie to me cause I can fucking smell you on it.” 

“I did. I jerked off with it.” You had to choke back a moan at that. No, you had to be strong. Show him you could take the upper hand just like he did with you. You weren’t a little girl with a crush. You were a woman and you could have this effect on a grown man. You refused to be discounted with a pat on your pussy no matter how much you wanted him to touch you like that again. 

“Mmm. And that’s enough to get you going. Just a pair of my panties.” 

“Mhmm.” 

“Show me how you did it.” 

“What?” He asked, eyebrow raised. 

“Show. Me. How you did it.” 

He narrowed his eyes at you, his hand coming up to stroke the base of his neck. “Wh-What?”

You felt your heart thud against your ribs and if you didn’t know from experience and your textbooks, you’d have been afraid that he could hear it. You’d never done anything so daring. You were the timid girl when it came to this stuff. That the thought even occurred to you was a testament to how much you desired Joel. Not just to sleep with any guy, but to have Joel. Without a word, you reached under the skirt of your dress and tugged your panties down. 

He inhaled sharply as you bent down and came back up with your panties. Undyed white fabric, a little green ribbon in the shape of a bow stitched to the front, gusset a light gray from your wetness. 

“Show me. I want to see what you were doing in your bathroom with my panties after ignoring me everyday,” you said, taking his hand and forcing the fabric into it. His hand curled around it and you found yourself feeling lighter. You didn't know how long you could keep up the brave front if he continued to have no response. 

“Take your clothes off.” 

It was like something changed the moment you gave him the garment. His eyes were on you, his gaze unrelenting. He took a step ahead and you stepped backward. His lips curled up in a smirk. It seemed playtime was over… Like a lion letting the cubs play at predation before taking over to show how hunting was really done. 

You didn’t know if you were ready for that… Sure it was nothing he’d never seen before, but it was different. The last time, you didn’t do it with the intention to have him see you. He just happened to see you bare and you didn’t cover up when you realized. 

“I don’t have a box full of dirty magazines. I need to see somethin’,” he said, his eyes going down your frame like they had every right to be there. “Or you could leave these,” he said, holding your panties up in front of your eyes, “and run back home. What d’ya say?”

You swallowed, your hands shaking as you reached behind to find the zipper of your dress. You weren’t going to run off. Not when you’d been desperate for so long to do something, anything with him. Cold air kissed your back as you pulled the zipper down and the hairs on your body stood up in full attention. You pushed the sleeves off your shoulder and shimmied out of the dress, standing in just your dress in front of him. 

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. He looked you up and down. He tilted his head as he looked you up and down. He radiated superiority, putting you in some kind of a daze. “Your bra too. Show me your tits.” 

The crudeness had more wetness pooling between your legs. You nodded wordlessly, afraid that pathetic whimpers would be the only sound you’d make under his gaze. You reached behind and felt around for the clasp of your bra. With his eyes piercing into you, you failed to find it quickly like you usually did. Your mouth dried up, your tongue sticking to the roof. 

He made no effort to help. A mocking smile assumed its place on his lips as he watched you struggle in front of him. 

When you finally managed your task and stood fully naked, he stood up straight. His tongue darted out and licked his lips. You felt like a piece of meat placed in front of a starving man. Just seconds ago, you were telling yourself you didn’t need his approval, that this would just be revenge. But as he evaluated your body, your pussy wept with the need for your body to be nothing but what he liked.

“Room’s that way.” He nodded in the direction of the room. You turned around and took small steps, your shoulders curling inward and your head bowed in submission. Every inch of your skin burned with the strength of his gaze. 

“Kneel.” 

You placed your knee on his bed, ready to climb up. 

“On the floor.” 

One knee still on his white sheets, you turned around to look at him. He was so large. Imposing. The kind of figure you would follow without question. So, you did. 

“You look pretty on your knees.” 

He took a few steps towards you, stopping when the distance had your neck straightening to look up at him. Large, powerful, imposing. Another step and you were face-to-face with his crotch. His bulge was right there. 

“Go on, take it out. Since you wanted it so bad.” 

Joel didn’t think you would do it. You looked even smaller kneeling at his feet. Meek little thing. He didn’t at all expect you to taunt him the way you did. Especially after you threatened to tell on him to Maria. He fully expected you to start crying. Guess he really underestimated you. Virgin didn’t necessarily mean innocent. 

Yet you folded as soon as he took the reins. He saw the change in you right when he told you to take your clothes off. When your eyes went from determined to defeated. All that spunk evaporated to reveal the little girl underneath. He liked it like that. Made him feel like a real man. Not that there was any scarcity of masculinity in his life of taking out clickers and defending this town. But somethin’ about a beautiful woman accepting his authority did the trick faster than every other display of masculinity. 

Your hands fiddled with his belt, trembling as you tried to take it off. He stopped you with a hand on your wrist. “Just undo the zip.” 

No way he was going to get naked in front of a pretty little twenty something. It wasn’t anything great to look at even before he began a life of violence and traversing the wilderness. Sure he was well built from all the hard physical labor and constant fight for survival. It’d left several unappealing scars on his person. Time had done a number on him too. Especially his pudgy belly. It didn’t help that food flowed free in Jackson, fattening him up a little. 

Thankfully, you listened. You looked up, as though you expected him to complete the task for him. He challenged you with a look. Wanna be a big girl so bad, act like one.

You reached inside his pants and took his cock out. Your lips parted and he heard you inhale through your mouth. His cock hung in front of him, hard from your teasing. He had to give it to you, you were daring for a meek little thing. No one in town would believe him if he told them all that you’d done. And he suspected he didn’t even know the half of it.

“Not too late to back out, you know?” he said, wrapping his hand around himself. It took everything in him to give you an out. As much as he wanted to grab your face, force your mouth open and make you gag around him, he was man enough to let you know you didn’t have to do anything. Young girl probably bit more than you could swallow. And seeing his cock and your mouth so close by showed that he was definitely nothing you could swallow.

“I’m not backing out.” 

“First time seeing one?” 

“Of course not. I work at the clinic. You think I haven’t seen a penis?” 

“No anatomical terms. I ain’t your patient. Go on, touch my cock.” 

You reached up for him, but he stepped back, delighting himself in the disappointment on your face. “Come on, you want a man so bad, work for it.” 

You moved to stand up. “Did I say you could stand up?” 

“No.” 

“Then get back on your fucking knees.” 

You dropped to your knees and he groaned in satisfaction. The euphoria of wielding power over someone rushed through his veins. And he wanted more. It was the same sick satisfaction he got when he beat men to death. When he broke bones and dressed animals he hunted in the wild. “Good girl. You’re going to listen to what I say. Got it?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

Fuck! That fucking word again.

“Come on, come get it. Hands and knees. Crawl to me.” 

He beckoned you forward with one hand, his other still on his cock. You bent over and god fucking damnit, you were a vision. You were an eager girl and he could see what you could become in the right hands. His hands. The things he could show you… Introduce you to your own body. Bring you pain and pleasure that were indistinguishable.

Your tits hung from your chest, swaying as you crawled towards him. Feverish, bright eyes followed him as he continued to refuse what you wanted. Too fucking late. He warned you. Told you men like him weren’t for pretty little things like you. But you didn’t fucking want to listen. Now you’d have to deal with the consequences. Maybe you’d stay away then. 

“Please, Sir,” you whined so prettily he almost gave in. 

“What are you begging for?” 

“You. Y-your penis.” 

“My cock,” he corrected. “Say it.”

“Your cock, Sir.” 

“Good girl. C’mere,” he said, giving you a nod to come closer. You crawled to him and when he didn’t back away, sat up on your knees. He placed his hand on the back of your neck and gripped your hair, making you hiss. Holding you in place, he brought his cock to your face. You looked up at it, your eyes widening and your mouth slackening. You brought your hand up and touched his tip with just your thumb. The rest of your hand followed, wrapping around him. He gasped silently as you stroked his slit with your thumb, making him leak precum on you. 

“Did…? Did you?” 

“No. Gotta do more ‘n that to make me come. That’s precum.” 

“Oh.” 

He didn’t think you knew what precum was. Probably not the focus of your education here. Not the most important thing when townsfolk came in injured after patrols or suffering from a fever that was life threatening without the medicines of the past. 

He pressed his cock against your cheek. The sight presented a visual of how you’d struggle if you took him in your mouth. He’d have you choking on him before you even took half. He twitched against your face at the mere thought. You were the picture of innocence, even with his cock on your face. Even with the stunt you pulled before he put you back in your place. 

“Think I’ll just do this. Fuck your pretty face.” 

You whimpered, spurring him on. He wanted to force himself inside you, punish your mouth for having the gall to speak to him the way you did. Make you cry from how full of him you were. Give you a sore throat so when you spoke to him again, you’d remember to speak with respect. But you wouldn’t be able to handle it. So he’d settle for defiling your sweet features, hold his cock against your cheek and rut like the animal he was.

“I ain’t gonna lay you out on my bed and take you nice and slow. I’m just gonna use you. ‘s what men like me do.”

He pulled away, giving you another opportunity to rethink this. “You can put your fucking clothes on and leave if you don’t like it.” 

To his surprise, you stayed put on your knees. You shook your head before reaching up and rubbing your cheek against his cock. You let out a soft moan, eyes closed and your thighs pressed together tight. “No, no. I like it.” 

“Fuckin’ slut,” he said, his hand back in your hair. He tugged at it and took his cock in his other hand. He tapped your lips with his tip, smearing the precum that leaked out of him. “You like an older man using your face like it’s a pussy?” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

He snorted, amused. “Never met a virgin slut before. Getting your face fucked before your pussy. Bet you’re wet from this.” 

There was the sweet little whimper from you again. He wanted to hear more of it. Trap you underneath him and make you weep and cry and whimper as he split you in half.

“Let me see. Touch your pussy, show me your slick.” 

You obeyed, spread your knees and touched yourself. Your hand glistened under the light of his bedroom, your wetness stretching between your fingers in strings. “Goddamn, would you look at that…” he said in a low rumble. “Rub it on my cock.” 

Your hand trembled slightly and you stared at him with a blank look in your eyes. He guided your hand to his cock, withdrawing his hand when he’d brought you close enough so you could decide whether you wanted to follow his command. You touched your slickened hand to his cock, covering him in the evidence that you wanted this. Wanted him. You reached between your legs and brought more of yourself, eyes soft yet glazed with lust as you smeared yourself all over his length. 

“Ask me for it.” 

“Please,” you whined. 

“Please, what?” 

“P-please fuck my face. Sir.” 

He returned his cock to your cheek, your wetness lubricating your face. Hand cradling his cock, he began to thrust. It wasnt much different from fucking his own fist. It was just skin. Not the tight velvety wetness of a pussy or a throat that would gag with his thickness. But your face was softer than his gun callused hands. Even better was your pretty face, looking up at him so adoringly… So full of desire. 

He didn’t have to let his imagination do the trick now. Not when you were right in front of him, lending yourself for his use. And no imagination, no memory did justice to you. Your body. Scarred, but beautiful. Tits that filled his large hands, clean and styled hair, a belly that showed you were well fed. He wanted to lay you out on his bed and consume you. Take your tits in his mouth, grab handfuls of your ass, spread your cunt lips and lodge himself inside you. Give it to you hard so your thigh jiggled and you felt them ache as they rubbed against each other when you walked around in your pretty little dresses. 

But as depraved as he was, he knew he shouldn’t be the first to take you. He’d have you just this once. Store your image in his head to get off with for as long as his dick worked. You acted all brave, but he couldn’t shake off that you were still inexperienced. The first time was meant to be good. The world was no longer normal, but you could have normality within the insular walls of Jackson. 

Even this was wrong. Using you like this instead of making sweet love to you. But he hadn’t been that man in a long time. He was selfish and cruel. If there was no town, no community where everyone knew everyone and you still threw yourself at him, he would’ve taken you in all your holes with no hesitation. Ruined you, kept you until your body wasn’t of use and tossed you aside. But being in this semi-normal place had gotten its claws into him. Softened him up.

He grew closer to the edge embarrassingly quickly, the haze of carnal pleasure beginning to muffle the voices screaming in his head to let you go. He only barely noticed that you were touching yourself. Enjoying this treatment of you. That spurred him on. There was no stopping now. 

You let out soft moans, your eyes never once leaving him. He struggled to get himself to focus. To check for any signs you didn’t want this. But all he saw was you on the precipice of pleasure. The world disappeared. His house, Jackson, the darkness that lay beyond. It was all him now. He felt lighter, like he would float out through the window and everything he’d ever been through would disappear. Every ounce of goodness quietened down, the last shreds of his morality discarded with your dress. He grunted and moaned your name as he kept fucking you. Your features morphed into nothingness. No longer a face, no longer a human woman. All he knew was the ache in his body, the tightness that begged to be released. 

He slapped a hand against the wall as his thighs stiffened and every muscle in the vicinity of his cock tightened. He took himself back in his hand and stroked himself over your face. Once, twice, and thr– mid stroke, he growled and spilled on your face, coating your innocent features in sticky white cum. You flinched as the first stream hit, screwing your eyes shut. He wanted to make you look, see how he could defile you, show you that he wasn’t for you. Force you to confront what you’d allowed into your life so you’d run and never look back. 

But all he could do was keep stroking as he came down from his high. It was unlike anything he’d had in the recent past. Not his imagination, not just his hand. A real human woman who wasn’t just a convenience. One who sought him out, stripped for him, and let him use her face like a toy. 

He took a minute to collect his breath and let his senses return to him. His cock hung semi-hard outta his jeans, like it could go again if he willed it. Like it wasn’t almost six decades old. But he wasn’t too surprised. He could go again for the utterly debauched girl in front of him. Innocence eclipsed by milky white ropes of his cum. Without thinking twice, he grabbed your hair and pulled at it. You yelped, but let him pull you up from the ground and drag you to the other side of the room. 

He stopped you in front of his mirror, and slapped your hand off your pussy before replacing it with his. “Look at yourself. I fucking told you,” he said, forcing two thick fingers inside your cunt. You sucked him in with little resistance, your cunt leaking enough for him to force a third finger inside you. You gasped and tried to wriggle away, but he wasn’t having it. He was a fucking monster, but he would never leave a woman unsatisfied. Especially a young thing who’d never had anyone else before. 

He wrapped his free hand around your throat, his half hard cock begging him to go again when he felt the vibrations of your moans. “I warned you,” he whispered into your ear. “Fuckin’ warned you. Told you how starved I was. And you still taunted me. Look at you now!” 

“Please… Please, Joel! Sir, please…” 

“Fuckin’ slut. Maybe you ain’t really a virgin.” 

“I am, I am, I promise. I wa–” you cut yourself off with a gasp as he pressed his thumb on your clit. 

“What was that?” 

You made some incoherent noises, too far gone to form words. Yet you managed to thrust onto his fingers and roll your hips like a real natural. 

“Joel…” 

“I know, pretty girl… I know,” he cooed, the softness in his voice contradicting how he’d used you just minutes prior. Contradicting the cum on your pretty little face. 

“You gonna come for me? Give me another one after you came so sweetly on my fingers that day?” 

There were no answers from you. Not even an acknowledgement that you heard him. Just whines and moans as you let him support your entire weight. Your head lolled back on his shoulder and your eyes rolled back into your skull as he fucked you stupid with just his fingers. Oh the things he could do with his cock… Reach deeper, take the virginity you’d held on to for so long. If he ever had you, he would never let go. He was too selfish a man to willingly lose a girl so precious after taking her cunt. 

You gripped him like a vice, so tight he couldn't pry his fingers out. Something that vaguely sounded like his name spilled from your lips as you crumpled in his arms. Your pussy pulsated around you as he held you against him, unwilling to remove himself from you so quickly. 

He withdrew your panties from his pocket– the fresh pair you took off in his fucking hallways like it was no big deal. He wiped your face with it the same way he cleaned up your cunt that day. Instead of tucking it in his pocket, he forced it into your hand. 

“Put it on. Your fucking dress, too. Hope you learned you fucking lesson.”

As you put it on and scampered away naked into his hallways, he hoped it would be enough to scare you away. But he knew in his heart of hearts that he would always crave you like an addict craving a drink.

⌘

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[joelslastofus]

[SUMMARY: Home from the hospital, Joel is over protective after you give birth.]

“Listen, sweetheart, you just had my baby and I don’t want you lifting a damn finger as long as I’m home. Understood?”

Fluff

It had been a week since you had given birth to your son Luke. You were now home in bed and felt exhaustion like you had never felt before. It was two in the morning when you heard him begin to cry, you sighed pushing yourself up when you suddenly felt Joel’s hand on your arm.

“Lay back down, honey. I got him”

“But Joel, you work at six in the morning-“

“And you need sleep, now lay back down” he proceeded to get up as you looked at him with concern.

“I can get him you know, you don’t have to keep getting up every time he cries” you lay back as Joel walked around your side of the bed and hovered over you.

“Listen, sweetheart, you just had my baby and I don’t want you lifting a damn finger as long as I’m home. Understood?” The baby cried again as you silently nodded. He kissed your forehead and proceeded to pick up Luke from his bassinet. You watched half asleep as he began to gently rock him calming him down.

“It’s alright, buddy, daddy’s got you” Joel turned to find you still awake.

“Look your mamas right there but she needs some sleep alright? Me and you are gonna go get you some milk and hang out on the couch so mama can sleep” he whispered in a voice that made you smile. Before you knew it you fell asleep peacefully.

Joel entered the room a little while later, gently laying Luke back in his bassinet. The sound of Joel getting into bed startled you making you quickly sit up before hearing Joel’s voice.

“Shhh, he’s ok, lay back down” he assured you as you felt his arm wrap around your waist and pull you back in bed against him.

“Did he drink all his milk?”

“Mhm”

“Did you change his diaper?” You turned flat on your back with your face to him.

“Mhm” you took a deep breath as he held you against him.

“Go to sleep woman” he spoke with his eyes closed.

“I’m sorry, I just…I never done this before…I’m so anxious,” his eyes instantly opened.

“Look at me” you looked at Luke in his bassinet.

“Look at me, darlin’” he gently turned your face to him.

“You’re doing just fine, you hear me? I’m here every step of the way with you alright?” You knew he meant every word he said. Silently you nodded and took another deep breath as you looked up at the ceiling.

“I couldn’t have chosen a better mother for my baby boy” he kissed your cheek.

“Now get some sleep, if he’s up again I got him.” He closed his eyes as you smiled to yourself.

A few hours later Joel was getting up for work, you opened your eyes to find him pulling a shirt over his head.

“I’ll make you some breakfast” you pushed yourself up making him turn to you.

“Oh no you won’t”

“Joel you need to eat something”

“I’m not hungry, besides Sarah beat you to it” he smirked leaning in to kiss you.

“You feel ok?” A look of concern in his brown eyes.

“Yes, I’m fine” you assured him yet you could still see the uncertainty in him.

“I swear” you caressed his face looking up at him. He silently nodded and kissed your hand.

“I’ll try to get out of work early” he stood up and looked back to see Luke sleeping peacefully. Joel was always protective of you but the moment he found out you were pregnant, his protective side reached a level you had never seen before. Joel would take Sarah to school in the morning and ask her to help you as soon as she got home which she gladly did. Joel not letting you lift a finger was nothing new, through out your pregnancy he never let you carry a thing, and even with his hands full he still made sure there was room on his arm for you to hold on to. It was sweet having an attentive man but even sweeter seeing him as a dad.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

Hi!! For the blurbs, can you do anything joel x f!reader where he gets insecure that he might leave him because he is too old for her (say 20s/50s) and go for someone younger. Can be sfw or nsfw, whatever you decide, but I was hoping you could make it more fluffy rather than angsty

a/n: urgh, i love an old man. one of my flaws, unfortunately. we can't all be perfect

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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“Oh, would you stop laughing,” Joel grumbled as his head sloped to his broad shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you coughed as you tried to control your giggle, “but seriously? Are you actually scared that I’d leave you because of our age difference?”

Squinting back at you with his stony expression staying in place, he remained on his side of the couch as he offered you a shrug.

“You’ve always been older than me, that fact has never and will never change,” you continued, “but why would you think that would make me want you less? Do you really think that it was just your charming personality that dazzled me into falling for you?”

With your grin still wide, you closed the distance between you two before your arms snaked around him and you hugged his frame as his own limbs stayed in place.

“I love you, Joel,” you rested your chin on his shoulder and twisted his head for his gaze to meet yours, “and if I'm ever gonna leave you then it sure as hell isn’t gonna be for one of the things about you I adore the most, you silly old man,” another chuckle slipped out of your lungs before your lips pressed against his own to seal the promise.

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[penvisions]

services requested {chapter five}

Pairing: Kept Man! Joel Miller x Sugar Momma! Reader

Summary: Being in a city far away from daily life allows you to open up to Joel in a way you didn't think anyone would accept, but he continues to surprise you with just how good of a man he truly is.

Joel opens up in return, giving you pieces of himself he's yet to give anyone and his emotions are beginning to spring up as he spends more time with you.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: no outbreak au, modern au, age gap (joel is mid 50's, reader is early 30's), reader is more of an oc written in the x reader style, reader is described to have a scar and tattoos, power dynamics, sexual undertones, mutual pining, flirting, casual touches, mutual attraction, light angst, mentions of infinitely (not joel or reader, mentions of past trauma, allusions to power imbalances within the tattoo world, heavy make out session, and some other....stuff hehe, caretaker joel, shopping spree, reader spoils joel, mentions of past physical abuse (fleeting), reader has scars that were the result of an attack (not described in detail), i think that'sit!

A/N: this chapter means so much to me, we see a rawness in both of them- giving into their emotions and being soft with one another is something i want in life right now. this is me living vicariously through my babies. love y'all and hope you enjoy this installment!

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“Okay, so we’ve got your flight taken care of and upgraded because there is no way I’m gonna make you squeeze into a regular seat with your broad shoulders. Now we need to get you a bag and some clothes, you seem okay with using my stuff I had the hotel stock, a pair of shoes maybe? Definitely a small thing of your cologne, ooooh maybe we could get some bath bombs!”

You feel Joel’s attention on you as you confidently maneuver through the thick LA traffic with an iced coffee held in one hand, your phone in a the little storage space in front of the cupholders and gear shift where it’s lighting up with notifications while it charges.

It’s bright and sunny, your sunglasses big on your face while Joel just has on his regular pair. He left his in the truck when he handed the keys over to the airport valet.

“Don’t need to much, Sarah said she got me a few gifts and knowing her it’s some clothes.” He sips from the juice you both got to share, him unsure of the thick green texture of it but curious enough to linger on it when he saw it on the menu back at the lobby restaurant.

“Yeah, but we’re here and the malls are insane. Might as well. I don’t mind.” You smile over at him as you signal to turn onto another street. You don’t have the navigation system reading out directions but you know where you’re going. The warmth and the scent of salt in the air is comforting, even if you know you’re rambling to keep the events of this morning in the back of your mind. There was no use in wondering if the man beside you had…taken care of himself while you finished up your shower….

“I, uh, haven’t used the card you gave me yet.”

“Is something wrong with it? I didn’t set up a code so you could do that yourself. And then the deposit, did it go through your personal bank okay?”

“I didn’t feel like I deserved to use it- after the way I blew up at you. But yes, the deposit came through okay. Used part of it to get the flight out here and valet for the truck.” He sets the drink down and drums his fingers on the denim over his jeans.

“Okay, well, that’s…that’s good that it went through.”

“Sweetheart, I want to explain myself.”

“Joel, please, you don’t…it’s okay. You thought I was married. I’m okay, we’re okay, I promise.” Sliding your coffee into a cupholder, you reach for his hand and squeeze it once, his warmth surprising you even now. He’s always so warm. You wonder if it’s because he’s such a big man or if it’s simply because he’s a man. Micah was always warm to the touch too, but it was never comforting like Joel’s- it was more sticky and suffocating as the tension rose between you two, an obvious sign of the disconnect that formed.

“I want to tell you, I want you to know.” His expression is so open, words so soft in their quiet confession.

“You can, Joel. I just…let’s run these errands first okay?” You don’t want to push him, to make him feel like he has to share his past with you know that he knows the worst of yours. Time will help him decide if he really wants to and you kind of want things to be casual today. No heavy stuff, just the sun and the beautiful sights of mountains and him at ease beside you. It’s probably been years since he’s had time like this to just be a person- to be himself. Not a dad, not a contractor, no jobs to worry about, in a new area to explore as himself.

“Okay.” His fingers squeeze yours back and then you’re pulling your hand away to fit the rental into a parking spot right outside of a large parking structure.

“Okay.” You shift the gear into park and turn off the rental, closing the windows so they’re cracked as to not buildup heat while you two walk about. “Now, where do you get your cologne? We can get you a little travel size if you don’t want to do the whole checked bag thing.”

“’m fine with just going to a department store. Normally get a new bottle around the holidays when they have those big blowout sales. I can get it too, the stuff I need.” You know he’s not insisting out of some macho defense that he can support himself, but because you know he’s still feeling a little guilty and new to the whole dynamic. You had checked the account you set up for him for supplies, no transactions

“This is your little vacation too, I want to treat you. You deserve a little pampering, we both do.”

It’s such a treat for you, to watch as Joel gathers a few things that catch his eye around the large department store that you enter through one end of the giant mall. He’s got a few pairs of jeans of different cuts and sizes, some nicer looking t shirts in basic colors, two buttoned short sleeves with patterns on them, and one flannel. His shoulders disappear behind the door he picked out in the dressing room, and you wait patiently for him in one of the chairs set up in a small seating area outside of it. In case he needs different sizes or doesn’t like something.

He found you, dropped everything to run after you and be by your side. His help at getting the rental car, checking into the hotel, all of it was so him, so in line with who you know he is at his core. A caregiver, a protector, someone who takes the trust of others given to him and cradles it in his chest right beside his heart. He’s a good man, a truly good man.

Your eyes rove over his figure as he swings the curtain aside to exit his dressing room, the little sitting area is empty save for you both and he’s got a thick hand curled around a way too loose waistband to the slacks he has on.

“Wasn’t sure if the waist was the same on these type of pants…” He looks so bashful, but your eyes are glued to the way the that the fabric is caught between his legs, right beneath the zipper. The soft, silk shirt he's got on with it does nothing to hide the bulge where it’s mussed up above where he holds the pants up. The outfit....is something that looks far too good on him, despite being completely different from anything you've ever seen him in before, the gold chains about his neck tying it all together in a dizzying way...

Biting your bottom lip, you feel a wash of heat roll down your back at the twitch as he realizes you’re not really paying attention to him, but only a part of him.

“S-sorry!” Um, what size did you grab, I’ll go get the next one down.” You’re up and swiftly walking away, barely catching the measurement he mumbles as you go. Huffing, you try and shake the image of what he would look like with less clothes on from your mind. He’s your employee, who hasn’t once brought up the intimacy clause. There’s no hiding the attraction you feel towards him, he’s handsome- devastatingly so. The way he carries himself, who he is- makes him even more so.

He’s thoughtful, enough to remain on his side of the bed when you all but summoned him into the bed beside you. Neither of you can meet each other’s eye as you hand him a smaller pair of the pants he was trying out, his mumbled words of explanation that he just wanted to try and see if he could pull off the look something you try very, very hard not to respond to with a dirty comment. He could pull off anything, you’re sure of it, his frame thick and muscled, age softening him in a homey and comforting way.

He pats his hands against the back pockets of his regular jeans at the register, but let’s you hand over a card to cover the cost of what he decided to keep from his search.

Easy conversation and soft laughter fill the time as you both walk around the shops, dipping into some together or separately. His beautiful blush when he almost followed you into a lingerie store and multiple brushes of hands against each other, the way he insisted on carrying the bags accumulated.

When you exit the colorful shop with a nice little bag with pink tissue paper, he’s got a soft pretzel and a small thing of cheese to dunk it in, paired with a frozen lemonade. As you approach him, a man walking by on his own turns around to look you up and down but you don’t catch the movement as he approaches you.

“I don’t mean to bother you, but your pieces look amazing.” He’s around your age, you figure as you turn toward his voice at the soft brush of his hand on your bare shoulder, sleeveless dress displaying nearly all of the pieces you have done. You debated the outfit for a good fifteen minutes, self-consciousness telling you that it wasn’t something you could pull off, but when you exited the bathroom to find something else in your bag, the heat seeping into the hotel room from the open balcony door and the glint in Joel’s eyes convinced you to keep it on.

“Oh, um, thank you. I did a few of them myself, but most of the compliments go to my friends.” Joel is a bit aways, closer to the railing that looks down onto the first floor of the sprawling mall. You look over your shoulder when you feel his gaze on you, but you don’t want to be rude to the man in front of you even if you aren’t fond of the way he casually touched you.

“I’m Rick and you are?” He holds out a hand, even if his eyes rove over you in an open leer. Sighing quietly, you reach out to shake it and notice his eyes drop to your cleavage when he pumps your hands roughly twice before taking his hand back.

You give him a fake name, not too willing to share your real one or even the nickname you’re known to go by. If he manages to track you down and find either of the shops you work at or the one you plan on opening yourself, you’re sure he would just be more trouble than the paycheck would be worth.

“You got a shop around here? I’d love to stop by and see some of your books.” The man’s eyes look you up and down unabashedly, his eyes widening when he sees the label on the lone bag in your hand.

“I’m just visiting, little birthday vacation for this one.” You motion over to Joel, eyes rolling as you look over at him, he catches the motion and approaches. The hand not holding the bags and lemonade curls around your waist and his fingers pull you slightly into his side. A clear message to the man not getting the hint that you don’t really want to talk. Too blinded by his ill placed confidence, though his lips do twitch and his eyes narrow at the paint stained shirt and worn jeans Joel wears with his cowboy boots.

You happen to think that he looks rugged, but Rick obviously sees him as something lesser than standing there in his dress pants and collared shirt with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’s clean shaven where Joel is dark, greying facial hair. He’s slicked back straight hair where Joel is dark curls.

“Oh, I see. Well, I’ll look you up. Could always use an excuse to get outta the house and away from the girlfriend, am I right?” He’s got the nerves to give you a wink, completely leaving the line he crosses as soon as he approached you by the wayside.

“Our parking meter’s almost up, best get going. Have a nice day.” And Joel’s ending the uncomfortable interaction with a mild glare and guides you away. The deep timbre of his voice displays his Southern drawl, Rick frowning at the way it twangs between them. Joel doesn’t take his hand away from where it rests in the curve of your waist, soft skin tingling beneath the thin fabric that separates them from it. When you turn down another hallway, he finally speaks.

“Figured we should refuel, dunno if you like these but Sarah and Ellie devoured them up anytime we went back to school shopping.”

“It’s perfect, thank you.” You follow him as he makes his way to one of the little sitting areas that connect the two upstairs aisles together. With the bags secure between his feet, he carefully breaks it in half and hands it over to you with a few napkins. Dunking it into the cheese sauce you’re suddenly ravenous and take a huge bite, groaning around the salty goodness.

You blink a few times as he reaches across to swipe a thick thumb over your bottom lip, the digit coming away with a bit of the sauce. He licks it from his finger, and you feel heat swell up low in your belly as his tongue peaks out between his lips.

“Little messy, ain’t ya?” He offers you a playful smirk, even as his eyes darken with something more.

You suddenly look away, unable to handle looking at him and his chuckle sounds into the air, full and hearty. His protective side from a few moments ago to this playful one is a dizzying shift. He’s so fucking charming and it has your insides all squirmy the more you see him relax and enjoy the time out here.

The rest of the errands go smoothly, dropping him off back at the hotel so he can take a breather after the hustle and bustle of the crowded roads and the busy stores. You know he isn’t too keen on constant interaction, especially in such a different setting than he’s used to back in Texas. And you have a nail appointment to get to, the agreement was for dinner when you get back.

You certainly didn’t expect to end the day in his arms with his lips firm against your own. But you sigh as you melt into him, hands moving to surround his neck as you surge up on your tip toes to press closer to him. He groans at the feel of your chest pushing up against his own, the soft give of your body something so foreign to his work strained muscles. His hands trail down your back, fingers prodding and caressing as they do, earning him soft moans that he licks straight out of your mouth.

His lips are so soft against your own, slick and warm as you return his kisses just as fervently. It’s intoxicating, to feel him against you, to have your hands curl around his hair and pull slightly, allowing you to hold his bottom lip between your teeth gently before letting it go with a glint in your eye he catches as he gazes through hooded, pupil blown eyes down at you.

He's suddenly bending his knees and gripping you firmly behind your thighs sneaking underneath the hem of your dress, easily lifting you up as you hop into his hold and wrap them around his waist. You cradle his face in your hands, nails hushing as they run over his scruff and you connect your lips back to his, openmouthed and hungry for more. For anything he’s willing to give you. You feel the twitch of him against your inner thigh and you can’t help the whine that fills his mouth as he swallows it greedily from yours. He spins, plopping you carefully down atop the desk.

But it doesn’t matter how careful he is, your back twinges, scar tissue pulling and a pained hiss breaks your mouth away from his. Your back curves, leaning forward and slouching as the pain stings sharp on the left lower part of your back. Your forehead thuds into Joel’s chest as he freezes, hands stilling where they cup your bottom.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t- I’m so sorry.” His breath is heavy as it muses your hair, his scruff brushing your forehead. Reaching back a hand, you hold it over the pink, textured scar and focus on breathing in and out.

“N-not your f-fault, it’s t-the scar here.” You manage to sooth him, breathing in harshly. “I just, sometimes i-it’s hard to move like t-that.”

“I shouldn’t have- I didn’t even think about it, I know it’s there.” Joel doesn’t move, body rigid as you try your best to move as carefully as you can to relieve some of the pain. But you need heat. Trailing your hand down, you lay it over Joels and guide it up to where the scar hides underneath the fabric of your dress. Its not enough and you inhale sharply as another hot streak of pain strikes up your back.

“Fuck, okay. Joel, I need to get to the bath.”

“Whatever you need, I gotcha.” And he’s so steady as he steps back and holds his hands out to you to use for leverage. Getting down from the desk pulls your back but arousal pools hot in your core when you recall the way he picked you up to put you there. Joel settles you down onto the side of the tub and leans over to turn on the faucet. He ensures it’s the perfect temperature before he activates the stopper and kneels down in front of you.

“Gonna get these off for ya, if that’s okay?” He looks up at you from where he holds one of your boots in his hands. At your gentle nod, he begins to unlace them and pull them one by one off your feet. You worry about him seeing up the skirt of your dress, the damp front of your pale underwear. But the thought only sends another gush of arousal into the fabric and you tense your thighs together to keep it hidden. He smiles wide, a dimple appearing in his right cheek when your socks underneath are revealed to him. There’s a glint of heat behind his eyes even as he tends to you, they flick to your lap where the skirt bunches over them.

“Care bears?” He teases, delighting in the discovery.

“They’re cute.” You huff lightly, bracing your arms on the tile underneath you. Your nails tap against ceramic as Joel removes your other boot, the colorful socks following suit. His hands slowly trail up your ankles, your shins, tracing the lines and shading that decorate the skin.

“You’re mighty cute too.” He murmurs, eyes watching his hands trace the contour of feathers that frame the bottom of your knee cap. Your breath rushes out and you can tell he likes the way his words effect you, if the way his hands sneak up higher to trace over your thighs. His soft, earnest touch has you parting them, leaning back on your hands as your chest heaves in delicious anticipation.

“Fuck, you’re mor’n cute. You’re…amazin’.” He leans forward to kiss each knee cap. His lips light you up like a match, pleasure building low behind your hips drowning out the faint ache that persists in your back. “This okay? Don’t want to….overstep or pull anything on ya.”

“Whatever you’re okay with, I’m okay with.” You whisper, head knocking back when his hands grip more firmly and pull your thighs apart to fit between them. The skirt of your dress pulls taut, exposing the front of your underwear to him and he lets out a tortured groan at the sight. The peak of your dark hair beneath the pale fabric isn’t something you have to worry about turning him off. You’re sure of it, with the way he bites into his bottom lip as he reaches to run to a thumb over the damp fabric.

A small moan bursts into the air, doing nothing to cover the wet squelch of your swollen lips as Joel presses harder between your thighs. If you were paying attention, you would have seen the way his eyes roll back in his head as the sound settles deep in his belly.

“Much as I wanna do this right now, we should get you into the bath.” Joel doesn’t move despite the words he utters, hand gently caressing your folds. You can’t help but circle your hips, as gently as you could without putting any more strain on your back. Suddenly his breath is hot on the fabric, pulling a startled gasp from you. “But first I gotta get a little taste, if that’s alright?”

“God, yes, please,Joel.” You moan out, a desperate sound echoing around the bathroom as you feel the tip of his gorgeous nose press close and the way he inhales deeply.

“Fuck, you smell so sweet, darlin’.” His tongue swipes wide over your entire core, not once but twice before he’s pulling back and looking up at you where he crouches between your legs. “Taste sweet too.”

He moves away momentarily to stop the faucet from running, steam rising from the water filling the tub before he’s diving back between your thighs. He licks at the front of your underwear like a man possessed, pointing his tongue to swirl in search of that little bundle of nerves. Your hands fly to tangle in his hair, pulling lightly to make him hum against you. Just as two of his fingers sneak underneath the gusset, your head snaps back up.

“W-ait!” Your pant, panic rising and dousing the fire Joel was stoking low in your belly. As soon as the word leaves your lips, he’s pulling his hands back to you and leaning back. His eyes are wide, worry at doing something wrong or pushing for too much breaking through the darkness of them. You don’t move to clench you thighs but your heart beats so fast in your chest, for a completely different reason now as you realize Joel was about to see you.

“It’s not, you’re,” You breath deep and exhale slowly, closing your eyes against the burn of tears suddenly springing up. “Joel, that was- amazing, but…I- I don’t look…like other girls.”

“Everybody looks a little different, ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of.” He assures you gently, cupping your knee to comfort you. “But if you say stop, we stop. No arguments or hard feelings, you bein’ comfortable is the most important part of this.”

“It’s…it’s not that. The scar on my b-back….it’s not the only o-ne he left me with.” You bury your face into your hands as hiccups distort your confession. You startle slightly when his arms wrap around you, holding you close to his still kneeling form. He cradles the back of your head and whispers quiet reassurances where he presses his lips to the side of your head.

You don’t know how much time passes as your tears cool and subside, but Joel holds you the entire time, you don’t feel crowded but wrapped safely in his embrace. Your muscles twitch and you suck in a breath as the pain washes over you, the position on the tile not helping the initial reason for being where you are.

“Gonna fix the bath again. I won’t look and I’ll step out, but I do want to help you get into the tub.” Joel pulls back, face holding one side of your puffy face as his thumb traces underneath your eye. “You need just relax, we don’t have to rush anything, we have time.”

He groans as he stands, the bulge in his pants obvious as he palms it in an attempt to tame it.

“Joel,” Your eyes linger even when his hand falls away and he busies himself with draining the now tepid water from the tub and running the hot water once again. He reaches for the bath bombs that he unpacked while you were gone and plops one into the tub. It’s eucalyptus, with bath salts encrusted around it beginning to dissolve and scent the air.

“’s okay, it’ll go down. More worried about you.” He gives you a smile, something small and genuine, washing away the little strands of guilt that lace through you even as you begin to feel the exhaustion from your tears and anxiety. “So, uh, how do you wanna do this?”

“I-I think I can manage, really,” You need to be alone, your thoughts firing over each other. You’ve come to enjoy the time you spend with Joel but it’s still a lot to handle. Especially in the wake of the emotions of the past few days, the ups and downs

“I’ll bring your phone in and give you your space.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, pausing for a moment that draws on long as you close your eyes and just settle in the moment of casual intimacy.

“My bag too, please?” Voice quiet, you can hear how raspy it is from the onslaught of emotions. He doesn’t look too rattled from the whiplash of the last hour and you’re grateful for his calm demeanor.

“Okay, you need anythin’ and you holler.” And then he’s giving you the space you asked for, like the gentleman he is. Proving to you that he truly is such a good man at his core.

Steam and the scent of eucalyptus wafts through the humid air of the bathroom, you’ve refilled the tub and let the act of washing your body with a soft buffing loofah calm your nerves.

His enthusiasm makes you feel like your own feelings aren’t so unfounded…

Heat flares behind your cheeks. He really did, happily pushing between your thighs in pure desperation to get a taste of you. But he….he hasn’t told you that he thinks you’re something he likes. It fuels something small and ugly inside you that you try so hard to keep pushed down and in the back of your mind. Sexual acts result from a lot of different things, and attraction isn’t always at their core.

He says he likes you, that he wants to kiss you, but…you feel so insecure. You feel like a failure because of how your marriage dissolved, if it was even a real attraction and connection to begin with. The feeling of being just another in a long string of younger bodies in Micah’s shop and bed. But he had asked you to marry him, though that too could have been his way at keeping control as your popularity grew.

Ruined in more ways that physical, your mind runs in circles until the water cools and you decide it’s time to drain the bath.

 On the other side of the door, Joel’s own feelings bubble up.

Joel sees the pack of cigarettes in your bag and before he can think better of it, he’s grabbing it and the lighter stuffed into the side of the duffle alongside it. He opens up the sliding door to the small balcony and leaves it cracked behind him, just in case you call out for him. He’s worried. He’s overwhelmed.

He’s fucking livid.

The man’s face who hurt you surfaces in his mind and he lights the end of the cigarette with a little more force than necessary. Almost daring the light breeze to blow out the lighter as he does so. That pathetic, piece of shit excuse of a man did so much damage. He not only cheated on you and attacked you, but now Joel suspects that he took advantage of you. It all sits heavy in Joel’s chest.

That man at the mall today, too, had looked you up and down. Like you were something for the taking.

And he feels absolutely shitty for the feelings of desire that swirl low behind his hips. The thought of the few times he fisted his cock to memories of you making him feel sick. He knows there’s no true comparison of what your ex-husband did but he doesn’t like any part of feeling like he’s taken advantage of you and your kindness, your friendship.

His fingers tingle as he inhales deeply, recalling the way he could taste the same menthol faintly on your tongue as he sucked it into his mouth. Fuck, you had felt so perfect in his hands- all soft skin and enthusiastic. But he needed to be careful, for your sake and for his. You both carry so much trauma, relationships and the one you two have isn’t exactly a conventional one. He knows he said he doesn’t care what it looks like on the outside, but he kinda does.

He knows he looks his age and you look yours. He’s an old man and you’re…a beautiful younger thing. All supple skin and soft eyes. Taking another long pull from the filter, he looks out over the dark cityscape, the room high enough to make him feel like he’s above it all on a cloud. It’s so crowded, even now. Cars fill the streets, pedestrians fill the sidewalks, windows to shops bright and full. Headlights and taillights trace the curve of the highways that tangle all up in the scene, overwhelming him even now as he looks down at it all.

But today…being by your side, it hadn’t felt like too much. His attention laser focused on you and the effortless way you picked things out and allowed him to hope that you want him the same way he wants you, though he knows it just could be fleeting and spontaneous. He isn’t sure if there’s a depth to the way you feel and he’s too much of a self-conscious coward to ask you outright.

You seem to bridge the gap, slightly dewy skin from the bath scented so fresh as you sidle up to him and take the second cigarette he’s lit since being out on the balcony.

“Joel, I think it’s pretty obvious, but I kinda like you. A little bit beyond friendship.” You say it as confidently as you can muster, despite the nerves of being so direct. But that kiss…the way he pressed his mouth to the front of your underwear, his soft words and willingness to stop if it wasn’t what you wanted…it fuels you to find out the truth. Because if he did like you the same way…

“I kinda like you too, sweetheart.” Smoke billows out from between you lips at his reciprocation, heart stuttering as you look over at him out of the corner of your eye from where you stand side by side. He goes even further and calms the doubts you have about the contract being the only reason he’d feel like he needs to say something similar, though you know he’s not the kind to front false ideations, it’s still comforting to hear. “I don’t want you to think I’m just here for the money and…the uh, sex.”

“I don’t think that’s what you’re here for.” You whisper, eyes focusing on the way that too many bodies mingle about down on the street.

“I really appreciate you, so much. You…you were a pleasant surprise in my life and I wouldn’t change a damn thing, except maybe take back the storming into your house part.” He inches closer, gently corralling the cigarette from you to take a drag of his own. He could very well light up his own, but you rather like that he wants to share one instead.

“I was an ass, even if it came from…a place of insecurity. I was married, once upon a time. But she wasn’t interested in being a wife and mother, she got caught up in the spiral of what her life was supposed to be- college classes, parties, figuring out who she wanted to be. But we got pregnant young, Sarah is my whole heart, my reason for everything. But for her, it wasn’t the same. And she decided to find something to help her cope with it.

First it was a glass of wine in the evenings, then two or three. Then a whole bottle. Then a little joint here and there, edibles turned into the stronger stuff and eventually I came home one day to her high as a kite and fucking her drug dealer in our bedroom while Sarah cried her little head off. Put my foot down and told her she needs to get it together and deal with it in a better, healthier way or she needed to sign over full custody to me. That’s why the thought of you having an open affair set me off.”

“I’m so sorry, Joel…” Your phone pings, an alert for the delivery of the takeout you ordered while in the bath. You look from it to the front street of the hotel down below and then to the man beside you. The one bearing it heart and past to you in such an open way. “I had no idea, that…that’s an awful thing to come home to.”

“I thought I’d made my peace with it, but it still affects me. And that’s okay, I clocked it and reached out to someone who’s helped me before. Therapy ain’t easy, but it does help me, even if it isn’t something I ever anticipated needing.” He leans over to press a kiss to your temple, while a hand wraps around you to gently cage you between his front and the railing of the balcony you were both leaning against. “You didn’t deserve that initial reaction but believe me when I say I will never do something that you don’t want or makes you uncomfortable.”

“I believe you,” You press back into him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest firm against your back. “I won’t either and I…I do trust you to be honest with me as we, maybe….take things slow?”

“You have my word, sweetheart.”

Another ding and Joel is glancing at your phone in your hand. He tells you he can run down to the lobby and get the food, that he wants you to relax and set something up on the television for you to watch before bed. The sun setting late, casting deep oranges and pinks across the clear sky. When he returns, he doesn’t tell you about how the delivery person was a young man hoping to interact with you- the disappointment that Joel was the one to receive the food. Between that interaction and the one at the mall, Joel knows he’s got no true claim over you, but the protective and jealous streak he knows he possesses still flares.

He knows you’re surrounded by beautiful people in your world, the work you do, the fantastic art you create and design for people bringing them into your orbit. He’s just an old man, but he hopes that you like looking at him just as much as he likes looking at you, that there’s more to your connection than physical attraction, because for him- he knows his insecurities are something he’s still working on, yours he can help to ease as well.

The sentiments wouldn’t do much but showcase insecurity, something that’s tired you both out already after a busy, full day. Time, he thinks, is something that will work in both your favors and you have plenty of it.

A movie plays calmy in the background while you share a plethora of appetizers and a few entrees- sampling each and easy laughter bubbling up at genuine reactions. Neither of you bring up that his flight leaves tomorrow evening, basking in the moments you have left in the privacy of the hotel room.

Once the food is long gone, a second movie playing while you both get ready for bed, the couch remains as such and Joel slides underneath the covers of the bed beside you. As soon as the lamp goes out and the tv volume gets dimmed, his hand reaches for yours above the duvet, fingers tangling with your own and making the day that much more special.

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[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 3. Little Freak

Series Masterlist; Chapter: 1, Chapter: 2,

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Parental Neglect; Angst and Fluff; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Possessive Behavior; Brat Taming; Extremely Bossy Old Man; Rough Sex; Size Difference; Spanking; DD/lg Dynamics; Dom/Sub Undertones; Forced Orgasm; Dirty Talk (like really forreal); Small Boobie Rep; Biting; Over Stimulation;

A/N: really sticking my finger in the father wound and wiggling it around in this one :))))))

Word Count: 10.3K

Read on AO3

3. Little Freak

You pull your sticky fingers from the damp bed of your underwear, the not enough little orgasm you’d been able to rub out still pulsing hot and cold through your cunt. 

Horrible man—you’ve never wanted anyone or anything as badly as you want him to need you. And no, not a wanting sort of thing, not a wanting sort of desire—that’s not what you’d demand from him. It’s specific, this thing: it’s that you want him to have no choice in the matter, you want him to be forced, to see no other recourse but you because that’s just how necessary you feel to him. 

You want there to be no thought, no compunction in him—only you. 

Even more, because lies are worth nothing here in your own mind in your cold bed—

—You want him to love you. 

The way your father never did. The way no man ever has, not really. 

Face buried in the dark for a moment, you groan softly before sliding belly first off the silk bedding onto your knees, pushing yourself up off the floor unsteadily. You toe your boots off and then step tiptoe on the end of each sock to pull them from your feet. It’d not been a lie—you’re not drunk, limiting yourself to only one tonight, and no liquor, because you knew you needed to be able to focus on the taste of his tongue when you inevitably got your hooks in him, hoping, knowing he’d take your bait and follow, but now, it’s a wholly different sort of buzz zinging through you. 

All him. All man. All Joel.

He’d been flavored of smoked whiskey and mint, a hint of tobacco, and you wish you could’ve been more faithful in your pursuit of enjoying the chewing of the leaves he always has, you’d tried for years but couldn’t bear the texture, the green gnashed between your teeth, earthen and organic. It’s not for you, your tastes veering to something hotter and sweeter. But you’ve always wanted to be just like him anyway, and every endeavor at a connection, no matter how small, had always seemed like a valiant one. 

Stupid birthdays. Disgusting leaves of mint. Dead fathers and daughters and all the different ways we hurt each other. 

Stumbling coltish and uncoordinated, newly birthed down the staircase, you push your way out the back door. He’ll have gone to bed now, you know they’re going up the mountain early tomorrow morning to check on one of the herds, but you’re desperate for one more second of him, being spit out of the house of your dead parents, hunting for the last hint of his presence riding on the fresh air off the Tetons and all this land that’s all yours now. 

You veer left then right, a zigzagging dance across the green lawn until you’re far enough away from the house it’s like you can pretend to ignore the ghosts you’re readying to exorcize. One knee hits the ground hard and stinging, limbs loose and strengthless, you feel the stab of a little rock against the curve of round bone beneath easily broken skin, catching yourself on a palm, another too hard scrape and then you’re rolling over into the grass, settling on your back to look up at the stars. 

There are so many, an infinite number of lights winking like watchful eyes back at you, and you wonder at the sort of childhood that lends itself to laying in the grass like this beside a parent that loves you and wants you and carves space in their life for a child they'd forced into the world. It should be some sort of crime, you think, immediate execution sort of barbarity, to have a child and not love it the way it demands. 

Back of your hands open at your sides, palms to the watching sky, you close your eyes and imagine what it’d be like to have the hand of a father holding it, one that would want you—not a mother because what is she in reality to you but an imagination figure you can’t even truly conjure up? That much of a stranger is what she is—such an alien thing you can’t even bother to dream her. 

Drawing your knees up, you press your bare heels into the earth and the wet placket of your panties is ice cold and sticking uncomfortably now, breeze against it. You shouldn't be thinking about this shit, but you think you might cry anyway, sucking in too fast breaths, forcing them out in attemptedly slow little puffs through your nose. A wave of sudden grief, then a plateau, the nauseating up and down of it all. You should be thinking about him, about your victory tonight, about making him so angry he can’t help himself, about what’ll come next—his skin. But that’s the thing about him, Joel, isn’t it? Always has been—the incongruous, make-no-sense feelings he’s always pulled out of you since you’d first set eyes on him, fourteen years old and tender and so alone you didn’t even know there was another way to be but abandoned. 

A laugh then—huffing and sardonic and again, incongruous, because now you really are crying. Tears leaking back, hot and fat to pool in your ears and salt the earth beneath you—unloading your grief into the grass as if God were beside you. Nothing will grow here again because of you if you’re not careful, and that’s the next worry—

If he never needs you the way you’re demanding of him, you won’t be able to stay here. 

You won't be able to live here and love him and not have him, and you could force him, perhaps, in your own ways. But you’ve done so much of that your whole life—forcing unloving men to look at you and take you into their arms when they’d never really wanted to give you the thing you’d always wanted most. 

The tender truth: it would be so much better if Joel decided to need you because he wants to, because he can’t fathom another way than just that. 

And you don’t think you’ll ever be able to live with anything else besides such. 

Another forced out laugh again—just to feel the feeling of it, go through the motion, mountain air a roundabout gust in your lungs, then to your left:  “What’re you laughing at, weirdo?”

Ellie, long and loping and beautiful, come to your rescue. She throws herself down onto the ground beside you and doesn’t even have to ask a thing about it when she places her rough hand in your soft one. 

Working girl, mover of mountains, changer of lives. 

Ellie has always known how to know you, and it has always been an incredible comfort. 

The two of you lay there for a few quiet moments. Friendship as an entity has always been a strange thing to you who have never understood love in a non-transactional way. But the thing that Ellie has always given you, it has always been an incredibly straightforward sort of understanding, simple—that of one abandoned child to another, perhaps. 

“Are you drunk?”

“Why’s everyone always fucking asking me that?” Said with another laugh but of the real sort this time, despite the bite in your voice. 

“You’re a hazard. What can I say?”

Undeniable. “Oh, shut up.” You dig your nails into the back of her hand, trying to scratch her but probably ruining your manicure instead, she squeezes your knuckles in sideways, hurting you way more than you could manage her. A yelp, and you say, “You know what I’m excited for?”  

“What’s that?”

“Skijoring.”

“Fuck no, dude. I almost died last time.”

You snicker, “Yeah, that was the fun part for me.”

Elbow to the ribs, and, “Asshole,” she laughs. And then you’re quiet again together, still gripped by the hands, and it’s the sort of comfortable only two girls who’ve been together since they were truly girls can be. 

“You see Cassiopeia?” She points her finger way north. 

“Do you think I should stay?” You see it, and easily, and you know if you were somewhere not here, it wouldn’t be so simply found. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Because of Joel.” It isn’t a question. You’ve never said it with words to her, but she’s always known. 

You hum instead of answering, can’t say it out loud anyway just yet. “So you finally asked her.” Dina, she knows what you mean.

And Ellie hums now in turn too. The both of you are so fucked up. Can’t say a thing out loud. 

“And?” 

“It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

Ellie groans loud and long, baying goat, and you tell her so, which gets another knock to the ribs. “Turn around and don’t look at me so I can tell you.”

You roll over towards the mountains and feel her face the house where she doesn’t see ghosts like you do. 

“But you’re not allowed to say anything—just say okay. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I think—well, you know…,” she gruffs, voice dipping low and dropping off before she can say the words out loud again also. Everything’s a secret code here, even the stuff that shouldn’t be.

“You think?”

“You’re such a fucker. I know.”

You hum again but the good and happy sort, pressing your lips together to keep the misty eyed smile at bay. “Okay,” you say back just as low and just as gruff. 

“S’why I think you should stay,” she adds. “If I can find happy here, so can you.”

“I’ve never been able to before.”

“But you’re different now.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah—can see it, you know. And this place is different now too—will be different.” 

“I was afraid to come back for such a long time. It seemed like the worst thing in the world.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, before she says: “You’re not supposed to be afraid of your father.” A very obvious thing—or at least it should be. 

You feel her turn to look at the back of your neck, and you peer over your shoulder at her and when your eyes meet, she looks so sad, like she’s so sorry for you but without the pity, and you do understand what it is she’s saying despite never having had that fearless experience. 

“Aren’t you?” A shrug of your shoulder and a helpless laugh but also maybe with real humor accompanying it. Because yes, you’re not supposed to be. You always were anyway. It’s funny in an impossible to understand way. 

A beat and then, “Can I say something fucked up?”

“Yeah.”

“He isn’t here for you to be afraid of anymore.”

Funniest of all, you’re the most sad about this. And what you don’t say to her, perhaps for shame or that child’s feeling of having done something wrong but not necessarily understanding what that wrong is—sometimes it’s inevitable, missing the monster. 

“Maybe you needed him to die.” Yeah, fucked up. You’d already thought the same thing and were chock full of guilt for it. “Maybe it was like—like I don’t know. It was never going to be the way it should have between you, but now you can remember him, fuck, I don’t know—different. Not that you wanted him to die, but now the reality of him isn’t here for you to see, so you can just remember it all however you like or not.”

“So I should lie to myself?”

“Why not? There are worse things you could do. There are worse things you do do.”

You snort. “Is this what your method is?”

“Yeah. Like—like sometimes, when I’m so happy I can’t believe it’s me feeling it because she makes me that happy, Dina,” she says her name with love, “I pretend nothing from before was ever the way it was, and it’s only here and now and me and Dina and the ranch and there was no shitty, abandoning father and no dead mom and no nothing and only Joel is my dad and it’s all always been okay.”

Joel. 

At the center of everyone’s happy dream, why is it always him? 

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’ll try it.” She reaches behind her back then, pawing at your hip until you give her your hand again, and you were wrong. She’s changed too. She can say things now. She’s always had those too perceptive eyes and that too big heart, and she’s changed now in a way that makes her not afraid to let it out and use these things anymore. 

You tell this changed Ellie now: “You know that like— that like… I don’t know how to say it. When a person’s life seems like it should be perfect, and you have everything. Everything should be good, right—but it’s just not. Your parents should be kind, they should be loving. They should be attentive and give a shit what happens to you, and it probably seems that way to the whole rest of the world except for the people that have to witness the humiliation behind closed doors, but it’s really just not, and then they probably look at me and wonder how my life could be anything but rose colored, and it all just seems a little silly and empty. Doesn’t it?”

“Nah—don’t know. My life was always shit before I came here and found Joel and Dina and all of them and you. And I'd seen enough to recognize what you were and how it was. Nothing ever looked rose colored to me—just looked like more shit.” You laugh again out loud now and for real, squeezing more tears out over your hot cheeks when she joins you in the sad hilarity as well. 

When her voice is finally steady from the belly laughs again, she says, “It’s a grief pyramid, we’re all just going around hurting each other in the name of our ghosts and call it an excuse, an offering to their memory and act like it’s okay. But it’s fucked up. That’s why I decided to stop. I stopped pushing her away, I told her—well, you know. I told her.”

“Say it, loser.” You bump your butt into hers. 

“Not to you—leave me alone.”

Say it, say it, say it, you sing. 

“I love her, fuck off.” And a little clog of emotion sticks wetly in your throat.

That’s the real question, honestly: How do you make someone love you? How do you make yourself into someone people can love?

“It’s a grief pyramid,” she repeats. “You have to choose to stop adding to it.” And she’s quiet again for a long time, and you can’t fathom how it is one stops building onto something they’d been born into. You think on it so long the feel of her palm clutching yours starts losing itself to sleep in the grass and the breeze comes off the mountains like a blanket over the two girls who’d become women before them until she says again, “Anyway, that’s usually the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid.”

-

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nope. You’re definitely doing something.” He angles the phone away from her prying eyes, trying to shield his shame with the palm of his hand. 

“Mind your own damn business, kid.”

“Is that an Instagram account?” Ellie howls like a banshee, Tommy coming up behind him to reach over his shoulder to try and rip the phone out of his hand. He holds it out of his reach. 

It’s just that he couldn’t help himself. He’d heard the boys all talking about it on the ride back down after their long day of work—your Instagram page—as if he knew what the fuck that was. He’d had to search it up on the internet when he’d gotten a moment alone in the bunk, cracking open a beer, muscles exhausted from the hard ride and having to haul a heifer out of a bramble she’d gotten herself caught in, he’d realized it was a thing young people put photographs and such on, a social media thing. But when he’d gone to search your name, it’d told him he’d needed to make an account of his own. Growling in frustration, he’d slowly made his way through the process, too big fingers punching at the too tiny keys of the stupid phone you’d forced on him. 

“Can you shut up and just show me how to work this thing. And stop your goddamn howling—Dina’s gonna think she’s dating a hyena not a girl.” She slides into the seat next to him, taking the phone from his grip to finish setting up the account and type in your name, a deck of pictures loading up for him to hunt through like a vandal. Photographs of you in all sorts of different places, draped in fine clothes and jewels and your fucking perfect ass right there for everyone to see. 

Oh my God.

“How many people can see this shit?” He asks Ellie, angling the phone back towards her. 

“You’re so nosey, man,” she chastises. “Thirty-seven thousand followers.” And a long, impressed whistle from Tommy who he’s going to punch in the face after he’s done with this. 

He swallows hard. “What’s that mean?”

“That thirty-seven thousand people are following her and looking at her pictures, Joel,” his brother says. “Man, how fuckin’ old are you?”

“Yeah, you’re not that old, Joel. Come on.”

“Go away now. I’m busy,” he tells the both of them, going back to doom scrolling through your pictures. One’s of you in barely any clothes at all, an itty bitty orange bikini, hands on your ass and sand where his tongue should be.

Joel feels insane again. 

“Pervert.”

“Joel… I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think there’s steam comin’ out of your ears, man.”

“Fuck off.”

Blessedly, they leave him to suffer in peace after a while, and thank Christ for that because eventually, the ex-boyfriend shows up in the scroll of pictures too. There for everyone to see in posts dated several weeks back—even one of the two of you kissing, you on his lap, fuck that. Good looking, shiny-boy sort. Joel’s left eye twitches at the sight of the sort of man he has never been, could never be for you, someone of your caliber. 

The memory of your cunt grinding against him last night flashes through his mind and his cock throbs once and hungry. He stretches his long legs out in front of him, adjusting in the suddenly too tight seat of his jeans. 

A clusterfuck is what it is—this sudden melding of the memory of the girl-child you used to be, the one that up until only recently lived in his mind, good and golden, and the woman you are now. With both figures meeting together with all the characteristics he’d always admired in you, your kind heart, your honesty, your generosity. You’ve turned out to be an exceptional woman, and it’s difficult to let the distant perception from before meet the lust he feels for you now and grapple with it without feeling sick to his stomach about it all.

It’s all an inevitability though, anyway. He knows this just from the rewind memory play of last night, the taste of your mouth and the little sounds you'd made for him, because of him, the way your hips had rolled over his lap desperately seeking. 

You’re ending up on his cock one way or another—inevitable. 

He’s never claimed to be a good and honorable man—never played the part of one either. He’s not about to start now. 

Clicking on the picture of your sun bronzed ass in the tiny bikini again, he imagines himself biting and eating it, shifting his legs restlessly, taking another long pull of his beer. Tapping twice on the image, he tries to zoom in to the apex of your thighs—he’s going to hell, he’s so fucked up, doesn’t matter—when a little heart appears in the center of the image. He clicks it again and the heart appears once more, refusing to zoom into what he wants to see up close. Fucking piece of shit phone and fucking Instagram—frustrated and hard and pissed off at the fact he’s yet to see you all day, he locks the phone, slamming it face down on the kitchen table, and downs the rest of the can. 

If he doesn’t get a hold of himself soon he’s going to burst, gut all twisted up into a hot knot of coal. Sick with jealousy and anger and lust, aggressive, the taste of your sweetness ringing in his ears and the sound of your moans on his tongue—his head is not on straight and he better get it fixed quick or all this pent up frustration is going to come out with teeth to take a chunk of flesh out of you. 

Groaning loudly, he lets his head fall back, thumbs digging into the sockets of his eyes until he sees stars and not the sight of your slick swollen mouth made that way by himself. He wonders if you slept well last night, if you thought of him, if you’d made yourself come the way he’d ran home to the little foreman’s cabin Kelly had given him years ago, to do himself. Jumping in the shower to jack his leaking cock to the image of what it would’ve been like if he’d been brave enough to pull that flimsy little tease of a thong to the side, let his cock out and force it inside of you, make you take it until you were crying and coming so hard you’d never think to even look at another man again, much less kiss him. 

He should’ve hit that fucker harder. He should’ve kissed you longer. 

He needs to force you to take all of those goddamn half naked pictures down. No one should get to look at you like that except for him, and he doesn’t give a fuck how insane he sounds. 

Outside, he can hear the cowboys hooting and hollering at something, egging each other on louder and louder, the scuffle of them shoving each other and horsing around. He sighs once and long, too tired to deal with their shit right now. All he needs is an evening of peace to get his head on straight and relax and will his boner down for a few hours. He’s acting like a goddamn randy teenager, walking around hard and aching half the day. 

Heaving himself out of the chair, back hurts, he grabs another beer before he’s pushing the bunk door open to the sight of half the team huddled together and peering around the corner of the bunk towards the house. 

“The hell’s got y’all clucking like a bunch of hens?” He asks, coming around them to stop dead in his tracks when he lays eyes on what it is that’s got them all worked up. 

That same ass he’d just been trying to zoom in on, right there in the flesh for the whole ranch to ogle at. Stretched out on one of the sun loungers from the deck, dragged out into the center of the lawn with a little table set up next to you. You’d even gotten someone to scrounge up a huge umbrella, a misting fan spinning lazily, spitting a damp sheen of water every few minutes, a drink and a speaker playing some girly song, whole goddamn set up for all of these fuckers to stand here and take an eyeful of your perfect ass. 

Joel tries to take deep breaths, counting back from ten in his head—fails. He’s going to be calm and cool and collected—not. He isn’t going to lose his temper—sure. 

Fuck that. 

He’s going to spank your ass so hard you can’t sit for a week.

“If you all don’t find something to do in the next thirty seconds,” he growls at them all through clenched teeth, “I swear I’ll have you slingin’ shit for a month.” The can in his grip pops loudly between his fingers. 

They all take one peek at the look on his face and scatter like chicken shit until it’s only Ellie left smirking beside him.

“Take this,” he shoves the can at her and starts towards you. 

“Bro—” He ignores her. Hey! She calls after him, voice demanding now, stopping him in his tracks before he can go get exactly what he’s been denying himself from the moment you kissed him two nights ago. 

Giving him that look she gets when she needs to remind him she knows exactly who he is and that he can’t ever hide it from her, she chews on her cheek for a second before she says, and he doesn’t mistake it, it’s a warning: “She’s a real peach. You know that. Pretty and soft and sweet, but easily hurt. Needs gentle handling, even when she wants to pretend otherwise.”

It pisses him off. Bad. “You think I don’t fuckin’ know that? I understand her—” thumb to chest. Because he did—does. Because he thinks that he really always has. It’s undeniable that he has what you have, what Ellie has. Even what Oswald Kelly himself had had and what he’d seen in Joel when he’d decided to save the life of a no good man in a no good spot with a no good future in front of him—that sadness, that lost doggedness about you all that makes you so like one another, even despite your immeasurable differences.  

The two of them look at each other for another long moment, and Ellie knows, Ellie always understands. With a roll of her eyes she spins on her heel, muttering to herself, slugging back Joel’s discarded beer.

Slowly, he rounds back towards you, afraid as if he were looking down the barrel of a gun, just as dramatic, as well. Objectively, he knows you’re doing this on purpose, to piss him off and rile him up and get a blow out reaction out of him. He tries to remind himself of it as he marches towards you, and if he were smarter or less inclined to take your bait, he’d take a beat to finish that count to ten reversal in his head and calm the fuck down before he gets to you—but honestly, he just doesn’t feel like it. 

All he sees instead is the baby pink barely there string bikini you’ve got on, the slope of your back gleaming in the sun, slicked in something shiny, the damp from the mister, the lush curve of your ass and the shine of your hair resting face down on your folded arms. 

You’re all sunkissed everywhere, and he’d really rather just give you what you want already. 

“Get up,” he growls down at you. 

One eye winks open, peering up at him before you press up on your elbows to take in the sight of him scowling down at you, and he can’t help it when his eyes flit down to the sight of your breasts cupped precariously in the tiny bikini, skin all sun flushed red against the soft baby pink fabric. You look like you’re made of sugar and sweet fruit and like you’ve come here specifically to ruin him and his whole life and all his self control. 

Hmm? You smile up at him wide and teasing. Oh, he’s feeding right into your shit, and you piss him off so badly. 

He’s never been this hard in his entire life, he’s even made dizzy with it. 

The little wisps of hair at your temples are sweat soaked and curling, looking silky soft. A thousand little details about you and your body—the white of your smile and the flushed heat of your cheeks, sun burnished bridge of your nose starting to freckle—that he can’t help but notice. 

Get. Up, he grits through clenched teeth. No one in the whole world deserves to see you like this, looking so beautiful, especially not him. Shading your eyes with the palm of your hand, you scrunch your nose up at him, and he’s got half a mind to bark at you to not do that when he’s around or he’s really gonna lose it. Your smile beams brighter. 

“What’s wrong, Joel? Havin’ a rough day?”

“I swear to Christ, if you don’t get your ass up and in the house right this minute, I’m going to put you over my knee right here in front of your whole ranch to witness, little girl.”

You smile up at him again and a muscle at the corner of his jaw flutters madly, he’s about to crack a fucking molar. “Hmm, I don’t think so.” And you flop back down again so that the soft of your ass jiggles slightly, arching your back just a little so that he’s growling once, right before he’s gripping you by the elbow and pulling you upwards against his chest and dragging you all bare and slippery limbed to your feet. You smell like coconuts and sweet sweat and saliva pools heavy beneath his tongue. 

“If you wanna act like a brat, I’m gonna treat you like one. You get me?” He yanks you towards the house screeching like a banshee, let go of me, you fucking psycho, you howl. A too little fist swings towards his face, and he catches it in his palm, squeezing tight and feeling your thumb tucked inside your fist. 

“Stop that—you’re gonna hurt yourself.” More squawking and howling, skinny wrist slipping from his grip to take another swing at him. “Don’t even know how to throw a goddamn punch—Jesus fucking Christ. Don’t tuck your thumb.” He hauls you up higher against himself, getting a better grip around your waist so he can carry you bodily up the steps of the deck. 

You jam your heels into his shins, and he huffs and puffs, trying to keep his hold on you. I’m gonna kick your ass, you screech again, scratching and pinching at his forearms. 

Joel is too old and too goodman tired for this. 

“No, you’re not. And if you think I’m gonna let the whole goddamn ranch and all the boys stare at your bare ass all day, you’ve got another thing comin’ for you.”

“Well, I’ve gotta show it to someone, don’t I?” You sass back, trying to elbow him in the throat while you’re at it. Blood boiling, catching you by the small joint, he pulls your arm bent behind your back, other forearm banding against your stomach so that his hand is splayed at your hip, feeling the satin soft skin, slippery in your suncream. 

And sure, he might be too old or too tired for this, but his cock is still hard as anything at the feel of you all against him like this. 

Pushing the door open with his hip, he shoves you inside. The late afternoon sun paints the cool interior in shades of gold and beaming white; everything is beautiful and pristine as always, and yet tinged with the red of his temper and lust. His temples beat in tune with his too fast, pumping heart. 

“Where’s Dina?” He’s still got you caught in his grip. He does not plan to let go. 

“Let me go, you mother ffff—” He gives you one hard shake, hearing your teeth click and rattle. Little doll caught in his grip. He can do anything to you—and you won’t be able to stop him. 

“Where is she?” He asks again, and something in his voice must snap you alert because you settle for a brief second, a little shiver skipping down the length of your spine that he follows to your full ass. He tugs you back, barely moving and slow, just that little bit further into himself so that the lush curve presses against the hard length of his cock—and there it is, the little knowing gasp, finally understanding what it is you’ve gotten yourself into.

-

“She—” Your belly is suddenly so hot and tight, heartbeat starting up behind your navel. Suddenly knowing what it is this is about to be, and yet now finally confronted with the reality of it for the first time, you can’t even begin to imagine what it’ll be like. “She—I don’t know. She went into town, I— I think,” you stutter, brain short-circuiting, desperate to feel that hardness again. “Waiting for Ellie—they’ve got plans there tonight.” His entire hand is wrapped around your forearm pressed against the small of your back, long, thick fingers overlapping against each other, and you roll up on your tiptoes, trying to arch your back further into him. 

He grunts once, exasperated, and then shoves you forward again, rough enough you’re stumbling over your own two feet, full on aggressive panting bull at your back. 

That’s good, he says so low you barely catch it before he’s pushing you up against the wall by the front door, cheek smushed against the silk printed wallpaper. 

Your mother decorated this room years ago, melding the masculine taste of your father and her love for European decor. The walls, wrapped in hand painted English wallpaper on the top half, and paneled at the bottom with a mahogany so fine it gleams an amber golden glow when the afternoon sun shines in through the windows just so. 

Everything beautiful; still, even after all this time. 

He holds you there for a long moment, his breathing quick and shallow, bellows of hot air at the nape of your neck, disturbing the escaped hair from your claw clip curling there. 

“Joel?” You ask once, voice wavering just a little bit because he suddenly feels so large and imposing behind you that something like trepidation beats behind the soft of your kneecaps. You know he worked all day, and his big body is a steaming blaze of heat, waves rolling off of him to burn the naked length of your back and limbs. 

He pulls your arm trapped between his forearm and your stomach to the small of your back to join the other, holding you there in a lock pinned against the wall, reaching up slowly to let your hair down, long and swinging. You listen to the clatter of your clip against the hardwood floor, and then he’s circling the side of your neck, the tiny beating pulse held in the cup of his palm so that it feels as if it’s reverberating back into your head, a staccato rhythm, and echoing all through your body. A chiming bell, ringing and ringing and ringing, telling you that it’s time now. His hand smooths down the slope of your throat to your shoulder, and you listen to the rumbling half humming moan he lets out at the feel of your sweat sticky skin, then down the flat wing of your scapula, thumb nail scraping against the edge of your jutting bone for the way he’s got your arms trapped behind you. 

You let out a high pitched whine, almost a scream, another puff of sound in the assimilation of his name, pleading now, rolling up onto your tiptoes again to push your ass back against the hard of his cock. Everything is so, so sensitive. 

Quit, he snaps once and mean. Ordering. In a tone that says he’s in charge, and finally. 

It’s such a relief. 

You whine again, higher, needier, like you’ve never felt before, and there’s a nauseating thrum of electrified butterflies in your tummy, sticky sweet and cloying for attention. Joel, please, again and the wings beat faster. You’re sure he’ll enjoy the sound of your begging, it’s just something you know. Tiptoes straining higher so that the soles of your feet ache, he smooths that work roughened palm down the slope of your spine, thumb against your vertebrae, feeling the round little notches of bone beneath sensitive skin until he’s reached the twin dimples at the low of your back right above your ass, and presses there and hard—mean—so it hurts. Keening loudly, you crush your cheek harder, harder against your mother’s wallpaper until the bone aches, until there’ll surely be an indent of your shape left in the wall, and his thumb digs even harder anyway, gripping you tight enough to bruise. 

This is how it’ll be—surprising, but also not. In all your years of imagining, you still don’t know what it is you expected.

“You’re carved so fine,” whispered against your skin and gooseflesh spreads like wildfire, nipples going tight and aching. His nose skims the slope of your nape, smelling you. “S’like you’re made of sugar. Is that what you’ll taste like too?” And his words are slurred, drunk-like and you feel the same way also, legs on the verge of giving out.

You press your hips back again, desperate for any sort of pressure, and he jostles you once, hard enough you bite your tongue. Quit moving, he snaps, shoving his knee between your legs and spreading you wide and immobile, thigh hooked over his own so that the toes of that leg barely skim the ground and now you’re precariously balanced on one foot, held up and pinned entirely by him. 

 Caughtcha, he murmurs.

You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. 

The palm at the low of your back splays wide, his long fingers reaching from side to side and pressing hard against your skin and then all of a sudden he’s gone, and only for a second, before he’s back and slapping you hard and painfully stinging on the ass. A downward swipe of his thick fingers so that it really fucking hurts, and then the palm is back at the small of your waist, hooked thigh over his leg, unable to move, unable to do anything except take it. 

He presses your belly into the wall, and the pressure is so intense and so deep—his breathing is so rough behind you. You know he worked the mountain all day, he should be exhausted, but the strength he’s trapping you with belies the possibility. 

His hand goes away from your back again, and he’s spanking you once more, and you can’t tell if it’s harder or not this time, if it hurts worse than the previous, but the fire pain of it snaps all the way down from your thigh to your calve, pooling there in a knot of painful ache. An animal baying noise warbles in your throat, he tuts once, a cooing click of his tongue and cups your ass right at the rose of pain he’s left, kneading the skin gently, palpating the hurt like he’s looking for the physical imprint of it beneath your skin. 

“Yeah, baby? Like that?” You sing the little animal song for him again. “S’what you needed, right?” His voice now is not the Joel-voice you’ve always known, but it is the one you’ve always dreamed of. The kneading fingers slide whisper soft down the back of your thigh, up again, down again, callused skin scraping. On the up again, his thumb catches at the edge of your bathing suit wedged between the cleft of your ass.

And lest he thinks he’s bested you, you say, “Yes, that’s what I needed,” and he laughs a rough laugh that makes him sound like he’s been gutted. 

He squeezes the thick of your ass between his thumb and forefinger, an almost pinch and then smoothes his thumb beneath the pink edge along the curve, precariously close to danger. The sound of his name loses meaning, you’re praying it in a litany almost, over and over, begging. Hush now, he gentles, more in a sort of voice you recognize while your heart beats so hard against the wall it must surely sound like someone’s knocking on the front door for entry, like it must surely send echoes all through the ghost-house. 

His smoothing thumb continues its journey until it’s between your thighs, pulling the wet lycra wide away from your skin so that he can tuck the rest of his fingers flat against your cunt, and now he’s there. 

One of you says the word fuck another lets out a whimpering sort of noise—you’re not sure which is who, it’s all only a cunt-throbbing need you know he’s feeling leak and pulse against his hand. 

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs all reverence like. Joel—touching your cunt and sounding like he can’t believe it. His hand slides back along the curve of your sex, and you really are so wet the sound of it is slick and lewd, his fingertips at your entrance, a gentle probing and then forward again, a circling not touch around your clit, like he’s learning for himself this new little place that belongs to him now. Your mouth falls open on a spit-full moan, your eyes closed because you don’t even have strength now to keep them open and watchful. You’re so wet for me, he says again and again like he can’t believe it all either. 

He drags his finger flats against you once more and then another time and then taps twice with all four of them, two little almost slaps to your clit that make a sticky wet splashing sound. Good girl, and you don’t know which part of you he’s talking to. You’re practically leaking onto the floor, trying to widen your hips, arch your ass back further and present your cunt to him for fucking. And then his fingers side to side in a swiping motion and fast. 

Oh God. Oh God. Inside, inside, you need him inside. He needs to go inside. 

“Please, pleeease, Joel. Oh, please.” Delirious.

“Please?” His fingers move fast and your vision goes entirely away. “Please what? Please what? You, please.” He switches front and backwards again, and then two fingers draw a little ghost circle at your entrance. You, please, he says again. His hand flips over, palm facing downwards, and he starts to slowly, slowly press a single tip of one inside. “Please behave. Please don’t— don’t—fuck— please gimme a second to breathe, to think, to catch up. God, fucking tight little cunt. I’ll never fit in here, baby.” 

Your vision whites, then blacks, then goes blinding bright and colorless—zero frequency. Up to the first knuckle, and he wiggles the tip inside, making you cry and squirm, pulls out and then two fingers are pressing inside and downwards. “We’re gonna have to take it so slow in this little cunt.” Shit—shit.

“Oh my God, yes.” 

Your hips shiver and shake as he penetrates you, his forehead tucked against your shoulder so he can look down at what he’s doing, and drool slides along your mother’s wallpaper from the corner of your mouth as he pushes his fingers in and out of you so slowly, the slick slide, the pressure against your front wall so heavy, and spread so wide like this but held so immobile—it all makes you feel like you’ll wet yourself with such little control over your body. A few slides in and out again, “Good girl, just a little more,” before he’s wedging a third into the mix, trying to put it inside of you as well. A little more? The stretch is too much, burning, and you wail and cry, arching again but this time to get away instead of steal more. 

“Okay, okay. It’s alright,” he soothes. Hush. “It’s okay.” He pulls his fingers entirely out and covers the slick mess of your mound with his entire palm possessively. Rubbing soothingly at your wet, his fingers slide over the satiny smooth skin of your lips. 

“You’re all bare,” he whispers, shocked.

You swallow hard once, shoulders and neck starting to ache. “I— I got lasered.”

“Lasers?” Voice confused. 

“Yeah.” You swallow again, can’t catch your breath. “Yes.”

“Gotta see.”

He pulls you from the wall, shuffling you like gambling cards in his hands, that’s what this is, a gamble, so that you’re facing him as he walks you backwards, bikini bottoms askew and cunt bare to your parents living room; your dead father’s best man about to fuck it raw. 

Pressing up on your tiptoes at the same time that you’re tugging him low by the collar and the slightly too long hair that curls over it to press an open mouthed kiss to his lips with eyes kept open. You need to see his face, his reaction, that even though he’s all rough, he’s still Joel and he’ll still take care of you now. 

One strong forearm bands around your back, pressing you up high and close to his chest, fingers tangling in the bikini string at your back so that it pulls tight and bites into your skin, the other reaching around the back of your thighs to take a squeezing handful of you ass as he lifts you clean off the ground, lumbering slowly towards the couch while the two of you stare at each other with something that smells suspiciously of wonder. 

On the high ground now, you stare down at him, held as you are and kiss him again, for real this time, with tongue, an eating of his mouth. Trying to taste him as deep as you can go, digging your manicured fingernails into the rough whiskered planes of his cheeks until he grunts roughly.

Showing him that you can hurt him too. 

His knees hit the edge of the couch, one palm going to the back to hold himself steady as he sets you down, following your path to fold over you nose to nose. Watching each other for a blink, predator, predator, lashes tangling and then his mouth is sliding wetly over your burning cheekbone, drawn out groan like dying. Down to the hinge of your jaw where he sucks sharp once and his tongue flutters down the column of your throat, tasting your pulse, his palms everywhere at the same time too. Over your shoulders and down your goosefleshed arms, cinching at the nip of your waist to slide around your hips and to your ass, pulling you forward and open when he goes to his knees on the floor at the edge of the sofa between your spread thighs, with you draped diagonally across the cool leather that sticks to your sweaty, coconut flavored skin. 

One palm slides down your chest, dragging over your breast, the other catching at your nipple with this thumb, nail scraping and pulling the wet fabric along with him, baring you to the first glance of his eyes. A sound that’s a little like a whimper precedes his latching mouth, sucking hard and with teeth so you’re arching and crying and when your head rolls to the side, eyes bleary and barely seeing, he’s got your small breast in his mouth, jaw hinged wide and hungry. His teeth scrape, one wide palm sliding over your thigh to the back, pushing your knee up high and open to your shoulder, lips skim over your belly, smell so fucking good, sharp edge over your hip bone and the lave of his tongue, taste so fucking good.

“I’m gonna eat your cunt.” Bikini askew, one little tit bared to the cold AC, nipples hard enough to hurt, he pinches it once and mean and stretches the soaking wet center gusset of your bottoms wider.

He looks and looks and grins and everything inside of you pulses. 

Boyish smirk and a cocky glance up at you, oh, pretty, “Perfect little princess pussy, huh? I see now.” He sticks his thumb into his mouth, pulls it out with a pop to rub it spit slick against your clit. Yeah, yeah, like that, and you can’t help the whining cry. 

Pushing your other thigh up high, the grin turns to something a little more menacing before he bends to your cunt, whole mouth covering you there like he’d swallowed your breast. His thumbs dig painfully into the backs of your thighs like they’d dug in your back, leaving little spots of hurt all over your body is what he’s doing, spreading you wide open.  

Every touch is possessive, full of ownership. 

“What are you doing to me?” He groans as he eats your cunt, doing exactly as he said he would, flat of his tongue licking all over you, dipping inside. Purse of his lips then and he’s sucking hard and pulsing in quick successions, and there’s your first one—little gush of slick and your belly so tight it hurts, you need something inside of you so bad—your first orgasm forced from you and onto his tongue, swallowed down into his stomach. He groans like an animal—doubles his efforts, tongue spearing inside, pulling away to press two fingers in—fuck, fuck, and you grab hold of your own thigh to keep yourself open for him, knees trembling beside your ribs. 

The hand not inside slides across you, smearing slick over your belly, it’s everywhere, and presses down as he crooks those two fingers forward. His hair’s all fucked up, eyes glazed a maniacle shade of hazel that makes him more intimidating than you’ve ever seen him and also hotter than you could’ve ever dreamed, that boy’s smile again. 

His mustache is soaked in you. “Little pussy’s so small ‘nd wet, baby.” He wiggles his fingers, pets against the blindingly sensitive place inside of you. “Feel that?” Fingers twisting—almost too much, the stretch burns already and just like this. 

“Please, put it in,” you beg stupidly, a tear leaks and then another, not at all smart of self preserving. 

He clicks his tongue, and you can’t tell if it’s soothing or condescending or both, your eyes screwing shut at what he’s doing to you, trying to paw at his shoulders and pull him towards you at the same time. “Can’t—too small.”

No, no— His palm at your belly presses down, fingers petting forward, again, again, head bent once more to suck on your clit, licking it roughly if a tongue can be rough because it’s heavy and strong and intentional—I can take it. There’s your next one, obeying the come here order of his fingers. Mid-come and he’s forcing that painful third one from before inside, and now it’s split open and sloshing wetly—your cunt—hiccupping into another left over shaky orgasm, fucking hurts a little bit. More tears and his soft chuckle—you’re really in it now. 

When he slurps at your leaking again, fingers leaving you to gape empty and wanting, your hips shiver, trying to shake him away and rock against him at the same time. He says something you can’t make out, can’t even open your eyes, you just need a second, you swear, and then the clink of his belt, the shuffle of clothes, and he’s pulled his shirt over his head—you’ve enough mind left to open your eyes for this. 

He’s so strong, built for fucking and working and heaving. You knew this already, you hadn’t needed to see him without clothes to know. 

And all yours now, too. 

Your fingertips paw greedy at his chest, muscular, the thickly corded arms and shoulders. One hand wraps around the slim of your ankle, manacling you while he undoes his fly, your heart skips with the split of the zipper’s teeth and pulls his cock out, letting it fall heavy on your stomach—a threatening, aggressive thing. It drags against your cunt, so big it doesn’t stand up straight and jutting like the others you’ve been used to, but bobs low and hanging.

Reaching forward you flit the tips of your fingers over the wide head—barely there butterfly touch—and your hand looks comically small next to the thing as you pet at the dark head swelling out of the thick skin around it, soft and burning hot—he growls like a wolf at your touch.

 “I’ve never— I’ve never… with one like…”

He pulls your hand forward, wrapping it tightly around the thick length with his fist over yours. “Nah, baby. You’ve never had one like this. It’s alright—I’ll show you how to take it.” 

You’ve half a mind to roll your eyes at him, but he distracts you with the soft touch at the split indentation in your knee from your romp in the grass last night. “What happened here, little thing?” His words and his touch are so soft, eyes warm and caring, as if he weren’t threatening at all, as if that thing that’s about to split you in half and make you cry hasn’t started to slick itself back and forth between your legs, parting the lips of your cunt, sticky sound on every pass with his fist wrapped around himself—too many things happening to you all at once by his hand. 

“A rock hiding in the grass last night.” You start to roll your hips minutely against him, presenting your similarly torn palm for his appraisal, no, no, my poor baby, he kisses the little hurt while the fat head swipes over your clit, pressing against your hole—a little gasp and you circle his wrist at your knee, anchoring yourself. 

He frowns. “Last night when?”

“After you left me.” Pouting back. 

Cooing once and low, “You shouldn’t go out alone at night, anything could happen,” pressing again at the mouth of your cunt. Fuck, now— 

“Wasn’t alone—”

The head notches and stays, “Without me then— Deep breath now, baby.” He grunts on the first push inside, and your back arches tight as a bowstring, hand splaying wide at the center of his belly and his long fingers wrap around your breast tight, holding you in place, deep breath, he says again. 

“Oh God. Oh God. Oh my God.”

He pitches his hips forward once, just a little, just a small shove, and you tense, sharp whine hiccuping through you. “Oh, it’s too big,” pressing harder at his belly as he edges deeper again, an inch and then another, literally splitting your cunt open for himself, thumb swiping slow and gentle over your clit, forcing little shudders of pleasure out of you amidst the pain. 

“See, told ya.” It’s slow, slow until he makes it fit, watching himself sink inside of you the entire time, until you’re rooted on his cock, breath coming is quick, sucking pants, puffs out through your nose, body flushing hot and then even hotter. He folds over you, groaning loud and long, deep grinds and small shoves, and then it’s so much, too much until there’s no room left inside of you at all, that dull ache pain of his tip pressing against your cervix. 

You’re going to be so sore tomorrow, it hurts, it hurts, but he plays with that place anyways, covering you with his body to press his face against your breasts, mouthing wet and hot at your nipples, biting hard to distract you from the pain inside. Your fingers twist in his hair, hot and damp at the roots, sweaty musk smell of a hard day's work, masculine, making you wetter for him. “It’s alright… it’s alright. You can take it. You’re such a good girl.” And then a fuck, and he’s mumbling your name, how good you are again, how well you’re taking your fucking. 

“This what you wanted, right? To get caught on my cock?” The palm cupping your ass tips you up and forwards, forcing him inside just that little bit more. Your knees are at your shoulders, folded entirely under him, and the tip of his cock is still there where it hurts the most while he pants and sweats on top of you. A cramp of heat moves like lightning down your back and something goes loose in your cunt, your womb contracting once, accepting its fate as you start to come around him, milking him deep inside of you. You start to cry for real now too, fingernails dragging against his naked back looking for blood—sobbing, actually, not just crying. 

He bites your breast hard, grinds further not letting the orgasm stop, “God—I’m so fuckin’ deep. No one’s ever been this deep, right? Tell me, baby,” he begs, sitting back and dragging you boneless, still coming, into his lap, little girl splayed wide over his knees on the floor. You sink further down onto his cock, and he kisses your hot cheeks, letting your cunt drip down him. His belt digs bruisingly into the back of your thighs and it all hurts—he really is so deep now, head tucked firmly at your cervix, and he feels like he’s getting thicker, harder, like he just needs to be sunk deep like this, as deep as he can get so that all your cunt needs to do is work him until it milks the come right out of him. 

Your head lolls back on your neck, supported at the edge of the sofa. “No more—” You don’t know if you mean it, but it is just on the verge of too much now. You’re so sensitive. 

“Yes more.” He starts to lift his hips again, pulling back and shoving, not a lot, but enough that it’s like a little punch inside of you each time. “As much as I say.”

Whining, “No—I can’t.” You roll your hips against him though, the both of you moving, straining against each other, his wide hands around your waist shifting you up and down like a doll on his cock. Your eyes finally open again, and the sunlight spears in through the windows in buttery blinding shafts, sparkling dust motes dancing above as he fucks you. The sound is all so wet, everything from his lower belly to the open front of his jeans is soaked. “I don’t like it anymore,” you lie. 

“I don’t care,” and he gives you the first really rough thrust, not a pounding but with enough strength behind it that you get that heat cramp again, feel like you’re going to wet yourself again, there’s so much pressure in your belly. 

You’re going to come again. You are coming again. It feels like you should say thank you. 

He laughs, little cock sleeve, and you can’t understand how it’s so intense when the fucking is so slow—so good anyways—who cares about anything. His name slips through your lips without them moving, and he’s laughing again, a little mean and you tell him so, but still tender, still endeared by you. 

You push his face away weakly, a mumbled, “Nasty old man.”

Nuh uh, he hums, taking both of your wrists in his grip and pressing them back to the leather edge on either side of your head, forcing you into an arch so that he can latch his teeth at your throat and suck. The rolling of his hips pick up speed, just that little bit, the heat coming off him boiling up to steaming and his sweat drips onto your skin and disappears inside of you—everywhere you’ve got him inside of you. 

“Birth control?” All broken up with pants and your jugular between his teeth. 

Flexing fingers, hands going away to numbness, he’s got you held so tightly, not being so careful of his strength anymore, his cock drags and it’s so wet and sensitive and swollen inside of you, it feels like he barely fits even more than it did before, like there’s definitely no more space inside of you for him at all.. “Yeah—ye—ah, ahh,” can’t get your voice to come out right with your clit grinding against his pelvic bone like that. “Implant right here.” You turn your face towards your left arm, tipping your nose the hidden little bump right beneath your skin. He clicks his tongue, kissing it softly.

“Poor baby. That’s good. That’s real good, baby. Just be good and lemme come in you now. It’s okay.” He spreads his thighs wider, pushing up with his knees into you now. Oh fuck— “But you gotta give me one more. I want it—it’s mine.” And the way he’s got you arched, the spot he hits inside is more intense than the others. He grunts rougher now, biting your throat so hard you’ll be left bruised all over and on the inside too. One palm lets go of your wrist to grip your bottom, long fingers slotting on either side of his impaling cock, pulling you to him so tightly the orgasm is squeezed out of you forcibly and hurts all the worse for it. You’re limp and boneless now, and he starts to pump his come into you in thick spurts, belly all suffused with heat and your name a groan in his throat.

His fingers, parted around his splitting cock rub at the slippery skin of your labia, back and forth to your asshole, holding and cupping the place he’s claimed, and he comes so long, hunched over and rutting into you, filling and filling until the wet squelch is even louder and you can feel the thick come being forced out of your stuffed full cunt. 

You want to say his name, trying to move your lips, but your tongue rolls uselessly inside your mouth, all you are is a shivering cunt, a muscle spasming and spasming around him. He nuzzles at your throat, finally unlatching his teeth, licking away the hurt, pressing a soft kiss to the sore spot. You can feel him playing in the leaking wet now, fingering at your puffy cunt, well fucked and filled. 

You want to tell him you didn’t think that the bikini was going to make this happen, pull this out of him. 

At least not like this. You don’t think you could’ve ever imagined it’d be like this. 

His mouth, hot on your jaw once more before he finally picks up his head to look at you, and his eyes make you want to cry, all that manic heat is gone now, replaced by some softly smoldering ember. You don’t think anyone in all the world has eyes the color of hazel he’s got. Something that should belong to some fiercely guarded precious stone, they glow, amber opal like, burnished in the setting sun’s golden glow.

“You okay?” His voice is very soft, and only for you.

You nod, chin tipping to your sternum, face flushed with so much unbearably pleased heat you’re unable to find your own. 

Tilting his head to get at your mouth, he kisses you long and soft and open mouthed, licking your tongue, tasting you completely. And when he pulls back he has that same look you feel on your own face—that same unbearable pleasure. Shocked wonder sprinkled into it.

Look at what we’ve done and together and how good it is—

A smile and then a laugh from both of you, giggling like school children into each other’s mouths, and you’ve always thought he has some strange effect of appearing all man one second and then smiling and boyish for the flash of a single moment the next. And you don’t think you understand how someone who’s been through so much can still laugh the way he does. You smooth your finger over the arch of his eyebrow, thumbing at the smile lines at the corners of his eyes. Gorgeously strong man, and you suppose, looking at the wider picture, his life here, Ellie and the boys and a whole full life, you understand it, just a little bit—all the ranch’d given him. He has so much here—centered by the land as its heart. 

You’ve always wanted to be just like him anyway, and finally, voice found—the feel of his heartbeat inside of you—it’s like finding a dream, “I’m okay,” you tell him. 

Chapter 4: Figs

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[almostfoxglove]

SEE YOU AT THREE

chapter twenty: IT AIN'T NOBODY

🌟 a young!joel miller series 🌟

RATING: Explicit (18+ only) | PAIRING: Joel x ofc (reader format/pov) WORD COUNT: 7k CW: Some sneaking around. brief reference to divorce / past relationships.

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SUMMARY: Joel makes good on his promise of hosting a slumber party.

CHAPTER PREVIEW:

Wiping his hand on the towel he’s got thrown over one shoulder, he looks down just in time to catch you eyeing him knowingly. Your hair’s down and crimped like you’ve had it in a braid, and you're wearing that blue cardigan that he likes, old and a little shabby—your words, not his. Soft. Exactly what he wants and everything he didn’t know he needed and now lives doomed to crave. “If you feed me too well I might never leave,” you warn him. “Could say the same thing to you, darlin’.” You grin, scampish. “You think that’s an accident?”

read chapter 20 on ao3.

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dividers by @thecutestgrotto

[toxicanonymity]

busted (jailbird one shot)

2.5k WORDS, JOEL "JOJO" MILLER x f!READER SUMMARY: You roleplay as cop and sex worker. WARNINGS: I8+, no plot just smut, roleplay, manhandling, handcuffs, bj, unsafe PIV, creampie, fluff. writer chooses not to warn in further detail, read at your own risk. Read alone or see jailbird masterlist for relationship & reader history. NOTES: On hiatus, but this has been in my tumblr drafts since 3/20. Ty for the ask. They've both served time. This happens while Joel's aunt/your former cellmate is still locked up. Ty again to everyone who made me write cellmate's nephew (history) 💀. Divider by @saradika-graphics. @toxicfics for notifications.

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You sit on Joel’s bed alone, wearing a short skirt, a lace bra, and fishnet stockings he already ripped wide open the last time you wore them. You finish lacing up your boots, tuck a wad of cash into your bra, and get a tictac mint from your purse. Then you put on the bag and close the bedroom door behind you as you leave. 

As you walk into the living room, the front door opens. You realize you’re holding your breath and feel silly. Your heart skips a beat when he steps through the door. 

He pauses long enough for you to take in his whole form. . .tattooed arms swelling out from the sleeves of his slutty, blue uniform. Your eyes fall to his crotch as he turns to face you. The tight polyester pants leave little to the imagination. The whole, massive outline is visible atop his thigh, straining the fabric. He smooths his mustache and tilts his head, checking you out. Then he keeps a straight face as he steps toward you and says,

“‘S’cuse me, miss. Can I see some ID?”

Your heart flutters. You’ve played the part so many times. Played lots of parts. You're used to being who the client needs. But here you are with a little stage fright in front of your boo. And Jesus Christ, there’s something about his prison tattoos bursting out of that uniform. 

You stand still in the middle of the room and he slowly paces around you. A few feet away, but close enough to smell the cigarette he must have enjoyed outside and the cologne he reserves for date nights. The sight and smell of him makes you tingle. His touch might make you physically swoon. He clears his throat, and your face heats up. You lock eyes with him, and there’s a sparkle in his gaze, but he manages to hold firm, not breaking. 

“I, um – I have it somewhere.” You rifle through your bag.

“What’s that in your brassiere, ma’am?” He takes a baton off his hip and gestures to your bra cup. Your chest is lightly dusted in a caramel flavored shimmer powder.  

“Oh,” you stammer, looking away.  “I dunno why I put this here when I have a purse,” you mutter, half out of character.

“Just what I was thinkin’,” he cocks an eyebrow at you. He begins to stalk around you again, getting a little closer with each step, closing in on you. Then, he holsters his baton and stands behind your back, close enough to feel his body heat. You turn your face to the side and his scent wraps around you. 

His hardness lightly grazes you, and you push your ass back instinctively. His left hand comes to your hip as his right hand snakes around your torso.  His voice is deep and gruff.

“I’m thinkin’ this is dirty money.”

He trails his fingers slowly up your sternum, then over the curve of your left breast to your black push-up bra. You watch the faded barbed wire flex on his hand as he slides two fingers into the bra cup, retrieving the cash. He lowers his volume and his lips brush the shell of our ear. “Real dirty, honey.” 

“It’s nothing,” you shake your head, getting into a better rhythm. 

“Lemme take this off your hands,” he offers and lifts the strap of your purse off your shoulder. He stuffs the cash in it and tosses the purse to Mabel’s easychair. The tictacs rattle as it lands. He returns behind you, and this time, both hands go to your hips.

“I’m thinkin’ we can work somethin’ out,” he murmurs. His hands meander up your sides, then back down. He holds onto your hips and pulls you back against him, lightly grinding his hard length against your skirt, making you throb. 

“Fuck, Jo,” you whine in a whisper, pushing back on him like you shouldn't be. He exhales what you're pretty sure is a laugh. You can picture his smile. You're not ready to throw in the towel on this scene. You compose yourself and ask, “What are you doing?” You step forward, away from him, then turn around with a glare. 

He slowly rubs his arousal and adjusts himself. Then he puts his hands on his hips and shifts his weight. He looks you up and down, slowly shakes his head, and clucks his tongue.  

“Y’know, I didn’t wanna have to do this.”  He reaches behind his back for his cuffs, and you head for the door. 

He grabs you by the arm, and you continue to pull away. 

“No,” you protest emptily, tingling at the thought of him getting rougher.

He wraps a strong arm around you and you keep squirming. He lets you pull away toward the door until you’re up against it. He presses his weight against you with a forearm on your upper back and warns, “Resisting arrest?” 

He wrangles your arms behind your back, and the cold metal edge makes you shiver as your first wrist is cuffed. The second cuff clicks into place and he tightens them. Your cuffed hands desperately feel around the front of his pants, and he shifts his hips to help you find what you're looking for. You softly moan when your palm meets the hard length in his pants. 

“So now ya wanna be good,” he taunts, then lets out a barely audible grunt, pressing his hips forward, arousal swelling against your palm.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, officer.” He takes your hands and puts them on your mid back, and you keep them there. He yanks the whole skirt up over your ass in one go, watching your ass drop, fishnet diamonds stretched over it. His hips push forward and his hardness makes you throb. 

“Spread’em,” he commands. 

You widen your stance. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, then wedges a hand between you and the door. Your palms rest on his tummy as he shoves his hand between your legs and feels how wet you are through the pre-ruined fishnets. 

“Alright, let’s make a deal,” he growls, then cruelly takes his hand away without so much as putting half a finger in you. 

He grabs you by one arm and pulls you over to the sofa. “Knees,” he murmurs, and helps you down onto the carpet. He pats your head then sits down on the sofa with a sigh, manspreading. He splays his arms out on the back of the couch and looks at you affectionately for a moment before his face hardens again. He takes off his fake utility belt in a hurry. 

“Got five minutes to convince me not to take ya in,” he warns, "If ya can handle it." He lifts his hips, giving you a rush of arousal. He pulls at his uniform pants, and they snap open at the side. This must have been quite a hit all those years ago on stage. For you, he's not wearing anything under them. You glance at his hip tattoo. Yeah.

He frees his massive cock and wraps his hand around the clean shaven base. He squeezes it as he looks at you darkly. "Such a bad girl." He scoots toward the edge of the sofa. Your hands are still handcuffed behind your back, skirt still sitting up above your ass.

You lean forward, dip your head, and he feeds you his cock. You slurp the fat head into your mouth and he sighs, watching you with a softening scowl. "Fuck yeah," he breathes. His knees bracket you and help you balance with no use of your hands as you bob your head. He moans as you suck him. You stretch your jaw, sucking at the smooth, salty tip, then take a few inches into your mouth and hold it, feeling him throb. "God damn," he curses softly. You suck with the back of your throat and carefully take as much as you can, expertly swallowing his length. You take him so deep that your lips brush his shaved pubic skin, and your eyes prickle with tears.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Get up here.” 

You slowly let his cock out of your mouth, and a string of slobber falls away with it.

He grabs your arms and helps you stand. He could stand to be rougher about it. But he's all but abandoning character, overtaken by the way you make him feel. The real you.

He helps you balance as you kneel onto the sofa, straddling him with your thighs spread wide. His breaths are heavy and getting heavier as he eyes your tits and the front closure of your bra. 

He sits up straight. He wraps an arm around you and interlaces his fingers with one of your cuffed hands. "Doin' so good, baby." With his other hand, he swiftly unhooks the front clasp of your bra, and the cups break apart, letting your tits fall out.  He takes a nipple into his mouth, then passionately licks and kisses his way up to your mouth. He palms one breast as he sucks the other and holds your hand behind your back. He pulls you right against him so your clit presses against his warm, hard cock and it makes him moan against your breast as he throbs against you.

He moves you, grinding his cock on your clit. He kisses your breast again, then drags his nose up your chest and feverishy kisses you everywhere on his way to your neck, where he sucks you long and slow. He lets go of your hand and slides his hand down, reaching under your ass to your cunt, where he slides his fingers through your slick then spreads you open for him.

He maneuvers you up to get clearance for his cock. He runs the tip through your slick, then massages your clit with it before notching at your entrance. You twitch at the contact, then begin to sink onto him and he pulls you down with a grunt.

"That's my girl," he breathes.

His lips find yours, and the kiss is long and slow with him seated fully inside you. He moves you on his cock, and his hips roll under you at a slow rhythm, stretching you with his girth, making you twitch already. You break the kiss with a moan.

You look down between your bodies, then purr, “is it hot in here, officer?” 

“God you're fuckin’ hot,” he gushes with urgency.  He reaches in his shirt pocket for the key to the handcuffs and wraps his arms around you. His cock twitches and he fumbles around as he uncuffs you. You rip open his snap button uniform top, then cradle his face and your lips smash back together and his tongue finds yours. He pulls you close. Your tits press into his chest and you moan into his mouth as you roll your hips.

You sigh and curse and moan against each other's mouths as you ride him.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “I coulda came soon as ya—fuck–the way you were clawin’ around for my cock just to feel it—ohhhh.”

He playfully plucks at the fishnets then kneads your ass as you fuck. He lets you take the lead, sliding his hands down to your legs, then your boots. He sighs, "Ohh, baby," as you ride him.

“Yeah,” you breathe, feeling sharply on the edge already, with his cock inside you and the ghost of it pressed up against you through those pants. 

“Ohh, fuck,” he pants, “yeah.” His flesh fills yours so perfectly, stretching you around him. Your body wetly hugs his length as he smoothly thrusts up into you. He growls into your neck, “I can't get enough’a ya.” You card your fingers through his hair. 

“God you feel good,” you gush. “So fucking good. He’s kissing your neck wet and sloppy now. You both breathe audibly. "God, I love this cock," you pant. Your breath is shallow with your pending peak. You grind against him, then let it overtake you. “Fuck,” you breathe as your walls flutter around him. 

He groans as you come on his cock.  As you finish your peak, he’s clearly holding back. You look down at his inked torso glistening. 

You both watch where your bodies meet, and you tell him, “i want you to come.”

“c'mere” he takes your jaw in one hand, and brings your lips back to his. He holds you tight, kissing you for a few thrusts, then his lips fall apart to moan and breathe vocally as he fucks you.

He pulses inside, pinching his eyes shut. He groans into your cheek, and you finger his curls as he pumps you full. Then you relax into his arms.

-

You share a long moment without words, and he holds your head. Then he uses his chest to push you slightly off him. He looks you in the eyes, then does a double take down to your tits and dips his head to kiss one before returning his attention to your face. 

You're still on his cock, and the stretch persists even as he slowly softens.

He looks back and forth between your eyes and blurts out, “you should move in.” 

You laugh in shock. 

“‘m’serious, baby,” he says with a smile. You bite away another laugh and his smile fades. He whispers, “Dead serious.”

He pulls you in for a kiss, then breaks away to await your answer. 

You haven't thought about it, really. Not yet, anyway. But it doesn't feel out of the question. You glance over to Mabel’s chair. 

“She knows,” he assures you. It doesn't make a difference right now, but you pray she'll get paroled sooner rather than later. 

“Just think about it,” he offers. 

You nod and bite your lip, running your hand through his hair affectionately, still plugged by his cock. "Tempting," you smile.

“I'm a lucky man either way,” he says.

Your face heats up, and you reflexively lighten the conversation. “Why’d ya cuff me if ya wanted me on top,” you laugh.

“Hell if I know what I want,” he admits. He kisses your neck then murmurs, “Just want ya every which way all the time.”

thank you for reading, and thank you for your support. love you guys <333. my tag list is gone for real this time, sorry. I'm also on a break from writing & reading but had this in my drafts.

[ak-vintage]

From the Ground Up (Series Masterlist)

Pairing: DBF!Joel Miller x OFC ("Reader" Format/Second Person POV) Series Summary: After getting laid off from your job, you are forced to move back in with your parents until you can get back on your feet. You can't help but feel like you have started your life over again at square one, but when your dad's best friend offers his help in the form of a job at his burgeoning construction business, you learn that maybe there is more than one path to the life of your dreams. Context Notes: No-outbreak AU. DBF!Joel. Named original female character. Dual POV. Second-person POV - written in "reader" format. Very minimal descriptions of the OFC, but she does have a name, a family, and a fully-developed backstory that doesn't really fit the typical "reader insert" blank slate persona. Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Age gap, slow burn, eventual smut. Themes of secret/forbidden love, starting over, finding yourself, complex family dynamics (including parentification of children and "oldest daughter syndrome"), mutual pining, and competent men taking care of strong women. See each chapter for specific tags and warnings. Status: IN PROGRESS

Main Masterlist

Chapters

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 - NEW! 4/28/25 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Epilogue

[visionsofyouandme]

two tickets north (here’s to never looking back)

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜: Joel comes to your rescue.

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 4.8k

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜/𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜:  No Outbreak!Joel Miller x F!Reader. Sort of dbf!Joel. Reader has absolutely no descriptors other than having messy hair. Legal age gap (reader is in her 20s, Joel is in his 50s). Established secret relationship. Reader has a bad relationship with her father. Mentions of/allusions to domestic violence (brief). Names of affection (“babygirl,” “darlin’,” “sweetheart”). SMUT (18+MDNI) Unprotected p in v. Pathetic!Joel. Body worship. Creampie. Joel cannot get enough of you (for real). Not proofread.

𝙰/𝙽: Well, well... I have returned? Sort of? Writer's block is a bitch. I have a million WIPs that I'm trying to work through, and this is one of them. Watched a movie that inspired this, and I just couldn't get it out of my head. Hope you enjoy! <3

Read here on AO3!

You awoke to the sound of knocking on the trailer door. You sat up, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. You frowned, seeing it read 1:26am. If it was your dad, he wouldn’t have knocked so gently. More like barreled through the door and drunkenly run into the coffee table like he always did.

So, you knew it could only be one other person, and you jumped to your feet. You grabbed a robe just in case and pulled it over your shoulders, clad only in one of his shirts and a pair of shorts that didn’t leave much to the imagination. If no one was home, you didn’t care about modesty. 

So you tightened the tie around the waist and pulled the main door open, and his frame awaited you on the steps of the double-wide trailer you called home. 

Joel Miller. Your father’s employer, and casual friend. 

And, as fate would have it, your secret lover. 

You were surprised to see him, seeing as he typically calls to alert you of his coming. You threw the screen door open, and beckoned him to come in. You stole a glance around the dirt road leading between the rows of trailer homes and saw no one being nosy. It was late, after all, on a Saturday night. People were out at bonfires or drinking at crusty bars with their friends, lovers, and others. 

So, you were thankful for the privacy.

Closing the door, you turned around to face Joel, opening your mouth to scold him, knowing your father could have been home if he showed up-

But, he took your face in his hands, and kissed you fiercely. He seemed to be vibrating with energy, and you put your hands around his wrist, prying yourself away from his kiss as much as it pained you to.

“Joel, what are you doing here?” you questioned breathlessly, and he looked down at you in the dim yellow light of the kitchen light not too far away. He smiled lightly, though you could tell he was holding back. 

“Pack your things, babygirl.” he said, and you looked at him with a confused expression. He smoothed down your wild bed-head, looking over your face like it was the first time he saw it. “We’re goin’ north.”

“What?” you questioned tiredly, having just worked a double shift at the local diner all day. Nearly 12 hours of smiling and running around, taking orders and then closing up shop wore you out. You were trying to process the information while still half asleep.

“I cashed out the business.” he said, and you raised your eyebrows, then frowned. 

“What? Why?” 

“You always talked about runnin’ away, going someplace different, away from your dad. You remember when I said I would take you one day, away from all this? Well, this is it, darlin’.” 

You looked up at Joel in disbelief, your heart seemingly stopping in your chest. 

This was it? Finally, your opportunity to leave Texas behind?

“Where up north?” you questioned, and Joel’s hands dropped from your face, turning and heading to your room with a purpose in his step. 

“I’ll tell you on the way. You gotta pack now, darlin’. Your dad, he could be home any minute. I left him at the bar, but he could find Neil or somebody to give him a ride.” he explained, and you could only watch in shock as Joel fished out the suitcase from the closet. It was covered in dust, rarely used. But now, it finally had a purpose again. He picked it up and turned into your room, flicking the light on. You hurried after him, pausing at the doorway as he began opening your dresser and tossing clothes in the suitcase. 

“Joel, I can’t leave, not like this. I need time.” you said, and Joel looked up quickly, pausing with a handful of your socks.

“Honey, we’ve talked ‘bout this. He’s no good. You do more around here than he ever does. He wastes all of his time and money on beers and hookers.” he said, and you cringed at the truth of it all. You put your money towards rent and groceries every month while he sat on the couch with a beer in hand and staring at the latest game on TV if he wasn’t “working.” Joel had told you  he noticed that his drinking had gotten worse, and therefore his productivity had plummeted. 

You couldn’t stay here any longer. All of that, and the marks on your arms and back were also evidence that this wasn’t a place for you to call home anymore. The diner barely paid, and you had nothing else tying you here other than the sad excuse for “family.” 

“I can’t just sit by and let all of this happen to ya. Not anymore. We’re leaving.” he said, and began putting more clothes in the suitcase. He opened the closet and flicked on the light, and looked around at what to take first. 

“Joel,” you began, and he put his hands on his hips, assessing the row of clothes in front of him. You put your hand on his shoulder, and he turned his head to look at you. You weren’t sure what he saw on your face, but his certainly fell to something pitiful. “I-”

“Please, babygirl, say you’ll go. I can’t leave you like this, I won’t leave you like this-”

“Joel. I’m coming with you.” You said, breathing out at your own admission. He regarded your face for a moment, and then took your face in hand and kissed you deeply. The kiss was less fervent than before, but one of pure and utter relief. You lingered in his touch for a moment and then pulled away, your hand coming to rest on his chest. 

“Can you go to the bathroom and get my stuff there?” you questioned, and he looked down at you, pressing his forehead against yours. He nodded gently, and gave your cheek a firm peck before speeding past your side to the bathroom. You then shoved clothes in your suitcase, moving about the room to pack anything you could that was sentimental. You took what was left of your jewelry that your dad hadn’t pawned off and put it in a small container. Fishing out a small felt box in the depths of your dresser, you pulled out your late mother’s ring and put that in your suitcase safely. 

You had to lay on the suitcase, putting your body weight on it to shut it tightly, and Joel came in with a small bag of toiletries. It was smaller than you thought, and you frowned,

“I’ll get some stuff for you on the way. But we have to go now.” He said, and picked up your heavy bag with ease, turning and heading to the living room. Your heart hammered in your chest and you grabbed your handbag, giving one last look at the room where you spent nearly 15 years of your life in. You looked at the stack of records longingly, and the mixtapes beside it. Pictures of old friends and family long gone from your life. Trophies from high school sports and a diploma. Things you would have to let go. Some replaceable, some forgettable, and others? Not at all.

But right now, you didn’t have a choice.

You headed out to the living room to find the front door slightly ajar, Joel nowhere to be seen. You stuck your head out the screen door and saw him loading the bags into the bed of his truck, where you already saw several of his own bags resting there. 

You touched your messy hair and figured you could fix it in the car, headed God knows where with Joel in the driver’s seat. You had traded your pajamas and robe for a pair of jeans and a faded grey t-shirt with your dirt-covered tennis shoes. Your life was now in two bags packed away in Joel’s truck, and you were finally getting out of this damn house. 

Joel turned to you when you came to the truck, and he opened the passenger door for you. You gave him a light smile as you loaded yourself inside, sliding your handbag between your legs on the floor. Joel was in the driver’s seat in a moment, and kicked the truck into gear. You looked back at the trailer one last time, the realization that you’d never see it again not hitting you yet. With a jerk the truck swung out of the driveway, heading down the rows of other mobile homes just like yours. You spotted Mildred Oliver standing on her porch, smoking a cigarette, her eyes narrowing in the streetlight as she watched you and Joel ride by. You should have felt ashamed, worried that she would tell your dad. Worried that this could all fall to ruins.

But, with how fast Joel was driving, you didn’t think your drunk father would ever be able to catch up. You liked to imagine him coming home to an empty house, your presence wiped from the place and as desolate as the desert you and Joel were setting out across to get to wherever the hell you were going. 

You could hear your father’s anguish, see the way his lips would turn into a sneer, and he would be at a loss of where you could have gone until Mildred would come and deliver the news to him. It would be only then that he would realize his boss had run off with his daughter, promising to give her a better life than the one she had here.

Coming to the entrance/exit of the trailer park, you breathed out softly. Just before Joel was about to turn, you spotted Neil Wells’ truck pulling in to the entrance.

You saw your father in the passenger seat for a fleeting moment- eyes glazed over, leaning against the window, clearly in a drunken stupor. He didn’t even look your way, and your chest deflated when he disappeared from view. Joel said nothing, but put a comforting hand on your thigh as he turned right.

Joel pulled onto the highway, the buildings of outer Austin, Texas disappearing as the desert came into full view. It was still pitch black out, and the light pollution turned less and less as you drove away from the city you used to call home. 

And when you saw the stars, the moon, the Milky Way- they were all so clear and beautiful that it finally settled in at that moment. You could feel the relief come over you like a wave upon the shore, and you leaned back into the seat a little easier, your shoulders dropping from your ears. You felt Joel’s hand wrap a little tighter around your thigh, and you turned to see him staring straight ahead with a hard expression. But, his touch was soft, gentle, comforting. You put your hand over his, and leaned your head back on the headrest as you sighed into the air conditioned truck cabin. It smelled so familiar and so like Joel that it was almost as good as being wrapped in his arms. He spent so much time on this truck fixing it up lately, and now you understand why. 

A getaway car.

“Where are we going?” you questioned quietly after the sign for the next city was briefly illuminated by the headlights:

Dallas    178 Miles

“I had some arrangements made for us up in Wyoming. My little brother- you remember Tommy? He lives up there now with his wife and son. Said it’s real nice. Good community. I think you’d like it there.” Joel explained, his thumb beginning to rub circles on your thigh. Your eyebrows furrowed, but understood everything perfectly clear. You knew the younger Miller brother from years ago, as he used to work with Joel at his contracting business before moving north for greener pastures. Last you heard he had married a woman named Maria and had settled somewhere in Wyoming, so you stored all of this new information in the back of your mind. 

“And he’s okay… he’s okay with us?” you whispered, and Joel glanced over at you with a half smile. He nodded, his eyes flickering between you and the road.

“‘Course he is.” he said.

You felt he was lying, though you weren’t sure about what.

But, you couldn’t fight it. You were too tired, and the clock on the dashboard read 2:17am. Joel could sense your tiredness and took your hand in his and gave the top of it a kiss,

“Get some sleep, darlin’. I’ll wake you when we stop.” he said, and you nodded, trying to get comfortable against the door of Joel’s truck. It only took moments as you had fell asleep, dreaming of a new life.

When the truck rumbled to a stop, you were roused from your sleep before Joel could give your shoulder a shake. You looked up, blinking up at the neon “motel” sign, and rubbed your neck gently, sitting up. Joel said something about waiting in the car, and he went to the lobby tucked away to the left. You looked around, seeing the place was somewhat deserted with only a few cars parked in front of the rooms. Joel returned moments later with a key in hand, and telling you softly and gently that he had a place for you to really sleep. 

You slid out of the truck, and while Joel insisted on carrying your things, you managed to wrestle one from his grip and grabbed one of his own for good measure. You lugged the bags to one of the rooms thankfully on ground level. When Joel opened it, you didn’t care for the musky scent that smelled vaguely of cigarettes or the barely illuminating light above. You just wanted to sleep. 

Joel seemed to be worn down from the drive, and you truly didn’t know how long you had been driving. There was only one bed, though you didn’t complain about that. You always felt you slept better at Joel’s side anyway. 

You set down your things and walked to the bathroom to splash water on your face, coming back to see Joel pulling off his boots. Kicking off your shoes and shimmying out of your jeans, you crawled into the scratchy sheets, hearing Joel shuck his own jeans off. 

When the bed dipped, signaling his arrival, you sighed as he wrapped you up in his arms. He had taken his flannel off and was just in his dark blue undershirt and boxers. You rest your arm over his stomach, nestling your face in his neck. This was what you wanted, just to be close to him. To finally feel at peace, to finally feel loved, to finally feel safe. 

“It’s alright, darlin’, I got you.” he whispered into your forehead, and you nodded soundlessly, falling back asleep with ease in Joel’s arms. 

When you awoke, you blinked to let your eyes adjust to the stream of sunlight escaping between the curtains pulled tight in the motel room. It was already getting to be hot again, the Texas weather wafting it’s way through the thin walls of the motel and into your climate. You shifted, and you felt Joel next to you, most likely still asleep. Your thoughts began to rise up, rearing their ugly heads and demanding to be addressed. What possessed Joel to let go of his thriving business? Why did he come in the dead of night? Why was he so… out of sorts? So many thoughts, so little time to deal with them-

You felt a hand on your hip and you looked over your shoulder to see Joel watching you sleepily. 

“Mornin’, pretty girl.” he mumbled, and you smiled, but it was fast and faint. Joel must have sensed your unease, because he moved and sat up a bit, rubbing his eyes. 

“Are you… are you alright?” he questioned, his hand still resting on your shoulder gently. You turned to him completely, sitting up and blinking away the remnants of sleep, willing your body to catch up with your mind. 

“Joel… is everything okay?” you questioned, and Joel’s eyes moved between your own, and you could tell he was assessing you, trying to see if you were having second thoughts. You weren’t, of course, but you just needed clarification. You needed some kind of reason, some kind of explanation. This wasn’t something to be thought of lightly, this was a big step for both you and Joel. Him coming up in the dead of night to whisk you away to somewhere up north with the promise of a new life was… exhilarating, but also worrying.

“”Course it is, darlin’.” he said quietly, and reached up to touch your cheek gently, and you put your hand over his, but didn’t move away. You still craved his touch despite your worries, and you knew he would never do anything to hurt you. But, you still had a sinking feeling in your stomach. “I want you to have a better life, a place where you can be happy, where you don’t have t’worry. And I wanna be the one to give that to ya.” 

You looked at Joel with a soft expression. He had really done all of this just for you? Given up his life, his business, his home just for you? You wondered what would happen to his house, one you had come to know and love over the months you had been meeting. You would miss the early mornings where you would share coffee, the living room where you would curl up to watch a movie together, the bedroom where you would make love and where you both confessed you loved each other for the first time.

You just had no idea he would go to these lengths just to make you happy.

“You… Joel, that’s so much-” you whispered, feeling tears well in your eyes and he pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

“I’d do anything for ya, darlin’. Anything you want, you can just ask- in fact, no, you don’t even have to ask. It’s yours, no matter what.” he said, and smoothed his hand over your hair. You looked up at him and he brushed against your cheek as a few tears fell. No one had ever gone to such lengths to make you happy, to get you out. 

But Joel did. He loved you, you knew that. But this? This went deeper than just any regular display of affection. This was the ultimate confession and action of pure love. 

“You can finally paint your- our bedroom whatever you want. You can make your office, or studio, whatever you want it to be. You can make anything and everything happen, sweetheart. I’ll see to it, and help you get there.” he said, kissing your forehead gently. You leaned into his touch, and wrapped your arms around his waist. He pulled you into his lap, shifting your legs to lay across his lap and he held you close, rocking you gently. He kissed your hair gently, pressing his nose there to inhale your scent. 

“I’m yours. Always have been, ever since that Fourth of July celebration.” he murmured, and you nodded gently, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your face there. You weren’t sure when you first realized you loved him. It was gradual, but also all at once- every step, every movement, every touch, every glance led to this moment. 

You looked at him, his arm wrapped tightly around you, almost possessively. He leaned his forehead onto yours, and kissed you softly, his hand coming up to hold your cheek gently. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you moved your body instinctively against his, craving more. You were about to embark on a new chapter of your life, and Joel was the one to make that possible. Kissing him a bit harder, your hands curled into his shirt and he turned his body, rolling over under the sheets to hover above you. He wore only his boxers and the shirt, and it was suddenly too much. You craved his touch, and your hands moved under his shirt, touching the skin of his sides, his belly, and up to his chest. He seemed to pick up on your movements and sat up to pull the shirt off and over his head. You sat up and mirrored the gesture, and he paused, looking down at your nearly naked form, save your underwear.

“You’re gorgeous, darlin’. And you’re all mine.” he murmured, and you gave a light nod of confirmation, a small smile on your lips and he moved back over you. His head immediately dipped to your breast, the perfect size to him, and he kissed the skin around it, then suckled on the nipple gently. You leaned your head back, a hand going through his hair with a soft sigh.

His hips grinded against yours with purpose, measured, but still gentle. He worshipped your breasts as his hand moved to take over the ministrations of the one he had abandoned as he turned to the other and began to suck on it a little harder than the other. You whined softly, lifting your hips for more. More, more, more. 

Joel kissed to your sternum, resting his forehead against your chest as he moved his hips against yours, his erection apparent and aching against your core. Your hand that settled through his hair tightened just a bit, and you pulled him up to capture his lips. Your eyes fell closed, and he moaned into your mouth gently like you had brought him to his knees with only a kiss. His hand moved from your breast to your side, his fingers splaying on the skin there, feeling it like it was the first time. 

“Joel,” you whispered against his lips, and his hands found the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your hips with ease. You assisted in kicking them off, your hand moving to his boxers and cupped him through the fabric. He grunted softly, his hand moving down to your core, his index and middle finger sliding through your folds, coming back with slick coating his fingers. 

“You’re so wet for me… All for me. I wanna feel you,” he whispered, his voice aching with want like this was the first time he had taken you. You nodded viciously, giving his member and gentle squeeze and he leaned his forehead into the crook of your neck, “Fuck, if you keep doing that, I’ll come. Let me- fuck- let me feel you first. Please.” 

He sounded pathetic to the outside viewer, but you could only shiver at the desire in his voice. He slipped his boxers down his thighs and barely had them off until he was pressing his member against your slick folds, using his hand to run the tip through the slick and letting it gather on him. 

“Mmm, , Joel-” you whined, feeling your body become overtaken with fire, and your hand gripped his bicep as the other wrapped around his back. Nails dug into his skin, and he sucked in a deep breath, and nodded in response. He was right- you didn’t even have to ask. He just knew. 

“I got you, babygirl. I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, his free hand moving against your cheek in comfort and he slowly slipped into you, both of you giving a chorus of sighs and moans. 

“That’s it… so good f’me.” he murmured, his voice trembling. He began to rock his hips against yours and quickly pulled your knee up, your leg wrapping around his waist like it was second nature. You shifted in the bed, lifting your other leg up and whined at the feeling of him sliding deeper into you. He kissed at your neck gently, then up to your jaw, his tongue sliding out just a bit to taste you.

“Takin’ me so good,” he murmured, his hips moving back and forth with a steady rhythm, the bed rocking gently and the springs groaning under the movement. You shifted, your fingers digging into his back as the other moved from his bicep to his face. Looking up at him, he was already gazing at you with immense love and adoration. It was enough to make you feel lightheaded- the realization that he was yours dawning on you. 

“Joel,” you whispered, your lips parting in pleasure as he hit a particularly good spot inside of you. He could feel you clench around him, and he groaned softly, kissing at your neck and then chest with reverence, like he was worshipping an altar. 

“I l-love you,” you murmured, and he let his hand move down to your hip, his thrusts getting just a bit harder, the sounds of the bed confirming that. 

“I love you, too, babygirl. I’m not gonna let anything happen- shit- nothing is gonna happen to you. You’re mine,” he murmured, and you stiffened as your peak began to rise. You bit your lower lip, wanting to come with him but knew it was no use. He always took care of you first, even if he was aching for it. His muscles tensed under your touch, and you lifted your hips to encourage him and your own high as well.

“I’m yours,” you echoed, devouring his lips with a hard, bruising kiss. He gave a hard thrust and a soft curse, and your toes began to curl, your body winding up only to let you go with a soft cry, eyes shut and body shaking. 

Joel’s grunts were almost lost on you, his hips becoming sloppy but erratic, like he was chasing the feeling of you and trying to reach every inch inside you. Your hand moved to his hair, leaning your head up, pressing your lips to his ear,

“Are you mine, Joel?” you whispered, eyes fluttering with the remnants of your own orgasm, and he sucked in a sharp breath against your shoulder, and he nodded furiously. His body tried to fuck through his high, but he came so hard that it brought him to a stop. He mumbled words into your shoulder as his member twitched inside you with spreading his spend inside you. You caught words like “yours,” and “love,” and you leaned your head against the side of his face, all that was left in the room was your syncopated breaths of recovery.

He gave a slight thrust, and you whined, your legs sliding from his waist. He slipped out of you, and instead of moving away he lowered himself onto your body gently, his face resting on your chest. He turned his head to kiss at your chest after a few moments, and licked up your sternum to your chest. You laughed gently, your hand resting on his shoulder,

“Easy there, cowboy. I need breakfast before round two.” you said, and a chuckle rumbled low in his chest. He raised himself on slightly shaky arms, and kissed your lips gently. He nodded, and stood up, walking and then returning from the bathroom to clean up the mess you two had made to the best of his ability.

“Shower?” he offered, and you cocked an eyebrow,

“Did you see how tiny that thing is?” you teased, and he shrugged, sitting on the bed next to your relaxed form. “Or is that a thinly veiled suggestion of getting me to participate in round two?”

“It can be whatever you want it to be,” he said with a sideways grin, leaning forward and giving your forehead a kiss before walking to the bathroom. You sat up slightly, admiring the backside of his form as he walked away, your eyes tracing up his back and seeing the red marks there. Reminders that he was yours, and only yours. 

And you were his.

After your respective showers and getting dressed, you and Joel left the safety of the motel and put your bags into the back of Joel’s truck. You sighed, rubbing your eyes and climbed in as he made a quick check out. He came back to the car, sliding inside and put a hand on your thigh, glancing behind him as he backed out and onto the road.

You looked forward as the highway came back into view, and you felt your stomach flip with worry that turned into anticipation. 

Joel had made this future possible for you, and without hesitation, it seemed. You were feeling an array of emotions twist in your chest and swirl in your mind like smoke. But, above all, you were feeling free for the first time in your life. You took Joel’s hand in yours as you looked out the window as the Texas sun shone around you, unaware of his flickering gaze towards you. 

The day seemed so bright, so full of potential.

And your future felt the same way. 

Thank you for reading! Comments, likes, reblogs are appreciated <3

Divider by @/saradika-graphics !

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part iv)

MINIMUM VIABLE HOPE—The smallest form of belief, enough to go on.

summary: It's a day out on the town, and Jackson has much more to offer than just a home and traded goods. Perspective, comfort, and a nice helping of lovesickness—all of which catch Joel's eye.

a/n: did you know you can only mention fifty people in a post? that's just plain boring. and no more than five people in a comment? RUDE. and did anyone else see that SNL episode with Pedro and his hip thrusts, and just fucking die? yeah, me too. also - i had so much FUN writing this chapter, the feels, the angst, the yearning, the loooove. thank you all so much, and I hope you like this long ass chapter!

Joel didn’t like looking in the mirror for too long.

It wasn’t vanity—never had been—but it showed too much. Told the truth in ways he didn’t much care for. The deep lines, the greying scruff, the years stacked on top of each other like weathered wood, each one heftier than the last. He preferred the delusion, the easy forgetfulness that came with living day to day, not thinking too hard about the good ol' days or how much he wished time hadn't gotten his hands on him. But today?

Well, today he damn near felt good in his own skin.

The clothes, that Leela generously offered, helped. Goddamn, they smelled amazing. Fresh. Worn but not ragged. The denim was sturdy but soft, the fleece underlayer warm and snug. The shearling jacket fit like something out of another life—one where he had more time, where he cared about how he looked. Even his boots, though a little tight, made him feel like he was standing taller. He couldn't even pronounce the brand of the damn thing—French apostrophes, all that fancy bullshit—but whatever it was, it smelled nice, felt nice.

Oh, for sure: Ellie was bound to give him shit. Tommy even more so.

But really... he couldn't give a flying fuck. Today he felt like he was Joel from Texas again. Like he wasn’t some worn-down relic with a bad knee and a worse past.

On the note of Leela, the big, white house across the street was officially back in order. Finally functional after hours of wrestling with the complex fucking wiring, one of the few cons of such a massive home. Not that it had been much of a fight after the resident brainiac showed up—Leela had already pinpointed the problem in minutes and quietly rattled it off like it was second nature. All he had to do was be her muscle, follow along and weld it. It was more attractive than any love or sex this world had to offer.

Catching his reflection again in the front mirror of Leela's home, Joel ruffled the front of his hair, combing down the longer strands at the back, brushing at his jaw, at the scruff that had grown heavier these days, adjusting the collar, smoothing out the sleeve.

He hadn’t meant to get this caught up in it, hadn’t meant to feel this—what, good? Yeah, good. Christ, what a joke.

He’d just turned to grab Maya's baby blanket off the couch, the breathy voice from the stairs made him stiffen.

“Jesus, Joel.”

He looked up.

Leela was halfway down the staircase, cradling Maya against her chest. She wasn’t wearing the usual loose nightgowns or sweats she’d holed herself up in for months. No, this time, she was in clean, fitted jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt in that same soft blue he liked on her. Her hair was brushed smooth down her back, tucked behind her ears, not tangled and loose like usual.

For the first time, he really saw her. Not just the soft, exhausted mother. Not just the lonely woman who never let anyone too close. Her. Tall and breathtaking. Arch calves, thighs, the swell of her hips, the softness at her love handles that hadn’t quite gone away after childbirth.

And because life had a twisted sense of humour, because the moment was already damn near suffocating from seeing her, she had to go and hit him with—

“I thought you were my dad from the back.”

Joel took that one like a sucker punch straight to the gut. He had to fight the instinct to wince, to let it show. At least she didn’t say granddad, he reasoned, trying to patch up what little was left of his dignity. Small mercies.

He exhaled, fixing his fist into the coat pockets, forcing himself to smirk. “Yeah? He must’ve been one hell of a good-lookin’ guy.”

Leela huffed out a laugh, resting the baby’s cheek against her shoulder. “He loved suede. A huge show-off.”

“Well,” he drawled, tugging at the sleeve, “that's where we disagree. At least the man had taste.”

“He also loved polka-dots,” she pointed out.

He clicked his tongue. “I take the fifth, thanks.”

That earned him another laugh, light and easy, like he’d actually said something funny. He didn’t think too hard about how that was probably all he was to her—just some seasoned guy lending a hand. A reliable acquaintance. Nothing more, nothing less.

But then, feeling excluded, Maya let out a breathless little giggle—one of those soft, airy sounds she always seemed to save just for him—and he feared for whatever was left of his soul, crushing.

Maya was grinning up at him, tiny fists wriggling in her mittens, legs kicking against Leela’s side, looking like a baby worth a thousand pictures in a camera. Bundled up in a white cotton onesie, all warm and snug, her beanie perched on her head with those stupid little ears sticking up like a baby bear. Everything was a size too big like she was still growing into the world.

Joel clutched at his chest, mock-staggering back. “You’re breakin’ my goddamned heart, doll,” he murmured, unable to resist a toothy grin, as he held out his arms for her. “Look at you. C’mere, beautiful girl. G'morning.”

Maya squirmed excitedly, tiny mitten-clad hands grasping the air, and as Joel habitually pressed a warm kiss into her cheek, tempted to steal four more, he caught a glimpse of the gold ‘L’ embroidered on the chest of the onesie. Leela’s old hand-me-down that had survived the test of time.

“Lost an eardrum trying to get her into that,” Leela admitted.

She shook her head but passed Maya over, cracking her knuckles absently as she stretched out her arms, unease becoming her. He adjusted Maya against his side, settling her little weight against him. That was her seat for the rest of the day today.

Then, as if debating something, she asked, “Do you really think it’s fine? Bringing her outside? I'm worried she'll fall sick or...”

Joel arched a brow. “I told you. You’re not goin’ there without me, and Maya’s not goin’ anywhere without either of us.”

Leela chewed on that, still unsure.

Maria had been insistent about her showing up, about giving her insight into the lightning harvester with workers—the innovation she’d designed, the one they were planning to station right outside the dam. The whole quadrant was already in progress, groundwork was being laid, and people getting involved. The biggest project Jackson had taken on in a long while.

Even after Joel had warned Maria that Leela was banged up and still on the mend, she'd cherry-picked the argument and cornered him by labelling him an 'overbearing son of a bitch who was getting on her last nerve'. He'd essentially shut up after that since Maria still scared him witless.

"Look, I've got the kid. You do your thing," Joel said, adjusting Maya as she wriggled against him. "I'll just hang back at the square with Tommy and the rest, stay close by. I'll check up on you after."

Leela pressed her lips together, clearly thinking it over.

Joel tried his hand at persuasion. “Y'know, you've been holed up here for three months.”

Leela blinked. Like she was only just realizing it. Her brows furrowed, fingers lifting as she counted—one, two, three. Each number dropped a new rock in Joel’s stomach.

“More, actually.” Her voice was distant like she was doing the math in real time. “I delivered Maya at home. Nearly... eight months now.”

Eight months. Eight months since she’d stepped beyond these walls, since she’d breathed fresh air, and been around people.

He hadn’t let himself think about it before—hadn’t wanted to—but now the image was there, unshakable. Leela, alone. Covered in sweat, spasming in pain. Bloody, weak, feeling like she was dying, like the walls were closing in, like no one in the world could help her. The raw struggle of it.

His stomach turned. No—Maria would’ve made sure she had someone. She had to have. Someone must've heard her.

Joel was aware of what that kind of loneliness did to a person. How it made you shrink, made you start believing that was all there was—that the world outside didn’t need you anymore. And she’d stayed in here. For eight goddamn months. That wasn’t living.

He cleared his throat, forcing the thought away. No use stewing in it.

“Well,” he muttered, his hand reaching for the door handle, “’nuff said. Let’s get this show on the road.”

X

People in Jackson knew Joel Miller.

Same as Maria. Same as Tommy. They knew him for his angry brow, the way his mouth rarely broke from that grim, set line. They knew the sharpness in his eyes, the way he cut through a room without saying a word. They knew he was a hardass bastard. He didn’t make small talk. Didn’t go out of his way to be liked. He knew he scared off plenty of folks just by standing there, arms crossed, expression set like granite. And that suited him just fine. People left him be.

So seeing him now—walking through town cradling a baby instead of a rifle, with a woman most thought was a ghost at his side—that was gonna be the topic of the damn day.

He could feel the looks, hear the murmurs, the way conversations stuttered as he passed. And he did not give a shit. Let ‘em talk. Let ‘em wonder.

It wasn’t like he was breaking news—his neighbours saw him come and go from her big white house as he pleased. Enough times that people could put two and two together. But this? Out in broad daylight, baby in tow? Now what the hell was going on?

Joel wasn’t the kind of man people expected to be carrying a baby. Much less one that looked at him like he hung the damn moon. And yet, here was Maya, snug against his chest, her tiny fingers curled into his fleece collar, drooling on his coat like it belonged to her.

And Leela—well. She was another matter entirely. She wasn’t just quiet. She was tense. She kept close, but not close enough to touch. Her shoulders were drawn up, her hands flexing and unflexing like she was trying to shake off the feeling of being watched.

And it wasn’t hard to guess why.

People hadn’t seen her in months. Half of Jackson had probably forgotten she even existed. The other half had started whispering about why. Joel had heard it in passing, plenty of rumours. Theories. That she was still sick. That she was holed up with her baby because she was too ashamed to be seen alone. That she was broken, not quite right in the head.

He knew better. He knew she was just trying to get by. Trying to put herself together while holding onto a child that didn’t feel quite like hers yet. And this? Being out here? This was the most out of her comfort zone she’d been in a long time.

Joel kept a steady pace, letting Leela take in what she hadn’t seen in months. He pointed things out as they walked—the grocery store with the fresh carrots now, thanks to the greenhouse. The bar with the good music. The repair shop he visited often. The little barbecue place that always smelled so mouthwatering it was damn near criminal.

He did it all for her. To keep her focused on something else—something that wasn’t the way people watched her. Wasn’t the way she was already winding herself up, bracing for something bad that wasn’t coming.

Joel kept a close eye on her, shifting Maya in his arms, pretending not to notice the way her breathing went uneven. The way she stiffened every time someone got too close. The way she gripped Joel’s elbow a little tighter like she had to remind herself he was still there.

Then, like it was nothing, like this was any other day, he muttered, “Y’ever had barbecue before?”

Leela blinked, like the question startled her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah?” He echoed with a smirk, shifting Maya higher in his arms who was listening to his voice drum in his chest. “That didn’t sound real confident.”

She let out a breath, still gripping his jacket tight. “I have, just… not in a very long time.”

“Well,” he drawled, eyes on the path ahead like this was already settled, “when you’re done with work, I’m takin’ you out. Get you a nice smoked brisket. A big slice of pecan pie with cream. How 'bout it?”

Leela glanced at him, agape. “I don’t... you don’t have to—”

“I know,” he cut in. “I want to.”

She didn’t say anything. A moment later, he felt her hand slip lower, brushing against his wrist. Just a light touch, nothing much. But Joel knew what it meant. The world around her was too much, too fast, too loud. Drowning in the noise of it all.

So, soft and low, he asked, “D’you wanna head inside for a bit?”

Leela barely hesitated. Just nodded once, fast, reaching for Maya like she needed something to anchor herself.

But Maya wasn't having it at all. She whined a stubborn noise, little hands grasping at Joel’s coat, face burrowing into the material, refusing to be handed off when she had just gotten cosy.

And maybe Joel imagined it—but he thought he saw something in Leela’s eyes splinter, that little rejection cutting deeper than it should’ve. A flicker in her dark eyes she buried quick. It looked a hell of a lot like hurt.

But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. Just let her hands fall, face blank and turned for the closest door.

Joel followed without a word, close enough, an arm outstretched around her, never touching, his presence simply a buffer between her and the rest of the world.

Inside, it was quiet. The clothing store, he quickly realized. The shelves were full but mismatched, stocked with whatever could be traded, salvaged, or repurposed. Nothing had price tags—Jackson ran on barter. Jackets, boots, canned food, and old records. Everything was up for negotiation. You talked it out with the shopkeep and settled on a fair deal.

Leela didn’t say a word. Just let out a slow, shuddering breath, stepping into a corner aisle, hidden away, and pressing her slick palms against the wooden shelf.

Joel watched her quietly, stroking Maya's back. Eight months locked up in that house, barely speaking to a soul. Now, she is back in the thick of it, remembering how to breathe in open air. No wonder, she looked like she was trying to find her footing. It made sense; people forgot how to be around people.

It was something he'd seen before. The way a person stepped out of the dark after too long, how the world suddenly felt like it could swallow them whole. Some folks got jumpy. Some shut down. Leela was somewhere in between—standing still, silent, stiff as a board, like she was trying to keep herself from bolting.

He’d seen that before, too.

Her fingers curled into the edge of the shelf at her back, grip tightening, knuckles white. She shut her eyes, breathing slow, deliberate—like she was trying to disappear inside herself. Trying to access some space within herself where the world wasn’t pressing in on her.

Yeah. He knew that look all too well now. She was trying not to cry.

Joel shifted his weight, glancing down at Maya, who was blissfully unaware, busy gumming the edge of a scarf she’d pulled off the shelf.

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Leela flinched—not much, just a little twitch of her shoulders—but it was enough to tell him that, for a second, she’d forgotten where she was. She blinked, pulling back from wherever she’d gone in her head, and looked at him.

Joel didn’t do the whole let's-address-this-nonsense, so he reached for the first thing that might pull her back. He grabbed an old record from the shelf and held it up. “Wanna put that fancy record player to use?”

Her expression softened instantly. She reached for the record, fingers tracing the edges like she was handling something precious. He eventually noticed the label—The Beach Boys, Wild Honey. What was with him, her and the sixties music?

“I have this one,” she mumbled.

An unsurprising turn of events. “’Course you do.” Joel sighed, sliding it back onto the shelf. "Hard to spoil a rich girl.”

She huffed out a laugh, tired, but at least it was real. She picked up a cloudy snow globe next, giving it a shake, eyes tracking the upending snow inside. “Don’t care for money anymore.”

Joel watched her, watched the way her fingers moved over the glass, trying to wipe away the dust. The way her shoulders had started to relax, just a little. He figured now was a good time for a distraction.

He tipped his chin at her. “You’re sittin’ on a gold mine, darlin'. You got salt. Basil or whatever.”

Her head tilted. "Seasoning makes me rich?"

"You ever eaten twenty years’ worth of QZ ration packs?" He scoffed, thumbing through the record covers. "Tryin’ to remember what real food tastes like while chewing expired crap they call 'dehydrated bolognese'?"

She actually laughed at that—not a breathy little huff, but a real laugh, short and amused. Then her eyes picked up that spark, a sharpness brightening her. “I make my own salt, actually. It’s a chemical reaction. It's fascinating, the sedimentation from caustic soda and—”

Joel lifted a hand to interrupt her, making a 'whoosh' motion over his head. “Alright, you lost me at ‘chemical.’ But if you got some to spare, I'd love to start saltin' my eggs in the morning.”

Her grin widened, but before she could respond, the door clattered open.

Maria swept in like a windstorm, hardly stepping inside, just enough to hold the door open. Clipboard in hand, she scanned the shelves, eyes flicking from one thing to the next, already onto whatever task she had next.

When she finally spotted Leela, she barely paused. “C’mon, kid, people are waiting for you. Let’s go.”

Leela stiffened, a shallow breath catching in her throat.

Joel caught the way her fingers tightened around the snow globe. The way her gaze flickered toward the door, then away just as fast—like she couldn’t look at it too long like it was something too bright, too overwhelming. She had just started breathing again.

He was about to say something—tell Maria to give her a damn minute, at least—but Leela nodded at her before he could get a word out. “I’ll be right there.”

But he saw the way her throat worked, how her hands wouldn’t quite let go of the shelf behind her. Then, she glanced back at him. A flicker. Hesitation. Like she was searching for something—a push, a reason to stall.

Joel had no goddamn clue what to do with that. Flash her a thumbs-up? Offer some dopey, generic shit like, “You got this”? None of it seemed right.

Maya—still happily oblivious, still gnawing on that damp, probably filthy scarf—grinned up at her mother with a gurgle, all gums and trouble. Her small hand finally reached out to her mama like her own little vote of confidence.

Leela’s expression softened, melting at that. She pressed a kiss to Maya's mitten, cupped her cheeks, and pressed another kiss to her head, lingering for a moment, breathing her in. “Don’t miss me too much, baby girl.”

And Joel—who was just holding the kid, who had nothing to do with that kiss—felt it all the way to his goddamn toes, until he curled them tight.

His throat closed when Leela straightened, and before he could react, she reached out, squeezing his shoulder. A quick thing, warm, shocking and grounding, there and gone.

“Take care of her, Joel,” she murmured.

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t hesitate this time. Just turned and walked toward the door, already steeling herself for whatever was waiting outside. Maria scarcely gave Joel a second glance as she hooked an arm around Leela’s shoulder, guiding her down the street, toward the dam.

Joel let out a slow breath through his nose, shifting Maya in his arms. Take care of her. Like that was even a question.

X

So, this was it. Joel hadn’t done something like this in a long time.

Running errands. Moving through town without it being about work, about survival, about making sure no one was about to freeze or starve. Just walking, going slow, letting himself ease into the rhythm of a day.

It was stupid how much he liked it. Maybe it was Maya in her room that was his arms, the warmth of her little body tucked up against him, the soft sighs and quiet sounds she made as she drifted in and out of sleep on his chest. Maybe it was the feeling of just being—going from place to place with no rush, no urgency, no reason to keep his hand near a weapon. It had been a while since he felt this liberated.

And yet, for all that, it was also the most uncomfortable he’d ever been. Because everywhere he went, people noticed him.

Or more specifically, they noticed her.

Maya was the newest baby in town, and in a place like Jackson—where everyone kept track of every fucking thing—that meant she was an instant celebrity.

It started at the main square. Joel had barely stepped inside before an older woman behind the counter lit up, clasping her hands together. “Oh, well, would you look at that.” She leaned forward, peering at Maya like she was a new puppy. “Aren’t you just the prettiest little thing?”

Joel braced. He was never good at shit like this—casual conversation, polite interactions. But he was prepared to nod, maybe mutter something noncommittal. Didn’t get the chance.

Before he could step away, the woman moved in.

“Can I see her?” She was already reaching like she might touch her, and instinct had Joel stepping back, moving Maya’s weight against his chest, his free hand flexing at his side.

The handsy woman noticed, laughing lightly. “Don’t worry, hon, I won’t take her from you.” But then she looked up, past Maya and her face dropped like a corpse wearing boots. “Oh. Joel.”

Yeah. Exactly. People never approached him. They let him pass, they let him do what he needed to do, and they didn’t ask for more than what was necessary. But now? Now he had her snug to his chest, and people suddenly thought they could get in his space, that they could smile at him like he was one of them.

“Right,” Joel muttered, clearing his throat. He took a step back, putting more space between them. “Gotta—uh. Got things to do.”

And he left before she could say anything else.

But it kept happening. Like having a baby made you instantly likeable. Erased everything that people deemed you unlikeable for.

A pair of young women on the street whispered to each other behind their hands. The Miller baby. Even some guy he didn’t know—a carpenter or a repairman or something—told over his shoulder to his friend while passing him, “Is that the little Miller baby?”

He didn’t answer. It wasn’t. But he hated how the words stuck to his skin, how they lingered. Feeding him false truths.

Maya, for her part, handled the attention in the same way she handled everything. She stared, wide-eyed, for a few seconds before burying her face in his chest, hiding against him.

Which—fair. Joel had the same damn instinct.

After a while, he just stopped slowing down, stopped making eye contact, and stopped acknowledging the people trying to grab his attention. By the time he hit the shop that traded in home goods, his patience was running thin.

He bartered for his coffee first. Priorities. He was low on supply, and he didn’t feel right starting a morning without it. Then, a stop at the shelf where he found some candles. The kind that a hifalutin name, like lavender or some other flower he couldn’t name. He wasn’t proud of what he’d had to trade to get them, but if they helped Leela sleep, he figured it was worth it.

Then, while shifting the baby bag on his shoulder, he saw it—some worn-down, wooden playthings on one of the shelves, a sad little collection of toys no one had much use for.

The kid had nothing. Leela didn’t seem to know enough to engage her in play. Honestly, Maya’s biggest laughs came from him, from just seeing him come in through the door and the way he bounced her when no one was looking. She didn’t have a stuffed animal to chew on, a rattle to shake, nothing. That sat wrong with him.

He reached out, fingers brushing over a carved horse with rounded edges. But before he could test it in his palms, Maya twisted in his arms, a tiny frown forming on her face.

The warning signs.

Joel sighed. “Ah, shit. Really, sweetheart?”

The fussing started slow—grunts, little unhappy noises, fidgeting with her mittens. It was hunger, he knew that much, and he hadn’t exactly planned on stopping somewhere good for it.

He glanced around, eyes landing on the worst place he could think of to feed a baby. He looked up to the sky instead, hoping for some cosmic assistance. Test him, test him, and test him again.

The fucking bar.

Well, then. It should be empty at this time of day. He'll take what is given.

Joel stepped in, scanning the dimly lit space for judgmental stares, the door swinging shut behind him. No one. It smelled like old wood and stale beer, the kind of place that felt settled into itself, like it had been standing for a hundred years and would stand for a hundred more. Even Tommy was behind the counter, rummaging through shelves, looking for something that clearly wasn’t there.

Joel exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Caught you at the right time.”

Tommy barely glanced up. “Look who it is. Papa Joel.” Then he did look, properly this time, and his smirk widened. “And look at you. Hell, you wearin’ cologne?”

Joel grunted, shifting Maya higher in his arms. “Shut up.”

“Not my fault you look—” Tommy gestured vaguely at all of him, “—like you popped outta Sears catalogue.”

Joel scowled. The swanky clothes. Right. But leave it to Tommy to make a damn thing of it.

Instead of answering, he settled onto a stool, already halfway to getting Maya’s bottle ready. She'd gone quiet, watching him move, which was never a good sign. Not for long, anyway.

Joel gently adjusted her in the crook of his arm, tucking the bottle against her lips, and that was it. The instant it was him feeding her, the second she got comfortable, her hands started roaming. She did this thing every single time. Feeling. Grabbing. Claiming.

And today, like always, they landed on the scar on his wrist. That big, pale line that ran jagged up his wrist into his forearm, from a blade that had nearly done more than nick him. A raider that he'd shivved in less than two seconds once the bleeding started.

In cruel irony, Maya was obsessed with it. She smoothed her tiny mitten over it, again and again, like she was trying to figure it out, her hand bare speck against the scar. Then she started digging her little hand into it, gripping it like she could peel it off him like it was something separate from his skin.

If Joel took his arm away when she got her claws in, her hands floated after it, waiting. A small whine, and she even gave up on the bottle.

“What?” he asked her, a single brow arched. “Aren't you hungry?”

She moved her head when he tried to push the sipper against her lips. Little smartass. A small, give-it-back-coo, brows furrowed, fists still waiting within her mittens. He missed seeing those little fingers already.

“Yeah, yeah. I ain’t goin’ anywhere, baby girl,” he sighed, letting her have his hand again. His voice was barely above a rasp, more to himself than anything. Not like she could understand, anyway. But talking to her—talking at her—had become something natural. Like breathing.

Immediately, she latched onto it again, tiny fingers curling around the scar like it belonged to her. Just let it happen. Couldn’t do a damn thing with her around. She had all his attention.

The silence between them stretched, like something Joel could settle into. Maya kept her hold on him, even as she finished eating, even as her round eyelids drooped with sleep.

His free hand, the one that had been absently nursing the cold whiskey glass, came up to trace down her nose. That tiny little twitching nose. She scrunched it at the sensation, gave the smallest little sigh—then she was out. Just like that.

Ahead, Tommy took a sip of his drink, still watching. Not saying anything. Not yet.

Then, after a beat, he sighed. “So, you’re really gonna do this?”

Joel blinked, caught mid-motion, his fingers coming up against the cool glass of his drink. He knew what Tommy's 'this' implied, he didn't even have to point it out. Joel hadn’t thought about it, not in words. Not in the way Tommy was asking. But the question hung there between them, waiting to be acknowledged.

His first instinct was to scoff. Shake his head. Deflect. Like he always did.

But instead, he just sat there.

Maya was still curled against him, warm and impossibly small. Her fingers had loosened in sleep, no longer gripping his wrist so fiercely, but every now and then, she’d twitch, like she was reaching for him even in dreams. Like she knew exactly where she belonged, in the arms that were always ready to catch her.

Joel swallowed, jaw working, eyes fixed on the grain of the counter. He could feel Tommy watching him, waiting.

Then came the shrug. That half-assed, useless shrug. A non-answer, because he wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

Tommy snorted, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Ain’t that simple. You know how it is with her mom.” The words came out rougher than Joel intended like he was trying to shove them between himself and whatever his shitty brother was about to say next.

Tommy, of course, wasn’t buying it. He leaned against the bar, arms folded, giving Joel that look—the one that said he was already ten steps ahead, already seeing straight through the seven layers of crap. Joel hated that damn look.

“It’s already simple,” Tommy said, voice even. “You just don’t wanna admit it.”

Joel scowled, shifting Maya higher in his arms, adjusting her like it was nothing. Like she wasn’t the thing anchoring him in place.

“The hell does that mean?”

Tommy huffed a laugh, shaking his head. Then he just gestured—a lazy flick of his fingers toward Maya, toward the way she was curled into Joel’s chest, tiny and warm and completely at home.

It made Joel pause. The way Tommy was looking at him. The way he didn’t say what he meant, just let the silence speak for itself.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening.

“It means you already decided,” Tommy finally said. “You’re just waitin’ on someone else to say it first, you pussy.”

Joel’s fingers curled tighter around his drink. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Because Tommy wasn’t wrong. He fucking hated that Tommy wasn’t wrong.

This was what he did. This was how it always went. With Ellie. With Sarah. He didn’t decide—he just let it happen. Let them carve out their space in his life, let them claim him before he ever had the guts to admit it. Because once you said it—really said it—that was it. No taking it back. No pretending you could walk away.

And Maya… she was already there. Already in. And fuck. Tommy must’ve caught the shift in his expression, because his posture eased, his voice dropping into something quieter, something real.

“Y’know,��� he said, softer this time. “I’ve missed seein’ you like this.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose. “Like what?”

Tommy tilted his head, studying him. “Like you still give a damn.”

Joel scoffed. “That’s real cute, Tommy.”

“I’m serious.”

And Joel knew he was. Could hear it in the way Tommy’s voice had lost its usual sharpness, in the way he wasn’t teasing anymore.

Tommy wasn’t just looking at him now—he was seeing him.

The way Joel had melted into this. How he hadn’t put her down, hadn’t even tried. How his hand, scarred and mangled, still rested against the small of Maya’s back, gently rubbing circles as if he needed to make sure she was still there.

Joel looked away. Something crawled up his spine, sharp and unnameable. He didn’t like being seen. Not like this. Not even by Tommy. So he went for the easiest thing—the simplest way to cut the tension.

A half-hearted mutter. A low, unconvincing, “Yeah, well.”

Tommy’s smirk returned, slow and knowing. “Poetic,” he drawled.

Joel shook his head, finally taking a drink. “You talk too damn much.”

Tommy chuckled, tapping his fingers against his glass. “Yeah, well,” he mimicked before his voice softened again. “You don’t gotta say it, Joel.” He gestured toward Maya, still curled against his chest, safe, home. “You’re already doin’ it. Even if you got fuckin’ old.”

“Guess I had to, didn’t I?” he muttered, adjusting Maya against his chest, making sure her head rested easy against his chest.

Tommy didn’t argue. Didn’t need to. They both knew the truth of it.

Joel had aged in ways Tommy never would, in ways no one who hadn’t lived what he lived could understand. His life had been gunpowder, dirt and blood. But still—there was something about this, about sitting here, not rushing anywhere, not killing anything, not surviving, just existing.

Something about her. She had her little hands on his shirt, curled tight in sleep, and he knew without a doubt that when she woke up, she'd reach for him again.

Yeah, this was what getting old was.

X

It wasn’t so abnormal anymore, Joel thought, being here like this. A weekend evening, in nice clothes, at a restaurant, beer in hand, sitting around a table with family. Nothing left to rock the boat.

For a long time, this kind of thing had felt impossible. Something for other people. Other lives. Even in Jackson, even after all these years, he still sometimes caught himself expecting the old rhythm—always waiting for something to go wrong.

But here he was. Sitting in a booth at the barbecue joint, letting the warmth of the moment settle in. Maria was talking a mile a minute, Tommy was stretched out beside her, looking half in disbelief, and across from him—Leela cradling Maya, quiet as ever.

Joel took a slow sip of his beer, tearing his eyes off her, half-listening as Maria went off, excitement lighting up her face.

“—seriously, I’ve never seen anything like it,” she was saying, gesturing so wildly she nearly knocked over Tommy’s drink. “Fixed the whole irrigation backup in minutes, Joel! Got the system running smoother than it ever has, and on top of that—this little Einstein somehow managed to work out a whole fucking ration adjustment in the same damn hour.”

Leela’s face went warm. She waved a hand, dismissing it. “It wasn’t that complicated. The whole system just needed a pressure bypass to reduce cavitation in the main feed lines. And the rationing—honestly, it was just a matter of optimizing caloric allotments based on intake efficiency per household.”

A stunned hush.

Tommy blinked. Joel just stared in amazement. Maria narrowed her eyes like she was trying to do the math in her head.

“Right,” Tommy finally muttered, dragging his drink closer to safety. “I totally knew what all that meant.”

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. And a little proud of her. “Christ.”

Leela frowned, looking between them. “It's all just calibration.”

Maria snorted, nudging Tommy. “I think that just proved her point.”

She was surpassing expectations with Maria fuckin' Miller. That had got to count for something. It was rare, too, to watch her this spirited, this excited. Even rarer that Tommy wasn’t the loudest one at the table.

"Well," Tommy said, smirking as he raised his glass. "Guess it's good to have a genius in your corner sometimes."

Joel smirked too, but his gaze flickered sideways again, back to Leela. He couldn't help himself to another look, and another, and another. Total headcase conduct.

But she wasn’t looking at any of them. She sat beside him, holding Maya close, not engaging much, just keeping her eyes down, drifting between the door and Maya in her bouncing lap. Every now and then, she’d offer a thin, polite smile—one of those distant ones, not real, not reaching her eyes. Present, but not fully there.

Joel noticed it all. The way she sat just a little too stiff, the way her fingers fidgeted lightly against Maya’s back. The way her shoulders didn’t fully relax, even though she was surrounded by people she trusted. She was clearly still agitated with something. Maybe the attention? The restaurant? The smell of the food? Perhaps Maya? Or was it himself?

Joel sipped his beer and let his eyes linger on her for a second longer, about to change the subject, before Tommy—that big-mouthed bastard—broke the moment.

“Leela’s birthday’s comin’ up in a few days, right?” he said, nodding toward Joel like he expected him to confirm. “You two got plans?”

Joel damn near choked. He shot Tommy a glare so sharp it could’ve gutted a man. Wanted to kick him square in the balls. What was this little shit implying? And her birthday? He didn’t even know. Then again, he wasn't big on celebrations anyway.

Leela, to his relief, didn’t seem to care much. She just shook her head. “No plans.”

Maria, of course, had other ideas. Plans. To put that unused, exquisite dining room in her home to good use.

“Dinner, then,” she announced, already scheming, her face bright with it. “Your place. You don't have to lift a finger, the menu’s on me.”

Leela hesitated. “Um...”

Joel was ready to witness Maria take a licking for the first time ever. He could see the wheels turning in Leela's head, the way her fingers curled into Maya’s blanket. She looked down at the baby, who was happily slapping her little hands against the table, amusing herself, laughing that hiccuping laugh, at the sound.

Joel couldn’t help but smile. He reached out, brushing his knuckles over Maya’s chin, and she let out a delighted squeal, and tried to catch his hand before he returned it to his glass.

Leela exhaled, barely a smile on her lips, blindsiding him with: "I think that'd be nice. I could make something, too. With seasoning." And she flashed a knowing grin at Joel.

He bit his smile into the rim of his beer glass, meeting her eye. "Amen."

“Sweet,” Tommy grinned. “I’ll let Ellie know.”

When the food arrived in a leering waitress's arms, Joel didn’t touch his plate right away. He was too busy looking at Tommy’s. A full rack of ribs, juicy, glistening with sauce, looking like the best damn thing on the table. Regret burned in his gut.

Tommy, the smug shithead, was already smirking, rolling back his sleeves. “Something wrong, big brother?”

Joel grunted, reaching for his beer instead of dignifying that with an answer. His brother had no one to impress, Maria was well-versed in Tommy-isms. Joel had played it safe. Ribs were messy. Hands-on. Fucking delicious. If he were alone, or if it was just Tommy, he’d be going to town on them.

But with Maya switching from his lap to Leela's lap half the time? With Leela, this smart, stunning girl, sitting beside him, barely eating, her shoulder brushing his every now and then? He’d gone for the safe, decent option. A nice slab of brisket. Neater. Quieter. Civil. Less of a goddamn spectacle.

Across from him, Maria was already chatting about something—town expansion, hydroponics for the greenhouse, that kind of thing. Leela was listening, but not really. Not engaging entirely. Her gaze stayed down, distracted.

And then there was Maya. For all her adorableness, she was being an absolute menace. Squirming. Reaching. Grabbing. Her big eyes were all stubborn, yet curious. Joel felt her shifting in Leela’s lap, wiggling against her arm, determined to smack her little hands onto her mother's plate.

“Maya, please,” Leela whispered, exasperated, nudging her hands away. Even positioning her farther on her lap.

Of course, it didn’t work. Maya let out a loud, insistent whine—real dramatic-like. Another scream of objection, fists squeezed like she was throwing a fit, and smacking for the plate again.

Maria chuckled. “Kid’s got some lungs on her.”

Leela huffed a small, tired laugh, but Joel could see her struggle even if it was hilarious. Trying to keep handsy Maya at bay while attempting to cut her steak one-handed. She wasn’t doing a great job of it. Fork in one hand, knife awkwardly angled in the other, barely making progress.

Joel didn’t think about it. Didn’t need to.

He just reached over and swapped their plates. Simple. Quiet. Didn’t make a thing of it. Just slid his brisket—already cut—toward her, nudging it a little farther from Maya’s reach.

Leela stilled. And glanced up at him, astonished.

Joel kept his eyes on his own plate, reaching for his knife. Shrugged, like it was nothing. “Go on,” he urged. “The best thing you'll put in your mouth.”

Tommy cleared his throat, catching onto the innuendo. Joel imagined sticking his knife into his eye.

Leela hesitated. Then, after a beat, he heard the soft clink of her fork against the plate as she speared a piece. A grateful smile came alive on her face while she chewed, a genuine one. He'd learned to tell the difference now.

“Thank you, Joel,” she nodded.

Joel nodded back, a tight smile stretching on his lips. Took a bite from his plate. There was nothing else to be said. The message was clear: I've got you.

Oh, Joel didn’t miss the looks either. Maria’s subtle smirk behind her glass. Tommy’s full-blown, shit-eating grin. The two of them watched like they were studying a goddamn exhibit every time Joel so much as glanced at Leela or reached out for Maya.

Fuck them. He ignored it all, chewing through another bite of steak, keeping his focus where it needed to be. Maya was calm now. Full belly, busy little hands—playing with his own hand now, like it was her favourite toy in the world. Leela, finally eating without interruption, though still too quiet.

Joel didn’t say a damn word about any of it. Even when Maria started up again.

“What I'm saying is, that the town’s growing,” she said, wiping her mouth. “More people settling in every month. It’s getting to the point where we’re running low on homes.”

That got Joel’s attention. His chewing slowed, a sliver of suspicion creeping in. Tommy wasn’t looking at him. That was the first red flag that he'd learned from one of the more recent dinners in the Miller household.

“Couple of new families coming in next week,” Maria continued. “One’s got three kids. You believe that? Haven’t had that many young ones in Jackson in a long time.”

Joel grunted. More people. More mouths to feed. Meant the town was growing, sure—but also meant more risk. Running this place with a tight ship was already starting to show. And Maria wasn’t done.

“Thing is, if we keep expanding at this rate, we’ll have to start repurposing old homes.”

There it was. Joel was halfway through his beer when he heard more of this.

“You know, Joel,” Tommy started his tone too goddamn casual to be anything but questionable. “If push comes to shove, we could always put your place up for new tenants.”

Joel’s grip tightened on his glass. He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at Tommy right away. Just kept chewing slow, steady, like he hadn’t heard a thing.

Because he knew what this was. He knew Tommy and that arrogant little edge in his voice, the way Maria was staying too quiet, swirling her drink like she wasn’t waiting for impact.

It was a set-up. Fishing. Looking for a reaction. Confirming some inside hunches. And Maria took the shot before he could load his own.

“We’d put you up at ours, sure enough,” she said, breezy, easy.

“No kidding. You're family, can't just chuck you on the street as much as I want to,” Tommy added, mockingly, grinning like a jackass.

Joel set his drink down with a little too much pressure, the sound a noisy thud. Finally, finally, he levelled a look at Tommy. He didn't need to say a damn thing. Because whatever was on his face? It was enough.

Tommy coughed, glancing away as if he felt the heat of it. He knew what would follow if he spoke another word. Maria, to her credit, held his stare, only raising an eyebrow.

Joel’s jaw flexed, real slow. The urge to tell them both to go straight to hell was right there, burning at the back of his throat. And he would have. Would’ve shut the whole damn thing down, hard. But before he could, Leela beat him to it with—

“I have spare rooms in my place,” she said, casually. Like she was discussing the weather. “If that happens, Joel could take one. Stay as long as he wants.” She used Maya's arm to motion a wave. “Maya would love that, too.”

More silence. She was just full of surprises today, wasn't she?

Tommy, who had been bracing for impact, looked like he’d tripped over his own damn feet. Maria, mid-drink, paused. Chewed on her cheeks. Like she was recalibrating the entire situation.

And Joel? He didn't even know what to do with that. For a second, all he could do was stare at Leela, completely gobsmacked. What she'd suggested was to take it to the next level, in the most casual way. Yeah, just stay with me and my kid, forever, I guess. Doesn't matter.

Leela didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to notice what she’d said. She just kept wiping at Maya's mouth and hands who'd started to entertain herself by blowing raspberries, and bouncing her gently like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Joel exhaled through his nose. A slow, heavy thing. “It's all a big 'if',” he muttered, edged with finality.

Maria recovered first. Pulled a face that said she was perfectly fine with it. “Yep.”

Tommy, still catching up, pressed his lips together. “Just wanted to make sure of something,” he muttered. “Pretty sure now.”

Joel didn’t ask what. Just picked up his beer again, and took a slow, measured sip. His glare at Tommy, though? Firmly in place.

They left the restaurant together, in cackles of laughter that was at the expense of Joel's face, making their way up the same street where their homes resided, boots crunching against the frozen dirt road. The air was sharp, biting, but Joel barely felt it.

Maya had run herself ragged. After all her theatrics inside—her constant wriggling, the battle for the damn steak, the way she’d made herself known to the entire damn restaurant—she’d finally given in.

“You feelin' cold, baby?” he murmured.

She was in his arms now, bundled up and warm, her bunny-ear beanie snug over her head. Her tiny nose was red from the cold, her cheek pressed against the fabric of his jacket, picking at a loose lint on his sweater. He tucked closer, safer, pressing a warming kiss into her sleepy head.

Joel caught up with Maria before she could reach Tommy and Leela ahead. His breath came out in slow, even puffs, but inside, he felt a little less steady. Hadn’t planned on asking. Hadn’t even realized it was sitting there, coiled tight in his chest, until the words were already forming.

"Hey," he said lowly, his voice carrying that weighted kind of hesitation. "Can we talk?"

Maria arched a brow before smirking. "If you’re about to chew me out, it was Tommy’s idea. You know we haven’t had new people settle in for months."

Joel barely registered it. Just shook his head. Not about that.

His gaze flicked toward Leela’s back—small, quiet steps beside Tommy’s like she wasn’t all the way there. His jaw tightened before he spoke. Carefully.

"At the dam today." He paused, feeling the words thick on his tongue. "Did she seem… alright to you? Seem a little off?"

That smirk faded. Maria exhaled, her face shifting into something more careful. "Wouldn’t stay in the room with all the workers," she admitted. "Spooked her out. After that, I just let her stick by my side in the office."

Joel frowned.

"Must’ve been a trigger," Maria added, quieter now.

He only nodded. He didn't need to say what they both already knew.

He watched Leela a little longer, the way her hands stayed tucked inside her coat sleeves, the way she wasn’t engaging much with Tommy’s easy conversation. There was something… too still about her.

"She’s been quiet all night," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Maria nudged him lightly. "She’ll be fine, Joel. Baby steps."

Joel pressed his lips together. He wasn't a believer in the process of baby steps. Either you healed or you rotted in the filth of guilt or devastation for the rest of your life.

Maria gave him a sideways glance, one of those knowing looks. "You look good together."

Joel let out a breath. Not quite a scoff. Not quite anything. "Thought lawyers didn’t bullshit," he muttered.

Maria shrugged easily. "I don't. Sure, you’re," she cleared her throat, shooting him a look. "Let’s say ‘well into your prime’—and she’s… not. But I can tell she trusts you absolutely."

Joel said nothing. Only bit down the small grin that broke through his lips, staring at his boots. Coming from Maria, point-blank like that, it meant a lot.

Up ahead, Tommy was acting like he hadn’t just pulled that shit back in the restaurant, talking easy, hands in his pockets, like he was the picture of innocence.

Joel narrowed his eyes. Yeah, alright. That jagoff needed to be put in his place.

He picked up his pace, stepping just ahead of Tommy, and without breaking stride, swept his leg out.

Tommy didn’t even get a chance to balance before he was airborne—arms flailing, momentum carrying him forward—a sad, "What the fuck!"—then crashing face-first into the snow with a solid thud.

Maria burst out laughing. Full-on, bent-over, hands-on-her-knees laughing. Leela, though—she gasped, her eyes going wide, clearly more horrified than she needed to be.

Joel just kept walking, adjusting Maya, who let out a startled little giggle like she understood the exact kind of justice that had just been served.

"Fuckin' deserved it," he grumbled.

X

Maya was bawling at the big white house’s door, tiny fists clutching his shirt like letting go might break her little heart. And maybe it would—maybe that’s why Joel hesitated, his hands hovering at her back, torn between unwinding her grip and holding her tighter. Damn it, he didn’t want to go, either.

If he peeled her off him and stepped away, she’d do the sweetest thing that always got him—cover her eyes with her hands like she’d seen her mother do, weeping like his leaving was the greatest tragedy of her small world.

“He’ll come back tomorrow, Maya,” Leela tried, rubbing absently at her belly. “He has to sleep, too.”

Maya wasn’t convinced. She wriggled in her mother’s hold, stretching her arms out toward Joel, demanding, no—pleading—to be held. Then she wailed, loud and unrestrained, the kind of cry that could bring a whole street to a standstill.

Joel exhaled, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself. God, this girl was breaking his heart.

Leela shifted Maya against her chest and patted her back. “Do you want to stay a while?” Her voice was softer now. “Until she falls asleep?”

Joel didn’t even pretend to hesitate. His arms were already reaching for Maya, lifting her effortlessly out of Leela’s hold. The moment she settled against his chest, her tiny hands fisting into his shirt, her cries turned to hiccups, then sniffles.

“Gonna be a handful when she gets older,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her damp cheek.

Leela rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm, stifling a yawn. “Gosh, please don’t remind me.” She nodded toward the stairs. “I’m gonna get changed. Help yourself to anything.”

Joel watched her retreat up the steps, back hunched with exhaustion. At the landing, she disappeared into the hallway, and he found himself standing there a moment longer than necessary, listening to the creak of the floorboards as she moved through the house. He liked that about her—the way she kept reminding him to make himself at home like she knew he hadn’t quite figured out how to.

Maya was still sniffling, the last remnants of her earlier tears damp against Joel’s shirt. She stirred against him, adjusting in his arms like she was making herself right at home. Safe. Where she belonged.

Joel smoothed his palm over her back and felt the way she breaths puffed against his collar, her little chest rising and falling in a slower rhythm now. She was alright. He did that.

"You missed me already?" he murmured, rubbing a thumb under her damp eye.

She didn’t answer, just breathed out a soft, shuddering coo.

Yeah. That was about what he thought.

He bounced her gently as he moved through the living room, shifting his weight as he glanced around, looking for something to keep her mind off whatever had gotten her so worked up in the first place. His eyes caught on something up on the shelf, half-forgotten.

That record player he'd been gawking at for weeks. Not just any old thing, either. Glass case. Dark mahogany. Expensive. Fancy, like the rest of Leela’s place.

There was already a record inside. Percy Sledge. Gold, fucking gold. The glossy cover sat neatly on the side like someone had meant to come back to it and never did.

Joel exhaled, dusting off the lid before flipping it open. “Haven’t heard this in a long time,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Then, glancing down at Maya, "You wanna hear some music, baby girl?"

Maya blinked up at him, her earlier tears forgotten, and let out that breathless little panting laugh she did when she was excited. Her small hands clapped together in that uncoordinated, barbed motion that made her look like she was still figuring out how her own fingers worked.

Joel grinned. “Yeah, me too.”

He brushed away the dust, set the needle down, and let the music cut through the quiet.

The room filled with the low, honeyed croon of Percy Sledge, velvet-smooth, drifting through the air like something out of a different time.

Joel felt her still in his arms, eyes going wide as she stared at the record player, completely awestruck. Like she was trying to make sense of where the sound was coming from.

He poked a finger into her squishy thigh. “Never heard real music before? You like it?”

Maya was so curious, watching the record spin, producing music, head tilting in that goddamned adorable way of hers, like she was putting all her baby brainpower into figuring it out.

Joel’s chest ached. It was a deep, familiar thing, the kind of ache that came from having too much and knowing it was, perhaps now, all his to keep.

He shifted Maya in his arms, kissing the top of her bunny-eared beanie. She smelled like warm blankets, like home, even though he’d never had a home quite like this before.

"You wanna dance with me, darlin’?"

She gasped, her whole body jerking in excitement, arms flailing like she couldn’t believe her luck. Then came that breathless, hitching laugh—the one that made her whole face crinkle, her tiny chest heaving like she could barely keep up with herself.

He’d never heard her laugh like this before. Was that the first?

So he lifted her high into the air, listening to the way she squealed, legs kicking like she was soaring. That same laugh again—bright, bubbling over, pure sunshine—rang through the room as he pulled her back into his chest, then did it again. Twice. Thrice. Oh, his back was going to pay the piper, but for that laugh, it was fucking worth it.

She was weightless, and for a moment, so was he. The world didn’t feel so heavy when he had her in his arms like this.

His eyes caught on something in the doorway.

Leela. She was watching.

She had changed into that same white nightdress, the one with the pearl buttons he liked more than he should. Loose fabric brushing just above her ankles, a sleeve slipping off her shoulders. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, fingers touching her lips like she was trying to trap the smile already there.

Joel didn’t stop moving, just slowed a little, swaying Maya in his arms, pretending like his chest didn’t feel too goddamn tight at the look on Leela’s face. If he stopped, the moment might end, and he wasn’t ready for that.

Leela wasn’t looking at him, not exactly. Her eyes were on Maya, wondering, at the way she was still laughing, still catching her breath, little fingers clinging to the fabric of Joel’s shirt like her whole world was nothing but him and the feeling of flying.

He'd never had anything like this. Something whole, real, his. Could this moment get any more perfect? And then he had the thought—

He wanted to dance with Leela.

It settled deep in his chest, curling between the cracks. Maybe he’d wanted that for a while now. Maybe that was why his hands always hoped to reach for her when it was without Maya, why his pulse kicked up when she got too close, why he always noticed when she was around—soft, careful, like someone who didn’t want to take up too much space.

He huffed, dipping his head down to whisper against Maya’s temple, his voice all low and warm—"Gotta give your mama a turn, huh?"

He lowered Maya onto the couch, kissing her nose, making sure she was snug, and safe between the sunken cushions. She was already grabbing for her baby blanket, nibbling on the edge of it, still watching him with that shining little grin. That was enough confidence to power him up.

Joel knew better than to ask Leela. Knew better than to want. She’d probably turn him down. Politely. And somehow, that would hurt worse. Brushing him off like a stranger.

But he asked anyway.

He turned around and didn’t say a word—just held out his hands, just a little. Not a grand gesture, nothing obvious, just enough. Just enough that she’d see it, that she’d know. He wants her close.

Leela’s gaze flickered, something changing. Her lips parted, just barely, and for a moment—a long, slow, aching moment—he thought she might step forward, might meet him where he stood. A silly pipedream.

Joel was too goddamn old for his heart to be pounding like this. Like some stupid kid, all restless hands and reckless hope, hoping the girl he liked would share that feeling with him. It had been a long time since someone made him feel like this. Hell, he wasn’t sure he ever had—not like this. Not with something this soft, this easy, this whole.

He blamed that when she looked away, the moment unravelling.

Blamed the gap, the years that stretched between them, the life he’d already lived, the losses already burned into his bones. The grey in his hair, the angry brow, the lines on his face. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not for him. Not anymore. But then—why did he still want? Why, after all these years, after everything, did he still feel this?

The way his chest clenched when she hesitated. The way his palms itched, waiting, wanting. The way he caught himself hoping—hoping—like some love-struck fool that she might actually step forward.

He exhaled slowly, telling himself it was fine. Telling himself he was being ridiculous. She didn’t owe him anything. He should’ve known better, should’ve kept his hands where they belonged... anyways, what else could he offer her?

And then she did. She moved a little. Leaned off the doorway. A few slow, quiet steps forward. Hands knotted behind her back, shoulders tense, reluctant to give in.

His breath caught in his throat.

She wasn’t looking at him—not at first. Her eyes dipped downward to the boots on his feet, flickering uncertainly, almost like she was working up the nerve to do something.

And then she glimpsed his hands. The callouses. The mangled skin. The years of work, of war, of violence. Of a life that had been anything but easy. The way his fingers curled just slightly like he wasn’t sure if he should be offering them in the first place.

For a moment, she hesitated. And he thought, yeah, that’s about right.

And then—slowly, so slowly—she slipped her hands into his. Her fingers were slender against his, swallowed within his own, cool and soft where his were rough, ruined. It had been so long since anyone had reached for him first.

He didn’t move right away. Just felt it. The way she fit there, the shape of her hands in his, like it wasn’t a mistake. Like she wasn’t regretting it.

All those lifetimes, chipping away parts of him, making space for her hands to be there. And fuck, if that didn’t scare him more than anything.

The scratchy record spun on, Percy Sledge’s voice melting into the room, velvet-smooth. What am I living for, he sang on, if not for you?

Joel swallowed thickly.

Slowly, he guided her hand to his bicep, barely pressing down. She was tense, wound tight like she’d bolt if he moved too fast. So he didn’t.

"You good?" he checked in.

She nodded, glancing up, baring a gentle smile.

His own hand skimmed her hip—ginger, careful—before settling there. He let her other hand hang from his grasp, mid-air, not forcing it, not demanding more than she was willing to give. Leela was stiff against him, like this was too much for her. Like it had been too long for her, too. Like she was afraid of him. Of this. My god, it burned.

So he eased. Dipped his head, rested his nose against her hairline, and just swayed. Joel couldn't cut a rug or shake his hips to save his damn life, but he could feel. And shit, he felt so good.

She was right there. Right where he wanted her, but not as close as he wanted, although he completely dwarfed her. He could feel the tension in her frame, that deep-rooted hesitance like she wasn’t sure she was allowed this.

Joel knew that feeling all too well. So he let her lead without leading. Let her find the pace. Even if it was fucking killing him.

Even though his body ached to pull her closer. Even though his fingers twitched where they rested against her hip, wanting to dig in, to hold, to keep. He wanted her warmth pressed tight to him, her weight resting against his chest. Wanted to feel her relax, not just in body but in heart.

He’d spent years running on instinct, on gut, making quick decisions with deadly precision. But he’d never been this meticulous about anything before.

And then—he felt it. The shift. It wasn’t big, not something he would've noticed a while ago. Now he did. The way her breath came just a little easier. The way her grip steadied, not quite clinging but not pulling away either. She was letting herself be here.

And for the first time in some time—Joel wanted to feel, too.

So he let himself move with her. Not well, not smooth, not anything he’d want anyone else to see. But with her.

She laughed like he'd cracked something open in her, when he pulled her in, twirling her under his arm, snaring her against his chest before she could stumble. She laughed again when he spun her out, her head tipping back, black hair spilling like a dark halo.

"Never been spun around, my ass," he muttered against her hair as he spun her back into him, arms curling around her waist, anchoring her to him. "You're a natural."

Leela laughed, breathless, cheeks flushed. "Practice. Mom and I used to spin around for hours when it got lonely."

Joel stilled for just a second. He could picture it then—little Leela, small hands clutching at her mother’s as she twirled, all giggles and untamed joy. A warm, glowing memory, but edged with something else. The kind of happiness you cling to when there’s nothing else.

He hummed low in his throat, muffling a smile. Leela’s fingers curled against his back.

"Joel?"

"Mhm?"

She hesitated, just a beat. "I think you look really handsome today."

He stopped moving altogether. A strange, sharp thing twisted behind his ribs—surprise, confusion, something too damn soft to name. Handsome. Not tired, not rude, not old. Joel was handsome to her. The prickling memory from that morning, her mistaking him for her father went up in smoke.

For a second, he considered brushing it off, making some dry remark, giving himself an out. He wasn’t careful about much. Wasn’t the kind of man who tiptoed around what he wanted. Life had burned that out of him long ago. But right now? Right now, he was careful.

So, Joel did what he could; he held her tighter. Not much. Just enough. Just enough that she’d know he’d heard her.

And when he finally spoke, it was quiet, low, a little rough around the edges. "Thank you, darlin'."

Leela smiled up at him. And Joel—God help him. He let himself smile back.

As Percy crooned about his love growing stronger and his lover becoming a habit, they actually danced. However slow it was, there was a wildness to the way she moved, arms outstretched, the hem of her nightdress catching air, cheeks catching the low lamplight. The sharp pivot of her foot against the floorboards, the way her body dipped and twisted, loose and natural. She looked so young, so different from the woman he’d met all those weeks ago, that quiet, anxious thing who always kept herself tucked away.

This was the Leela he was falling for.

And he was so fucked. But for the first time in a long time—he was glad he was.

Joel barely had time to react before she was in his arms, knocking the wind out of his chest. Not swaying anymore, not laughing—just holding.

Her arms locked tight around his waist, cheek pressed firm against his chest like she was bracing herself. Like something in her had finally tipped over, finally let go, and she needed something to catch her.

And Joel—goddamn it, Joel wasn’t sure what to do. How to process this. She didn’t do things like this. Not the Leela he’d come to know. She was careful, always. Kept her distance. Kept everything measured. Even when she let people in, it was guarded. Always one foot out the door, always ready to pull away.

But now?

Now, she was holding on. Holding onto him.

Joel hesitated, feeling all of her against all of him, the heat, the muscle, the softness, the realness.

Then, slow and steady, he let himself move. One arm curled around her waist, the other settled at the back of her head. His fingers slid into her hair, pressing her close—not just to comfort her, but to reassure himself. She was here. He was here. They were here.

She wasn’t trembling, but she was tense. Her grip on him was firm, almost desperate. Holding onto something bigger than just this moment, nails digging into his sweater, something that must’ve been clawing at her for God knows how long.

"I needed this a lot," she muttered, voice barely above a whisper, muffled against his chest.

Joel swallowed. Shifted just enough to angle his chin over the crown of her head. "Anytime."

That was all he could say. Because what else was there?

He didn’t know how to tell her that she could stay like this for as long as she wanted. All night, all day, That whatever had been weighing her down before—whatever had kept her small, kept her afraid—it wasn’t going to touch her here. Not while he was holding her.

Although he wished the song could last forever, reality came a-knocking, and they answered. There was nothing awkward left to pick up, just a dreaming baby girl on the couch cushions.

After placing Maya in her crib and squeezing three deep goodnight kisses into her head, Joel left to cross the street. He turned around to see Leela by the big oak door, watching him go, a meaningful smile alive on her face. She waved him goodnight.

The heat in his cabin hit him first as he entered, sighing. Thick and suffocating. The fire in the hearth had burned too hot again, filling the place with a sticky kind of warmth that made his skin prickle.

Joel shrugged off that expensive shearling jacket, tossed it somewhere, and rubbed a hand down his face. It was too damn quiet. No soft breaths ghosted across his skin. No little palms clung to the fabric of his shirt.

Just the crackle of fire. Empty arms. The twisted sheets on his bed. And himself.

Joel sat down at the edge of the mattress, forearms braced against his knees, head in his hands. A million hazy thoughts swirled, smouldering, yet all he could look upon clearly was wanting to close the gap and kiss that girl in her living room.

Was this what he wanted? Would he really go through with it? If it all went to shit—if he fucked it up, if they got hurt, if she regretted letting him in—there’d be no one else to blame, but him. He would have done this to himself, some sort of screwed-up self-sabotage he thought he earned. Someday, when he kicks the bucket, all he is going to leave to that family is grief. Or not even that? Was he worth the suffering? Would they spare him a thought?

His fingers unconsciously drifted down, brushing against the cracked leather of his watch strap. That old, broken dial. The last thing Sarah had ever given him, the last vestige of her memory, hanging off his defeated body.

The hands were still stuck in place—frozen, unmoving. Just like he’d been for all those years. Until now.

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, dragging a hand down his face. He was already in too deep.

And maybe—maybe he didn’t want to climb back out.

X

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[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 8

Series Summary: After recently graduating you take what is supposed to be a job to save money before you go back to university to get your law degree. Your best friend offers you a job cleaning luxury homes for clients you’ll never know. Easy. Simple. Mundane. Until one of your clients is home and everything you felt was missing in your life starts to fall into place. This goes against the NDA you signed and you could get fired. Or worse, you could fall in love.  WC: 5.5k TW: I will put them below the cut for those who want to avoid spoilers. This is more of an original character, there have been some descriptions of reader throughout the series. A/N: How can I make a note when I have words?! I'm just so grateful for how many people have fallen in love with this story this year. It's crazy to me that I posted my first fan pic on December 23rd 2023, expecting about 3 people to see it and waking up to 100's of notifications. 2024 has literally been whirlwind, I've made so many wonderful ladies here and have grown more and more confident in my writing abilities. Thank you @lotusbxtch for being my forever beta for this series (probably an unhealthy crutch, but so be it haha). Thank you @for-a-longlongtime for letting me bounce ideas off of you and giving me a new insight to how sweet girl or Joel would think. @mermaidgirl30, @alltheirdamn and @littlevenicebitch69, what would I do if I couldn't scream about this story with you?! Ok eww, I'm done being sappy. Enjoy! Dividers and headers by @saradika-graphics

My Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: use of sex toys (vibrator and butt plug)

You

When you walked into your small apartment on Sunday, Odette was wrapped up in a blanket watching TV. She looked you up and down with a knowing smirk. It was pretty obvious based on the way Joel’s sweats and hoodie hung off your body that you were with a man all weekend. So, after she agreed to keep it between the two of you, you told her absolutely everything. It was freeing to finally be able to discuss Joel with one of your friends. The two of you spent almost six hours going over every detail of the last few weeks, and after ordering pizza and splitting a bottle of rosé, you had all the validation you needed. He loves you. And you love him, too. 

As the weekend rolls into the week, you still have not come down from your happy, little Joel Miller-shaped cloud. There’s not a single doubt in your mind that he is it. You have never let your walls down with someone like you have with him. It was always easier to just do it on your own; you could always count on yourself.  For the first time in your life, you can confidently say that you’re ready to let that go. It’s time for you to let someone take care of you for once. When he texts you on Monday to make plans for the following day, you decide that you’re going to tell him how you feel.

When Tuesday finally comes around, you practically skip up to his house. You have a duffle bag of items in one hand: your outfit for this evening, make up, and a change of clothes in case you spend the night. Wearing his clothing home was fun and all, but you won’t be doing any sort of walks of shame again. Clasped tightly your other hand is your company-provided caddy full of cleaning supplies. Just as you’re about to place the supplies on the front step, the large front door opens.

“Hi, Freckles,” Joel's voice coats every inch of your skin in warm honey. He shines an absolutely knee-weakening smile down at you. As per his usual JMKink attire, he’s in perfectly fitted black dress pants, expensive looking black dress shoes, and a pressed, crisp white dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows and your mouth waters at the way his bare forearms look.  

“Hi,” you beam up at him, not holding back your ear-to-ear grin as you glow under his attention. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here!”

“I have to leave soon, but I have something for you.” He steps out onto the front steps and grabs everything from you before you follow him inside. You change into the white keds that Jamie gave you on your first day at Maid Discreetly before heading towards where he’s standing in the kitchen. There are three boxes on the kitchen island; two small black ones and one white one that you recognize immediately. He pushes that one towards you first. 

“This is your new iPhone,” he says with a wink and you feel your cheeks flush.

“Thank you,” you say shyly.

He shakes his head, “No, thank you for not fighting me on this. That cracked screen...”

“I know,” you say, raising a hand to stop him. You deepen your voice, “It’s a hazard, sweet girl.”

He laughs like he did that night at the Shibari class, deep and from his gut; it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard and your heart swells at the possibility of getting to hear that laugh for the rest of your life. “Exactly. These other boxes…well, they’re for you, but also for me.”

You raise your eyebrows curiously as he slides the smaller of the two black boxes across the smooth marble of the island. His bottom lip slips between his teeth as you pull the top off of the first box. Sitting on a bed of white tissue paper is a small metal plug with a pink heart-shaped diamond on the end. 

“Mister Miller! Scandalous!” You gasp, feigning shock and surprise.

He laughs again as he asks, “Is that ok?”

“Very much so,” you respond with a smile before opening the next box, which is slightly bigger than the last. A black, U shaped piece of silicone sits in the box, along with a small plastic rectangle that looks similar to a key fob. “What’s this?”

“That, my sweet girl, is a remote vibrator. I was thinking that maybe you could wear both of those while you clean my house today. I can control that with the remote from a close distance or from my phone anywhere in the world.” 

Every hair on your body stands on end as your clit throbs in excitement. “Yes, I would really, really like to do that!”

“Good girl,” he says with a wink, holding a hand out to you. His fingers link with yours and just the slightest touch from him sends sparks up your wrist and straight to your racing heart. He grabs your new toys and leads you up the stairs. Your giggle is laced with arousal when you come to a stop in his enormous ensuite. After placing the toys on the counter he pulls you in, his free hand cupping the back of your neck before he slams his lips into yours. He kisses you hungrily, and you meet his energy, kissing him back as if you’re drunk with passion. His teeth nip your bottom lip as he pulls away. You’re so insanely, maddeningly in love with this man that you almost forget how to stand as he steps back.

“Take off your pants, sweet girl.”

You do as he says, eagerly unbuttoning your company issued black dress pants before sliding them down your legs. He stops you before you remove your thong, breathing out a heady ‘fuck’ before hooking his thumbs through the bright pink lacy waist band and sliding them down your legs. 

“Put your hands on the vanity and bend over for me,” he instructs with bated breath. He watches your reflection in the mirror, looking right into your soul as always, as you follow his instructions.  

You smile lovingly at him, clocking the way his throat works as he swallows hard at the sight of you bending at the waist, pushing your ass out for him. “Fuck, how did I get so lucky? All of this, just for me?”

“Just you, Joel,” you breathe, slipping your bottom lip between your teeth. 

He slides open a drawer and takes out two small bottles before turning on the water. He pops the top of one bottle, using the contents to wash both toys, then steps back behind you with the second bottle in and the plug in his hands. A warm laugh leaves your lips, “Always so prepared, Mister Miller.”

“With a pretty little thing like you in my life, I better be.” He clicks the top of the lube open as he continues, “Ready? I’ll go slow.”

“Mm-hm, I’ll tell you if it’s too much,” you coo, your body thrumming with the anticipation of his touch. 

“I know you will. No safeword right now, okay? Just say stop, and I will.” He spreads the lube around your tight ring of muscle with his thumb. Every muscle in your body goes slack under his attention and you sigh as your lashes flutter against your cheeks. “Good girl, just relax for me.”

After a few minutes of teasing you with the pad of his thumb he switches to the plug. The cold metal makes you jump. He reassures you by squeezing your hip as he murmurs, “You’re ok, baby.”

He swirls it gently at first, slowly applying more and more pressure before it slips in on its own and you whimper at the feeling. “Does that feel okay, sweet girl?”

“Mmm, yes,” you smile at his reflection in front of you. The amber glow of the LED lighting behind the mirror accentuates the honey flecks in his eyes. Everything about the way he’s looking at you feels overwhelming. It’s like when you first step foot into a hot tub on a cold winter's night. The sting of the swirling water is almost too hot as you sink further in. For a second you consider getting out, but then every single cell in your body adjusts and you can’t imagine not being wrapped in that heat.

“Now this one,” he says, holding up the black u-shaped vibrator. He adds a bit of lube and then guides your hips further back with one hand before kneeling. Your pussy clenches against nothing as you glance over your shoulder seeing him on his knees behind you. He practically whimpers, “God, Freckles, this pussy. She’s so gorgeous.”

A shy smile turns your lips upward. Joel starts to work the toy inside of you and you gasp out a moan. He moves the bulbous head of the toy back and forth until it slips in on its own accord, just like the plug did. Your breathing quickens at the pressure on your g-spot and clit; the toy isn’t even on yet and it already feels so good. Joel’s lips sponge against the globes of your ass, then your hip as he stands. “Are you ok, sweet girl?”

“Yes, Mister Miller,” you respond, your breath catching in your throat as you stand. 

“Good. Now put your clothes back on and get to work.”

Before you can bend to pick up your discarded clothing, he pulls you into his arms and brings his lips to yours. The kiss is so soft that it steals your breath, and you almost blurt your feelings for him right then and there. He keeps one arm wrapped tightly around your waist while the other snakes up your body until his large palm cups the side of your face. This kiss, compared to the one from earlier, is different in every way. Where that one was rough and passionate, this one is gentle and almost lazy; a content moan rumbles from his chest. Before pulling away, his warm tongue swipes sweetly across yours. 

 “See you later, honey,” he whispers, then kisses your forehead and walks away.

Honey, he called me honey. Everything about the last few seconds feels so goddamn domestic, and your potential life five years from now flashes through your mind. 

You're standing in this bathroom, getting ready to head to the law firm you work at. Joel, no longer just your dom but also now your new husband, puts a fresh latte on the counter for you, then helps you with the clasp of your necklace before kissing that sensitive spot behind your ear. ‘See you later, honey’.

The rev of Joel’s Jag pulling out of the garage snaps you out of your daydream. You get dressed and walk back downstairs while opening the Maid Discreetly app. To your surprise, cleaning Joel’s office isn’t the first task. Instead, you’ve been asked to wipe down the kitchen, then vacuum the main floor, stairs and upstairs rooms, and finish off by dusting his bedroom. All of it seems very doable in the next four hours, and just when you think you’ll probably be done early and have time to properly get ready for your night out, Mister Miller reminds you that he has the remote to a very distracting detonator. 

The first few times the vibrator comes on it’s subtle, just a light buzzing against your clit. It’s enjoyable, almost like a tickling massage, but after almost an hour and half of being gently teased at random you can feel your frustrations start to reach a boiling point.

You: Mister Miller, you’re torturing me Joel: Oh, sweet girl. We’ve only just begun. You: *pouts* Joel: That’s not going to get you what you want. Be a good girl and get back to work. I have a meeting. 

You check off the kitchen and main floor tasks and then move to the stairs. You decide to start at the top, sitting on the stair below it and scoot down to save your back. You’re also hoping that the pressure on the toy will make it strong enough that you can finally come. Joel turns the vibrator on again and you whine out in frustration when your plan fails. The slight hum against your clit stops and you mutter something about Joel being a sadistic bastard under your breath and continue your backwards ride down the stairs. As you reach the halfway point the vibrator comes to life at an intensity so strong that you drop the hose of the vacuum and dig your nails into the plush carpet of the stair tread. 

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, squeezeing your legs together as he brings you right to the edge. Your orgasm builds quickly, and just as it’s about to take you, the vibrations stop. 

Joel: You better not have come You: Please, Mister Miller. I was so close Joel: Not yet, babygirl  

Joel continues this throughout the afternoon. Every ten minutes or so, the black u-shaped torture device inside of you comes to life; always at different intensities and for varying times. 

Torture device might be a bit strong, the discarded box of feelings says from the back of your mind. We both know you’re enjoying it. You don’t know when she decided to come back, but at least she’s keeping you honest. 

It’s been about three hours by the time you get to your last task of the day. The vibrator buzzes gently as you grab a duster and head into Joel's bedroom. You bite back a smile seeing his bed, the white fluffy sheets neatly tucked in. You can’t help but run your fingers across the soft duvet, remembering how it felt against your skin, remembering how he felt above, behind, below and beside your naked body.

Joel: You doing ok? Do you need to use your safeword? You: I’m okay, Mister Miller. I REALLY need to come, but this is the best day I’ve ever had at work.

When 3:30pm hits, you’ve finished everything in the app, and are so wound up from being teased that you’re fighting from taking the vibrator out and making yourself come. Everytime the vibrator comes on, you break out in goosebumps, the hair on your body standing on end, but when he turns it off, your cheeks flush in frustration and a wave of heat rolls through you. You know Joel will take care of you when he gets home and sees how badly you need it. He talks a big game, but you see the way he folds when you beg. 

Joel: I’ll be home in about 40 minutes, Tommy won’t shut up about concrete. You: I need to come so badly, Mister Miller. I’m throbbing, please!  Joel: Soon. Just breathe, sweet girl. You can do this. 

You need to distract yourself, and you know Joel’s office usually gets pretty dusty, so even though it’s not on your list, you grab your cleaning supplies and slowly open the door. It’s as it usually is: small piles of papers on the desk and a few things out of place on the book shelf. You put the books back and dust the shelves, then run the duster over the blinds before cleaning the window.

Joel: Goddamn, he’s still going on about fucking concrete. How’s my baby doin? You: Horny, I’m trying to distract myself

The vibrator comes to life at the lowest setting. Once again, it’s not enough to make you come, just enough to tease and taunt. You could cry at the frustration of it. 

You: That’s not helping, Mister Miller Joel: What’s not? You: Hilarious. Please? Joel: Nope. I love watching you come, hearing the whiny little gasps you make, so not until later

You move towards the desk. Just as you reach to tidy the stack of papers, the vibrations against your clit hit at an intensity you haven’t felt yet today. You fall forward, gasping for breath, as the papers scatter to the floor. You’re about to fall into the pleasure, feel those waves of nirvana that you so desperately need when the vibrator turns off and you’re left with nothing. You bite back an agitated yell. 

Joel: See you in less than half an hour, sweet girl. You better not have come.  You: I didn’t. I promise. 

You’ve never read anything on Joel’s desk before, but you notice a familiar emblem on the first piece of paper you pick up. It’s a short, handwritten note, and as your eyes scan the few sentences, your heart leaps into your throat as your stomach simultaneously falls to the floor. You read through it once and then twice, trying to make sense of the information in front of you. After blinking hard a few times, you read it again. 

You feel like you’re being ripped in two. 

Joel, Thank you for your generous (and anonymous) donation to the law library. I’ll be sure to find her application and review it myself. See you at the club's anniversary party in a few weeks.

You flip the note over and back again, reading it through one last time. It’s not signed by anyone, just black ink on eggshell white, the University of Austin letterhead at the top. The letter and the room start to spin. You stumble towards his desk chair and breathe through the wave of nausea that hits you; your mind reels at what you’ve just learned. Anger, disbelief and sadness all push against your prefrontal cortex, fighting to be the winning emotion. You want it to be anger – anger is so much easier to deal with. Yelling and telling Joel to fuck off would make you feel so much better, but overwhelming sadness and disappointment ultimately become the victors. 

He doesn’t believe in me.

The realization feels like knives along your skin. Everything he said about how you could do it, or that you’d get in…that was all bullshit. He paid for you to get in, and then – and this is the part that hurts the most – he made you believe that you did it all on your own. Your lungs feel like they’re filled with glass as you force yourself to take slow, controlled breaths. 

He doesn’t believe in me.

Tears prickle behind your eyes but you force them back. You will not cry, not when you’ve been through this before and came out stronger. Your parents didn’t believe in you, and you proved them wrong, graduating early and making it on your own in Texas for the last four years.

I can prove Joel wrong, too.

You shut your eyes tight. You don’t need him; you don’t need anyone. But if that’s true, why does his sexy smirk flash behind your eyelids? The glass moves from your lungs to your veins; everything hurts, and you scold yourself for letting him get this intertwined in you. 

Never again, you tell yourself. Stick to your plan. Law school. Get in with a good firm, pass the bar and become partner; then worry about a love life. 

You walk to his bedroom, removing the toys and cleaning them off before changing into the black leggings and beige crew neck sweater you brought. You gather your hair into a claw clip and head downstairs. With your bag by the door and the letter still clutched in your hand you lean back against the kitchen island and wait for Joel. 

He doesn’t believe in me. 

Joel

The drive home feels like it takes forever; granted, Tommy talking about fucking concrete for almost an hour felt longer. At dinner tonight, he’s going to explain from the beginning. He prepares himself for the worst, for your anger or hurt. He won’t be able to live with himself if he’s hurt you, but anger he can deal with. He knows it’s selfish, but you yelling at him over this would make him feel better. 

Finally, he turns into his neighborhood. The sight of your slightly rusty SUV parked on the street spreads a familiar warmth from his heart to his toes. Mine, he thinks to himself as he pulls into his garage. He knows you’re going to be so tightly wound from all the teasing you endured today, and he plans to very slowly unwind you before you go for dinner. The way you fall apart for him is so beautiful, and after almost four hours of being brought to the edge over and over again, he can’t wait to have your writhing and shaking with a simple flick of his tongue against your clit. But first, he’s going to kiss every inch of your skin while occasionally clicking the vibrator on at its lowest setting. He almost trips over your bag as he comes into the house, and when his eyes meet yours, he knows something is wrong.  

“Baby?” His voice cracks in concern at the look on your face. He mentally runs through the rolodex of facial expressions he’s seen from you, and he hates that he can’t place this one; it’s not anger or sadness, and it most definitely is not excitement or curiosity. Your soft lips are turned down in the corners, arms crossed and eyes soft. “What’s wrong?”

Your arms uncross and you hold out the letter he should have shredded weeks ago.

His stomach does a free fall. Disappointment. The look on your face is disappointment, and that is so much worse than anger or sadness. 

Fuck. 

You

Joel walks towards you with slow, measured steps while carding a nervous hand through his curls. You force yourself to continue breathing, fighting against the tears that threaten to appear. He takes the letter from you and rips it in half; you drop your eyes, watching as the two halves of paper flutter to the ground and then slide away from each other along the marble. You shake your head at the symbolism of it, hugging your arms tightly against your body again.

“I thought you believed in me,” you say, trying not to sound as gutted as you feel. 

“I do, sweet girl,” he says, stepping so close that his black leather dress shoes line up with your socked feet. You look up as he continues, “I swear I do. You - you got in on your own. Please, just let me explain.”

His eyes line with tears and moments that you overlooked over the last few weeks playback like a movie. The first day in this kitchen he said he knew the dean of admissions. The flash of anger when you went to the Shibari night and his response of “all of them?” when you said you didn’t get in. The way he insisted you open the letters before the anniversary party. He knew, he fucking knew all along that at least one university would accept you. Dread settles in your stomach, turning the shards of glass under your skin to icicles. Berkeley.

“Did you pay off Berkeley, too?”

“I didn’t pay anyone off.” He’s calm but firm in his response, which just seems to piss you off more. 

You roll your eyes, gesturing to the ripped paper on the floor and scoff. “Did you pay off Berkeley, Joel?”

The two of you stare at each other for a few heartbeats, and you don’t back down as more tears gather along his bottom lash line. He shakes his head in defeat, burying his hands in his pockets and breathing slowly a few times before whispering, “No.”

“Why would you do this to me? This could have ruined my entire career.” You try to keep your voice calm, but how dare he stand in front of you holding back tears. 

“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I wasn’t - I just…I’m sorry,” he flounders.

“Why, Joel?” Your eyes dance along his face. You aren’t sure what justification you're looking for or hoping for. The dream of staying here died the moment you picked up that note, but you can’t go to California without knowing why he did it. 

He opens his mouth, shaking his head slightly and then closes his mouth. He takes a deep breath through his nose, blinking away the tears. “Because I don’t want to lose you, Freckles. I should have told you, I was going to tell you tonight. That donation isn’t the reason you got in…you did that on your own. I just…well, I just sped up the process. And I’m so sorry you found out like this.”

You scoff again. “I thought my consent was the most important thing to you.”

His eyes widened in shock. “It is, sweet girl.”

“I didn’t ask you to meddle in my life, Joel. And I certainly didn’t ask you to speed along the process. What happens if I become a Supreme Court judge and someone finds out that you bribed a university to get me?” He goes to speak, but you raise a hand to stop him and continue. “And don’t tell me that you didn’t bribe anyone, because that’s exactly how this looks and you know it. You wouldn’t be looking at me like a guilty puppy if you thought what you did was right.”

His hands come to cup your face. The warm coffee eyes that usually dance rhythmically around your face are replaced by shifting dark glass beads laced with fear and loss. The warmth you normally feel when he touches you is gone. His eyes flick to your lips and then back to your eyes before he speaks. 

“Freckles, I lov-”

Your still raised hand covers his mouth, clamping tightly to his face to stop him. 

“Please don’t,” you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat and keeping your palm pressed to his soft lips. Your heart pounds behind your ribs in response to what he was about to confess. If he tells you what you so desperately wanted to hear just hours ago, you know you’ll crumble. You’ll let him take you up to his bedroom and apologize in a way that only he can. You’ll spend the night planning how you can do long distance while you’re in California. You’ll let him interfere with the plan…again.

“Don’t say that to me right now, I can’t hear that.”

He nods into your hand slowly, his eyes soften, and you try to memorize every bit of amber in his otherwise black brown eyes. This will be the last time he looks at you like this, and the realization seems to suck the air out of the room. You wish you could bottle up how it makes you feel when he looks at you like that; the way it comforts you and shuts off the narrated to do list in your mind that’s always growing in your mind. 

“Joel, if…if you feel that way, then you’ll let me go,” you tell him, voice just above a whisper. He lets out a shaky breath through his nose, the heat of it warming your hand. One of his hands leaves your face to wrap around your wrist, but he doesn’t pull your hand away or step back out of your grip. Instead, he runs his thumb in small circles along the soft, smooth skin there, and you swear you can feel the whorls of his thumb tattooing themself on you, trying desperately to stay with you forever. 

“You’ll understand why I have to go to Berkeley now,” you continue. “I have been working so hard for this. And for years, I have been doing it all on my own. I’m so close, Joel…so close to finishing what I started when I was, like, seven years old. So, please, I’m begging you…please do not finish that sentence.”

You drop your hand from his mouth, his grip going weak as he lets you slip out of his grasp. He looks small, almost deflated in front of you as he stumbles back a few steps. The silence between the two of you feels heavy. 

It’s over. Whatever this was, or could be, is over, and you both know it. 

When he finally speaks, it’s a sad whisper. “What about when you’re done?”

“A lot can change in three years, Joel,” you respond, mostly to extinguish the flicker of hope in your chest. It’s better for you to push him away now than to hope that he’ll be there when you graduate. No one has ever been there for you, and this is proving to be no different. You step around him and head to the front door, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek as the tears threaten to reappear while you get your shoes on. 

“Freckles, wait.”

You close your eyes, facing the door with your hand on the matte black knob. His dress shoes click on the shiny marble before his large hand comes to rest on the door beside your head. This is the exact position you were in after accidentally catching him in his office. You keep your eyes glued to the door and after a sniffle, a quiet clearing of his throat and a whispered, heartbreaking ‘fuck’, he continues. 

“I really am sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse. “This is not how I wanted this to go, but you know what you need and I respect your choice. These last few weeks have been so much more than I could have imagined, more than I deserve. You have brought me back, sweet girl. I know you probably don’t believe a word of what I’ve said tonight, and that’s ok, but with you, I felt that pull that I’ve been waiting for. I felt it the minute your cleaning caddy fell to the ground and I locked eyes with you. If you were anyone else, I would have let you run out of here and then had you fired. I chased you and I’ve been chasing you ever since, even though I know you are meant for more and that this could only ever be temporary for you. This was always going to be the end for me and a well-deserved, hard-earned beginning for you.”

He takes a shaky breath in and you open your eyes, but you don’t look back at him. “Regardless of all that, I meant what I said in my office that day. Starting this with you would be it for me. A lot can change for you in three years, and I want you to experience everything in California. But for me, it’s you. It will always be you.”

Your chest feels like it’s going to cave and your knees threaten to buckle. “I have to go, Joel,” you grit out, forcing your voice past the boulder that’s formed in your throat.

“I know, and I’m so proud of you, sweet girl,” he whispers, dropping his hand and stepping back. The heat of his broad body and leather-and-ash scent disappear from behind you, and it feels like you’ve been plunged into freezing, uncharted waters. 

You get in your car and drive, unsure of where your final destination will be. After driving around Austin for a while, you find yourself parking outside of the Maid Discreetly office. You take a minute, deciding what you are and aren’t going to tell your best friend before heading in. Jamie’s office is impeccable as always, not a single smudge on the glass desk as she types on her laptop, looking effortlessly perfect.  

“Hey, babe!” she says with a smile as you cross the threshold.

“How’s your dad doing with the California office?” you say, trying to act casual.

“Oh my god!” she practically shrieks as she jumps up from her chair. “Did you get into Berkeley?”

“That depends,” you say, raising one shoulder. “Does he have a job for me there?”

“Holy shit!” She runs around the desk and wraps you in her arms. How she can move like that in stilettos is beyond you.

“Careful, you’re gonna break an ankle,” you deadpan. The weight of what just happened with Joel almost dissipates. Jamie pulls back to look at you, her eyes scan your face and you feel exposed.

“Why aren’t you more excited? What’s wrong?”

Shit. 

A sob leaves your throat and you collapse into Jamie’s open arms. She pulls you into her office with one arm and closes her door with the other, then leads you to the couch along the far wall. As soon as she gets you seated, you manage to explain everything between sobs and very unattractive nose blowing.

This is supposed to be one of those exciting moments of your life. You did it: you got into the school you always dreamed of and you're moving to California; a place you always felt most at ease in. Yet, it’s all clouded over by having your heart wholly shattered by a man that you actually thought was going to be the love of your life. Someone who showed you he cared, showed you that he’d always be there. 

But it was all a lie. 

[encasedinobsidian]

The Stranger by the Sun

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

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

Read HERE on AO3!

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

[joelslastofus]

[SUMMARY: Joel suffers a PTSD episode of when Sarah was killed and accidentally hurts you.]

PTSD, Angst, physical violence.

“Did you see the way she looked at me?” Joel stopped and looked down as he took a deep breath.

“I could’ve really hurt her, Tommy”

It was late in the night and you woke up realizing Joel wasn’t in bed beside you. Joel never left your side without letting you know where he would be, especially in the night. Tonight it was strange, you woke up careful not to wake up Tommy or Ellie who were in their own rooms down the hall. You could hear a faint mumbling coming from the living room and silently followed the sound.

Stepping into the main room you could see Joel facing out the window and still mumbling something to himself that you couldn’t make out.

“Joel?” You whispered as you walked towards him but he didn’t respond.

“Joel?” You gently touched his arm when he suddenly grabbed you by yours and slammed you against the wall. You whimpered as he took hold of your face in his large hand and looked at you with eyes you did not recognize.

“You killed my daughter” he squeezed your face as you looked up at him with horror and confusion.

“Joel!” You screamed as his hand moved to your throat with a tight squeeze. You gasped for air hitting his chest when the lights suddenly turned on and you heard Maria’s voice.

“Tommy!” She screamed out for him, the second he heard her voice he came running out.

“Shit” he uttered before grabbing Joel from behind and putting him in a choke hold.

“It’s me! It’s Tommy!, I’m gonna let you go just calm down, I need you to listen to me-“ Joel tried to fight it at first but slowed down as Tommy bought him to the ground. You coughed gasping for air as Maria ran to you making sure you were ok, your hand on your chest you couldn’t believe what had just happened. Looking back at Joel you could see he wasn’t himself, he didn’t notice anyone around him.

“Joel, you hear me?” Tommy yelled when suddenly Joel broke down in tears as Tommy let him go.

“It’s alright brother, it’s alright. Just another nightmare” you watched as Tommy comforted his brother as you stood still trying to catch your breath when Joel suddenly looked up at you, his face instantly changing realizing what he had just done.

“Oh my god” Joel pushed himself up coming towards you. You panicked quickly backing away as Maria got inbetween both of you.

“Hold on a minute, Joel. Give a her a minute”

Looking at him, all you could see was big brown tearful eyes.

“Jesus Christ, I hurt you-“ he spoke in shock with himself.

“I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to“ he spoke with desperation looking over Marias shoulder. Never had you seen him look so vulnerable before. You had no idea how to respond but you could see how distraught he was.

“Let me take her to the room, just stay here for a bit with Tommy,” Maria quickly turned to you guiding you to the bedroom as you silently cried without turning back.

Tommy could tell Joel felt horrible, watching him pace back and fourth in the living room not knowing what the hell to do with himself.

“You didn’t do it on purpose, Joel”

“Did you see the way she looked at me?” Joel stopped and looked down as he took a deep breath.

“I could’ve really hurt her, Tommy”

“Look, you had a nightmare about that night and you haven’t had one in a long time alright, you weren’t looking to hurt her” Tommy explained.

You could hear them in the living room talking as Maria closed the door.

“He’s never had a nightmare with me. I don’t know what happened” you whispered as you looked at yourself in the mirror, bruising already forming around your neck.

“He told me about them but I thought…I thought he was doing better now. I shouldn’t have walked up behind him like that” you whispered shaking your head.

“Look, it’s not your fault or his. Maybe it best you two don’t sleep together tonight, I can stay with you if you’d like.” You nodded in a bit of relief.

“Thank you, Maria” you whispered as she left the room to let them know.

Joel instantly looked up as Maria walked towards them.

“How is she?” He asked eagerly walking towards her.

“She’s a little startled Joel. I think it’s best I stay with her for tonight, you both get some rest and talk about it tomorrow.”

“She needs to know I didn’t mean to do that, she knows that don’t she?”

Maria simply nodded before walking back to the room and closing the door.

The next morning you were too anxious to leave your room, you waited until you heard everyone leave. Fixing yourself up you did your best to cover the bruising on your neck with your long dark hair when you heard a knock. You head turning so fast you winced at the slight soreness you felt. You thought everyone had left, at least you hoped.

“If you don’t wanna open the door, that’s fine. I just need you to listen” Joel’s voice on the other end made you take a deep breath. Slowly walking towards the door you unexpectedly opened it, surprising him as he looked down at you. You hadn’t realized moving your neck so quickly your hair was no longer covering the bruise, allowing Joel to see the harm he’d done. His jaw clenched and you quickly noticed what he was looking at and moved your hair to cover it. Joel thought he was ready to say something, but seeing what his hands had done to you he was left with no words.

“I’m not mad at you” you assured him with a soft whisper.

“You didn’t deserve that” he looked down taking a shaky deep breath flaring his nostrils.

Joel was angry with himself in a way he had never been before.

“I’m fine” you barely sounded convincing to yourself.

“What if Tommy wasn’t there-what if-“ he couldn’t even finish the sentence, the thought of anything happening to you he simply couldn’t take.

“You know I would never do anything to you like that purposely right? I swear, baby if I knew it was you-“

“Joel, I know” you assured him with tears in your eyes. You could see the guilt he felt eating away at him.

“Let’s just forget this happened” you caressed the side of his face with a smile he could see right through.

“Shoot, sorry-“ Ellie suddenly appeared through the door catching you both by surprise.

“I was just gonna head to my room” she furrowed her brows taking a better look at you.

“Hey what the heck happened to you?” You quickly covered your neck with your hand turning away as Joel took a step towards Ellie, covering her view of you.

“Ellie please go to your room”

“Ooook then” she raised her brows walking backwards as she stepped inside and closed her door. When Joel turned back he realized you had walked into the room and quickly followed. Your back to him you quickly wiped away any tears before he could see.

“Hey” he reached out to your arm making you unexpectedly jump. The sight of you even the slightest bit afraid of him broke him. He a took a step back but all he really wanted to do was hold you.

“You want me to go?”

“No” you quickly responded turning to him.

“Stay” you gently reached your arm out to his hand taking hold of it.

“I’m fine, I promise” you took a deep breath and smiled but you could see the uncertainty in his eyes. To reassure him you took a step closer and wrapped your arms around him, it took everything in him to keep his hands to himself afraid he would scare you off.

“Hold me” he looked you in your eyes and without saying a word you slowly felt his hands grab onto your waist.

“See? We’re ok” you smiled as he furrowed his brows.

“It wont ever happen again, I promise you that” he meant what he said and you trusted his word but in all reality, how could he be so sure? Not saying what you were thinking you nodded and lay your head on his chest as he held you silently against him..