IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE | part iii: these short winter hours
[masterlist]
joel miller x f!reader
Rated E - 8k
Tags - brief canon-divergence, reader is mid/late 30s+, multiple pov, canon-typical violence, mentions of death and killing, found family, mentions of anxiety & grounding, angst, trauma bonding, soft!dom joel, kissing, oral sex (m receiving), fingering, unprotected PiV, pulling out
In the days that pass, something lingers. Looks turning longer, something unspoken in the way you circle each other.
You wonder, if you would reach out and touch it - what would happen?
After the window, comes more.
You find him poking around, letting his hands wander rather than keeping them close. Jammed deep into his pockets.
Checking the other windows for drafts. Peering up the chimney, looking at the pipes under the sink.
It's like that night had knocked something loose. Given him something to do.
Noticing the drip in the shared bathroom, the small one off the hall. A spot where the ceiling has cracked - the wood stained from years of melted snow, dripping through. Beneath a part of the roof had broken off some years ago, rotting with age.
Most of the time you tuck a cooking pot beneath it. There’s not much more you can do.
But he finds it.
And you find him, balanced on a rickety chair, looking closely at the seams of the wooden ceiling. Fingers tracing along it, trying to find where the wood is weak.
And you’re trying not to look where his shirt rides up. The peek of skin above the waistline of his jeans. The edge of a pink scar near his abdomen, slowly healing.
“You got a leak.” He tells you, as your eyes snap up.
As you shrug helplessly, “I know. It’s been there a while.”
There’s a bit of the sealant left he made for the window, in the days before. Not quite right for this job, but much like the glass - it’ll make do.
The space in the bathroom narrow - barely enough room for the chair, jammed between the toilet and the sink. Your hands holding the back steady as he reaches for the spot in the sloped ceiling.
Working together, in this small space.
Handing him the stuff he needs, as he patches up another wound in your home.
Making it just a little better, for you.
Still finding himself looking.
Unable to stop, now.
When you mention offhand that the generator sounded off the last time you used it - it's no time at all before you're crouching outside, lifting the metal cover so he can peer inside.
A flashlight aimed where he tells you, with the afternoon light already starting to go dim.
You have to lean into him to point where you had heard the sputtering, during the last bad storm. A hand jamming back into the pockets of your jacket to keep it warm.
It only takes him a few minutes of poking around to figure it out - going back into the barn to grab supplies.
"You should stay here, where it's warm." He tells you, an empty gas can tucked under his arm.
But you're already holding the door open, shaking your head, "I gotta learn this while I still have you. Won't be around forever, right?"
There's a long moment, as he looks at you. Before he's nodding, almost as if he had forgotten.
"Right."
Just like before, he explains everything patiently. As you watch, directing you where to point the light. Showing you where the leftover gas had separated, going bad when you had left it in there, instead of letting it run out.
Fingers brushing as you help him drain it, his chin pressing against your shoulder to reach the valve, when he shoves the old can beneath. Hands soon grease-covered and cold, but you don't mind.
You've soon realized you liked this side of him. Coming out, over the past few days.
Almost protective.
Even if you have to focus to keep his smooth drawl from going right in one ear and out the other.
Unable to concentrate on anything other than his voice.
He tells you it's in okay shape. A hestiance to his words, but he does his best to scrub the carburetor clean with the supplies you've gathered for him. Watching as he inspects the fuel lines - anything else he notices.
The sun is low now, the temperature dropping. A chill makes you shiver, the clatter of teeth as they clench together.
"Almost done." He soothes, taking a moment to fish the gloves out of his pockets.
Breathing into them to warm them, before fitting them over your hands. They're too big, but they are soft - the fleece wrapping around your aching, stiff fingers.
The smallest shift in his stance as he does. Nudging you a little closer to the generator, so his back takes the brunt of the icy wind.
"Better?" Joel asks, voice low and gruff.
You smile, unable to help it as you answer.
“Yes.”
———
The heavy closet door opens with a drawn-out creak. Your boot keeps it open as your eyes run over the shelves, looking for the extra pillows, blankets.
A thick snow has kept you inside for two days now. Falling heavily enough to block the front door from opening fully - keeping the three of you tucked inside.
The chill permeates the edges of the cabin, even with the kept fire. A worn quilt tucked under one arm as you gaze snags on a flash of faded color, just above eye level.
"Do you guys like board games?" You ask, from over your shoulder. Rummaging around, pushing some thread-bare towels to the side.
The cardboard boxes rattle with pieces as you pull them to the edge of the shelf, taking stock, "We got Guess Who, Boggle..."
"Do you have Aggravation?" Joel asks dryly, from where he's standing - looking out the window. All the valleys and dips smoothing out and disappearing - a white blanket of untouched snow. Something he does often, keeping watch.
Ellie's eyes are rolling, checking him with her hip as she comes to peer into the closet with you. The fruit-ripe thought of beating him at something too much of a temptation to pass up.
Drawn to two of them - Scrabble, and a kitschy monopoly variant. The Texan flag splashed across the cover, the box broken on one side. Both well-loved by the time they had arrived here.
You still remember the stories of how many of the things here were picked up at garage sales. Bringing in small glimpses of their lives before.
That feels fitting, now. Even they have ghosts.
You drop off the blankets you had been searching for - two in the guest room for Ellie. The longest for Joel, along with the pillow.
Wishing you could do more for him.
You've seen the hand that braces on his back the past few days. Sore from sitting for so long, for sleeping in a cramped space.
If you think he'd take you up on it, you'd trade places. Let him take your room for a while, let him stretch out.
But you're certain he'd never agree.
You can't pretend you haven't thought about alternatives as well. But god, you don't have the guts to ask that, either. Even if there was room enough for two.
Not right now, anyways. Not yet.
She totes the games to the table, letting them drop onto the wooden top. Folding herself into the chair as she glances expectantly at Joel, his final look out the window as he slides in next to her.
His eyes drag slowly over the box, before they flick up towards Ellie. She glances at him, the barest hint of hesitance mixing with the assurance of her posture.
"Thought you might like it." She tells him, as she flips the lid open.
There's a moment where you're not sure. His own emotions mixed across his face, as you try to make the connections.
His manners, when he felt like it. The drawl of his voice - the way he blinks at her, before nodding slowly.
He's from there, you realize. Texas, though you guess it's been a long time.
Joel gives her a small smile, one with fondness, "Might be nice to remember."
Missing the way his expression drops after, when she turns to give you a thumbs up.
Indulging in a painful memory for her, as he picks up the instructions - a low murmur as he starts to read through them.
She's snatching them out of his hand to read them aloud, as you start setting up the board.
Half the pieces missing, some of the metal tokens replaced with coins, a small toy dinosaur that she scoops up mid-sentence.
A chunk of the money replaced with ripped pieces of paper, the denominations hastily scribbled on them.
You don't know if you've ever sat down to actually play this. Remembering the box, for sure. The stories told, about how it arrived.
But never taking the time.
There hadn't seemed to be a moment for it, this brief breath of air.
Ellie's ill-concealed interest warms the room. All of you loosen with each round, as the stakes grow higher and higher.
Picking up more small things about them. How she's crafty - strategic.
Hiding her money under the board, so you never know how much she has. Only buying what she needs, skipping over the rest.
Joel buys everything, in an attempt to keep it from both of you. Even if it doesn't make sense, even if it's a bad move.
Rarely seeming to notice though, when she lands on his space. Feigning ignorance unless she draws attention to it.
But never seeming to miss it when it's your turn.
You catch on quickly. Playing fairly, though a softness sits in your chest as he tries to let her get ahead. Hoping she won't catch on, and she doesn’t. Too distracted by the lure of winning.
Finding yourself distracted, when his legs stretch out beneath the table. Bumping against yours when he shifts. Making you think about the afternoon with the window.
How close he had been, when he fit it back into place. When you had helped him hold it steady, hips digging into the kitchen counter.
His own pressing against yours, pinning you for the briefest second.
Thinking about it now, has your cheeks heating. It has you almost missing your turn, the dice clattering loudly against the table as you roll.
Forcing yourself back into the present, to this moment - as Ellie crows a crass “suck it!” when your token lands on a faded space that reads Blue Bell Ice Cream, her hand held out expectantly.
The paper peeled from your dwindling stack, handed over with a flourish.
The game continuing - the stakes increasing with each turn. Another two round passing, a roll where Joel owes almost more than he has.
You don't know where it comes from. Maybe your tongue loosens with the fun, a soft tease, as you tell him, "It's a good thing you went into contracting, and not real estate."
The look he gives you after - tongue poking into his cheek, as he shakes his head. A bitten back smile, as he tells you, “Can’t be good at everything, can I?”
It burrows in to your chest.
Another moment when he laughs at a lucky roll - and you think it's the best thing you've heard all day.
Tucking away the way he looks when he smiles - an expression that finds his face so rarely. Eyes that crinkle at the edges, the twitch of his lips as he tries to hold it back, before the sound bursts forth.
An afternoon, quickly passing. Almost feeling like before.
The gift of a day that you never thought you'd have, again.
———
He’s too warm. Crammed on the far edge of a sofa that certainly wasn’t built for three.
The quiet solace - a rare moment of silence in the cabin - interrupted with the door creaking open.
A swirl of snowflakes and a biting chill following them inside, with their stamping boots and ice-cold noses. Breaking through the layer of snow to check on Callus, coming back tired.
Shedding their thick layers - Ellie the first to squeeze on the couch, next to the fire. Coaxing her over with a pat to the spare cushion next to them.
A laugh, as she fits herself in. Near pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, an elbow digging into his side. A familiarity to it all, that makes his chest throb.
He moves - an arm draped across the back of the couch. Almost touching her shoulder, as Ellie gets more comfortable between them.
Laughter as they fell him about something funny that had happened outside - the look on the woman’s face as she had tripped over a snowbank - each recount more exaggerated.
The sound of their joy blending in the small space.
He envies her. He realizes that now.
How the encouragement comes so easily. Gentle and genuine and he sees the way Ellie soaks each one in. The words not bitten back, strangled and broken.
There’s so much held back. Thoughts that claw their way out of his mind, only to die on his tongue.
Almost choking him in Jackson, as he spilled his sins and fears to Tommy. He’s afraid that if he opens his mouth, he might do the same to her.
She doesn’t know him. The things he’s done. In the QZ - for Ellie - it didn’t matter. He would have done all of it, again.
But what would she think of him? The real him, not this twisted version of himself she’s come to know. Softened in a space where things felt like before, all of his sharp edges dulled. Leaving him on unsteady feet.
He’s never cared, before now. Hell of a time for his conscious to come knocking. The world has been grey for a long time, and his had been longer than that.
Because if he was a good man - likes he used to be - they would have left already. Not lingering, because he sees how happy Ellie is. How she feels safe, for the first time in months.
He certainly wouldn’t be spending the late night hours thinking, wondering.
About those small moments.
The feel of her against him - the way the woman seems to gravitate towards him, when they’re alone. When she doesn’t move away from their forced closeness, leaning into it instead.
Another that comes in the early morning, when his eyes open, finding her in the kitchen. A greediness in the way his gaze takes a second to linger. Over damp hair, her form wrapped in a robe, bare feet and legs beneath.
An urge to tug at the knot around her waist, with fingers stained with so much red. To see it open, unfurl. Soaking in the soft skin beneath - finding out if she’s untouched by the horrors. Or if she’s marked, like he is.
Seeing if her mouth would tip up to his. Parting, like her robe. Opening, for him.
He knows the way his name sounds - and it makes him wonder how it would sound broken on a moan. If it’s as pretty as her laughter, now.
If that look she gives him so very often has any truth behind it.
It’s wrong to think this way. Not after she’s invited them in. Given them a place to stay, the clothes off her back.
Because he’s sure of one thing - if she knew, she wouldn’t want him.
Not the way he wants her.
———
You stare up at the ceiling. Finding patterns in the knots in the wood, arms spread wide against the rug.
It’s late, the cabin smelling like white tea and sage from the candles you pulled out. Down to the good ones, the smells you’ve saved for last.
Ellie is on the floor beside you - finding you there when she comes out of the side room, hungry for dinner. Joining you silently, offering a handful of stale trail mix, the sounds of crunching filling the space.
You didn’t see Joel come in after, collecting firewood from the barn, but you heard the heavy sound of his feet. The stack of the logs, the creak as he fits himself into one of the wooden chairs.
If you lifted your head, you might catch where he hovers, near your ankles. But you don’t know if you have the energy today.
These bouts hitting you, as time passes. Moments where the weight of it all feels like too much. A tightness in your chest that aches, and you can’t reach in to soothe it.
Maybe it’s a strange way to calm yourself, but they don’t comment. As you count the beams overhead, along with your breaths.
Eventually, there’s the clearing of a throat. The words coming slowly, like he’s calming a wild animal, “You uh, doin’ okay down there?”
You can image the looks Ellie must have been throwing his way - not one to ask on his own accord.
It gets you moving, your head finally tilting their way. The unease on their features has guilt prickling down your spine, up your neck.
“Yeah.” You try a smile, but it’s weak, “The memories just get to me, sometimes. There’s so many in these walls.”
A wrinkle of your nose, then. Their attention making you shy, your hand waving in the air dismissively, “Sorry, you don’t want to hear about all that. I’m sure you’ve both have been through enough.”
There’s a glitter in Ellie’s eyes.
It’s one you recognize. So strange now, that living through the horrors can make you want to talk about it. An sickening urge to compare the shit you’ve seen.
Mine was worse than yours - or - at least what happened to me wasn’t that bad.
It’s almost comforting, making those connections.
“You can tell us.” She coaxes, as her head tilts.
You could be ready. Dancing around them and this place for the weeks that Joel and Ellie have been here. Her words prying at the box that you locked around your heart years ago.
Cracking it open.
You swallow, throat dry, before you nod. Going back to the grain of the wood, not wanting to look at them again just yet.
“I didn’t always live here. I was in school, college, during the outbreak. Had just gone back after the summer, but that day I had been heading back home. Someone close to me was having a hard time. You know how high school is. I wanted to make sure they were okay.”
These words are easy. They’re ones you’ve said before, almost rehearsed.
“I was on the road, when I heard all the sirens. It was awful. Nobody knew what was going on, and I'm still not sure how I made it out. But, I never made it home. It's hard not to wonder, you know?”
It’s rhetorical. Ellie would be too young to know what it had been like. You’re certain that Joel didn’t have to wonder, and that was the burden he carried with him every day.
Because if he hadn’t known, you think he’d still be out there.
“But, I made some friends after a while. Ran with them for a long time. Did some things I’m not proud of, but if it was them or us we always picked them.”
Casey, and Morgan. And him. His name still too raw a wound - anger and grief still blending.
A breath then, as you push through.
“My partner had family in this area, and remembered the old cabin. An aunt and uncle living off the grid. Almost blew our heads off when we arrived,” The memory of that night makes you smile.
Aunt June.
Danny.
That’s how they had introduced themselves - like they were already family - and it had stuck. Taking you into their home, making room where there wasn’t any.
Bringing dawn after years of darkness - you had never quite recovered from the fear and the horror.
But they had brought you as close as they could. They became the family you had needed.
“They let us stay. It was cramped, but it was good.”
Your words peter out. A brief reprieve - as if everything would stay just like that, if you didn’t continue.
“What happened to them?” Ellie’s voice breaks through the silence, voice hushed.
Unable to help asking, wanting to know how the story ended.
This part has only lived in your thoughts. Festering there, not knowing the sound of your spoken words.
Another breath, rattling in your chest. As you still lay on the floor, arms spread. Dissected by the memories, a prod to something painful as you begin the end.
“My partner was with me when it happened. Just the two of us. We were on watch one night, we used to walk the perimeter together. I'd watch one side, and he'd watch the other. Make sure everything was fine.”
It’s why you still walk it. Holding onto that last memory. Thinking you’ll see him, where you used to meet in the middle.
“There was... screaming. I'll never forget it.”
For a second, it feels like you’re there. The crunch of the leaves under your feet, as they had just started to fall. The lights that had seemed to glow so warmly from the cabin. Beckoning you back home.
“We rushed back, and they had torn each other apart. I think… I think Danny had gotten bit, when he had done a supply run the day before. Hadn't been sure, so he kept it quiet. The strong but silent type, you know?"
You say you think, because you can’t bear to go into the details. How you knew, because you had held Morgan in your arms, as they had tried to tell you. Tried to warn you. Not knowing it was too late.
Not knowing everyone had been bitten. Or was already near-gone, struck down during the attempt to stop him.
He had been a large man. Tall and strong - something that had used to make you feel safe.
It had made him unstoppable.
“We were the ones that had gone out, so we took all the best weapons with us. Never thought the danger was inside.”
There’s a tightness in your throat that has you stumbling over the words. Still blaming yourself, after all this time.
The brush of something, at your ankle. A weight, pressing into the side of your foot. It’s not the same as a hand in yours, but it’s close enough.
“So we... dealt with them. Buried them all." There's a finality in the way you say the words. The part you can't take back, the one you can't wonder about, anymore. You knew how their story ended.
But there's still the last piece, one that hurt the most. One you still struggled with, even though a part deep down, knows.
"My partner wasn't the same, after that. It was awful, but for him - it was his family.” These are the words you choke on, your jaw gritting.
“A couple weeks went by, and one day, he went out. Told me they needed some time alone. Never came back.”
And that's where your life had stopped, for the second time. Already shattered after that night in the cabin. But when he left, time had stood still.
Ellie shifts, turning onto her side. Cheek pressing into the palm of her hand as she frowns, "Did you go looking for him?"
There's a sort of naivety to her question that tugs at you, slamming you back into the present. You turn over too - trying to smile, "Yeah. Combed over every inch of this place, for miles."
It was six years ago. Hanging open-ended - heavy. You've only somewhat to terms with it. Never talked about it out loud, until now.
"But sometimes, things just happen. It's fine. I'm sure you know." You hedge, feeling strange and empty after your long confession. Perhaps better than before, when you were lost.
Though you fear the pity that might come after, not wanting it. Trying to defect, now - grasping for anything. Spying the box, still left out, "Are you from Texas too, Ellie?"
"What do you reckon'?" She grins, in an exaggerated version of Joel's drawl.
It's unexpected, making you laugh. The breath of fresh air you needed. Relieved, that your horrors hadn’t harmed her.
Sad, in a way, that they had not. If it meant that hers were worse. That makes your throat feel the tightest of all.
"Boston," She clarifies, "They have a QZ there."
"Boston? Holy shit." Your voice pitches up. It feels like a world away, "Is that where you left from?"
It’s the perfect opening.
The distraction not even intentional - because the thought of being in a place so far from your own is so incredibly fascinating,
"Did you come from there?" The questions bubble up, now that the door is open, "What is a QZ like?"
Ellie's eyes roll, as she pushes herself up, "They sound great but it's like living in hell."
As she fills you in, about her classes. About how she was going to end up as just another officer - about the ration cards, the curfew. How bad things were, in the end.
How they’d had to sneak out, to leave.
Then, about the one they had been to in KC.
How they had gotten blocked, had to go around. Winding up downtown, lost in a town that had revolted - driving FEDRA out.
“You should have seen it! This guy was calling for help, but Joel knew it was a trap and just blew right by him." Her admiration shines in her eyes, to his embarrassment.
"That's where we met-"
Something catches her then, the words running out. Joel's face turning worried, his eyes flickering from yours to hers.
Your own bouncing around the room again, landing on the table this time. Pushing yourself up, as you smile.
"I'm getting hungry. How about you kick Joel's ass at Scrabble again, and I'll start dinner?"
She blinks, coming back. Nodding automatically, before she's fully pulled from her own memories.
But she recovers more quickly than you, as she reaches for Joel's sleeve.
"Only if he doesn't try to pull that dumb shit again. Zwing isn't a word, Joel."
He doesn't protest, lets her pull him from the chair, "There ain't a websters here, you can't prove that."
Giving you a small smile, in thanks.
———
He finds you, later.
With words he couldn't share before. In the dim hallways, where you carry the candle. Checking the windows and doors before bed.
"Had a partner, like yours." He tells you, the shadows from the light highlighting the weariness in his face.
Golden light and deep, blue shadows, "Lost ‘em a little after we got started with Ellie."
Joel's jaw grits, a look you've come to know well. Eyes finally lifting to yours, "Think she took it hard. Didn't want to bring it up. But..."
But he knows. Knows what it's like. But he doesn't have to wonder, like you do. You can see that in his weariness, the sorrow that clings to him.
Still trying to protect Ellie. Remembering, because he’ll never forget - but trying to shield her.
But wanting to tell you. A small attempt at comfort.
"I'm sorry." You tell him.
He nods. Unable to say the words back.
But it's there. Wrapping around you like the shadows, as you blow out the light.
———
As more days pass, you don’t think you’re imagining it. Not anymore.
It’s been a long time, but it’s not like you’ve forgotten. The world has changed - but he’s from before, like you.
Some things still lingering. Long looks, his eyes already on you, when your find his.
It’s a bad idea, you know that. You can’t afford to get attached, any more than you already are.
But the small stolen moments of joy these past few weeks warm you, making you bold. Reading deep into the way he’s started to stand so close.
A hand on the small of your back, when he passes you in the kitchen. A smile, that seems to come just a tiny bit easier.
It doesn’t have to mean anything.
You know it can’t - it won’t.
But you still can’t help thinking about it. Acting on that budding attraction - finding out what it would be like to not be so lonely at night. To find out what it would really be like to touch him, the way your fingers have been aching.
Daydreaming about a way to find out. One that wouldn’t make him uncomfortable - one that he could brush off, that you could explain - if you had read things wrong.
Even if you don’t think you have.
An opportunity finds you, as you find him. Standing alone in the kitchen, a small pot of water boiling. Watching his profile as he stares out the window - looking at the blanket of stars above the tall, snow-covered trees.
Splitting it silently between two mugs, just enough of your instant coffee to pass as a treat. A smile, as you realize one is for you.
Another twinge at the way he seems to move so easily now. Dual-edged. Moving fluidly because he’s healing. Knowing where stuff is because he’s become accustomed to where you keep things.
Your time is ticking down. If not tonight, then when?
He hands you a mug - the one you always drink from. Leaning against the counter as he glances where Ellie sleeps solidly and deeply on the couch, an old comic book laying beneath her outstretched hand.
You smile as you watch her, before taking a sip. A deep sigh, as your hands wrap around, warming them.
The words coming easily, tonight.
“You’ve done a lot of hard work around here.” Your voice is soft and low, and his gaze drags your way, “Was wondering if you’d let me thank you properly?”
A gentle verbal prod, as your hip bumps against his. Where he stays, letting you lean into him.
His eyes dark, in the dim light. A moment where his lips press together, a short inhale of breath, “Think we’re just about square. Seein’ as you’ve been keepin’ us, and all.”
Ah.
Maybe you have been wrong, after all.
A long moment, as your brows furrow. As your smile turns small, your voice even smaller.
“Suppose you’re right. It was silly of me to offer.”
Feeling stupid, as you bring the cup to your mouth. Downing most of it in a long sip - not wanting to waste it. Not wanting to linger in your rejection.
The mug clatters a little too loudly in the sink - the thoughts already running through your mind.
Telling you that you ruined a nice thing - a urge to get out of there, and lick your wounds.
“Thank you.” You manage, unable to meet his eye.
“Goodnight, Joel.”
Leaving him in the moonlight, as you retreat.
———
It’s late.
He’s pacing, left wondering. Unable to sleep, feeling like he missed something.
Going over her words, that bright expression that had turned so dull.
Had he missed something, while he had been admiring? Too lost in the slow sweep of his eyes?
Thrown by her question - an urge to convince her that she’s done more than enough. That she’s been too good to them already.
That his help didn’t scratch the surface.
Going back to her words, again. A jolt in his stomach as he remembers how - for a second - he had thought there was another layer to her words.
Hidden in her expression, soft and hopeful.
Certain he was wrong.
His feet slowing, as he realizes.
Ah, fuck.
———
It’s after midnight, when you hear the knock. Just a short rap of knuckles - you almost miss it. Pulling you from a half-sleep, just drifting off.
You definitely weren’t waiting. Secretly hoping.
That would be silly, right?
Scrubbing a hand over your face as you pad out of bed, opening the door. Your heart swooping into your stomach when you see him standing there, shoulder leaning against the frame.
An expression you’ve never seen on his face.
Apprehension?
“Joel.” You blink up as him, his name coming as a soft gasp. A moment, before you offer, “Do you want to come in?”
He follows slowly, hands jamming into the pockets of his jeans after pulling the door shut behind him. Still fully dressed - his eye sweeping around the room before they land on you.
Cutting right to the chase, by a man not used to mincing words.
“Been a long time, since someone asked me somethin’ like that.” He rasps, “Almost didn’t catch it. You must think I’m a damn fool.”
Your teeth sink into your lip, as a relief floods though you - as you hold back a smile. Hope seeming to ignite, in the form of a small flame in your belly.
“I thought you weren’t interested.” You confess, with a shrug, “Which… I understand. Really.”
There’s a change in his expression then. Flickering to surprise, the slight raise of his eyebrows, the curve of his mouth as his head tilts.
“Maybe I ain’t the only fool here, then.”
The pitter-patter of your heart jumps, turning into a thrumming beat. A hitch in your breath as you look at each other, slowly considering.
You haven’t done this before. Suggested it - asked for it. Not sure how to begin, when it wasn’t desperate fumbling in the dark.
“You change your mind ‘bout thankin’ me?” He asks with a frown - and you’re shaking your head.
Embarrassed, as you tell him, “No. Not at all.”
He takes a step forward, hands sliding from his pockets. Palms open, hanging at his sides.
“Then why don’t you show me what you were thinkin’.”
He’s kinder than you were expecting. You had thought it would be all rough edges. But here he is, the sharpness tempered by your weeks of patience, an echo of the hand that held his - that brushed the hair from a fevered forehead.
Or maybe in a way, he’s just as lost as you are. That first attempt at moving forward, after a memory that still lingers.
His own patience soothes you. Your words becoming unstuck, “You sure about this?”
“You’re the one that asked me, darlin’.” He husks. The name shoots straight to your cunt, already throbbing.
“Right,” you breathe. A lick of confidence coming back.
Fingers curl around a thick wrist, and he comes willingly. Letting you tug - the echo of his steps following yours as you bring him to the edge of the bed.
Hands pressing against shoulders, his eyes focused on yours as you push him back, towards the headboard.
Until he’s resting among your pillows, and you’re folding yourself in, next to him. The edge of your nightgown pulling up over your thighs, a gape in the neckline as you curve over him.
One that his eyes follow, lingering.
He’s in your bed. Filling a space that’s felt too big for years. Watching you expectantly, with heavy, half-lidded eyes.
“Anything you don’t like?” You ask, stalling for a moment. Nervous now, that you have him.
“No.”
That makes you smile, gets you to finally reach out. Fingers starting at his waist, trailing up the row of buttons. Tugging the first through the hole, exposing an inch of white undershirt. And then another.
The way his chest expands under your touch, his lips parting with his breath, makes you brave. Makes you want.
Your words come out low, almost a whisper, “Can I kiss you?”
A moment, as he swallows. Throat bobbing, before he nods. A short jerk, like he always does.
“Yes.”
You start there. His chin dipping, but you’re ducking down. Lips pressing against the warm skin of his neck - feeling the muscles beneath flex.
Tasting the sweat and salt of his skin. The soft sound in his throat as you do it again, brushing against the peppered-gray scruff as you move towards his throat.
Hands - broad, scarred ones - find your hips. Biting into skin and fabric, gripping on. A tug pulls you sideways, a choked gasp caught in your throat as he hauls you across his own.
Straddling him now. The fingers ruck up the hem of your nightgown up to the soft curve where your thighs meet your hips.
It’s old, faded. A cheap, pink satin - the straps thin, the edges lined with lace. Worn in case he showed, in case he changed his mind. - wanting to look pretty, for him.
A small luxury, tucked away until tonight.
The pace of your own fingers quicken. An impatient yank to tug the hem from where it’s tucked into his jeans. While his sweep over your skin, grabbing onto the curve of your ass.
Your eyes lift, gaze needy. A shift of your hips as your thighs spread wider. Nudging you against the curve in his jeans, as you tug at the buckle on his belt to pull it free.
The ghost of your mouth against his, testing. His teeth grit, a jerk of his chin until his lips finally meet yours. Slotting together at last, your own parting for the tongue that brushes across your lip.
Your eyes flutter shut as you rock down against him - easing some of the building ache as you grind against the thickening curve of his cock.
Leaning into the messy kiss, a hand leaving your hip to wrap around the back of your neck as he deepens it. Unable to help the whine that flutters in your throat then, the rough sound as it escapes.
He pulls back to hush you, a thumb brushing against your lips. A furrow in his brow as you nod - pulling back from his touch as you pop the button on his jeans, tug at the zipper.
Shifting down, between legs that inch apart. Your mouth inching hurriedly down his chest, over the soft curve of his stomach. The muscles flexing beneath, as your fingers hover, gripping denim-covered thighs.
Joel’s hips lifting as you tug down his jeans, hesitating when his boxers beneath are revealed. His gaze intense, when you look up - his shirt hanging open. That peek of skin again, between the waistband and the pushed-up hem of his undershirt.
A dark trail of hair, one your eyes follow as you shift further back. Settling between his knees as your head dips once more.
Lips pressing against the fabric where it’s pulled taut and tented. A hiss between clenched teeth as your mouth brushes against his clothed cock.
His fingers fist in the sheets, his hips flexing.
“Fuck.” Joel grits out, and your eyes flip up.
Watching as you do it again - before his hands are pushing down that last layer. Freeing himself, the thick curve of his cock coming to rest against his stomach as he shifts.
He’s pretty, and big. The grey in his beard only dusts the coarse, dark curls at the base. Smooth velvet skin that you trace with your tongue, up to the flushed, gleaming tip.
“Sweet fucking mouth.” He breathes, before his fingers are hovering. Unable to help brushing a knuckle across your cheek as you finally take him.
Your eyes closing as you sink down, over the head. Pushing him over your tongue and towards your throat as you suck.
A curse sliding through clenched teeth as you take him deep. A calmness settling over your mind as you find a rhythm, your hand wrapping around. Stroking swollen flesh soaked with your spit.
The thudding between your thighs making you squirm, eyes opening to find him staring - unable to help the little flex of his hips when you try to take him into your throat. Unable to fit all of him, but you try.
“This all you thought about?” He manages, the words sounding strained, “Suckin’ me off?”
You slow, as you think. Pulling away from him, as your head shakes - still embarrassed, as you admit, “I thought about more.”
“Tell me.” There’s an edge to his voice, a command.
“I thought about-“ You tongue peeks out to drag over him again, your fist following. A squeeze of your fingers that has him bucking into your hand again, “A lot of things. Mostly about you taking me.”
The look he gives you is dark, a flash of tongue between his teeth. A throb of his cock in your grip as you stroke him again.
“You think about me fuckin’ you?”
“God, yes.” The word is drawn out - the confession almost freeing.
You had been thinking about that. Finding bliss in the feeling of his mouth against yours. A curiosity sated as he filled your mouth - but still left you wondering.
His fingers find yours, easing himself from your grip. Thumb brushing against your knuckles as he pushes himself up, towards you.
“Turn around.” He rasps, and you’re listening without thought.
An ache and a need as you face the curved wooden footboard, your hands curling around it for balance.
The mattress shifting with his weight as he kicks off his boxers and jeans, leaving them to tangle on the floor. His olive green flannel and undershirt joining them.
Hands smoothing over your thighs, under the curve of your nightgown. Catching on the waistband of your underwear, as he tugs them down.
You feel bare, though the gown still covers your stomach, your chest. Trying not to think about what he sees - the peek of your center, where you gleam for him.
Wet and aching, from sucking his cock. From seeing the desire in his eyes, how he watched you. From weeks of wanting.
A low, rough groan as his hands find the curves of your ass. A tug as he spreads you open, one leaving your skin so his fingers can trace your opening.
“Let me get you ready.”
Grateful for the press of his finger, as it sinks into you. The feeling strange after so much time, until he starts to pump, hand twisting so his thumb slides down. A bump against your clit that has your muscles going taut.
A hushed moan, in the darkness.
A whimper, as your fingers find the straps of your nightgown - easing them from your shoulders. Inches of bare skin coming into view as the material settles around your waist - the hand still on your ass coming to cup your bare skin.
A thumb brushing a pebbled nipple, as he fits another finger into you. Leaving you a mess already, head hanging between your shoulder blades.
“Please,” you grit, rocking back to meet his fingers.
A low huff - close to a laugh. His fingers pressing deep, the sound loud and wet in the quiet room. Your cheek burning at the noise, at how much you need him.
But slowly, he eases from you. Slicking himself up with your arousal, a hand on your hip as his cock slides against your slit.
The hand smoothing over skin, his words coming softly, “Relax for me.”
His words have you breathing again - holding it in without thought. A tightness of your muscles in anticipation.
The tip sinking into you as the tension eases. But it immediately has you clenching down, gripping him as your cunt makes room for him.
His breath short and harsh, a small thrust, and then another. Sinking deeper each time - until his hips are snug against your ass, pressed balls deep.
It leaves you feeling full. A stretch that you remember, though the memory feels so muted.
It’s intense - almost too much - as he starts slowly. Finding a rhythm, picking up speed.
Abandoning the gentle pace, once you start to rock back. Once you finally let go.
He’s not so soft after all. The patience that disguises his own need fading away, then. Too rough in the way he grips you, as if he’s forgotten how to touch.
Fingers biting into the flesh of your hip, the stretched-out sound of fabric ripping as his fist wraps in the bunched-up waist of your nightgown.
Using the leverage to tug you back, meeting each thrust of his hips. Punching the breath from your lungs, as your fingers curl in the sheets.
He’s so deep. Pulling back before seating himself to the hilt, dragging against a spot inside you that has you grateful for his grip.
Keeping your hips level, keeping you firmly in place to take and take.
Each stroke winding you up, the thoughts in your head slipping out of grasp. Leaving you fuzzy and needy, tightening around him.
His name, a chanted whisper.
Joel. Joel. Joel.
Trying to remember to stay quiet, though a whines slide through your teeth when a hand moves. Untangling from the fabric, curving around your hip.
His chest pressing against your back so he can reach between your thighs. Fingers finding where he splits you open, the tips wet as he presses against your clit.
You make a choked sound, as he shushes you again. Amused this time, his touch focused - listening to your breath until he figured out exactly what you like.
“That it?” He drawls, when your body strings tight.
So focused on how close you are that you’re not paying attention anymore - fingers clamped around the footboard.
You nod, the movement short and jerky.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice is low, his body shifting as he moves closer.
“I want to come.” The words come easily - desperately, “I’m so close.”
“Mm.” There’s the press of his lips against your shoulder, “Can you stay quiet, baby?”
You nod again.
“Then come for me.” He rasps, “Let me feel you.”
His fingers pressing just right - even without his words you think you’d be there. Teetering on the edge, chasing something that feels like it’s been simmering for weeks.
“Come on, sweetheart.”
It feels like it rips through you. Catching you by surprise with its intensity as your eyes close - face burying into the mattress.
The high whine muffled as your teeth sink into your forearm - biting down as the flash of pain is erased by the bright pulse of pleasure. Muting the cry that you can’t hold back.
Funny, how anywhere else - that bruise from the bite would condemn you. The marks on your skin a death sentence.
But here, in this room, it’s a reminder that you’re alive. Tightening around him as his hips move. Stroking himself deep with short, steady thrusts.
Fucking you through it, drawing out an orgasm stronger than one you’ve ever been able to give yourself.
Those fingers petting and stroking until you’re gasping - until it’s too much. Grasping at his hand, pressing it flush against you until the air comes back into your lungs.
“So goddamn pretty.” He breathes, a roughness to his words, his breath now.
His chest pressing into your back as he bends over you. Hand moving up, gripping onto your shoulder, fingers damp with your slick.
Keeping him close, hips flexing as he keeps up those short, quick thrusts. Breath warm against your neck as his nose brushes your cheek.
It’s close, intimate. Almost tender, if not for the way he clings to you. Holding you in place, each breath coming shorter, harsher.
His words mumbled, sliding from his lips to melt into your skin.
“Good girl.”
“So good to me. Fuck-”
There’s the pinch of his fingers, pressing into your skin. A muffled grunt as he shifts back, a fist wrapping around his cock as he pulls himself from you.
Leaving you empty, missing the heavy weight, as he kneels behind you. A hand flat against your back to keep you arched against the bed. Your ass high in the air as he fucks his fist, taking you in - greedy in the way his eyes trace your curve, down to the damp space between your thighs.
Finding his own release, seconds later.
He groans through gritted, clenched teeth. Watching how each stroke sends his spend across soft skin, until you’re painted with his release.
It’s a pretty sight, seeing you sticky and shining with him. Marked, for only him to see.
Standing unsteadily after, giving you a chance to finally admire him in the moonlight. The fluid way he moves, even here - as he wets a washcloth in the attached bathroom.
The bed dipping as he sits next to you, hands warm and comforting as he wipes himself away.
Silence settling, in these moments after. As your breaths finally slow, as the sharp pleasure fades to a hazy glow.
You’re curled on your side, facing the heavy, patterned curtains. More tired and sated than you’ve felt in years.
An urge to say something rising - wanting to offer, to clarify. A worry creeping in, making your heart hammers in your ribs.
Thinking that you'll already miss this - even though it only happened once.
“We don’t have to do this again, if you don’t want to.”
Only the rattle of the wind against the windows greets you, the smallest rustle of skin between the sheets.
"I just, - I don't want you to think you owe me, or anything like that. I know that’s how you see things." You roll over to look at him - trying to read his expression, “Not for… not for something like this.”
He blinks at you in the dim light. That fire in his eyes reduced to a slow, lazy smolder. Messy curls brushing against his forehead as he considers you. Eyes dropping from yours down to your mouth.
"Alright." He tells you as he shifts - and you think he's going to leave. A weight dropping in your stomach.
Instead, he gets more comfortable - curling on his side. A hand pressing at your hip, so you’re facing those curtains again - his chest pressing into your back.
Warm against you, when you drift off.
———
He comes back, the next night.
And again - the night after that.
Thank you so much for reading! 💕
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