I'm Simply Here. Existing. Fangirling.

Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly. 

The thought made you want to break something.

So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right? 

He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes. 

"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.

Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"

"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?" 

He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down. 

Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."

"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"

Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"

"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."

"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper. 

"It ain't your concern." 

"It is my concern when—" and louder again. 

"Enough." 

He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down. 

Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.

"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."

"Don't you dare—"

"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."

The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.

"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."

The words landed like a bucket of cold water.

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"

You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment. 

"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering. 

"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"

"But you didn't tell me."

"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."

"I'm not a cat." You pouted. 

"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"

Now what.

You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid. 

And still so, so fucking wound up.

"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.

"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.

"I don't know what I am."

"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."

"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."

Suddenly he turned you. 

The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.

"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."

You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days. 

Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent. 

"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.

"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.

"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.

"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."

He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.

Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.

"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."

Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. 

The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.

"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.

"You—Joel—only you—"

"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."

Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him. 

But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.

"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."

He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands. 

Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt. 

"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"

"Please what?"

"Don't stop—need you—"

He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you. 

Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.

"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."

You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you. 

Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely. 

He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you. 

After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.

"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"

You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."

Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."

ME DOING REQUESTS FINALLY???? 🫪🫪

Haircare wasn’t exactly at the top of your priority list when living in an apocalypse. For years, you’d kind of forgotten you even had hair. You had a hairbrush and one lucky hair tie that you carried around in your backpack but that was about it, brush your hair and throw it up in a ponytail to keep it out of your face. So when you arrived in Jackson and finally saw yourself in the mirror for the first time in years, to say you were stunned by your appearance was an understatement. Your face was more wrinkled, greys had started to take over your roots, and your whole body was littered in scars and signs of years worth of survival.

You managed to get yourself together, get new clothes, have a shower, basically just starting a basic hygiene routine. But when you met Joel? You felt the need to try harder, look better, even though he had no issue with the way you looked anyways. Fast forward to now, you and Joel have been together for about 6 months and you decided to move in with him. He had given you the security and peace you needed, you hadn’t been this happy since the end of the world.

Until now.

A loud groan echoes through your shared bedroom as you tussle with your hair, you’re so close to just snapping the hair tie and leaving your hair down. Maria had suggested braiding your hair while on patrol to help keep it out of the way and you’d agreed that it would be a good idea. But now? You were regretting your life choices.

Joel cautiously entered the bedroom to an interesting sight, you in your his shirt with your pyjama pants on cradling your head in your hands, hair tie secured in between your fingers.

“The hell are you doing’?” Joel questioned as he ruffled his damp hair with a towel before tossing it in the hamper by the closet. You look up with a pout, taking in the image of him shirtless with his plaid sweatpants hanging low on his hips. “Quit starin’” He chuckled before sitting down beside you.

“I’m not staring,” You mumbled into your hands before Joel took your wrists and moved them away from your face, “Just looking at my man.” You huffed and laugh before turning to face him.

“Whatever you wanna call it, sweetheart.” He grinned at you before smoothing your hair down with one hand, brows furrowing slightly, “So what was all the huffin’ and puffin’ about?” His texan drawl becoming stronger in his sleepiness.

“I’m trying to braid my hair but it’s so hard, I haven’t had to do it in fucking years.” You drop your head and sadly play with your hair tie, stretching it out with your fingers.

“Don’t be dramatic, honey.” Joel’s big hands came to rest on your shoulders and swivelled you around so your back was facing his chest. “I know how to braid hair, give me the hair tie and I’ll do it for ya.”

You sighed and nodded your head, humming softly at the feeling of his hands gathering your hair. Your eyes subconsciously closed as Joel began to braid your hair.

“Don’t be fallin’ asleep on me, baby.” Joel huffs and runs a hand up and down your arm gently. “Why do you need to have your hair braided anyways?”

“Maria said it might be good for patrol tomorrow, to keep it out the way.” Joel sighed behind you, he hated the thought of you being out there possibly having to defend yourself against clickers. You laughed gently, it was like you could read his mind, “I’ll be alright Joel, I’ve done this before and Tommy will be there if anything happens.”

Joel shakes his head as he works his fingers around your hair with ease, “I’ll kill that fucker if you come home with even a little scratch.” You giggled and reached your hand behind you to smack his side, causing him to jerk a little.

“Be nice to him, he’s working overtime for your peace of mind.” Joel grumbles something under his breath behind you, the hot air from his mouth making you shiver and giggle.

The sound of the hair tie snapping against your hair indicated that he was finished, you turn your head to see the results in the built-in mirror on your closet. You gasp and smile at the sight, your hair looking perfectly soft and silky tied up in the most perfect braid. You turn your head to press kisses to Joel’s face until he pushes you away in false annoyance. “It’s so pretty Joel! Thank you baby!”

Joel smiles at your happiness, beautiful girl, he thinks. “That’s alright, honey.” He groans as he shuffles back onto the bed, resting his head on the pillows and resting his arm out over your side of the bed in a silent invitation. You happily accept and lay back, head resting on his chest as his arm snaked around your waist, giving your ass a quick squeeze before letting it rest on your lower back.

You both lay there for a while in a comfortable silence, Joel assumed you’d fell asleep before he heard a quiet voice, “How did you learn to braid hair?”. Joel’s breath hitches slightly, deafening silence filling the room with uncomfortable tension. You knew about Sarah, you’d heard first through the grapevine and then from Joel’s mouth. You knew how she died and when she was born, and that was it. Joel was traumatised, even if he wouldn’t admit to it himself. So you never pushed, never asked any questions, at least not on purpose. Whenever it was brought up, you just let him answer and then leave it be.

Joel knew deep down that he’d have to explain himself eventually, that he’d have to talk about Sarah and his life pre-apocalypse. He took a deep breath before simply saying, “Learnt it from Sarah.” You hum softly and rub your thumb across his chest soothingly. Usually you’d leave it at that, but not this time.

“Could you tell me about her?”

Joel’s face contorts into a hesitant, even slightly scared look as he goes to open his mouth, but you stop him before he can make up an excuse.

“I don’t mean about what happened,” Joel exhales shakily at that, “I just mean what was she like, what were her hobbies, that kind of thing.” You look up at him hopefully.

Joel takes a deep breath before beginning, “Well,” His shoulders relax and he cocks his head slightly to the side, “She loved her soccer.” Joel awkwardly begins but stops, as if he’s trying to keep himself together.

“Playing or watching it?”

Your question catches him off guard, but he answers almost immediately, “Playing it,” He starts again and clears his throat, “Loved playing it, she was captain on her middle school team. She had a real talent, funny kid too.”

You were practically beaming at watching him talk, a glimpse of what he used to be shining through the cracks of his stoic exterior.

“She loved me braiding her hair before bed when she was little, used to always end up half asleep on my shoulder before I could even finish.” He chuckled softly, “Then when she was older, she wanted her hair short,” He glances down quickly to make sure you were still listening, only to be met with your loving eyes gazing on him and listening intently, “And I wasn’t too sure about it, thought she might regret it. Tommy made up this stupid thing about how I might of gotten myself a lesbian daughter.” Your brows furrow and Joel laughs, “Little did he know he’d just predicted the kid I’d be spending the next 20 something years of my life.”

You both laughed in unison, “Do you think she would’ve liked Ellie?” His face softens into something else, something sadder. You were afraid you’d overstepped, that you’d triggered something darker within him. But before you could overthink too much, a soft smile tugs at Joel’s lips.

“Yeah, I think they would’ve.” Joel nods softly, almost like he’s trying to convince himself, “Both good kids, funny, different type of girls but similar personalities, Sarah would be like Ellie’s cool older sister.”

“Could you imagine Sarah trying to practice her makeup skills on Ellie?” You giggle as Joel huffs a laugh, clearly getting more comfortable with talking about his late daughter.

“She tried to do that on me enough times, always complained my beard got in the way.” It was so nice seeing Joel like this, so relaxed and comfortable talking about what used to be a sensitive topic a few months ago. You felt like you were finally seeing the real him, he was in his element talking about Sarah.

The rest of the night was spent talking about your past lives and the people involved in making them until you both fell asleep, limbs tangled with each other. You were so happy to know Joel better and Joel just fell more in love you with you as you talked about your past. It made him wonder if you would have crossed paths without the apocalypse, or maybe if Sarah was being his cupid, sending an angel from heaven to make him happy and give him a safe, comfortable life. Even if it wasn’t perfect.

“You sleazy pig,” you didn’t even seem shocked, walking back into your bedroom, seeing him in all of his naked glory, dad-bod — although his belly was the result of beer and not the healthiest diet; fist around his cock, stroking himself. “Can’t believe you,” you shook your head, even as you pulled your top over your head.

Joel groaned, watching your breasts spill free, “She says, showin’ me her glorious fucking tits.” 

You only rolled your eyes, snatching the lotion he’d used as lube, to lather it into your skin. First your arms and chest and maybe you made a show out of it. Making sure he got a good fucking view of your breasts as you worked the lotion into your skin. Nipples pebbling and all. Just like you had when you knew he sat in front of his window every night.

“Fucking tease,” he groaned, cock twitching. 

“Oh so you’re complaining?” You asked, tossing your panties at him. 

And Joel didn’t disappoint, nose pressed into them, inhaling deep. “You dirty old fuck,” you rolled your eyes, climbing on top of him. 

“Gotta love how ya actin’ like ya ain’t liking it,” he clicked his tongue, a hand on your hips, the other taking a hand full of your glorious fucking tits.No doubt expecting you to sink down on him. 

But you had a better idea.

Grinding your slick cunt along his cock, root to tip and back again. Feeling every inch of him glide through slick folds. Teasing your clit just right. “Fuck,” you moaned, head falling back.

“See babygirl, knew ya liked my cock.” Of course he was smug about it. “Just like that,” he encouraged you. “Knew ya liked Daddy’s cock better than ya silly little toys.” 

“Asshole!” The insult lacked bite, which may or may not be due to the word being wrapped into a moan. 

“You like it,” he countered, clearly enjoying himself. Using the hand on your hip to guide you along his cock. 

And fuck he was right. 

“No,” he tried to shift, tried to sink into you. “Not tonight,” you breathed.

“C’mon, babygirl…” he complained, fingers flexing against your hip. “We’ll be careful.”

“No Daddy,” you reached for his hands, pinning them on his chest where you braced your weight. “Someone used the last condom this morning and didn’t get any new ones.” 

A year in and he had fucked you plenty. On and against every surface of your home and his, including the windows facing your bedrooms.

Your body pressed into the cool glass while he had sunken into you from behind. He had refused to clean the shape of your glorious curves off of the glass. 

Not that he slept much in his own bed now.

Too comfortable in yours, with your body in his arms. 

After the first time, condoms had become a staple. Sometimes he pulled them off, just to paint white ribbons across your skin.

He knew that you weren’t on birth control, that you weren’t fond the side-effects and had promised to take care of protection. And he had, an always replaced stash of condoms, the ultra-sensitive kind. Because he longed to feel you around him.

He’d meant to get new ones three days ago, but between work running late and you complaining that you needed him he’d simply forgot. Using the last before breakfast and after waking you with his tongue in your cunt. 

“Just the tip?” He tried, while you still worked yourself on top of him. 

“Yeah right,” you moaned, “You can’t even resist now and want me to believe you will resist sinking balls deep into me?” You clicked your tongue, a wicked little grin tucking on your lips. 

Oh how he loved that smart mouth of yours. 

Just as much as he loved to stuff it, like when you believed he’d let you sass him over on your way home from the grocery store some five months ago.

He had to pull over, unable to concentrate while your smart tongue had worked him to make up for rolling your eyes and calling him a grumpy old man.

Not that he had expected you to follow through, when he’d unbuckled his belt and opened the fly of his pants enough to pull his cock out. When he should have known better… well aware that his babygirl never backed down from a challenge. 

──────────

“‘ll pull out?” He promised, and you scoffed. 

“I know school’s been a while for you,” he had half a mind to tuck his hand free to smack your behind for that “But you should know that that ain’t save at all.” 

You had a point. 

Not that he wanted to admit that. 

“What? Ya not keen on givin’ me a little Miller?” 

“Joel,” you half whined, half moaned. 

“’s not what y’call me babygirl. Not when ya cunt is drippin’ all over m’cock.” You didn’t respond, go figure, but you didn’t stop rolling your hips either. “Y’d look so beautiful with m’child. All round a soft an glowin’,” you threw your head back, weather because of how good he felt under you or because of the picture he pained, Joel wasn’t sure. 

But he used your movement to tuck one of his hands free from under yours, not to move it back to your hip to guide you, but to trace along the soft skin below your navel instead. 

“Would spoil ya rotten!” He declared. 

“Sure y’would,” you moaned. “And I’d be the talk of the street. Pregnant from my sleazy neighbour who’s twice my age…”

“‘m not sleazy.”

“Sure, you didn’t watch me for month jerking off,” you countered.

He flashed you a grin. “’s not my fault, babygirl. Ya put on a spectacular show.” And he knew now that you had, just for him. “‘sides, ain’t matter what they think. We can move.” 

Your movements grew erratic, your pace picking up—- he knew you were close. His hand slipped back to your waist, to guide you, but his thumb kept drawing soft circles into the skin of your belly.

“Y-you gonna tell me you want,” you panted, “A white–- picket fence?”

“Nah, not m’style,” he mused, “But if’s what you want then…” he trailed off. “‘ll build ya a whole fuckin’ castle if’s what ya want.”

“That’s—- quite the promise,” you moaned, her fingers flexing against his chest. “Just to cum inside of me.” 

“Ain’t just cuming inside of ya, babygirl,” a low rumble, his cock twitching under you. “Would make sure it sticks.” He felt it, the tensing of your abdominal muscles, the coil behind your navel snapping as your orgasm tore through you. Hips bucking and back arching.

A glorious sight.

But so would be you, round with his baby. He hadn’t lied. Hell he’d even do the white picked fence if you wanted that. Complete with a Golden Retriever and and whatever else your heart desired.

Preferably his cock, day and night.

“Pervert,” you panted. Had you read his mind?

“Just sayin’…” he was still rock hard, still craved the welcoming depth of your cunt. Now more than ever. And he wasn’t above begging you to feel it wrapped around his cock. Too so because the thought of you pregnant with his child, the thought of you being his was far too tempting to dismiss it. “‘d take good care of ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, spoiling me rotten, I heard you.” 

“Good, was worried ya were t’far gone t’hear.” You flicked his painfully hard nipple, making his cock twitch and him groan. “C’mon, ya can’t tell me y’haven’t thought ‘bout it.”

“What? Having your child or your cock, bare, inside of me.”

“Both.” His thumb still drew idle patterns into your soft skin. “Need one f’the other an one leads t’the other.” 

“Oh so you did pay attention in biology?” You arched a brow and he smacked your ass with his unoccupied hand and you didn’t yelp. You fucking giggled.

God you would be the death of him.

──────────

He finished between your glorious tits. And not that he was complaining about that… but he would have loved feeling you wrapped around him still.

Not that the sight of thick white ribbons covering your skin didn’t make up for that. Enough, that he took a moment to admire it, while he caught his breath. 

“Gonna buy condoms first thing tomorrow,” he sighed, climbing off you to get a wet cloth and clean your chest. Paying extra attention to your breasts.

“Heard that one before,” you tease while he pulled you into his arms. 

His chest to your back.

“Gonna do it,” he breathed into your neck while a large hand settled above your abdomen. “Meant what I said babygirl,” his voice sounded soft with exhaustion and something else. “Gonna build ya a castle…”

The topic didn’t come up again. Joel stocked up on condoms and then proceeded to fuck you seven ways to Sunday. 

In the kitchen instead of breakfast, in the shower after an exhausting day, in the back of his truck because you’d snarked him, irritated after work, while muttering something about fucking the bad mood right out of you.

And frequently after watching you go through nightly routine. Rock hard like the first time he saw you across the small strip of grass through the window. 

“You’re impossible,” you rolled your eyes, finding him working his cock yet again. 

“T’word y’re lookin’ for is irresistible.” 

You snorted, shimmying out of your panties. “Sure,” you reached for the lotion, aware he’d used it too, to lather a some into your arms. “Quit jerking off and put your hands to better you,” 

“Am puttin’,” you tossed the lotion onto his naked belly, “Hey!” He complained, even as he reached for the lotion to squeeze a generous amount into the palm of his hand. 

He worked the lotion into your left leg first, starting at the calf, moving over your thigh and to your ass. Down right massaging it into your skin. Your right leg received the same treatment before he moved on to your hips, waist and belly. 

By the time you had settled astride him, fingers loosely pumping along his length, he had moved on to your breast, making quite the show out of lathering cream onto your skin. Massaging until it had fully settled into your skin. 

Then, and only then did he shift and reach for the nightstand, to get a condom. 

He barely got the drawer open before you sunk down on him.

“Fuck,” he moaned, hands immediately flying to your hips. “Y’sure babygirl?” 

You nodded, watching him out of hooded eyes and Joel immediately shifted you under him, a thigh hooked over his hip, his breath hot against your lips. 

There was no rush to his movements, slow and deep. Savouring each deep thrust. And fuck you’d forgotten how good he felt like that. “If this sticks,” your teeth caught his bottom lip.

“Gonna make it stick,” he grunted before you could finish your sentence.

“Then you better get started on the promised castle,” you teased, reminding him of his promise from weeks ago. Fingers in his hair, nails against his scalp. 

Joel’s hips bucked. “First thing t’morrow babygirl.” He promised and even though you had been fine the first time around, when he’d finally caved and marched over here, you somehow didn’t doubt that he would manage to knock you up just because he decided to. 

“Fuck y’feel so good babygirl,” he groaned, while your nails left crimson-shaped imprints on his shoulder. “An ya gonna look so pretty. All round ’n soft with m’baby,” you clenched around him. “Oh so y’really want it,” you had half a mind to wipe the smug grin of his face but then his cock dragged against that spot that made your toes girl. “Look at’cha squeezin’ me.” He moaned. “So tight babygirl—-”

He was hot on your heels when your orgasm rips through you, spilling deep inside of you. 

You and Joel have gotten somewhere in the past few months.

He can deny it all he wants, but the man is head over heels, and you're no better.

After a couple of weeks, the phone calls became a routine neither of you were keen on breaking. Then, before you knew it, you were double texting and sending 'good morning' messages like two people already too far gone, but far too unwilling to admit it.

You haven't had the talk yet—the dreaded 'what are we?' one—but you know what this is now.

He asked if you're seeing anyone.

When you said no, the sigh of relief on the other end was palpable enough to taste.

You asked the same question, got the same answer, but followed with—

"I'm your girl though, right?"

He paused, long enough you thought you lost him.

"Yeah..." he said finally, exhaling like you'd handed him something he didn't know how to hold. "You're my girl."

"Again?" you ask in exasperation, pacing the length of your room—hand in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands. "That's the second flight in three weeks."

"I know, sweetheart. Ain't much I can do."

Joel's never been a liar—hates the whole damn idea of it.

That's why he's still trying to convince himself what he's doing isn't lying—just omitting a detail to keep you from hurting.

And technically, the flights did get canceled. He just failed to mention he's the one who did the canceling.

He sighs, voice softening in that way it does when he knows you're upset. Just enough to make the tightness in your chest unfurl, the frustration slowly bleeding out of you.

"I'll try for another—"

"No, no..." you murmur, shutting your eyes briefly as your hand returns to your side. "You have bad luck, and my roommate'll be back in a couple days anyway."

He doesn't argue, doesn't try to find another way—just covers the receiver with his hand and drops his head back against the couch in relief.

"I'll come to you," you pitch, staring at the floor as you wait for an answer.

He tenses, hand scrubbing over his face, grip around his phone tightening slightly.

"...You don't gotta do that—"

"I want to, Joel," you say, a little quieter now—like it's obvious. "Nothing's worked out for us so far, but... I wanna keep trying."

You swallow, listen closely for a reaction. Something, anything to tell you you're not crazy for seemingly wanting this more than him.

"Where would you stay?" he asks after a minute, the silence stretching thin.

Before you can answer, he adds, "Hotel?"

You rear your head back, blinking like the mere notion of sleeping anywhere but at his side is batshit crazy. It's not what he said and you know it, but you can't help feeling like—

"What's wrong with your place?" you counter, growing more defensive by the minute.

He senses it immediately, of course he does.

The man's memorized every god damn thing about your voice like the back of his hand—including when the tone of it shifts into something that signals he's in trouble.

"I didn't say anything was wrong with it—"

"Do you not want me to come?" you blurt, the question hurting on the way out.

You laugh quietly, hurt sinking in. "Seriously, you've been running me around for weeks—"

"Sarah doesn't know about you."

That shuts you up instantly, mouth tamping shut hard enough to make your teeth hurt.

"Oh."

He shakes his head, the sound rustling through the line as he sits forward, elbows to his knees.

"It ain't what you're thinking, darlin'," he says, but the words do little to comfort you.

When you don't speak, worrying at your lip and staring blankly ahead, he fills the quiet.

"It ain't you. Just worried she won't take it well... don't do this very often."

You soften instantly. The notion of a man like Joel—who doesn't like talking about his feelings—admitting he's worried about something like that sends warmth through your chest.

"We can tell her together," you offer gently. "You don't have to do it alone."

Joel doesn't want to do it at all.

Not because he doesn't want you, not even close. But mixing the two worlds together—you, his daughter, Tommy, him—could be bad news.

You could change your mind.

Find him repulsive, not good enough, too damn boring.

He doesn't think he can let you go and survive it. Not when you make him feel things he didn't think he would get the chance to again.

Clearing his throat, he mutters, "You sound real sure."

"Of course I am," you say, brows furrowing in concern. "I wanna be there for you."

You pause, the words leaving you quieter still.

"...for us."

He goes silent for a while after that. Not saying a word, not feeling the need to.

Once he's decided, come to terms with it, he exhales slow and rough—like your reassurance gave back just as much as it took out of him.

"Alright," he mutters. "I'll pay the flight."

The flight goes as well as one can.

No child behind you kicking the crap out of your seat the whole time, no weirdo beside you falling asleep and leaning into you.

Just the calm hum of the cabin, and the rustle of people moving about in their seats.

Your leg won't stop bouncing from the nerves, and if not for the fresh manicure, you're sure you would've chewed your nails down to the nub by now.

Instead, you've got a squeeze ball in your fist, gripping it to death like you'll lose your mind if you don't.

All the while, Joel spent the morning spiraling.

What if you see him and regret coming; what if he's too old; what if he looks tired, or too worn out to be worth wanting?

What if this whole thing has only worked out because phones let people imagine prettier versions of each other?

That's all he can think as he makes Sarah breakfast, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"You're wearing the flannel," she remarks, watching him try not to burn her pancakes.

"What flannel?" he asks drily, feigning ignorance.

"The one I told you makes your eyes pop," she chimes, taking a sip of her orange juice.

Nothing gets past her.

"Dad... do you have a date?"

He nearly drops the spatula right then, fumbling to get a grip on it, eyes cutting to her.

"No."

A pause.

"...Wouldn't call it that."

Her eyes brighten, "Is she pretty? Can I meet her?"

He sighs heavily. He just had to open his mouth in front of the nosiest girl in Texas. "Baby girl, eat your breakfast."

She grumbles in acknowledgement, takes another bite. "Is she the one you talk to every night?"

"Sarah," he chides, giving her a look that tells her it's the end of the conversation.

She just shrugs, stabs into a strawberry, and goes about her morning like she hasn't said a word.

Joel arrives at the airport a half hour early—in the nicest jeans he owns, carrying a bouquet of flowers from the store.

He contemplates throwing them out or giving them away more than once, worried you'll find them too cheap and thoughtless.

He settles on keeping them, if for nothing else than to give him something to do with his hands while he stands there idly.

You take your time walking through the terminal, make a pitstop in the bathroom to freshen up.

You brush your teeth, put on enough perfume to mask the stale airplane smell clinging to your skin, and try not to wince at your bare face in the mirror.

Concealer, mascara, blush, lip gloss.

Just a little.

When you get to the terminal, there's the searching—staring out at a sea of friends, families, and lovers, all waiting for someone special—while trying to find a man you haven't yet seen.

Well—you've seen... parts of him.

Just not the face.

Not the eyes, or the nose, or the lips you never stop thinking about—the ones that are tirelessly good at uttering filthy words in your ear and calling you his girl.

But it doesn't take you long to find him in the crowd—holding flowers that probably took him far too long to pick out, shoulders tense, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him right up.

Awkward. A little stiff as he scans every woman passing like he's trying not to panic.

Joel.

At least, he feels like him. Older than you imagined, flecks of gray painting his beard. Broader, too.

But real, and somehow, impossibly, exactly as he should be.

You approach with all the confidence you can muster, biting back a goofy smile in the hopes you don't scare him off before you've even smelled the Texan air.

"Joel?" you ask, coming to a stop in front of him, not setting your bags down until you're sure.

He looks at your face, eyes flitting back and forth, up and down.

"Yeah... that's me," he says, voice gruff. He scratches at his jaw once, then holds the flowers out. "Got these for you."

"Thank you," you say softly, smiling up at him sweetly as you take them, setting your bags down.

Before you can remind yourself to take it slow—to give you both time to adjust to the lack of distance between you—you're rising on your toes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He stiffens, breath catching in his chest, but he doesn't recoil.

Doesn't pull back or put you at arms length.

That's all the encouragement you need to shift over just enough to touch your lips to his, a chaste kiss that has his hand finding your waist, chasing your mouth to give it right back.

You finally break it, let your feet flatten on the ground—watch as he hinges down to pick up your things without an ounce of hesitation.

"Truck's this way," he mutters, clearing his throat as he leads the way.

The way the words waver has you biting back a grin. He's just as affected as you are.

His truck is old in age only—clean and well-maintained. The sign of a man who takes care of his things.

"Ain't much," he says with a grunt, lifting your bags into the bed. "But it still drives."

"No, it's perfect," you say, glancing around the cabin. "I like it."

As he's climbing into the driver's seat, he looks at you—really looks. Like he can't believe you're sitting passenger side, pretty as a picture, complimenting his ride like it isn't a hunk of junk.

The drive to his place is nothing short of awkward, that kind of quiet that settles in when there's too much to talk about, but not enough room to get it all out.

His hand rests on the gearstick, your gaze catching on it more than once.

You try to talk yourself out of it, let him initiate, but the temptation proves too damn much to resist.

Your hand brushes his—tentative, testing—and he turns his in invitation, lacing your fingers together.

His thumb grazes your skin, and you huff in sheer relief.

"Thought I was gonna say no?" he asks, still staring ahead.

"No, just... wasn't sure," you murmur, turning your head to watch the city go by.

The roads grow narrower the further out you drive, tall buildings traded for tree-lined suburbia—children playing, dads mowing lawns, garage doors open for the world to see.

When he pulls into the driveway, putting the truck in park, he shifts slightly in his seat to face you, eyes on the house.

"Sarah... got a little excited."

"Okay," you draw out, nodding slowly.

"Made you cookies. Chocolate chip," he adds, gaze moving back to your face, gauging your reaction.

Only to find a smile growing, a laugh shaking your shoulders. "She made me cookies? You serious?"

That makes his own lips twitch, his arm dropping from the steering wheel. "C'mon."

The moment you're through the door, you hear the pitter patter of feet approaching, Sarah rounding the corner and stopping in her tracks when she sees you.

She looks you up, down, then up again.

"You're prettier than I expected," she remarks, holding out her hand with a small smile.

You glance at Joel, see his subtle nod, and reach out to shake it.

"My dad is totally obsessed with you, by the way. Be nice to him," she says, with all the casualness of discussing the weather, drawing a snort from you.

"Yeah," you assure her, "I'll try my best."

Within a couple of hours, you and Sarah manage to get along like two peas in a pod, bonding over all the girly things Joel has no idea about.

Boys, school drama, makeup. The works.

As soon as the sun starts dipping low, a friend stops by to pick her up and whisk her away, but not before he slips into concerned-dad mode with a fervor you weren't expecting.

"Text me as soon as you get there."

"I will, dad."

"I mean it," he says, not sounding nearly as stern as he hopes he does, finger wagging at her.

"Alright, alright," she sighs, rolling her eyes. "I promise."

He kisses the top of her head, watches her go from where he leans against the doorframe.

You approach him from behind, hook your chin onto his shoulder as her friend pulls out of the driveway.

"She's very sweet," you murmur, hands finding his stomach, your chest flush to his back as you run your fingers along his front. "Think you did a good job."

He turns in your arms then, kisses your temple with an ease that has warmth spreading through you. "Hope so."

The shower helps. Mostly.

By the time you step out, hair damp and skin still warm, the nerves have settled into something softer.

You can hear his muffled voice as you pad down the stairs in your pajamas—hear him arguing.

"I can't, Tommy," he says, sounding frustrated.

You shouldn't eavesdrop—you know you shouldn't—but curiosity gets the better of you.

Inching towards the last step, you crane your head and listen in, Tommy's voice just barely audible over the receiver.

"Come on, Joel. You gotta get out sometime," he chides.

Joel sighs, the tension in his back visible from where you stand. "I said no. End of discussion."

"Don't you wanna show off that girl of yours?"

The stair would choose that moment to creak, his head turning to look at you, standing sheepishly before the landing.

"Sorry, just—I finished my shower," you say quietly, stepping down the rest of the way and moving over to the couch.

Sinking down onto it, you watch the tension seep out of him just barely, his eyes not meeting yours.

"I gotta go," he mutters, Tommy mid-speech as he hangs up.

The silence feels worse somehow—like you both know you walked into a conversation you weren't supposed to hear.

"Who called?" you ask, giving him a knowing look.

"Just Tommy."

Nodding, you swallow the growing lump in your throat. "What'd he want?"

He doesn't look at you when he speaks, just shakes his head lightly, raises a shoulder like it's no big deal.

Why won't he look at you?

"He invited us out to some bar downtown. Told him no."

You frown slightly, enough for him to notice—gaze finding you, watching you with confusion, concern.

You wring your hands in your lap, eyes downcast, expression unreadable.

"...Say somethin'."

"Got nothin' to say," you say, shaking your head.

He huffs, "Don't lie to me. You got somethin' to say, you say it."

"Don't talk to me like that," you say easily.

He goes rigid, turning to look at you, brows drawing. A hand scrubs down his face, shoulders dropping in defeat.

"You're right."

The quiet worsens—as if it could get any worse than this—and for a moment, you wonder if you thought more of your relationship than he did.

You're all sharp edges, not meeting his gaze.

He sighs, a heavy exhalation that wraps itself around you both, squeezing tight.

To your surprise, he crouches in front of you, hands finding your bare thighs. His thumb rubs once along your skin, then back again.

"You wanna go?"

You meet his gaze, eyes moving between his hands and that handsome face of his. You let your hand rest over his, squeezing gently, toying lightly with his fingers as you nod.

Just once.

His face softens, your chest easing at the sight of it.

"Go get dressed, baby," he says then, kissing your forehead in silent apology.

The smile is back on your lips before you can help it, lingering as you ascend the stairs once more.

Tommy's a character, that's for sure.

Joel's hand is steady at your back as you greet his brother with a shy smile.

"It's nice to meet you," you say, shaking his hand.

"Yeah, likewise," Tommy returns, taking a long swig of his beer.

"She's pretty, Joel. No wonder you've got it bad," he teases, Joel glaring daggers at him.

"Oh, this is Lindsey," he gestures, hugging the girl into his side, a blonde with pretty blue eyes that linger just a bit too long on Joel.

Tommy explains that they've been seeing each other as you make your way to an empty booth beside the bar. You make a show of sliding onto Joel's lap when you settle in, your arm draping around his shoulders.

"What are you up to?" he murmurs in your ear, the roughness of it sending a shiver through you.

"Just wanna be close to you," you say innocently, glancing at Lindsey to find her pouting lightly to herself.

Poor Tommy.

His own arm winds itself around your waist, fingers spread wide to hold you firm against him, possession radiating from him in waves—much to your delight.

"So, how long's this been goin' on?" his brother asks, gesturing between the two of you.

You look at Joel to find his eyes already on you as he answers. "Little while."

"A couple months," you add.

Tommy snorts into his beer. "Ah, so that's why he's holdin' on for dear life."

"Jesus, Tommy—" Joel warns.

"What?" Tommy shrugs, gesturing between the two of you. "It's true. You're both clingin'."

Playing into it, you lean in and press a lingering kiss to Joel's cheek.

"Can't help it," you murmur sweetly.

Joel goes warm beneath you so fast it's almost comical, the tips of his ears going pink. Tommy grimaces dramatically, pointing at him.

"Great. Just watched my brother blush." He tosses back the rest of his drink, setting down the bottle with a quiet clink. "Jesus Christ. First round's on me."

Lindsey laughs as you snicker against Joel's hair, and he mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously close to pain in my ass.

But his hand never leaves your waist—and when the alcohol starts flowing, it slips beneath the hem of your shirt, hot and heavy against your skin.

And you don't utter a damn thing about it.

Joel's gaze is intense, heady.

Like a caress that warms you to the marrow—a touch that aches as much as it soothes.

He's been watching you for a while now where you sit, perched atop his lap, and you've been pretending not to notice.

Finally, you give up.

You glance at him—Tommy momentarily distracted by Lindsey giving him a drunken kiss—and lightly bump your forehead to his.

"Hey," you murmur, smiling softly, the warmth of it softening your mouth.

He shifts you closer, noses at your neck, the scruff of his jaw making you shiver where it scrapes your skin. "Hey back."

You push lightly at his chest, giggling in amusement. "You were staring, you know."

"Was I?"

"Mhm," you hum, peering at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Staring real hard."

"Am I not allowed to look? Pretty thing like you in my lap..."

He tickles your sides, making you choke on your breath, trying not to laugh too loud. "Joel, stop—stop it."

Something in the way his eyes darken makes you pause, the way they take you in with an intensity that makes your stomach clench.

"Joel?" you ask quietly.

But he's too fixated on you to answer—on the way your throat bobs as you swallow, the red flush in your cheeks that trails down to your chest, that tipsy daze on your face that makes him want to devour you in one bite.

"Bathroom. Now," he says, voice low.

You blink, eyes widening slightly.

"Oh," you say, already starting to move off of his lap. "Do you have to go—"

"We do."

Before you can ask what he means, protest that you're fine, he's got his fingers tangled around yours, leading you through a secluded hallway to an empty bathroom.

"Joel, what are you—"

The bathroom door barely clicks shut before he's turning, backing you into it in two quick steps that steal the breath from your lungs, your lips parting in surprise.

His hands find your face first—big, rough palms framing your jaw, shaking like he's been holding back and finally snapped.

His thumb drags once along your cheek before switching to your bottom lip, rubbing it gently.

"Been thinkin' about this all damn night," he mutters.

The first kiss is almost punishing in its urgency, but the second—

The second is slower, deeper. All pent up restraint and want so tangible, it leaves your fingers clutching at his shirt just to keep you upright.

Before you can remember how to breathe—focus on keeping your knees from giving out—he's lifting you, your startled laugh swallowed up greedily by his mouth as your legs lock around his waist.

Whatever thought you might've had vanishes the second you melt into him.

Your body goes pliant beneath his touch, heat skittering south and settling between your thighs before you can contain it.

You let out a helpless little moan that only encourages him further, his hands gripping your hips that much tighter in response—one keeping you steady, the other snaking down to squeeze your ass, kneading at it with a pleased hum that rumbles through his chest.

A sharp knock at the door has you both freezing.

"Hey, some of us need to piss!" someone exclaims from outside, followed by muttered curses that fade down the hall.

You huff, try your best not to laugh—but it breaks free anyway. Quiet at first, then louder still, wracking your shoulders and leaving you breathless.

He smiles as he lowers you to the ground, and your dazed, flustered gaze catches on it without fail.

"Hey," he murmurs, resting his forehead to yours. "We'll finish this at home, alright?"

You watch silently as he unlocks the door, righting your clothes and hair with a slowness that betrays you.

Home, you think to yourself.

You like the sound of that.

Back at the table, Tommy quirks a brow, face going wolfish the moment you round the corner.

"Now, where'd you two run off to?" he asks as you slide back into the booth, a knowing look on his face.

You blush, avoiding looking at either of them—your attention instead fixed on your abandoned drink, the condensation beading down the glass and onto the table.

"Nowhere," says Joel, clearing his throat.

You, however, couldn't be more obvious if you tried.

Lindsey giggles, pulling a small compact mirror from her purse and handing it over.

"Babe, your lipstick—" she gestures to the corner of her mouth. "It's all smudged."

You blink, snatching it from her hand to look yourself over. Joel looks innocent as a lamb, looking entirely unbothered when you glance at him in horror, shoving lightly at his arm.

"You weren't gonna tell me I look a mess?" you hiss, a sharp whisper that should make him look at least a tad bit sheepish.

Instead, he reaches out, brushing your hair back from your face in gentle strokes.

"I think you look beautiful," he says easily, like the words took no effort at all to leave him.

Oh.

That has you softening despite yourself, head ducking behind the small compact as you fight another flush.

Even Tommy stares at his brother in surprise.

"Well, shit."

The drive back to Joel's is quiet in a way you haven't felt before.

A tension crackles in the air, threaded through the low hum of the engine and the soft drone of the radio.

His hand hasn't left your thigh—running slowly along the expanse of it, gripping just a bit when he underestimates a turn, or picks up speed on the highway.

Always there, steady and warm, inching far too close to the place that's been on edge since he first kissed you in that bathroom.

Fingers tangled in your hair.

His knee slotted between your thighs just before he lifted you like you didn't weigh a thing.

"What are you thinkin' about?" he asks—voice low, words stirring something in your drink-addled mind.

You cover his hand with your own, lacing your fingers, head resting against the seat. "Mm... you. Us."

He glances at you, at your intertwined fingers, then back to the road ahead.

"Us, huh? You like that word."

You chuckle, eyes drifting shut as you sigh wistfully. "I do. I like us."

The words settle between you, soft and heavy all at once.

Joel goes quiet.

Not uncomfortable quiet, just... thoughtful. Turning the word over in his mind because he can't believe you're here, reciting it like it's your favorite thing in the world.

Us.

By the time he pulls into the driveway, shifts the car into park, you're feeling every drink Lindsey insisted on sharing with you.

"Easy," Joel murmurs as you nearly misjudge the step down from the truck.

His arm loops around your waist before gravity and the ground can make a fool of you, hauling you snug against his side.

"I'm okay," you insist, pulling away slightly to prove it.

Your foot catches on an uneven step, nearly making you stumble. He huffs a laugh.

"Sure you are."

The walk up the drive is slower than it should be, mostly because you keep leaning into him like he's the only thing keeping the earth level.

Which, if you're being honest, he might be.

And he'd be lying if he said he isn't enjoying every minute of it, having you close like this.

At the front door, he's busy fumbling with his keys, in search of the right one, when you turn in his arms, wrapping yourself around him tight.

Your cheek squishes into the warmth of his chest, and he stills.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, one hand automatically sliding up your back. "You gotta let go so we can get inside."

Crickets chirp somewhere nearby. A dog barks in the distance.

You hug him harder still, brows furrowing softly.

"Okay..." you mumble into his shirt, but you don't let go.

After a beat, you whisper, "...in a minute."

Eventually, you relent just enough for him to get the key in, his chest shaking beneath your cheek with a quiet laugh.

The second the door shuts behind you, he's pulling you right back in. One arm around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he rests his cheek on your hair.

Safe. Comfortable. Entirely too nice to be real.

"You're so warm," you murmur.

"Yeah?"

You nod against him. "Like a furnace."

You pull back just enough to bring your shirt to your nose, sniffing it with a grimace.

"I stink."

Joel's brows knit together.

"No, you don't, baby."

"Bar smell," you insist, wrinkling your nose. "Like cigarettes and beer."

An idea forms in your mind before you can will it away, blinking up at him innocently.

"Shower?" you ask softly.

He searches your face for something—you don't know what.

"...You wanna shower?"

You nod enthusiastically, the action making your head spin slightly. But you don't care, just wait for him to speak with wide, hopeful eyes.

"With me?" he asks, deeper still.

His jaw flexes.

God help him, you're a menace.

"C'mere," he murmurs instead, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead.

"You're drunk—"

The pout is on your lips before he can finish the word, your foot stomping lightly.

"Joel," you whine quietly.

His thumb brushes your bottom lip free, soothes the frown as best he can.

"Wanna do this right," he says with finality, holding your gaze, affection clear in his eyes.

It makes your heart thud violently in your ears, butterflies taking root in your stomach and showing no signs of letting up.

"Still wanna shower," you mumble.

He exhales through his nose, a defeated little sound that has you perking up instantly.

"Alright. I'll wait in the bathroom."

You sigh in relief the moment the hot water touches your skin, washing away the night and all the tension you'd been carrying.

Joel's perched against the sink, arms crossed tight against his chest like he's awaiting sentencing.

He didn't watch you undress, much to your chagrin. Instead, he opted to stand outside until he heard the shower running, only when he was certain he wouldn't be taking advantage.

Didn't help him none that you were stripping bits and pieces on the way to the bathroom, humming a song you heard on the car radio under your breath, offbeat the entire time until you made it through the door.

He's fully convinced the sight of you sauntering away in those little black panties will be ingrained in his mind for the rest of his life.

The silhouette of him standing there—so close, yet so far out of reach—irks you more than you care to admit.

You want him to watch you.

Want his eyes roving your figure while you lather up, his knuckles white with the restraint it takes not to touch you.

He's all too determined to make you beg for it, and you're too drunk out of your mind not to.

So, you splash him. Just once, a quick flick of your fingers over the curtain.

He flinches, wipes his face slowly, glances at the dark outline of you.

"What was that?"

You bark out a laugh—bright and unguarded—and peek your head around the curtain.

"You looked too serious," you tease, wiping away the bubbles dripping down your forehead.

You look ridiculous—hair all mussed up and slathered in shampoo, makeup half off, mascara clinging to your under-eyes.

The next splash comes quick, but he doesn't anticipate it. Water drips down his cheek, droplets coating his shirt.

He exhales slow, a little dangerous, enough to have you biting your lip in anticipation.

"Baby," he says with a hint of warning. "I mean it."

The silence that follows feels louder than the water. Your stomach flips in recollection.

He always did say he'd take you over his knee if you acted up, all those nights you'd talk too late and the mood would take a turn.

He wouldn't possibly—

Heat curls low in your belly anyway, traitorous and immediate, your thighs pressing together before you can stop them.

Before sense can intervene, you give one final flick over the curtain—just enough water to get his attention.

There's no movement on the other side, just a silence that settles loud in your ears.

Then you hear it.

The soft shift of denim, the muted clink of his belt buckle against the tile floor, the rustle of his flannel as he tosses it aside.

Your breath catches the moment the curtain shifts, Joel stepping in.

He's all warm skin and broad shoulders, wisps of damp air curling around him. All at once, your bravado evaporates.

"...Hi," you mutter softly, feeling just as meek as you sound.

He raises a brow, taking in your sudden shyness.

"Thought you wanted me in here."

"I did—I do," you say quietly, wetting your lips.

Your arm instinctively rises, shielding your chest from view.

His eyes flick to it briefly, voice a low rumble that wakes something in the pit of your stomach.

"You hidin' from me?" he asks, inching closer, arms bracketing you against the tile.

"What? N-No. 'Course not."

Heat climbs your throat in an instant.

Slowly, feeling ridiculous under the weight of his stare, you let it fall.

His jaw works, his throat bobs—like he hadn't prepared himself for the reality of you.

"You're staring again," you murmur, swallowing thickly.

"Makin' a habit of it, it seems," he drawls, not looking away.

You can't help it. Your own glance drops—quick, subtle, save for the sharp inhale at the length of him—and the look on his face has your eyes widening before you snap them away again.

"Turn around," he says, and you obey without argument.

He grabs the loofah, coats it in a sweet-smelling body wash he bought with you in mind, his breath near your shoulder.

Then it settles against your skin with a hesitance that makes your chest ache, the soap lathering as he smooths it over your shoulders, down your arms. Deliberate, gentle.

Not rushed or greedy, or doing more for the sake of touching. Just care that makes your pulse race, your head going dizzy with it. Like this means more than what it is.

His lips brush your bare shoulder once. Then again, and again, fingers moving your hair aside to bare your nape for the trail he's set to make.

When he shifts behind you, the press of him against your back has your breath hitching, eyes fluttering shut.

"...Sorry," he murmurs against your skin, stilling immediately.

But you shake your head. "It's okay... Feels nice."

"My turn," you say softly, guiding him beneath the spray.

He huffs quietly in amusement, but goes easily regardless. You notice instantly that your hands are nowhere near as steady as his were.

As you run the loofah along his chest, the muscles of his abdomen, down his sides and the front of his legs, his eyes never leave your face.

Not once.

By the time you make it to bed, you're scrubbed clean and half delirious with exhaustion and an intoxicating arousal that has you pulling gently at his waistband.

Joel pulls you in without a word, one arm heavy across your waist.

"Joel," you whisper. "I wanna..."

His fingers close around your wrist, bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your fingers.

"Not tonight, sweetheart."

You frown, pouting lightly. "Why not?"

He brushes your cheek, your lip, and you nip the pad of his thumb gently before he can pull it away.

"Want you sober. You alright with that?"

That stops you in your tracks, eyes widening.

"Oh," you mumble, letting his hand fall away. "Yeah, that's—"

Sweet. Unexpected. Perfect.

The most precious goddamn thing anyone's ever said to you.

A whole world of adjectives you can't even think to name off the top of your head.

Instead, you curl further into his side, rest your head on his chest, and tangle your legs with his.

He holds you tighter, kisses the top of your head, lingering there long enough to make your heart skip.

You mean to say something.

Goodnight.

Thank you.

Anything that'll let him know you're happy to be in his arms.

But sleep gets hold of you first, and you're out before you can think to speak.

Morning light drift through the bedroom curtains—warm and unbidden—rousing you gently.

Your eyes open to find Joel already staring. Head against his palm, fingers tracing an absentminded path along your arm.

"Morning," he rasps.

You smile, humming contentedly.

"Good morning," you murmur, a yawn catching before you can stifle it.

You smell your breath with a grimace, already making for the bathroom when his hand at your hip stops you.

"Where you goin'?" he asks, watching you in confusion.

You stop—sheets half off, one foot on the ground.

"I have morning breath."

He snorts, drawing you in and pressing a kiss to your mouth without an ounce of hesitation.

"Don't care about that."

You look at him in disbelief. "It's yucky."

"'Yucky?'" He repeats, face contorting in amusement. "Are you a child?"

You huff, covering your mouth with the comforter. "Stop it."

He sighs, reaching out to move it. "I don't mind a little morning breath, baby."

You hesitate, letting him pull it away. "Are you sure?"

"'Course I'm sure. What kinda man gets bothered by somethin' like that?"

He sounds so painfully certain, you lean in without a word, letting your lips brush his with a soft, barely there kiss.

Before you can process it, he's deepening it—guiding you onto your back and settling over you with enough care to make your chest ache.

There's cotton in your mouth and you're dreaming, light-headed at the sheer size of him as he crowds your space.

When you pull away, his eyes rove across your face—slow, unhurried, like you're not bursting at the seams because of it.

It makes you frown.

"You keep looking at me like that..." you whisper.

He brushes your hair back, elbows on either side of your head keeping him upright.

"Don't think I've ever seen anything so pretty, that's all," he murmurs back.

You catch his hand, bring his fingertips to your lips.

You press a kiss to his pinky, his ring finger, the middle, the index.

But his thumb you take between your lips without a word, laving it over with your tongue in gentle, methodical strokes.

His nostrils flare, a breath leaving him so quickly, you wonder—absurdly—if he's not into it.

Then he shifts between your thighs and you feel him clearly enough to gasp—hot and heavy against your core, straining against his boxers, tenting the fabric.

You hum around his thumb, your free hand finding his hip to pull him into you, bucking your own to grind against him.

The friction is so good, you release him and bury your face in the crook of his neck—breaths coming out in sharp, shuddering pants.

"Joel—" you utter, voice cracking embarrassingly—but he doesn't so much as slow, rocking against you with deliberate thrusts.

Like he’s taking his time learning what drives you crazy and how to angle his hips so you feel him just right.

"Please," you beg, and it's more than enough for him.

He sits up, shucking his shirt off in one quick motion, before kicking his boxers down his legs.

He leaves your panties on, gaze fixed hard on them as he pushes your nightgown up.

Pink silk, white lace.

His favorite.

"Wait," you breathe, "Aren't you gonna—"

"Leave 'em on," he says quick, rough.

You watch him with thinly-veiled curiosity and a lust so intense it frays at your nerves. But you nod in agreement, in quiet obedience.

He kisses you hard, dragging his tongue against yours in one slow sweep before moving lower—your jaw, your neck.

He sucks a mark into the skin at your collarbone, hums low at the sight of it blooming purple and red.

Pretty.

His.

His beard scratches and scrapes as he makes his way down your chest, lingering on your breasts just long enough to take a sensitive bud between his lips, tongue lapping at it firmly enough to make you whine.

But the moment he settles between your legs, kissing your inner thighs, running a strong hand up your center, whatever fragile composure you were holding onto crumbles to pieces.

His thumbs move to spread you open, your pussy all but swallowing the lace, a groan sounding from somewhere deep within him.

"So pretty," he mumbles under his breath.

Your thighs are trembling against his arms, a strangled noise slipping from your lips as he leans in, licking a wet stripe along the damp fabric, tasting you through it.

You feel the heat of his mouth enough to have you begging.

"Joel, please—"

"'Please,' what?"

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, fingers finding his hair, pulling at the strands. "I need it," you breathe helplessly. "Need your mouth."

"Atta girl," he says, fingers hooking around the lace to move it aside.

His mouth descends without hesitation, tongue dragging through your slick. "Let me hear you."

Your hips grind against his face, his name slipping out of you, soft and wrecked.

His eyes darken at the sound of it and he redoubles his efforts, sucking and licking, making you squirm.

Need gnaws its way into your gut when his lips close around your clit, the pressure making your chest go tight.

"Fuck—" you cry, back arching, trying to clamp your thighs shut.

His hands dig into the meat of them, keeping you spread wide for him. "Like that..." he praises, "Keep makin' those noises."

The sound of his breath growing ragged against your heat has your jaw going slack, his gaze snapping up to your face, watching your head tip back against the headboard in pleasure—

Exposing the smooth expanse of your throat, the flutter of your pulse thrumming beneath your skin, the way your lips part on each soft moan.

The sun casts a warm glow across the bed, bathing you in golden light, making you look like an angel in his eyes.

Enough to have his hips pressing hard into the mattress, chasing friction as he devours you like a goddamn feast.

He doesn't let you catch your breath, not for a second.

He nudges at your entrance with his tongue, gets it slick with spit before circling your clit once more.

"Doing so good, baby," he mutters, voice all gravel as it leaves him.

A low groan follows, the vibration of it against you hard enough to make you whimper.

His mouth leaves you so suddenly, you could almost cry over it.

The loss has your body jolting, thighs trying to close around nothing, a needy sound catching in your throat.

Your eyes fly open, glazed and desperate, finding him already hovering above you.

"No, please," you breathe, the words tumbling out embarrassingly broken. "Please, I’m so close—"

Whatever else you mean to say dies when his hand finds your cheek.

"Hey," he murmurs softly. The word alone steadies something in you.

He kisses you once—grounding you. Presses another to the corner of your mouth.

"Shh."

His thumb strokes your skin, gaze fixed on yours like he needs you looking right at him.

"Gonna get you there," he promises, low and certain. "Just—Christ."

His forehead rests briefly against yours, his next breath rougher—like he's losing whatever fight he'd been trying to maintain.

"Need to be inside you," he admits quietly, the confession dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.

Your stomach flips.

"Yeah?" you whisper, fingers finding his wrist.

His mouth brushes yours again, a barely there touch that has a slow sigh seeping out of you.

"Yeah."

You hold his gaze, searching for reassurance. When you find it, that silent confirmation that he wants you just as much as you want him, you nod.

His hands tremble with restraint as he lines himself up, easing into you carefully, swallowing the sound it tears from your lips.

The stretch of him steals your breath all at once, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails scraping lines down his back, leaving crescent-shaped indents in his skin.

"Joel," you whimper.

He answers with a kiss, a murmured reassurance against your mouth.

Something low and steady you don't quite catch because your body's gone molten beneath him, ears ringing with the need for release.

The rhythm he lands on has your thoughts dissolving almost instantly, your head tipping back before you can help it.

Every drag of his cock has your mouth falling open, your breath catching in your lungs, your thighs tightening desperately around his hips.

You can't do anything but cling, letting out the little sounds he loves—the ones that make his jaw go tight, his nostrils flare.

Your climax builds too fast.

One moment, you're trying to warn him, and the next your words dissolve into a broken gasp, eyes going wide as you tighten and flutter around him.

"That's it," he groans, forehead falling to yours. "There you go."

The feel of you coming apart around him has his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully.

He snaps forward one last time, burying himself fully and stilling as he spills inside you with a strangled groan.

Your breaths mingle as you come down together, noses brushing as neither of you tries to fill the space.

You just lie there, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air like moving might ruin the moment.

So, you stay still—feeling the thud of his heart against yours, the gentle caress of his fingers through your hair.

He takes his time cleaning you up, far gentler than a man who just ruined you so thoroughly has any right to be.

The cloth is warm, his touch careful—almost reverent where he smooths it over your skin.

You're still half boneless against the pillows, watching him with sleepy satisfaction.

"You enjoyed that," you murmur.

His brow lifts. "What makes you think that?"

Your chest puffs slightly, smug despite the lingering heat in your limbs.

"Because," you say, trying and failing to suppress a grin, "you lasted, what? Two minutes?"

His mouth twitches.

"Oh yeah? You teasing me?"

You beam. "Uh-huh."

He folds the cloth and slowly sets it aside, looking at you in that way that immediately makes your stomach drop.

"C'mere."

You know that tone. The same one from the shower—the one that says you've taken things a bit too far again.

But you can't stop giggling, the sound bubbling up from your chest unrestrained.

He sits on the edge of the bed, catches you by the ankle when you try to scoot away, and gives it a careful tug.

"Joel—" you begin to protest, but his expression is neutral. Peaceful.

The only tell you can see is the way his throat works, jaw clenched tight as he settles you over his knee.

Your face is beet red as you stare at the sheets, heat climbing up your spine, lingering at your nape.

He lifts your nightie, lets it rest high against your lower back, his hand smoothing along your ass. He takes care to give each cheek equal attention, kneading lightly.

You flinch when his lips press against your skin, expecting worse.

Then—

He spanks you.

Once, twice, three times—then a fourth that draws a sharp laugh from your throat.

It's not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to bite, leaving your skin hot to the touch.

Breathless, you twist to look at him.

"What was that for?" you ask.

Joel looks entirely unbothered as he moves you free from his lap, settling you back onto the bed.

"The shower."

He gives your foot a fond little pat before standing.

"Breakfast?"

You stare after him in stunned silence as he disappears down the hall.

Sinking back into the pillows, you grin helplessly at the ceiling.

Thank God for wrong numbers.

a/n: and with that, my Joel 2-part fic is complete!! i'm so glad y'all asked for a second part, because this feels like a satisfying place to end it. i have a 4-part Joel fic coming very soon titled Main Attraction, and i'm so excited to share it once it's complete. it may be a little while, but i think it'll be worth the wait. thank you for sticking around for this release, if you did. i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it 💛💛💛

p.s. thank you for getting me to my next follower milestone! ilysmmmm

Since you and Mando first started sleeping together, there have been frequent occasions when you have regretted the day that you gave into your desires and ever allowed yourself to end up underneath him, especially since he is so reclusive and aloof by nature. His reserved nature occasionally frustrates you, though you have always successfully hidden that. Well, almost always. 

Mando’s withdrawn, quiet nature began as an attractive trait. His stoic, quiet nature first drew you to him as a business partner. 

Except, now you have become something more to each other, such a trait prevents you from knowing him entirely. 

And, boy, do you want to know him entirely. 

Unfortunately, it seems as though you never will. A fact that you are painfully aware of now Mando cannot even stand to be in the same room as you. He is always hiding away in the cockpit. 

You are frustrated at yourself for ever allowing yourself to feel so deeply for him. 

What started as a casual arrangement is undeniably something more to you now. He means something more to you now. The man whose presence you cannot bear to be without. The man whose absence creates a great cavernous void in your chest that feels overwhelming. 

The arrangement between you and Mando started as a physical release for you. A way to scratch an itch. With no strings attached, the arrangement was merely a way of passing time as you hurtled through hyperspace to collect the next bounty. 

You were instantly attracted to Mando since you first glanced at him in the Cantina on Nevarro. With his broad shoulders, narrow waist and imposing form, it was impossible to tear your eyes away from him when he strode in. Even though mostly hidden beneath his armour, you were certain he was gorgeous. 

Then you heard him speak.

Maker. His voice. So deep. His tone was so even, including when he was frustrated by the conversation with the head of the Bounty Hunters’ Guild on Nevarro. Even in the face of adversity, Mando kept his composure. The hulking warrior seemed so composed, so certain. His voice was calm and steady. 

As a fellow member of The Guild, you were unable to resist the tempting urge to eavesdrop on his conversation with Greef Karga. You heard all about how Mando was struggling to afford the interest on paying off the ridiculous loan he had taken to buy the antiquated Razor Crest. You discovered he was having increasing difficulty covering the fuel that the old girl guzzled. After hearing about his predicament, an idea formed in your head.

It was rare for two members of The Guild to collaborate in such a way. After all, Mando should have been your competition. Something about him was drawing you to him, though. You felt compelled towards him, as though some invisible Force was pushing you together. 

You proposed an arrangement to him. 

In return for keeping the credits from your jobs, this mysterious Mandalorian would provide transport, lodgings and fuel in his ship. Considering it was an offer to have one of the best Bounty Hunters in the parsec come aboard his ship, you knew it was an offer he could not refuse. Sure enough, Mando accepted. 

You had been together ever since.

At first, the arrangement was strictly business. You both kept yourselves to yourselves. Never prying into the other’s affairs.

However, after a couple of months spent traversing the galaxy together, there was a shift in your dynamic.

It turned out that two people existing together in a confined space with only each other to converse with to break the monotony of endless hyperspace lanes would find conversation and, eventually, friendship in each other. Despite their best efforts to avoid such a dynamic. 

While friendship blossomed, so did other feelings. 

You had never been able to deny your attraction to Mando to yourself. Pretty soon, you could not even deny it to him. Not when he asked you outright after imbibing one too many flagons of spotchka. 

The first night you slept together was after a particularly heavy night of drinking at a seedy Cantina next to the shipyards of Corellia. There had been an unavoidable tension in the air that night. The alcohol had only enhanced your existing attraction towards each other to the point where it was no longer possible to ignore. The booze finally gave you the courage to vocalise them. 

The tension which lingered in the air all evening was only magnified when you finally staggered back to the Razor Crest. It was practically suffocating being so close to him in that old ship. 

In hoping that you would quickly fall into Mando’s bunk alongside him, you had vastly underrated the meticulousness of your business partner. 

Even in your inebriated states, he had taken the time to lay out the ground rules. Despite how desperate you were for him, every inch of you aflame, Mando had insisted on setting some boundaries before your first time together. 

Firstly, he insisted that sleeping together should not get in the way of your professional relationship. Mando would not give you favourable rates or discounts, nor would he expect them from you, just because you were sleeping together. He made it abundantly clear that, at any time, either of you could back out. The end of the arrangement would not impact your life together.

Secondly, there were no strings attached. No feelings. No declarations of love were wanted nor expected. Ideally, no emotions at all; this was strictly a physical relationship. You were to enjoy each other’s bodies and bring each other pleasure, but that did not necessarily mean that feelings ran any deeper than merely enjoying the way he relentlessly pounded into you, night after night, as you soared through the stars together. 

Thirdly, and most importantly to Mando: the armour stayed on. All of it. Including the helmet. You were never, under any circumstances, to question this rule. You were never to attempt to remove any of his armour. If you did, it would not only terminate your physical arrangement with Mando. But your professional one, too.

You were so desperate to finally relieve the tension that had been simmering for months that you were more than happy to agree to terms. 

You did not regret your decision for even a moment once Mando ended up in the bunk with you.

In allowing your desire for him to win out, you discovered that he was a skilled lover, even with the limitations of his armour. You could not touch him, see his face or feel his mouth, but he made it work. He always ensured you came first, knowing exactly how to please you.  

Your encounters with Mando were a way to blow off steam, a release you both craved. It broke up journeys and brought you closer together. Your professional lives went from strength to strength. You were attuned to each other’s bodies. With each encounter, it felt as though you were slowly becoming one.

Even if you feared catching feelings for Mando, you always consoled yourself that it would never amount to anything. You were sure he did not feel for you in that way.

Whenever you doubted the arrangement, you thought about how the positives far outweighed the negatives. After all, keeping your sexual encounters in-house, so to speak, was a far safer option than putting yourselves in such a vulnerable position, entirely at the behest of others. Your reputation as a formidable bounty-hunting team preceded you throughout the galaxy. You were certain that there would be no shortage of people who would be keen to seduce you and Mando for their benefit.

The arrangement was perfect for both of you. It satisfied your carnal desires. 

At least, at first, it did. 

The closer you grew to Mando, the more your lives became intertwined, the more difficult it was to respect how strongly he felt about keeping himself covered when you slept together. 

To begin with, Mando only took his cock out of the confines of his flightsuit. His armour remained on, digging into your skin. The various plates of his armour colliding roughly with your skin was a sensation you did not mind one bit, especially the touch of his cool beskar on your flushed skin. 

Although you were entirely naked before him, with every inch of your skin displayed. At first, Mando did not even remove his gloves.

During those early encounters, you would barely even touch him. Fearful of being scolded, of ruining what you had. He often took you from behind, pounding into you after he bent you over the crates or the edge of his bunk. Sometimes on the cockpit's dashboard itself, if you were particularly desperate for each other and could not make it down the ladder to your bunk.

Still, the more you and Mando got intimate with one another, the more desperate you were to reach the man below. 

When he finally allowed you to ride him as he sat on the red leather seat of the cockpit, your ass brushing against the cool metal of his thigh plates, you took your chance.

You frantically pushed through the coarse material of his cowl and moved the material which guarded his neck so you could place your lips upon the soft, golden skin you discovered there. 

Mando did not seem to mind, never pushing you away. 

It became a ritual whenever you slept together. You, delighting as you sucked marks that no one else would be able to see, while Mando groaned and praised you. 

You knew the marks were just between the two of you, for your eyes only. Still, their presence nonetheless gave you a thrill in the days afterwards. Especially, when you saw him interacting with others. To know that you had marked him. You had claimed him as yours.

It was a heady prospect that this formidable Mandalorian warrior had been reduced to a whimpering mess by your lips, by such a simple act. He had allowed you to claim him. 

It was also a dangerous prospect… to think of him as yours.

You did not dwell on it for too long, however. 

After that first time you desperately sought out his skin as you rode him in the cockpit, something shifted deep within Mando. 

That small action had clearly awakened some previously untouched feelings in him. The next time you slept together Mando allowed you to remove his flightsuit. You had not acknowledged this shift or dared to believe that it could mean that he held any deeper feelings for you than the lust and desperation borne out of your encounters. 

Still, from that day forth, rather than just taking his impressive length out and nothing else, he would undress himself and wait for you on the bunk, clad in nothing but his helmet. 

It was a sign of ultimate trust. Of vulnerability from a man who you knew rarely allowed himself to feel such an emotion. 

Now you lie here despondently at the knowledge that you have ruined everything. 

Your heart constricts as you remember how close you and Mando once had been. How much you had trusted each other. Entirely. Unquestioningly.

Those times seem so distant now.

Now that you and Mando have stopped speaking. 

Since your last encounter more than a week ago, which happened in the aftermath of a particularly stressful job on the forest planet where you had collected your latest bounty, he has not said a word to you. 

Mando has been completely ignoring your existence… and you have a pretty good idea as to the reason why. 

In fact, as you think back to your most recent encounter, turning over the thoughts in your mind once again, you are certain of the moment you ruined everything…

✯✯✯✯✯

You had barely made it to the bunk, so desperate for each other after spending days camped out in the undergrowth. Dirt still clung to your pores, invading every crease of your body. There had been no opportunity to use the sonic. You were preoccupied with loading up the bounty, as Mando started the Razor Crest’s launch sequence. Despite your dishevelled, filthy appearance, Mando did not seem to mind. He initiated another encounter without hesitation. 

Your condition seemed to unlock something primal within him when you bore yourself to him, traces of dirt on your skin. The musky scent of the forest planet clung to him as he bared his hulking form to you after stripping out of his flightsuit. He was feral, desperate for you as he pounded into you at a merciless pace. Mando moaned loudly and chanted your name as though it were a sacred prayer until he finished with one long growl of your name in his deep, gravelly voice that strained under each syllable.

In the aftermath, as you lay on his strong chest, you allowed your mind to wander. You wondered what the man beneath the helmet looked like. Whether he was as attractive as the rest of his body suggested. His body was firm and toned without being overwhelmingly muscular. There was a softness to his belly and chest you appreciated. A physique more than appropriate for a man of his age. 

You ached to move your hands beneath his helmet, tracing his features with your fingers so that you may see him in the only way possible for you to do so. To catch the vaguest of glimpses of the man who had brought you so much pleasure over the last few months. 

Still blissed out from your multiple orgasms and barely comprehending the gravity of your words and how dangerously close to the line you were stepping, you said something which you wished you could take back almost as soon as the words were out of your mouth. 

“I wish I could see your face when you moan my name, Mando,” you sighed as you lay there in the afterglow. 

The shift was immediate. You felt Mando tense beneath you. Your comment had unsettled him. The guilt was immediate.

“Wait, Mando,” you quickly added, your blood ran cold as you realised your carelessness, “I wasn’t asking you to remove it… I was just thinking out loud. Please, Mando, I…”

Your words were cut off when he shuffled out from beneath you, disentangling himself from your limbs that had been entwined ever since you collapsed in a heap of breathless satisfaction after your latest encounter.

Without uttering a single word to you, you heard Mando’s heavy footsteps echo throughout the metallic hull and disappear into the fresher to finally wash the grime from his body. 

When he finally exited, you attempted to apologise to him one more time. Unfortunately, he was thoroughly uninterested in anything you had to say. You stood before him, the threadbare blanket from the bunk wrapped around you, pleading for mercy. A formidable bounty hunter reduced to a trembling wreck, begging for Mando's forgiveness. Mando did not respond to anything you said. Instead, he immediately excused himself while mumbling about checking the hyperdrive generator. 

✯✯✯✯✯

Throughout the last few miserable days, you have distracted yourself from the uneasy atmosphere which hangs heavy in the ship by thoroughly polishing each one of your blasters and thinking back to happier times. 

Like the time when Mando stripped himself from his flightsuit for the first time and allowed you to finally see him almost entirely. As entirely as you ever would.

The way his taut, toned flesh felt underneath your fingers as you traced each ridge of his muscles with delicate, tentative fingers. His sweaty skin slapped against yours, an obscene noise which reverberated throughout the rest of the ship.

As you lie back on your bunk, you cannot help your fingers trailing down your abdomen. Lower and lower until they reach between your thighs. 

You are stunned by how wet you are before you have even touched yourself, so turned on by merely the memories of Mando.

You gather your wetness with your fingers before you begin moving them in a circular motion over your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

You think back to that first time you laid eyes upon Mando. His impressive physique. The way he picked up the pace to fuck you even harder when you raked your nails down his flesh. Moaning and grunting into your neck as you left marks down his broad back. 

You remember the unmistakable scent of sex that lingered in the air afterwards, amplified by the fact there were now two bare bodies during your encounters, not just one. It was almost overwhelming to your senses, the scent of him. So masculine and musky. So Mando.

You groan at the memory, clenching around nothing. You feel so empty, desperate to feel the delicious burn as Mando’s thick cock stretches you and reaches parts of you never filled before. You slide two fingers inside yourself and begin thrusting out. Although it satisfies the ache, it pales in comparison to the fullness and completeness you feel whenever Mando snaps his hips forward and thrusts into you in one fluid motion. 

You try to remember how he felt, pathetically imagining that your fingers are in any way comparable to his touch. To his length. It is the best you are going to get, for now.

Your nipples pebble and tighten beneath the thin cotton shirt you wear. The material provides some friction, but nothing as satisfying as when Mando would roll them between his thumb and forefinger, causing you to throw your head back in ecstasy. Still, you moan at the memory, continuing to thrust your fingers inside of you with one hand while the other massages your clit. 

“Mando,” you gasp when you pick the pace up. 

Both hands and your fingers working in tandem still are nowhere near as satisfying as even one of Mando’s thick, calloused digits. 

“Kriff, Mando!” you yell as your legs begin trembling.

You are so close now. That familiar feeling builds somewhere deep inside of you. A coil tightening, ready to release. 

A familiar voice behind you, tone full of concern, “Are you okay? I heard–” followed by a gasp of surprise and hastily retreating footsteps kills the mood instantly.

“Sith hells!” you exclaim, annoyed to have been interrupted when you were so close to climax.

That frustrated feeling soon gives way to embarrassment as you realise that Mando probably heard you from all the way up in the cockpit. He has spent much of his time up there, only descending the ladder to use the fresher or prepare himself rations. Even then, he usually only comes down when he can hear that you have sealed yourself into your bunk for the night. 

You must have called his name far louder than you had realised in the throes of passion. You wonder how you will ever face him again. You pull your pants up and step out of the bunk, keen to at least attempt to converse with the stubborn buckethead. 

Fortunately, you do not have to wait long. Mando soon emerges from the fresher. There is an awkward silence. He stands there, clad in his flightsuit and helmet, clenching and unclenching his gloved fists at his sides repeatedly. It is a mannerism you recognise well, usually seen when he is trying to size up a target or decide his next move. Is that how he sees you—as prey?!

“Mando,” you breathe, “Please, can we talk?”

Mando does not move a muscle. He stands perfectly still, at full height. A looming, intimidating presence in the darkness of the hull. 

“Look, I know I upset you the other day,” you begin, sincerely laying out your feelings and hoping that he comprehends how remorseful you are. “I’m so sorry, Mando. Please believe me. I know what I said was thoughtless, but I wasn’t thinking. I would never expect you to take your helmet off for me. I know how much being a Mandalorian means to you. I would never try to come between you and your Creed,” you promise.

You briefly pause, searching Mando’s body language for the smallest clue as to his feelings. Unfortunately, he is so used to hiding his emotions from the rest of the galaxy that you cannot glean even a crumb of information.

“I miss you, Mando,” you sigh, “And not just like that!” you hastily add, hoping that he does not think your apology is in any way related to the compromising position he just caught you in. 

Mando remains perfectly still. It’s progress, at least. He has not retreated. You take that as a sign to continue. 

“I miss the nights we spent together in the cockpit, sharing memories of our past and discussing our hopes for the future. The way you would always make sure there was a warm cup of caf for me each morning when I finally hauled myself from the bunk. You were always so eager to rise, while I have never been a morning person,” you smile fondly, attempting to fight the tears that have suddenly pooled on your waterline. “Remember when you showed me each of your weapons? Showing me just how you liked them polished and ordered. Somewhere along the way, they became our arsenal, Mando. Our weapons are together in the locker, side-by-side. Just like us.”

You finally get the first clue of the impact your words are having on Mando when his broad shoulders rise and fall. The shaky breath he takes is amplified by his vocoder. Reminiscing has left him emotional on some level, too. It’s a positive sign. You make headway with it.

“I will forever be grateful for the day I overheard that conversation with Karga in that Cantina on Nevarro. Even though I used to curse this ship after I first came aboard, I think it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Without it and the loan you took out to cover costs, you would never have required someone else. I know…” you sigh, choosing your next words carefully as you are painfully aware that you are likely going to come dangerously close to overstepping another boundary. “I know that you do not always take kindly to strangers, Mando. I know that you have been alone for so long that you have probably forgotten what it feels like to be with someone else. But what we had was something special. I miss that. I miss us, Mando.”

Mando’s helmet falls, then. His unrelenting, steely gaze is finally off you. You are getting through to him. You keep talking, hoping that your words have the desired effect.

“You mean so much more to me than our encounters, Mando,” you confess. “I enjoyed every second, don’t get me wrong. But I would take them all back in a heartbeat to go back to how things were before. I would rather have only had you in my life platonically than having you like that and losing you…

What happens next catches you completely off-guard.

Firstly, Mando tilts his helmet up. His helmet is finally level with you again, focused on you. You look into the dark, T-visor where you imagine his eyes would be. You can almost feel his eyes on you. Your heart starts thundering. You feel that connection back. That spark.

Before you even have time to digest his actions, Mando’s deep voice finally breaks the silence:

“I love you,” he says simply. 

Does he love you?! You are sure you misheard him. Your desperate mind is playing the cruellest trick of all. 

“Y-You love me?” you choke out in disbelief.

“I do.”

“Oh, Mando, I love you too,” you tearfully whisper.

“Din,” Mando rasps.

You look at him questioningly.

“My name,” Mando nods, “It’s Din. Din Djarin.”

“Din Djarin,” you murmur the name of the man you love with such reverence, as though it is a sacred prayer, enjoying the way your mouth curves around each letter. 

Your head is still spinning from Din’s declaration and the reveal of his name. You have barely had time to process the events which have just transpired when he drops the next bombshell on you.

“I want to remove my helmet in front of you,” Din declares, “I want you to know me entirely.”

“Din, I wouldn’t expect such a thing,” you shake your head frantically, “Just because we have confessed our feelings, I would never expect you to take such a drastic step.”

“That…” he sighs, “Is precisely why I am taking such a step.”

You do not have time to vocalise any further protestations. Before another thought can enter your mind, Din lifts shaky gloved hands to the side of his helmet. You hear the unmistakable sound of a Mandalorian helmet depressurising. Something you had only ever heard through the door of the fresher until now.

Din trembles as he lifts his helmet. The emotion of the moment takes its toll as he prepares to finally bear his face to you. Your mind almost goes blank. All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and his heavy breaths.

As the gleaming helmet finally begins to lift across his features and reveal his face to you, you get your first glimpse of the man you love.

You see patchy stubble across his jawline, a neatly trimmed moustache plush which sits atop plush, full lips, a strong nose and then, with his helmet fully removed, his most striking feature of all. His eyes. The most soulful pair of deep brown eyes that you have ever encountered.

Din Djarin is stunning. Heartachingly so. 

With just one look at his face, you know that you will never be able to allow this beautiful man to slip through your fingers. 

“Din,” you whisper, your eyes filling with tears as he stands there before you, his helmet clutched before him as he looks up at you.

There is so much nervousness and anxiety in his gaze that your heart aches for him. Unable to bear the eye contact any longer, Din bends down and places his helmet at his feet with a satisfying clunk. 

He stands up straight again, but not to his full height. With his face bared and the slight tremble evident in his body. You no longer see a hulking Mandalorian warrior and feared bounty hunter. Instead, you see a frightened man, who has never known such intimacy before.

“You are so handsome, Din Djarin,” you whisper, as you close the distance between you. 

Din’s mouth hangs open as your words sink in. You raise your hand, realising you are trembling with emotion, and timidly place it along his jawline. The patchy stubble is scratchy underneath your fingers.

“Devastatingly handsome, in fact,” you clarify.

“Thank you,” Din nods gratefully.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Din swallows thickly, steadying himself. When his brown eyes fly open and meet yours again, you notice the apprehension has been replaced by something different altogether.

Din’s brown eyes are aflame, burning with desire for you. You sense he is desperate to act on his feelings, but unsure of how to proceed.

“Can I kiss you?” you request.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before,” Din murmurs, closing his eyes again.

“You’ll learn quickly,” you say encouragingly. 

Din nods slowly, without opening his eyes. 

You close the distance between you, hovering an inch from his lips. You want Din to make the final move, to bring your lips together.

When he finally does, it is so achingly sweet and timid that you are surprised this is the same man who has bent you over crates and driven into you over and over, at a relentless pace. Until you were bruised and sore the next day from the force. 

Din pulls away, breathing deeply. A simple touch has been almost overwhelming for him. 

You wait for his next move, allowing him to take the lead with what he is comfortable with. When Din finally leans in again, he is more eager to claim your lips. The kisses deepen, growing increasingly frenzied as your tongues collide. Your hand trails along Din’s jawline and grazes along his neck. When you move your hands into his hair and tangle your fingers in the soft strands there, Din groans and presses his body against you.

In response, you lean your head to the side to give him unfettered access to your mouth. Din does not hesitate to take advantage, deepening the kiss without hesitation. He moves his enormous hands up to your cheeks, cupping them in his enormous hands. 

Your kisses grow more desperate and frenzied, the moaning and panting increasing. Although Din was inexperienced and clumsy at first, your teeth clashing and his tongue searching yours desperately before he learned a more pleasurable ratio of tongue to mouth, you discover that he is indeed a quick learner. He nibbles on your lip, using his teeth in a way that he discovers you like as you throw your head backwards and gasp his name. You are still getting accustomed to the novelty of being able to call him something other than Mando. 

When your lungs burn, Din finally pulls away. The two of you furiously gulp air into your lungs, steadying your breaths as your eyes meet. You allow yourself to look at Din once again, admiring the features which are so new to you. Yet somehow, comfortingly familiar. You feel as though you have always known his face. In Din’s brown eyes, you see awe, shock and lust. Despite their already dark colour, they are blackened by something primal.

You are about to suggest taking this to your bunk when Din drops to his knees before you, a dark look on his face. You are about to question the gesture when he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your pants and shimmies them down your legs as he goes. 

He kisses a path up your legs, pushing himself up so he kneels one leg as he pays particular attention to your inner thighs. Din takes his time teasing you. He removes the final barrier between you, discarding the pesky fabric elsewhere. 

When Din finally kneels before you, your glistening core bare to him you feel your knees weaken as he licks his lips at the sight in front of him. You groan, barely able to remain vertical. Thankfully, Din is holding your hips firmly in position, his gloved hands digging into your flesh.

At the sight of him on his knees like this before you, you think that this experience cannot possibly be any more arousing.

Then, his tongue touches you where you have been aching for him to place his mouth most of all, and you discover how wrong you were. 

He wastes no time sliding his tongue through your wet folds. Din makes up for his inexperience with enthusiasm and you move your hands down to run your fingers through his soft, dark curls. Keen to keep him in just the right spot, especially when he finally places his tongue where your fingers had been frantically circling minutes ago. 

“Din!” you gasp, when his tongue picks up its pace, clenching your thighs around his head and feeling his facial hair tickle your inner thighs.

Hearing his name fall from your lips in such a desperate manner only encourages him. He continues lapping at your core with a renewed fire and determination.

“Just there, just like that,” you praise.

Din continues for a few more moments and you feel your orgasm gathering pace within you. When your legs begin to shake, he moves his head back and you almost scream in frustration. But then you see the look on his face, and his sins are soon forgiven.

“Know how long I’ve wanted to bury my face between your thighs?” Din rasps, his voice barely audible and muffled thanks to his current position. “So beautiful,” he adds, before his tongue is on you again and all coherent thought leaves.

The pace is relentless now, Din swirling his tongue around your most sensitive spot as he seems driven to please you. To have you screaming his name so loud they can hear you all across the galaxy.

You chant his name over and over as your orgasm finally breaks, causing pleasure to reverberate throughout your body. Every inch of you is on fire for him. Din looks up at you, his brown eyes practically black. He makes an obscene slurping noise as he seems determined to collect everything on his tongue, not allowing a single drop of you to go to waste.

“Delicious,” Din rasps as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at you with a satisfied smirk. 

You cannot believe how much he seems to relish in your release. How much it arouses him. You know he has always enjoyed pleasing you, just as much as receiving his release. Now, his benevolent nature is on full display once again. 

Satisfied you can at least stand by yourself, Din rises to his feet. He looms over you, eyes meeting yours and softening briefly, with something which looks suspiciously like love. You wonder how long he has looked at you like that. How many affectionate glances have been stolen from your eyes by his helmet? 

None of that matters, now.

Your train of thought is interrupted as Din resumes kissing you, pinning you up against the cold metallic walls of the Razor Crest. You can barely breathe, unable to move for a few moments as he kisses you. Once you regain feeling in your trembling legs, you begin nudging Din in the direction of the bunk.

He never breaks the kiss as you stumble across the floor. Din cannot get enough of kissing you, his enormous hands roaming all over your body. 

The kiss is only broken once the back of your knees hits the bunk. You sit on the hard surface, looking up at him flirtatiously through your eyelashes. You decide Din is far too clothed for your liking and move to free his straining bulge from his tight brown flightsuit. Before you can feel his familiar length in your hand, he places his hand on your wrist and moves you away from him.

You look at him in confusion before he whispers, “Lie back, cyar’ika. Let me take care of you.”

You do as he says, but not before divesting yourself of your clothes. You lie back, awaiting him. Buzzing with excitement to finally lay eyes on Din Djarin in his entirety.

You are entranced as you watch his muscles contract and relax as he removes his flightsuit. Broad muscles and chest bared to you, then his stomach and lower... his muscular thighs and toned calves. The most incredible sight you have ever seen.

Din crawls up the bunk and positions himself on top of you, supporting himself with his elbows as he resumes your makeout session with just as much veracity as before. He plunges his tongue into your mouth over and over, desperate to taste you.

It seems as though Din is scared that he will never have a chance to claim you like this again. Later, you will remind him that you are his for the rest of your days.

For now, you cannot form words, conveying your pleasure only through broken sounds which are torn from your body by Din’s skilled mouth. 

The usual straining metallic groans of the Razor Crest as it hurtles through hyperspace are joined by its occupants’ moans and gasps as they collide.

You notice that Din has finally shed his gloves when he takes your breasts in his hands. Squeezing the soft flesh and staring at them as though it is the first time he has ever laid eyes upon them. In a way, it is the first time he has seen many of your features with his own eyes, finally free from the dark visor that distorts everything.

Suddenly remembering he can take your flesh in his mouth, Din begins kissing the valley between your breasts. He trails kisses along both of them, one at a time, paying them equal attention. As though he is worshipping you. Discovering new ways he can show his affection for you. With his helmet removed, an entire galaxy of new possibilities has been opened to him. Now, there are so many ways to demonstrate his affection for you, to revere all the parts of your body he loves so much. 

Although you are enjoying his ministrations, you are growing somewhat frustrated by Din’s languid pace. The frenzied kisses and touches have given way to gentle, almost timid, exploration of your body from Din’s lips. When you are about to whine pathetically and beg him to pay attention to your aching buds, Din finally envelops them in his wet heat. He begins paying careful attention to the most sensitive part of your breast. The place where you most wanted his mouth. 

You gasp as he begins mouthing sloppy kisses around your nipple, before finally swirling his tongue around your hardened peak. You arch your back off the bunk, giving more of yourself to him. Even in your desire-addled state, you think about how much better his mouth feels than gloved fingers and hands kneading your breasts. 

You grind your hips up against Din’s hardness, desperate for some friction. Clenching around nothing as he continues sucking your nipple, each swirl of his tongue only making you more desperate for him.

When you can take it no longer, you place your hand on Din’s head and pull his hair lightly. He looks up at you, raising a dark eyebrow at you.

“Din, please,” you whine, desperate for him to finally take you.

Often, the man you knew only as Mando would tease you at this point. When he had used his deft fingers to draw an orgasm or two from you, leaving you desperate for him. You knew he was satisfied that you were ready for him, but he still wanted to hear it from your mouth. Before giving you what you wanted, he would command you to use your words in a firm tone. Imploring you to tell him where you wanted him. 

Fortunately, it appears that the man who has confessed his love for you, will not cruelly tease you. Din is just as desperate as you are; aching for that moment when he finally enters you. 

Din kisses a hot trail up the column of your neck, thrusting his hips against you in desperation. He joins his lips with yours one last time before leaning up and taking himself in hand to line himself up with you.

“Wanted to savour this moment but, kriff! You’re so perfect…” Din rambles, “Don’t think I can wait,” he grunts as he notches himself at your entrance. 

“Then don’t,” you sigh, begging him to put you both out of your misery. 

Din nods, joining your lips one last time before he slides himself into you in one swift, fluid moment. You practically see stars. 

Somehow, he feels even bigger. It has not been too long since your last encounter. Even still, you have forgotten how impressive his length is. Your fantasies could not accurately capture how his hardness touches places so deep inside of you that you wonder how it is possible. 

Although the friction and sensation are delicious, particularly as Din keeps pressing kisses all over your face and neck, you know that you won’t last long. Since Din caught you earlier when you were so close, you have been on the edge almost continually. Now, he is thrusting into you at a relentless pace. That familiar ache is back. This time, there are no interruptions. Din does not slow down or pull away. You quickly come with another gasp of his name.

After watching you come undone, you are surprised that Din does not let himself go. That he does not allow himself the release you sense he is so desperately chasing. Instead, he continues to ride out your orgasm as he thrusts into you harshly.

“One more,” Din encourages, cupping your cheek in his hand, “I know you have one more for me.”

You nod shakily, eager to please him. In response, Din clashes your lips together, grunting against your lips as he finds a new increased tempo that you are stunned he could muster. All the while impressively maintaining a steady rhythm. 

“That’s it,” Din encourages as he feels the way your pants increase and your legs tremble.

When you come with another shout of his name, Din finally lets himself go. His thrusts become increasingly erratic before he finally comes with a shout of your name, burying his face into your neck. His pants are warm against your neck as he paints your belly with hot, thick ropes of his spend. 

Din stays like that for a few more moments, careful not to hurt you with his weight as he regains his composure lying on top of you. You feel so content and begin absentmindedly tracing circles into his warm, broad back. 

Then, he lifts himself from you. You smile when he lays his head next to you on the pillow, still feeling your heart leap as you realise that you actually get to look at his face. Din looks thoroughly pleased with the events of the night. Happy that he could please you over and over. 

“I love you, Din Djarin,” you whisper fondly as you bring your hand up to his jawline, stroking his cheek softly with your thumb. 

“I love you too, ner kar’ta,” Din smiles in return, turning his cheek to press a kiss on the palm of your hand.

Since that first encounter in the Cantina on Nevarro, you and Mando have always been partners. Travelling through the galaxy as a formidable, feared pair of bounty hunters.

The first time you had sex with Joel Miller, it had been borne out of one too many whiskeys and a Christmas party that the town of Jackson was hosting. You had worn your best and only dress and had even shaved your legs. Somewhere in the night, Maria had convinced you to take to the dance floor and somehow Joel was there. His hand had been hot and large on your waist, and before you knew it, the two of you had been tangled together in a storage closet, tucked away from everything and everyone else. He had held your hips down as he had entered you, hot and throbbing and oh so good that you had to muffle your moans against his shoulder, mouth pressed open against the soft material of his flannel. There had been a wet spot on the collar of his dark shirt when you had pulled away, after you had come so hard your legs had trembled with it.  If you hadn't been tipsy, you might have felt shy. And you had thought it was a one time thing. Something that stemmed from the remnants of the before the world had gone to shit, when people could get tipsy and hook up and then never see each other again. But this was Jackson. There was no avoiding anyone, even if you had wanted to and although you suspected it might be awkward afterwards, surprisingly it hadn’t been. For as serious and silent as Joel had always been around others, he hadn’t shied away from you after that. 

And to your surprise, it had happened again. And again. And again. And so somewhere along the way, you and Joel became acquaintances with benefits. Patrol partners with perks. Which is why you’re currently lowering yourself onto him in a shoddy cabin a few miles away from a patrol path. 

“Fuck,” Joel grunts as you slowly sink your way down. Even now, after countless times together, he’s still so thick. It always feels like a lot, like he’s reaching a place inside of you that you didn’t know existed. 

“Joel,” you whimper, looking down at where he spears you open. You’re glistening, coating him in your own wetness and when you look up, you meet his dark eyes. His pupils are so blown you can barely see the hazel brown of his irises. There’s sweat beading on his forehead and you don’t think it’s from the warm spring day. He gives you some time to adjust, and you shift your hips, adjusting your knees so you can move. You can feel the callouses of his fingers against the soft flesh of your hips, and he squeezes gently as you begin to move.

“Attagirl,” he says when you begin moving your hips with more vigour. It feels so good. He leans forward, pressing his plush mouth to your sweaty collarbone, licking at the saltiness there before he cranes his neck lower. You flutter around him when he takes your nipple into his mouth and he groans against your hot skin.

“Joel,” you say again, unable to say anything else. This is how it mostly goes. Sometimes you’re more talkative, telling him about all the ways you like how he makes you feel, watching as his eyes become lidded and heavy. But for the most part, you’re pliant in his hands. As surly as you thought he was, Joel Miller has a surprisingly filthy mouth when it comes to sex. He pulls away from your sensitive nipples, wrapping a big arm around the small of your back and pulling you closer so your stomach is pressed against his. You can feel the hair on his chest against your sensitive skin and it makes you whine.

“You always get like this,” Joel says, mouth against your ear. “So desperate for me, ain’t ya, sweetheart?”

You nod against him, feeling your cheek brush against the side of his face. His hands anchor you, guiding your movements. His hips move as well, thrusting up into you in a steady rhythm. Your hips move faster, chasing the hot feeling of pleasure building in your stomach. You feel dizzy with it, flushed and needy. This time, it was your idea. Joel had said something about taking a break in the cabin to cool down and that had been your intention, truly. But then you had seen the flex of his arm and the now greying curls of his hair, messy against his tanned skin. You had followed the line of his strong shoulders, the crook of his nose and you had felt ravenous. So you had pushed him onto the rickety old couch, and he had let you gaze heavy as he watched you step out of your jeans and pull your underwear down. He had continued to watch as you unbuttoned his pants and pulled him out of his boxers, half hard already. And only when you had aligned the flushed tip of him against your wet folds, had he cracked, his hands coming up to grip you. 

“I’m close,” you say, voice breathy. Joel hums, pulling you even closer now. You tuck your head against his neck, allowing the waves of pleasure to consume you. The tightness in your stomach releases and you shudder. Your walls flutter around him and you hear Joel curse. He grips you tighter, his hips speeding up as you swivel your own. You move back so you can look at him. It’s when your eyes meet his own that you feel his hips stutter, and then he’s pulling you up and off of him. Your thighs grow wet as he comes between them and you feel yourself pulse again. 

The two of you take a minute, catching your breath. The heat feels even more stifling now, Jackson far too warm for so early in the spring. Eventually, you stand up on shaky legs and shuffle away, looking for something to wipe yourself with. You rifle through your pack, eventually finding some toilet paper. Joel clears his throat and you look at him.

“Here,” he says, holding out a checkered handkerchief. It looks soft and worn. “It’s softer.”

Something warm cracks open in your chest, and you tamp it down quickly. 

“Thank you,” you say instead, reaching out for it. Your fingers brush and you turn away, wiping between your legs. You can hear Joel shuffling around, zipping up his pants grabbing his pack. You slip into your clothes as well, the material feeling too thick for the weather. When you’re ready, you turn back around to find Joel near the door. He’s pushed his hair back from his weathered face which is still slightly flushed. His navy t-shirt stretches over the muscles of his shoulders and chest. Even at sixty, he’s one of the strongest men you know. 

“Ready?” Joel asks and you nod. The two of you make your way back towards the main path. It shouldn’t be more than an hour back to Jackson but it’s definitely going to feel longer with the sun beating down on you. 

“Are you going to the karaoke thing on Friday?” you ask him. 

“Ellie wants me to,” he says, sounding defeated. 

“Oh come on,” you say. “It could be fun. Jesse got the machine working and everything.”

A scouting trip earlier in the week at an electronics store hadn’t yielded much but a few batteries and a karaoke machine. When the news had spread that it worked, The Tipsy Bison decided to host a twenty-one and over event which, after the insistence of Ellie and Dina who had argued that the legal age in the rest of the world was lower, had become a nineteen and over event, instead. 

You watch his mouth pull into a frown and it makes you chuckle. He glances at you and then shakes his head, still unamused. 

“I don’t wanna hear a bunch of teenagers get drunk and sing. When you’re my age, you’ll understand,” Joel says and you scoff.

“You’re not that old, Joel,” you say and this time the scoff comes from him.

“I’m twice your age,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice. You would’ve missed it five months ago but now, you know him well enough to hear it. It’s not that you and Joel are close friends or anything, but having sex at least once a week for five months lets you know a person, even if that isn’t the intention of it. 

Knowing you can’t win this argument, you change tactics. 

“I heard Seth found some fancy whiskey,” you say. “Glen-something. And he said it was really old too. Twenty one years or something like that.”

And just like that you watch Joel’s interest suddenly pique. You’re not even sure why you want him to come so bad, really. Or at least, that’s the lie you tell yourself even though it’s unconvincing. Somewhere along the way, you’ve grown to enjoy Joel’s company and it’s not even because of the mindblowing sex. You’ve started looking for him in crowds and wanting to speak to him more and you know it’s bad. The one rule of all this, although unspoken, is that it’s casual. No strings attached and just for a release. Somewhere along the way, you lost sight of that and now you’re nursing a crush on the man you’re sleeping with who’s given you no inclination of the same feelings. 

“Glenfiddich?” Joel says, voice drawling. 

You hum. “That’s the one.” 

“Well damn,” Joel says, sounding impressed. “I never had that even before the world went to shit.”

It’s rare for him to bring up his life from before. You understand. You had been far too young when the world had ended, and even then, the idea of thinking about your life from that time is too heavy. There’s no one left who knows you from when you were just a pre-teen and you’re most definitely not the same girl who had posters on her wall and loved cheap jewellery from Claire’s. And you doubt Joel is the same man he was back then too. So you get it and you never press for too much information, and neither does he. Some wounds split open at the gentlest suggestion of pressure and both you and Joel have your fair share of them. 

“Was it expensive?” you ask and he nods.

“Went for around three hundred a bottle, back then,” he says. “Didn’t have that kind of money.”

“All the more reason for you to come,” you say, hoping you don't sound too eager.

“That so?” Joel says, looking at you more directly now. His dark eyes trace over your face, as if he can read you and you look away. 

“If you want,” you say. You look past the trees, now covered in green leaves, hoping you’re playing it cool. The air smells rich with spring, wild jasmine and hyacinths invading your senses. When you glance back at him, Joel is still watching you. 

“Alright,” he agrees. “Maybe I’ll stop by.” 

You say nothing but you do look away so that he doesn’t catch the small smile that you can’t seem to hide. 

Tommy Miller is singing a song you’ve never heard before and frankly, hope you won’t ever hear again. He doesn’t sound bad per se, but it’s some old country song with strummy banjos and a crooning tune. You watch him point at Maria, who laughs in delight, as he sings about his girl on the ranch and how he’d die for her. When the song ends, he walks towards her and she pulls him into a kiss. The next song starts up and now it’s Jesse and a friend of his you’ve seen a few times but whose name you don’t know, singing into the mic. The evening’s been progressing into something a bit more rowdy now that almost everyone here is tipsy, at the least. It’s a pleasantly cool evening thankfully, but even then, the inside of The Tipsy Bison is hot from all the bodies and liquor. 

“Don’t think the whiskey was worth listenin’ to my brother butcher that song,” a voice says, and suddenly, Joel is standing next to you. He looks good, hair slick as if he just showered. The apples of his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are glossy in the dim light of the bar. 

“I dunno,” you say. “I kinda enjoyed it. I liked the part where the banjo sounded like a screeching cat.”

To your delight, Joel grins. His cheeks bunch up, dimples denting the side of his face and his crows feet become even more prominent. 

“Country music don’t do it for you then?” he asks and you crinkle your nose. You hear him chuckle. Before you can say anything, a voice interrupts you. 

“Are y’all gonna go up and sing then?” Tommy asks, looking between you and Joel. His cheeks are flushed, likely from the whiskey. Maria’s standing next to him, a big smile on her face. Her eyes are glassy too. 

“No way,” you say, too quickly. The idea of standing in front of half of Jackson let alone singing in front of them leaves you feeling queasy. Maria chuckles, shaking her head. 

“What about you, big brother?” Tommy asks, voice teasing. He looks at you again, a twinkle in his eye. “Did you know he wanted to be a singer?” 

Now this, you didn’t know. The news delights you and your face breaks into a smile before you can stop it. You look up at Joel to find him glaring at Tommy, the apples of his cheeks red. 

“Shut your mouth,” Joel grumbles, although he doesn’t sound too annoyed. It’s the tone he always has when Tommy pulls his leg and you imagine it’s what he always sounded like, even when they were younger and Tommy was his annoying kid brother. 

Tommy chortles, shaking his head. Maria says your name, and your attention shifts.

“So there’s someone I thought you might like to meet,” Maria says, cryptic as ever. You know why. She’s been trying to set you up with eligible bachelors for the last few months and so far, you’ve managed to evade her but now, there’s no getting away. You know she doesn’t mean anything bad by it. Really, she’s doing it because you had grumbled to her a while ago about how lonely you felt sometimes but after your thing with Joel had started, those feelings had disappeared. Of course, you hadn’t told her that, since this thing between you and Joel was purely physical. 

“Maria,” you say but she keeps going. 

“His name is Adam,” Maria says. “Came to Jackson a few weeks ago. He’s kind and smart, and honestly, pretty easy on the eyes. I think you’d get along.”

It’s only after she finishes speaking do you realize that Tommy and Joel have gone quiet too. You glance at Joel through the corner of the eye and he’s already watching you. 

“He’s doin’ shifts at the clinic, pretty good medic from what I’ve heard,” Tommy chimes in, and  Maria nods. 

“I really think you’d like him,” she says and you can feel your face growing hotter. The three sets of eyes on you suddenly feel like too much and you don’t want Joel to hear this. You don’t want him to think of you with a man unless it’s himself. 

“Maybe,” you say, quickly. “I’ll think about it.”

Maria nods, looking satisfied. “Just let me know, and I can introduce you two.”

You nod, giving her a weak smile. Needing to change topic, you ask her about the new craft centre and some of the tension in your shoulders ease as she tells you about how helpful the supply run you were on last week was, when you had stumbled upon art supplies. It had been a good haul. There were bags of crayons that, shockingly, hadn’t broken down yet, and even some acrylic and gouache paints that had somehow stood the test of time. You had also found watercolour paper and sketching pencils. When you had brought them back into town, Maria and the rest of the council had been elated. They had been pushing for a creative outlet for the children and teenagers in Jackson, wanting them to have some semblance of creative outlets and freedom, even in this version of the world, as unwelcoming as it was. 

“I could keep an eye out for beads and stuff,” you say once Maria’s done telling you about the set up. “Used to love making jewellery when I was younger. Could be fun for some of the boys and girls.”

“You shouldn’t be puttin’ yourself in harm's way for things like that,” Joel says, voice low. 

“Oh, I don’t mind,” you say and it’s clearly the wrong thing to say, given the way his teeth clench, the sharp line of his jaw bone becoming prominent. 

“I know,” Joel says, sounding less than pleased. You bristle at his tone, almost condescending. Looking back at Maria and Tommy, you find that they’re watching you and Joel curiously. 

“Well,” Tommy says, cutting through the sudden tension. “I’m goin’ to dance with my girl.” 

“Have fun,” you say, giving him and Maria a real smile. Your annoyance at Joel’s mood swing still simmers but it’s no fault of Tommy and Maria that he’s so crabby all of the sudden. Once they’ve rejoined the crowd, who are now doing some sort of line dance, you turn to Joel.

“I’ll see you,” you say, rather shortly. You’re suddenly tired from the long day, and the evening has felt even longer. The alcohol now feels sluggish in your system and all you want to do is sleep. You stand up, shrugging on your flannel before stepping past Joel’s broad frame. A warm hand snares your wrist, stopping you from walking towards the door. You glance down to find Joel’s big palm on you.

“Wait,” he says. You meet his eye and he still looks tense but there’s something else on his face. You cock your eyebrow at him and his shoulders grow rigid.

“M’sorry,” he says, words rumbling. “Shouldn’t have gotten like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” you say. “I’m not a kid, Joel.”

“I know,” he says, quickly. “Didn’t mean to be condescendin’ or anythin’.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say under your breath and you watch as Joel’s mouth twitches. 

“I just don’t want you gettin’ hurt for somethin’ as silly as beads,” he says, the confession tumbling out almost like he doesn’t mean for it to. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re unsure of what. You feel the annoyance you had bleed out, replaced by something else entirely. Before you can think of anything, he speaks again.

“If you’re still headin’ out, I’ll walk you home. S’late,” he says and before you can think, you’re nodding. 

“Alright,” you agree. You lead the way, pushing past giggling couples and around the rowdier bunch of crowd, Joel’s presence like a wall behind you. You’re not touching but you can feel the heat of him, hot on your heels. Outside, the coolness of the air is a fresh relief. The chilled wind is pleasant against your hot face and you shiver at the sensation. 

“Did you have fun?” Joel asks, once the two of you are on the side street that leads to your house, sitting nestled among similar one story townhomes.

“It was alright,” you say. “It was nice watching everyone let loose. Not so sure I enjoyed the singing as much though.”

Joel lets out a huff, an almost laugh. 

“Was the whiskey everything you dreamed it would be?” you ask and this time, he does let out a laugh. 

“Surprisingly, yes,” he says. “Tasted damn good. I get why it was three hundred a bottle. Did you have any?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I might’ve had the wrong one though, because it tasted awful. Burned my throat.”

This time, he does chuckle. You look at him, taking in the dimple in his cheek. 

“Just don’t think you like whiskey much,” he says and you hum.

“Beer’s better,” you say and Joel shakes his head, scoffing. 

“Beer’s basically a loaf of bread,” he says and you snort.

“Aren’t they made from the exact same things?” you ask and Joel shrugs, a smile still playing on his plush mouth. 

“Whiskey’s stronger,” Joel says. 

“And it tastes like ass,” you say, just to see him grin again. When he does, you look away, your own smile threatening to break across your face. 

“We’ll agree to disagree then,” he says.

“Seems fair,” you say, just as you reach the walkway that leads to your porch. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“I’ll walk you to your door,” Joel says in answer and you want the extra time with him so you let him. It seems silly, walking the few steps to your porch together, as if something bad could happen in the short distance, but you’ll take the extra couple of seconds it gives you in his presence. You like knowing he’s nearby, like hearing the low drawl of his voice and the huff of his laughter. You like it even more when it’s directed at you. At your door, you face him. His eyes are so dark in the dim porch lighting, as they trace over your face. 

“You thinkin’ of going’ out with that guy?” Joel asks and the question throws you off. Your brows furrow, momentarily confused as to why he’s even bringing it up. 

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Probably not. Maria’s been trying to set me up for a while now but I’m not really interested.” 

Joel nods, mouth pursed. Suddenly, you feel the warmth of his palms against your face. 

“Can I?” he murmurs, so much closer than he was a moment ago. The suddenness of it all leaves you dizzy. You nod, eyes wide. You can feel your heart beating against your ribcage, pulse quickening. His mouth presses to yours hotly. Once, twice and then he’s prodding at your lips with his tongue. You let him in. It’s a reflex now, after so many times. His broad frame traps you against your door, his tongue hot in your mouth. You moan, arching into his chest and pushing your hand into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. You tug just to hear him groan against your mouth, his hips bucking into your stomach. He’s hard beneath the denim of his jeans. 

Joel pulls back, his hands still framing your face. He rubs his thumb across the soft skin below your eye and you lean into it, like a cat. His hand moves lower, down your chest and towards the button of your pants. You watch in a daze as he undoes them, slipping his hand so that it cups your mound. Even through the fabric of your underwear you know he can feel how wet you are. He pets you through the soft cotton, his eyes trained on your face. You can’t seem to look away from him either, hypnotized by his dark stare.  

“Let me make you feel good,” he murmurs, breath hot against your mouth and you nod. You like being so close to him, like breathing the same air as him. He pushes the gusset of your underwear aside, plunging fingers into where your cunt and you whimper, bucking into his touch. He’s slow, as he curls his fingers, gently petting the spongy part inside of you that has a pressure building between your thighs. His palm is still almost entirely covering you and you move your hips, brushing your clit against the rough skin of his hand.

“Joel,” you say, moving your hips. You’re not sure what you’re asking for but he seems to know, given the gentle smile he gives you. 

“It’s okay baby,” he says. “Fuck my fingers, just like that. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

You nod, your forehead brushing against his mouth. He moves his fingers faster now, and you shift your hips in tandem, the pressure of his hand perfect against you. You’re so wet that you can hear the squelch of it as he moves, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Everything feels too good and you can feel yourself slipping closer to release.

“C’mon sweetheart,” Joel urges, now circling your clit with his thumb. He curls his fingers just right and you buck up, your orgasm crashing into you. Your moan is muffled against his mouth, as he kisses you frantically. His fingers keep moving, petting inside of you until it’s too much. Your thighs are trembling as you reach for his wrist, holding him in place so he doesn’t move anymore. He listens, stilling his fingers. 

“Wow,” you say and you can feel more than hear his laugh, against the side of your face.

“Okay?” he asks and you nod. 

Gently, he pulls his fingers out of you and you watch with a lidded gaze as he brings his fingers up to his mouth and sucks them clean. Your cunt throbs and you shiver. You glance down to where he’s hard before reaching for his belt buckle. His hand moves, stopping you. 

“That’s alright,” he says. Your brows furrow in confusion. 

“Is something wrong?” you ask, but Joel shakes his head. He doesn’t seem upset or anything, and you know he’s turned on so you wonder why he’s stopping you.

“You’re tired,” Joel says. 

“I want to,” you say, even though he’s right. Your eyes feel heavy with sleep, and so does your body. Joel hums.

“S’alright,” he says, voice gentle. “I just wanted to make you feel good.”

“Joel,” you start but he shakes his head again. He reaches back into your pants and for a second you’re confused until you feel him fix your underwear, pulling it back so it covers you. Your cheeks burn but Joel seems unphased, button your pants.

“Go to bed, sweetheart,” he says, his hand still resting on your hip. He rubs your hipbone once, twice, and then steps back. Something cracks open in your chest. 

“Okay,” you say. “Goodnight Joel.”

He nods and watches as you unlock your door. It’s only when you’re inside your house do you watch as he heads back down your porch and towards the direction of his own home. 

Once you lie down, sleep takes you almost instantly. Your last thought is of Joel’s eyes. 

There’s a frantic knock on your door. It’s so sudden that you jolt, dropping the book you’re reading with a thump. It’s almost midnight and the only noise that fills the air is the hum of the grasshoppers and the occasional rustle of the window. You stand up slowly, making your way to your door. You glance through the peephole and your heart stutters. You swing the door open, greeted to the sight of Joel. He looks rough. His hair is wet from a shower and his face is tired. There’s a bruise on his cheekbone, harsh and purple.

“Joel?” you say, stepping aside. He comes in. His hands are clenched into fists as his side. “Is everything okay?”

“Had a rough patrol,” Joel says, voice tired. It’s all he says. You say nothing, instead taking his hand and leading him towards the kitchen. 

“Sit down,” you instruct and Joel acquiesces, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. You put the kettle on, pulling out two chipped mugs. You know what it’s like. To almost see death and then to come back and have to act as if you were unperturbed. To have to seem strong all the time because that’s the way the world is now. It’s odd how quickly humans can learn to live with the new, and so now there’s no space to be scared when you have run-ins with death. It’s the norm. So you get it. The kitchen is silent except for the slow build of the kettle whistle. When you suspect that it’s sufficiently hot, you pour the water into the cups, now holding chamomile tea bags that you had made yourself. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask, as you hand Joel a cup. He looks up at you, as if your voice has broken some train of thought. He holds himself stiffly, shoulders rigid and tense. 

“Not much to say,” Joel says, sounding defeated. “Was supposed to be a regular patrol. Me and a few others. A new kid named Kai, just turned eighteen and it was his second patrol. Clicker came outta nowhere, got him before I could even draw my gun.” 

“Oh Joel,” you say. The grief settles over both of you heavily. You reach towards him, and to your surprise, he doesn’t flinch when you cup his face. Instead, he leans into it, a shudder running through his body. 

“I didn’t hear it,” he says. “Because of my ear. I didn’t hear the goddamn clicker because I’m half deaf.”

You shake your head, moving closer. 

“It’s not your fault,” you say. “Even if you had heard it, clickers are fast, Joel. And you weren’t the only one there. If the others couldn't get it in time, then it had nothing to do with your hearing.”

Joel scoffs, turning his face away from you with a clenched jaw. You don’t let him go too far, gently tugging his head so that he’s facing you. When he meets your eyes, they’re glossy. 

“I mean it,” you murmur. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. It’s like it breaks something in him because suddenly, he’s wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you closer so that you’re between his thighs. He presses his face to the crook of your neck, breathing in deeply. You feel him shudder when you run your nails against his scalp. The two of you stay like that for what could be hours. He’s so warm against you, so human. You hold him until you feel his shoulders relax, the tension slowly bleeding out of him. Eventually, he pulls back, his hands still tight around your waist. Your hand is still in his hair, gently raking through the greyish brown curls. 

“M’sorry for showin’ up and mopin’,” Joel murmurs, voice rough. You shake your head almost immediately. Your hand moves so that it cups his jaw again.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you say softly, not wanting to break the quietness between the two of you. You’re not sure which one of you moves first but the kiss isn’t frantic, not like the times before. This kiss is soft and wanting. You prod at his mouth with your tongue and he yields for you, groaning against your mouth. You’re not sure how long you stay like that. Eventually, Joel stands up, hands now moving to your hips. You kiss him once more before you pull back. Tugging on his arm, you lead him to the couch. Along the way, you lose your soft sleep pants and Joel his sweats. When he pushes you against the worn cushions, you’re naked except for your baggy t-shirt and Joel is in his boxers. 

You pull them down, wrapping your hand around where he’s hot and throbbing. You tug and his hips twitch with it. He pushes your shirt so that it bunches up against your armpits. He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth. You shudder, arching into the wet heat of sensation. He stays like that for a bit, lavishing your breasts with attention. When he pulls back, his mouth is red and wet. 

Joel’s hand joins you, covering the base of him. The two of you look down as he swipes the head of his cock through your wet folds, and you let out a noise. Your legs widen even more, suddenly needing him to be as close to you as he can. He’s here and alive and okay. You push your hips up so that his tip breaches you and you both groan. You’re both still looking down at where you’re connected, speared open for him. You shift your hips even more, wanting to take him further in and when he realizes what you’re doing, he pushes in, so slow that you can almost feel every ridge and vein of him. When he bottoms out, he grunts. 

“I needed to see you,” he says, slowly moving his hips back. “When I was out there, all I was thinkin’ of was how I had to get back and see you.”

The confession spills out of him, unbidden. It makes you clench around him, your walls fluttering. 

“I’m glad you did,” you say, moving your hips. “I’m glad you came to me.”

His grip on your waist tightens, and he holds you firmly as he begins thrusting more frantically. This time feels different. You reach for his face, meeting his gaze. Suddenly, he’s lifting up, so he’s on his knees and your hips are resting against his strong thighs. A curly lock of hair falls against his forehead, and the new angle has him reaching a place so deep inside of you that you see stars. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, his hips pushing in and out. He’s looking down at where you take him and so are you. His cock glistens with your wetness and you’re split open, leaking and flushed. 

“You’re so good, Joel,” you say. “You make me feel so good.”

He moans, pressing your hips down and thrusting into you again.

“Just me,” he says and you nod. He leans forward so his mouth is against yours. It’s a hairsbreadth away from being a kiss, his breath hot against your own. “I’m the only one who gets you like this.”

You nod, your hips moving frantically against his own. One of his hands snakes down to your clit, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts. 

“Say it, darlin’” Joel says, voice commanding. He moves his thumb away from your clit and you whine, arching towards his touch. He tuts but doesn’t make a move. 

“Just you,” you agree because it’s true. There’s no one else. There won’t be anyone else. No one has had you like this and no one will. Surely, Joel must know that. “It’s always been just you, Joel.”

He circles your clit once more, moving faster now. You can feel yourself crashing towards your orgasm as his thrusts pick up the pace. He leans down, biting at your chin and that’s when you snap, feeling something wet between your thighs. For a second, you think he’s come but when you look down, he’s still hard and moving inside of you. The wetness is from you. It’s never happened before and you can feel your ears burn.

“Attagirl,” Joel says, looking down at the mess you’ve made. You flush, suddenly feeling shy. As if sensing it, Joel shifts, pushing a finger under your chin so that you’re forced to look at him.

“You’re perfect,” he says, almost reverently. His eyes are so full of something – devotion maybe? You can’t be certain and your mind is still clouded by your orgasm. You only come back to yourself when you remember that Joel’s still hard and wanting. You clench around him, watching as he shudders. 

“C’mon Joel,” you murmur, pulling him down to kiss him. It’s filthy and frantic, and so are his thrusts. He presses down so that his stomach is against yours, and you flutter your walls, just to hear him groan again. 

“You’re gonna be the end of me,” he says against the corner of your mouth and you smile, pressing a kiss to the side of his face. He pulls out just in time to come on your stomach, his face pressed to the crook of your neck. The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, catching your breath. 

Eventually, he sits up and tucks himself back into his boxers. You watch him head towards the kitchen and when he comes back, there’s a damp paper towel in his hand. You reach for it but he shakes his head, instead wiping your stomach down himself. When you’re clean, you pull your shirt down and slip back into your underwear. Joel’s already dressed by the time you’re done tying the drawstring of your sleep pants.

The air feels heavy now, with a new sort of tension. You’re not sure where it came from but it doesn’t feel good.

“Feeling better?” you ask Joel, but it sounds off. Your voice catches and he looks torn when you meet his gaze. 

“You should go out with that guy Maria was tellin’ you about,” he says instead, and he might as well have thrown a bucket of ice water on you with how shocked you feel. It must show on your face, because he continues. 

“I think we should stop this,” he says. You feel sick all of the sudden, like you might just throw up. 

“What?” you say, unable to think of anything else. Had you just imagined the last hour? Had you not just had sex?

“He’s your age, seems decent,” Joel explains like that’s what you’re asking. You feel anger ignite in you, something bitter and sharp. 

“Right, and you’re a matchmaker now, are you?” you ask, and the words are heavy in your mouth. They come out sharp and angry. Joel runs a hand through his hair. 

“I just mean, he seems like he’d be good for you. Like the kind of man you deserve,” Joel says, voice gentle. You scoff, feeling your nose tingle in a telltale sign that you’re going to cry pretty fucking soon. 

“Get out, Joel,” you say, but there’s no firmness in your tone. You sound as hurt as you feel and he must see it. Surely he can tell that he’s breaking your heart. You want him to fight, to say that he’s sorry and that he didn’t mean any of it. So when he nods, shoulders slumped and eyes tired, it hurts even worse. You hear the door shut behind him and it’s only then that you allow the tears to fall. 

Joel Miller might be a masochist. It’s the only reason why he’s sitting at The Tipsy Bison, tucked in a corner booth away from the rest of the crowd, and watching you on your date with the new medic. He hadn’t planned to be here, not really. But it’s been a long week and patrol was tiresome today. Whiskey sounded like a good idea when he had returned from patrol but now he’s not so sure. He watches as you nod along to something that man says, a small smile on your face. You look as beautiful as always, your hair pulled into a braid and your face bright in the golden light of the bar. He doesn’t think you’ve seen him and he hopes you don’t. 

God, what was he thinking? Starting this thing with you all those months ago knowing damn well how strongly he felt about you. But he was a weak man after all, and when you had looked at him that night, with glossy eyes and a gentle smile, he knew he had to taste it. Had to have you, however you’d let him. And then he had gone and fucked it all up. 

“You’re an idiot,” Maria cuts through his thoughts, sliding into the booth. She nudges another glass of whiskey towards him.

“Evenin’,” Joel greets, ignoring her words. 

“What were you thinking, Joel? Really? What was the game plan, the big idea. Because to me, it seems like you’re dumber than  a bag of rocks,” Maria says and he can’t even argue because he knows she’s right. 

“She tell you anythin’?” he asks instead, and Maria scoffs.

“She didn’t have to,” she says. “Anyone with a working pair of eyes could tell that there was something up between you two and I’ve seen the two of you come out of supply closets. You’re not as covert as you think, you know. I had to beg Tommy not to get involved because I was hopeful you would tell her how you feel.”

Joel slumps against the booth, taking a sip of his drink. When he meets Maria’s eyes, her glare softens into something gentler. 

“Why didn’t you?” she asks, voice softer now. Joel looks down at his worn palms, full of scars and callouses. He thinks of your soft hands, gentle and seemingly untouched by violence. 

“She deserves better than a weathered old man. I can’t give her what she deserves,” Joel finally says and Maria sighs. 

“You can’t just decide things for people, Joel,” she says. “And you can’t just write yourself off because you think something that isn’t even true.”

This time, it’s Joel who scoffs. 

“If you’re implyin’ that I’m not old then that’s mighty kind of you, Maria,” he says, but the joke falls flat. 

“I know how you care for people,” Maria says. “I know what she deserves too.”

“I might have messed it up too much already,” Joel says. When he looks back to where you are, something curdles inside of him. You’re no longer there and neither is your date. Maria follows his line of sight.

“You have to try,” Maria says. “You have to try or else you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.” 

The sharp knock on your door brings a terrible sense of deja-vu. You think of that night a week ago and how Joel had shown up. And then of how he had left. You had found Maria the next day and told her you were open to the date with Adam, fueled by rage and something sadder. And the date had been fine, really. Adam was sweet and nice and smart and all the things that Maria had said he was. But you had felt nothing but a vague interest in friendship. Your cheeks had hurt by the end of the night, from all the put-on smiling you had done. It had been a relief when he had mentioned that he had an early shift the next morning and so he had to head home. You had nodded in understanding and gently refused his offer to walk you home. 

When you swing the door open this time, the deja-vu is even worse. Joel stands there, in a dark t-shirt and faded jeans. It’s like you’re dreaming. Or maybe it’s a nightmare and what happened last week is going to replay again and again until you wake up. 

“Howdy,” Joel greets and any other time, the greeting and the drawl of  his accent would make you smile. Now it settles like a heavy weight in your stomach.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice sharp. Joel looks down at his hands, rubbing his thumb against the meat of his palm. 

“I was hopin’ we could talk,” he says.

“I think you’ve said everything you wanted to,” you say even though your heart stutters in your chest. Joel shakes his head, stepping forward. 

“If you want me to leave after this, I swear I will. Just please let me explain, sweetheart,” he says. The term of endearment softens something in you and you contemplate for a few seconds, before you nod. You step aside to allow him to come in, his boots heavy against the wooden floors. You make your way towards the living room, sitting on your armchair so that you’re far enough away from him not to do something stupid like crawl into his lap. 

“I owe you an apology,” Joel says once he’s seated on the couch. “I should have never said those things about endin’ things or about that kid you went out with.”

“Adam,” you supply and enjoy the way Joel clenches his jaw at the mention of his name. But he nods.

“Adam,” he echoes. “Did you enjoy your date with him?”

He sounds genuinely curious, even if his jaw is still clenched.

“It was fine,” you say. 

“Would you go out with him again?” Joel asks and you snap.

“What is this, Joel? You came over because you want a review of my date? What do you want me to say? That it sucked because all I could think about is you? That you broke my heart? What do you want?” you say, voice raised. You can feel your ears heat up and your vision blurs with unshed tears. You look away, swiping at your eyes. 

“Sweetheart,” Joel says, suddenly sounding closer. When you open your eyes, he’s in front of you, kneeling. His eyes are wide with concern. 

“Don’t say things if you don’t mean them,” you say, voice catching on the last word.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Joel says. “I messed this whole thing up.”

“Why did you end things?” you ask, suddenly feeling small. “Did I do something wrong that night?” 

And really, that’s the thought that’s been plaguing you. Was it how you had confessed that it was only ever him? Was it how you had clung to him? 

“No,” Joel says quickly. “You did nothin’ wrong, darlin’. It was me. I got in my head about this. Thought I was too old for you, that I’d be holdin’ you back.”

“So you just ended things,” you say. “You didn’t even give me a chance to say how I felt. What I wanted.”

Joel nods, mouth pulled into a frown. “I know.”

“You hurt me, Joel,” you say, a tender admission. You’re not the type to ever say things like this. You know how much strength is valued in the world you live in. But your heart feels tender and raw. 

“I know,” Joel agrees, again. “I hate that I did. I should’ve talked to you instead of runnin’ off.”

“Why’d you change your mind then?” you ask and Joel looks sheepish now. You watch a light blush form across the tops of his cheekbones.

“Maria said I was bein’ mighty foolish,” he says. “Said she knew the whole time. Saw us, uh, comin’ out of supply closets.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling yourself grow warm. You had thought you and Joel had been rather stealthy, really. 

“I really am sorry, darlin’,” Joel says. “I was bein’ a coward. I like you. Hell, I more than like you and it scared me because I haven’t felt like this in so long.”

The confession blooms inside of you like a flower in spring, and the grief in your heart seems to dissolve into nothingness. 

“You were being a coward,” you agree. “I don’t care that you’re old, Joel. Really. I don’t like you in spite of it or anything like that. I just like you.”

A gentle smile graces his face and he shifts so he’s closer. You spread your knees to make room for him, sitting up straighter. 

“I can’t promise I’m goin’ to be perfect, but I’m going to try. If you’d let me and only if you want this,” Joel says. 

You let his words sink into you and finally, you nod. You watch his soft smile turn into a grin. You tug him forward, pressing your forehead to his own. The two of you stay like that for minutes, eyes closed and listening to the soft sound of each other's breathing. Eventually, you yawn and Joel chuckles.

“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart,” he says and you nod. He stands up, his knees creaking and you smile. He helps you up. 

“You can stay, if you’d like,” you offer. Joel nods, wrapping an arm around your waist and leading you towards your bedroom. You find a shirt for him to sleep in and take turns brushing your teeth. You let him use your toothbrush and the whole thing feels so domestic. It settles warmly in your chest. He pulls you towards him once you both lay down, pressing a gentle kiss to your mouth. When you pull back, he follows, giving you another slow kiss. You curl around him, giving him access to your mouth. There’s no intent to these kisses, no build up for a quick hook up or to let off some steam. You’re kissing just to kiss. Like lovers do. You smile against his mouth and he pulls back, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“I wanna take you out tomorrow,” Joel says, murmuring into your mouth. 

“Like a date?” you ask and he hums in affirmative. 

While Tommy and Maria are deep in conversation right next to him, their words barely reach Joel’s consciousness. His thoughts are focused on something else —as obsessive and unsettling as those of a chain-smoker trying not to think about his next cigarette.

He's way too close.

That guy you've been dancing with since you let the alcohol and light mood drag you onto the dance floor. That stupid, idiotic moron. Dave, if he recalls his name right, has the physique of those boy band stars back in the days, young and charismatic and "pretty". But God, he's as smart as a bag of rocks, and as moral as a corrupt cop.

And it's unbearable. The way his hands linger, his eyes too, on places of your body one could only fantasize about. Joel can see it as bright as day, that little piece of shit had only one thing in mind.

He grabs his glass and sips on his beer, trying to think about something else. Anything else. Tommy's speech about next year's goals for the town. Ellie apparently talking with Jesse on the other side of the room, both of them leaning against the wooden counter. But nothing could do the trick, his thoughts would always come back to your inflamed dance session with that moron, his muscles tensing and heart racing as if he was about to beat the shit out of a herd of clickers.

Couldn't you see it? Were you that blind? He just wanted to have his way with you and would break your heart the next morning.

What a way to start the year.

Joel shifts from one foot to the other, his stare back on you as his fingers grip his pint way too strongly.

You're only his partner during patrols. That's all you two are supposed to be. He has no right into even thinking about those things about you. God he knows that. And he really, really shouldn't be feeling this tight twisting in his stomach right now.

The song suddenly comes to a flamboyant end as the rhythm stops, everyone clapping, some guys throwing their partner in the air. But not Dave. Oh no, Dave pulls you closer. He's holding your waist as you're bowing backward, and is downright devouring you with a hungry stare, eyes half-lidded, lips bitten.

Joel's finger joints are turning white. His feet are itching. That clenching sensation in his guts becomes unbearable. It's a turmoil, savage and dark and unstoppable.

You lil' piece o' shit.

Dave's lifting you back up all against him. Your chest is pressed against his.

Let go of her.

You're laughing, the sound so pleasant to his ears, but discordant, tainted, next to that asshole.

She's…

Dave's lips smoothly take advantage of the movement to get closer; and you don't fucking pull away.

Mine.

He puts his beer down so powerfully that a dead silence cuts through the others' discussion. Tommy calls out his brother's name, but he doesn't even look at him. His whole body is turned toward one precise direction. Like a lethal weapon launching.

His legs finally move on their own. He rips through the crowd as if crossing a field of grass bending in his wake. Each step he takes worsens his state, as nails being hammered into Dave’s coffin.

"Hey, get away from her."

You both snap your heads to him. You instantly pull away from Dave's embrace, more from surprise than anything else.

Joel's voice is insanely calm. But not that quiet, peaceful calm, more like a barely contained anger, that blankness that holds threats and hatred and violence underneath.

"Joel?" You ask dumbly, confused, as your eyes search his face for answers.

"What's wrong, man?"

The oldest doesn't even listen to him. His eyes are fixated on you. The soft tones of his hazel pupils are all gone, leaving only a green so dark they almost look entirely black. Like an ancient, dense forest at night, where the leaves and trunks merge into one in a heavy, menacing darkness. The young boy takes a step back, his eyes jumping from you to him in an awkward manner.

"Dude, there's no problem here…" He tries to stand his ground, but his stare falls to the ground, hands fidgeting with something on his jacket.

Joel is as silent as a tombstone.

Dave gives in, stiffly walking away, praying this mountain of a man won't come and find him in his nightmares.

You, on the other hand, don't move.

"What the actual Hell was that, Joel?"

"He's bad business."

"Wh- so what?" "Since when are you interested in what I'm doing, uh?"

No answer.

"I don't know what you're trying to do. But I do what I want, and sorry if ya don't like it."

You get out of the Church. The air inside was too thick to breathe, and you didn't like how everyone had suddenly seemed so interested in this little play you two were displaying.

You're not able to walk two meters away from the building before feeling a large hand grab your wrist.

"Hey, let fukcing go of me!"

Your patrol partner drags you away from the crows, behind the back of the church. Words of explanation do not seem to be part of this man's DNA.

He lets go of you, your boots slipping a bit across the layer of ice, and you find yourself facing him, with your back to the wall, while he stands stiff as a board in front of you.

You're trapped.

"Just- Shit." Joel's concerned voice sounds almost too loud in the quiet atmosphere. The light of the party looks so far away in the distance, barely illuminating the thick layer of snow covering the entire town. "Listen t'me. Dave's a real jerk to girls, I know him. He just want to..."

"He just wants to what, Joel?"

His mouth stays shut as he looks at you with harsh eyes. He has a hand on his hip, the other is waving the air in defeat, his camel jacket waving along. You won't make him the pleasure to help with any of it. He has the audacity to come and bark on your date? Pull you aside like a child being grounded? Well, he sure as better spill the beans.

Your eyebrows move up in a half-annoyed and half-interrogative expression, watching him sigh and struggle. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he explodes:

"He -He just wanna lay with ya!"

"And you don't?"

There's another tense silence. Frozen, he's genuinely surprised you're being so upfront about it, scowl still deep on his eyebrows.

"Come on, I'm a woman, dumbass. I know how you guys look at us. You really think you were discreet? Watching over me all the time when we're out patrolling. Jesus if I wanted a pair of eyes sticking to me 24/7 I would have glued a pair of googles on my ass."

"You're always so smart uh? You think you know everything, you don't need anyone or anything-

"I sure as hell been doing fine without you, Joel. So yeah, I don't need you to be my fuckin' watchdog and bite every man I'm seeing." You spit, taking a few steps towards him.

"What the hell did you just call me-" His threatening tone do nothing to stop you.

"Why don't you fucking admit the truth for once in your life, mh?" He brought you down with him into the fire pit of anger now, throat tight and muscles tensed. "You don't want anyone else to dance with me? To sleep with me?" You walk closer to him, pointing an accusing finger upward. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're just jealous."

His scowl worsens at that last word. You're bot a few meters away from each other.

You're suprised to snow isn't starting to melt from the rage you're radiating.

Joel's voice drops again, so low now it's almost a menacing growl,

"Take one more step and I'm done playing nice."

Oh, yeah? You don't even think about it twice.

Of course, you take that step. Feet stomping on the ground as your fiery eyes stay stuck on his. Because that's what you always do.

Pushing his buttons, testing his limits, driving him insane.

Enough of this.

It's quick, almost instantaneous. The moment you're chest to chest, his hands are on you, one grabbing your neck, the other holding the side of your waist. You hitch at this sudden grip, and almost as a late realisation, it hits you;

If he really wanted to, this man could break you.

"You know what? Maybe you're right." The same tone as before inside the church. Except this time, you can feel this isn't anger that's hiding beneath the flat blankness of his raspy voice. It's another raw, physical kind of urge.

With every word, he pushes you back against the wall, annihilating in the blink of an eye the steps you had taken toward him.

"I"

He traps you between the wall. His chest hard and warm, pleasantly warm in the cold air.

"Want ya,"

The words seem to sting his lips and intoxicate him with freedom all at once.

"For myself."

You sigh, rewarding his confession by reaching for his jacket, keeping him close, encouraging, daring him to continue. The leather feels nice. His face is only a few inches away from yours.

"So when a lil' piece of shit like David Mathews puts his disgusting hands on you," His fingers grip your neck tighter, "Ya can't expect me to stay god damn seated!"

He's a bow bent to the maximum, ready to snap any second. His words come out loud and deep, rumbling like thunder that had been held back for too long. And in his soul, too, his tired eyes almost crushing you under his stare.

"I wouldn't have it any other way." You lift a hand up to his face, caressing his skin from cheek to jaw. His beard is softer than you had expected. "Joel…"

It's as if whispering his name had just cut him loose; a sign that you really wanted him. His lips collide with yours instantly, unable to wait for just a second more. It's wild and hot and messy, just like you needed him to be. His hair scratches pleasantly against your mouth, and you slip your tongue between his teeth, earning a low growl. His other hand on your hip is losing patience, pressing you more against him, as if he needs your two bodies to merge.

His breathing gets more labored, his movements urgent. The hand you had on his face smoothly travels to his hair, long and curling on his neck. Brushing, touching, discovering. And then, tugging. He groans louder at it, internally swearing, losing his usual composure with every new touch from you.

Of course, you notice.

"Y'know, you're not as controlled as you think." You tease with a cheeky grin, between two heated kisses.

"Eh, maybe I ain't." He concedes with a small smile of his own, probably the first of his entire day. "You… Y' wanna do it here?" He asks in a hopeful and almost disbelieving tone, scanning your face, his body stilling for a few seconds.

"God, fuck yes." You pull his waist against yours, a finger looped around his belt. "Here, anywhere —I don't fucking care."

A deep chuckle shakes his chest, "Well ma'am, might as well please ya as I can."

He unbuckles his belt, movements controlled but eager. His hands then reach for your own pants, pulling them down as well as your panties all at once, and he spins you face against the wall, ass bared for him. The stinging cold surprises your skin, but your head can't focus on that information, too troubled by what's coming next.

"Lord, I've been waiting for this." You can't help but whisper as he places himself behind you.

"Definitely should have done that sooner," He agrees, starting to press against your slit, a big hand flat holding your lower belly up.

Every inch of him pushes inside, spreading you slowly, almost too slowly. But Joel knows what he's doing. He knows he will hurt you if he doesn't give you some time to adjust to his size. And even in such a heated state, it's a risk he won't take.

He's the one who'd never hurt you.

"You good?"

"Yes, Jesus-" Does he even know how having him entirely inside without any movement makes you feel?! "Please, Joel, go on already!"

He snorts through his nose, pleasantly surprised to discover you so avid. Not another word crosses his lips as he answers by retrieving himself and smashing back his hips against you, making your whole body jerk forward.

"Oh, fuck!"

Both of his hands hold your hip now as he sets a slow, deliberate tempo. Every time he thrusts into you, it's hard, hitting a spot deep down inside of you that you could never have satisfied yourself. That obscene, hot sound of his balls smacking your skin mingles with your barely muffled moans and his growls, your breaths in the cold creating huffs of mist twirling together before getting lost in the air of the night.

"Are you still going to see that guy?" Joel asks between thrusts, his grip on you tighter than ever, "Be… -mmf- very careful, about your answer, sweetheart."

"N-No, I won't."

"Good girl". The praise rolls from his tongue to your ears like the sweetest liquor. "From now on, when you'll feel like having some fun at night, who you gonna turn to?"

"Y-you, only you!" You can believe how pathetic you are right now, but you want him to continue so bad, you can't do much else but bend at his will. "Joel, faster, p-please."

"Ya want faster, uh?" He slows down, on damn purpose. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours Joel please! I'm … I'm yours."

"Damn right you are."

And he grounds his legs, picking up a relentless pace, fucking you good and proper, right there against the church's wall just a few feet away from everyone, the muted sounds of the party vibrating through the cold stone against which you're pressed.

His cock is so hard inside of you, rutting your cunt with such intensity and speed it's hard for you to even form a single thought. All you can do is keep your ass up for him as your insides burn, that familiar feeling building up more and more under the strain of his ruthless treatment.

"Joel," You can hear him letting out a pleasured groan, one of his arms leaving your side to snake around your chest, "Joel-I'm-close!" you urgently stammer through your shaken body.

"I know baby, I got ya." His upper body is pressed against your back now, both of you intertwined in an impossible embrace. "I got ya, now give it t'me."

Cheek to cheek, his face nestled above your shoulder, you can feel his beard, coarse but also weirdly pleasant against the side of your face. His body is engulfing you whole, your smaller back arching as he keeps pleasuring you, wanting more than anything to make you come. You're almost suffocating from the warmth he beams around you, like flames licking and twirling all around in the glacial snow.

"That's right, you're so great girl, so good-" His throat tightens as he barely contains his own relief, "Yeaaah just like that!"

Your pussy obeys his every word, and with another push, you let everything go, his shaft buried deep inside as you clench around it, the feeling so perfect the satisfaction makes you see stars, body making one with him completely, even just for a few seconds. He holds you tight during the whole length of it, whispering tender encouragement in your ear. They're almost out of place considering how his hips are still pounding inside to drag every inch of your orgasm out of you.

You mutter his name again and again like a prayer as you dissolve in his arms, your forehead against the wall. He lets a small kiss on your temple, praising you for how good you've been to come for him.

He then reluctantly withdrew his burning hot and still painfully hard shaft from you, smiling to himself at the frustrated little sound you let out.

"Trust me, I would have preferred the first option too, sweetheart-" He pants, curling a big fist around his base, "But we can't take that risk just now."

"S' okay." You pull your clothes back up before gently adding your hand to his grip, fingers joining his. "Let me help you."

He nods. The feeling of your smaller hand on his shaft already sends shivers all the way through his body now that he doesn't have to stop himself from cumming, his pleasure freed and wild making his toes curl and his brow crunch in delight.

You don't waist anytime teasing him again, stroking him hard and fast to match the pace he had inside of you. He moans like he's been hit in the guts, eyes squinting shut, one of his forearms taking support on the stoned wall above your head.

"Shit, keep doin' that," He ordres as he removes his hand to leave you total control.

You can feel how close he already is after fucking you to your relief, and you're well determined to give him back just as much. He's so vulnerable right now, so beautiful with his cock in your hand. His gigantic body to your mercy, his hair disheveled, its gray color sublimated with subtle silvery glints, like the snow-covered landscapes around you.

"Yeah, Jeee-sus," He whispers more loudly than he should, feeling his relief coming. Your hand keeps rubbing his length just like he needs it, all the way up and down as fast as you can, your wrists starting to burn slightly.

He brings his forehead to yours, and you use the opportunity to seal your lips with his. He huffs through the kiss, almost moaning, his pleasure an unstoppable wave crashing on a fragile, immaculate shore.

And with a few more perfect moves of your hand, he comes just like that, his cock spurting his spent all over your clothes, your scent filling his nose, your taste, his mouth. His breath stops for a few seconds, a cry caught tight in his throat, before sighing deeply through his nose. He breaks the kiss, gasping for air as he had just been underwater the whole time.

You gently let go of his softening member, a satisfied smirk plastered on your face. There's a little silence, a bit awkward, where you watch him put himself back in his jeans, and wipe a few beads of sweat on his forehead. How beautiful it is that you succeeded in making this man sweat during the coldest night of the year.

You both seem lost in thought, neither of you daring to speak first, as if doing so would seal something between the two of you. As if it would taint the moment, anchoring that timeless instant in reality. In problems.

After heavy minutes of quiet, Joel's mouth opens, a sound almost crossing it, but a loud, sudden noise surprises both of you.

"Happy New Year!"

Everywhere outside and inside the church, people of Jackson are celebrating, drunken shouts piercing the night, bearers of joy and a well-deserved moment of shared togetherness.

You both look at each other while euphoria surrounds you.

"Happy New Year, Y/N."

"… Happy New Year, Joel."

He awkwardly steps away, disappearing into the falling snow. You sigh, your feet slow, your brain too occupied to process what had just happened.

There was this taste on your throat, bitter. Like those fizzling sweet candies that taste so good but leave your tongue burning. A nagging sense of incompleteness. A painting destined to be a masterpiece, barely begun, from which the artist has been torn away.

A few promising brushstrokes left behind, right there in the middle of the canvas.

You finally move, searching for your loved ones back in the party to wish them all the good stuff for the new year to come.

And you promise yourself that you wouldn't let Joel get off that easily.

a/n: heeey I hope you like it, thanks for reading!! Consider rebloging/commenting if you did!! That means the world to us authors 🫶🏼

It was a terrible night in Jackson. It was raining so hard that the sound of raindrops on the roof had been keeping you awake for hours. The wind was howling so loudly against the walls of your house that you feared you would wake up the next day under a pile of rubble. You weren’t usually the type to be easily shocked, but that night, in your bed, with the blanket pulled up to your ears, you thought you could hear ghosts crawling across the floorboards. In the pitch darkness that enveloped you, you trembled like a leaf.

‘Maybe a cup of chamomile tea might help’, you thought. The idea of ​​going down to the kitchen wasn’t very appealing, but you finally threw back the covers with a huff, grabbed a sweatshirt from the chair next to the bed and threw it over your pajamas.

You padded down the stairs, yawning widely, heading to the kitchen while rubbing your eyes and cursing the dreadful weather. There was a dim light coming from the kitchen, but as you got closer, you thought it was just the moonlight coming through the window. You didn’t bother to fix your hair or even check your reflection in the large mirror hanging in the hallway before entering.

You saw a figure in front of the old open refrigerator. You jumped in fear before remembering that Joel lived in the same house. Yep, the council practically forced Joel to put you up until they finished the repairs in a house near the Tipsy Bison where you could have settled. With Ellie now living in the garage behind the house, Joel's house was unnecessarily large for one person.

So you ended up staying there. 

You tried to be helpful, friendly and grateful. 

But it was as if Joel couldn't help making it clear just how much he disliked having you around.

He walked around grunting, spoke as little as possible, left the house as soon as he sensed you were awake, and came back late every night.

Yes he made coffee before you woke up, leaving a mug in plain sight by the coffee maker for you, along with a small plate of eggs and bacon. He liked things his way and probably hated the idea of you touching his stuff. 

It was giving “either you’re fine with that or you can go to the Jackson’s dining hall, I don’t even care”.

He wasn’t doing anything to make you feel welcomed. 

You were an inconvenience he was forced to tolerate. Nothing more than that.

You rolled your eyes seeing him there, so hard they could’ve stuck in the back of your head. 

“Hey,” you uttered, getting closer to take out an old kettle from the kitchen cabinet. 

“Hey,” Joel grunted back. 

The energy in the room was charged with something unsaid, a linger of tension.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He dared to ask and you huffed a quiet “yeah”. 

He went silent again and kept inspecting his fridge, probably deciding what he was craving as a midnight snack.

He took a bottle of milk out and placed it on the counter before rummaging for a bowl in his cabinet. 

You filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. 

“Excuse me,” you said, realizing that Joel was standing right in front of the drawer where you kept your chamomile tea. 

He stepped aside, taking his milk and the bag of chocolate cookies that Maria had given him a few days earlier, and sat down at his table. 

Munching on cookies dipped in milk, he looked almost goofy, almost sweet if it weren’t for his frown. You felt like you were bothering him just by standing there in his kitchen.

You turned to take the bubbling kettle off the stove, and poured some water into a cup. 

You sighed, wondering if that night was the right time to bring up the subject. You decided to do it in the end. After all, you were going to be staying at his place for a while longer, and tiptoeing through the house so as not to get on his nerves was starting to wear on you.

“Joel…” you began, with your back to him, your eyes fixed on the steaming chamomile tea cooling on the kitchen counter. 

“Hm?” he mumbled, his mouth full of cookies.

“What exactly have I done to you?”

He swallowed, coughing a little, as if a few crumbs had gotten stuck in his throat from sheer bewilderment.

“What are you talking about?” he replied, a sour note in his voice.

You turned to look at him; he had exactly the expression you expected. 

Annoyed. One eyebrow raised as if to mock you, his mouth twisted into a pout, his hand clenched around the cup, his eyes scrutinizing you.

You felt as if he were looking at you right then, for the first time since you’d set foot in there. 

“You’re avoiding me all the time, you don’t talk to me, you barely even say hello…”

Joel’s shoulders tensed, his chin lifted. “Ain’t true.”

“No?” Now it was your eyebrow that shot up; you could feel disbelief appearing on your face. “Since I’ve been here, that’s all you’ve done. I’m sorry they practically forced you to take me in, and I’m sorry to be such a bother. I wish I had an alternative, but my house isn’t ready yet, and if I go back out there…”

You stopped, a flash passed before your eyes and nearly took your breath away. 

Paul, gutted by an infected while trying to shield you, blood spraying all over your face, his agonizing moans as he died at your feet, and the infected clinging to his neck, sucking, trying to suck away every last drop of his life force.

Your only remaining friend, obliterated in an instant before your eyes, practically a shell of everything he had been up until that moment. 

The blind fury that had exploded inside you, the large rock you’d picked up from the ground, the crack of the infected skull when you smashed it against his head with all the strength that only desperation could give you.

You felt tears stinging your eyes, but tried to keep your composure as you looked up at Joel again.

He seemed smaller now, sitting there in the dim light, the silence broken only by the storm rumbling outside the window.

You walked over to the table, rested your hands on the cold wood, staring at him. 

Joel looked at the cup, then at you, then at a spot behind you as he opened his mouth and said something you couldn’t hear, the words drowned by a thunderclap. 

It felt like the world was about to end out there, all over again. 

And inside, it was a storm of anticipation, silently simmering beneath your skin.

“What did you say?” you goaded him, almost challenging him. At that point, you expected nothing less than for him to throw you out of the house. 

And from the way the wrinkles around his eyes deepened, from the way his eyes seemed to shoot daggers at you, you were convinced he was about to do just that.

Joel stood up and came toward you, barefoot on the wooden floor. 

“Listen, we don’t have to be friends. Why can’t you at least be civil and act like a fucking human being?”

You looked up at him; he towered over you by a full head. His shoulders seemed even broader as he loomed so close to you. He had never been this close before. 

A flash of light illuminated his face, and you thought you saw a hint of sadness in his eyes. 

Maria warned you about Joel being a difficult guy. 

“He’s not bad, you know, he’s just…peculiar. He had to deal with some pretty hard shit.” 

Who hadn’t had to deal with it? You thought. 

You were pretty sure you and Joel would eventually find a common ground.

And somewhere, deep down, you were disappointed in yourself for not having managed to break through Joel’s walls even a little bit.

He still wouldn’t speak to you even then. 

His mouth shut tight and his eyes seemed to be shooting at you.

It was like talking to a wall. And you didn’t know why you were trying so hard. 

Or maybe you did. You wanted him to like you. 

Because it was Joel who had saved you.

He was the one who found you, covered in Paul’s blood, paralyzed with fear, kneeling on the snow-soaked ground with your friend’s head in your lap. 

He killed a couple of infected who were staggering toward you, literally picked you up, and brought you to Jackson without asking any questions. 

And he still hadn’t asked any.

Why go to all that trouble to save you and bring you there if he was just going to act like you never existed?

“Forget it,” you said, picking up your chamomile tea before heading back up the stairs to your room.

You could feel Joel's eyes on your back as you were walking away. 

You crawled back under the duvet, the still-warm cup in your hand, and heard footsteps in the hallway. They got closer and closer until they stopped right outside your door. You could see Joel’s shadow peeking under the door. 

He knocked. 

“Come in,” you said reluctantly.

Joel entered and sat down on your bed. 

Silently.

He was fidgeting with the hem of his night t-shirt. 

“Tell me what you want to say, Joel…I need to sleep.”

“Ain’t no good at this,” he grunted. 

Your patience was thin ice at that point. 

“At what? Fucking talking?”

You regretted being so harsh but you couldn’t help yourself. 

A 60 -year- old man acting like a hermit was driving you mad. And the worst thing was, he was pretty decent to anyone else except you. 

You didn’t know what you did to deserve that stubborn silent treatment. 

“You don’t understand” He tilted his head, watching you through his eyelashes like you were some kind of petty kid, unaware of life and pain and adulting shit. 

You scoffed, “Well, explain it to me, then. Pretty sure you have a tongue and know how to articulate.”

Joel didn’t speak. 

He acted, though. 

He moved closer to you, not tearing those dark, piercing eyes off you even for a second, as if they wanted to pin you to the bed.

Big, sad, and veiled by something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Loss? Fear?

His meaty hand cupped your cheek, his thick thumb pressing against your face right at your cheekbone.

When his face was just an inch from yours, he looked down and shook his head, as if he were once again trying to pull away from something he didn’t want to happen. 

And then, what you least expected, happened. 

He kissed you. 

His lips, chapped from the cold, brushed against yours for just a moment before locking onto them, his mustache scraping against your skin, his nose pressed to yours. His hand slipped down to your neck and rested on your pulse point.

The storm raging over Jackson seemed like a joke compared to the one raging inside you. 

You no longer heard the rain pounding relentlessly on the roof, nor the wind howling like a damned pack of wolves, nor the thunder splitting the sky.

You pulled away from him, your eyes wide like you were a deer caught in the headlights. 

“What the hell does that mean?”

Joel tightened his grip on your neck. 

“You don’t get it?”

You clung to his thick fingers, breaking free from his hold, yelling, 

“First you ignore me like I'm invisible, and then you kiss me... are you fucking messing with me?!”

Instead of answering, Joel yanked you back toward him, kissing you again, this time pressing his tongue against your lips so you’d let him in.

And to your great surprise, your body reacted on its own; your lips parted, your hands clung to his biceps.

You let him in. 

His tongue slid against yours, licking greedily, hungrily, fiercely. 

The voice in your brain that was screaming that it was wrong fell silent, lulled by the taste of Joel in your mouth, by his heavy breathing on your cheeks. Your neck seemed as slender as a flower stem held in his big hand, he was applying a bit of pressure, not hurting you, not choking you, just a possessive grip out of frustration and need. 

You could feel his strength all over you. And Joel kept going. Over and over again, nibbling on your lower lip, sucking it between his own, licking everything he could.

Your tears fell without you even noticing; they rolled down your cheeks and died on Joel’s lips.

You didn’t know why you were crying—or rather, you knew, but you didn’t want to put a name to it.

Frustration. Exhaustion. Nervousness. The need to be accepted by the man who had saved you and then put you aside. 

All you knew in that moment was Joel’s lips casting a spell on you. 

He managed to do that without even talking and it made you feel silly and delusional and dumb. 

But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t. 

Because even without naming that overwhelming feeling that was taking over you, it was loud and clear, aching in your bones, igniting in your body like an arsonist's fire. 

Your head was spinning, your breath itching, your pussy screaming between your legs. 

Joel made you lie down on your bed, hovering over you, his hand locked on your neck, his mouth reaching whatever part of you was exposed for him to kiss. 

Your jaw, the tender skin under your ear, your throat, your collarbone. A trail of languid self indulgent kisses ran over you as if Joel was trying to speak through them, as if he couldn’t find his words and was letting his mouth speak in another way. 

The one that brushed over your cleavage was whispering “You mean more to me than you think”. 

The one reaching for one of your breasts over the fabric of your pajamas was saying “that’s what I was trying to suppress.” 

The one on your lips was screaming “I want you.”

When Joel finally muttered something like “We shouldn’t do this” he looked into your eyes searching for some kind of denial, rejection, disgust. 

He only found yearning and need. 

He tried again for some kind of restrain, mumbling “you’re too young” “out of my league” “so pretty it’s infuriating” “I’m just an old cranky man”

but you clung to his biceps in a way that left no doubt about what you wanted, and when your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him close to you, you knew Joel wouldn’t deny the obvious.

Neither of you was strong enough to run away any longer, to fight it any longer, to pretend there wasn’t an invisible force pushing you toward each other—an intricate web of unspoken words and expectations, and bodies yearning for one another in a desperate, carnal, raw way.

His fingers pressing into the soft skin at the back of your neck, just right, holding you in place while he yanked at your too big pajama t-shirt, pulling it down, ruining the hem, the fabric almost tearing up under his force, exposing your breasts. 

His pupils were dilated as he took into the softness of your skin, the roundness of your tits, your pebbled nipples. 

His gaze burned on your skin. 

You moaned as you felt his lips exploring, licking, biting down like he was trying to devour you. 

One of his large palms held your breast firmly, cupping it, while your nipple slipped past his lips, meeting his warm, wet tongue, your body trembling, your head thrown back against the pillow as he swirled around it, suckling on it immediately after, as if he was trying to quench an unquenchable thirst.

Your hips bucked uncontrollably, seeking friction, his hips slamming into you, his growing erection pressing against you. 

“Too many clothes” you moaned in his ear “too many…”

Joel chuckled softly as he felt your hands clutching the waistband of his pants. You didn't want to let go, but you wanted them out of the way—irrational, impatient, frantic. 

“You’re so cute,” he muttered. “Let me go, it’s just a second, I promise”. 

You did as you were told, though not without grumbling.

Even wasting a second felt horrible. He let go of your neck, stood up, and muttered something under his breath “I’m too old for this” or something else you didn’t even hear. 

Old was now your most hated word. He wasn’t old. He was experienced. Your grumpy, moody, irresistible savior. 

He kicked his pants off and he was full commando underneath. A flash of lightning lit up the room and you gasped. His cock was huge, big balls hanging right below it, salt and pepper bush all over his crotch. 

“Fuck,” you uttered. ‘Too much’ was an understatement. But even so, you wanted him more than you had ever wanted anything else.

Joel's cheeks flushed. 

Big, broad, and blushing right in front of your tilted head, your astonished gaze, your half-open mouth.

He tried to look nonchalant with all his might, hopping back on the bed and whispering to you “gonna make it fit” in a hoarse, raspy, voice, as if he had guessed your thoughts.

His hand slipped under your pajama bottoms, brushing against your skin and giving you goosebumps. He moved toward the center, reaching the waistband, and pulled them down.

You kicked them off your legs and to the end of the bed.

Your t-shirt followed right after. 

Joel swallowed. You were almost naked in front of him. 

None of you thought it would have happened and in that moment it felt like you wasted so much time. 

So many weeks holding back, pretending, letting the air charge with a possibility that had seemed unreal, but now seemed inevitable.

Hungry eyes speaking for the both of you. Doing all the work. 

Joel was sitting on his shins on the bed in front of you, your hand instinctively reached for his face, fingertips brushing over the scar on his temple you were dying to know where it came from. 

Every line on his face was telling you more than every word he had ever spoken to you. 

A whole life was in those lines, those birth marks, those faint scars and age spots. 

And those brown eyes. You were drowning in them, willingly. 

“It’s wrong,” Joel hesitated. 

“No”, you placed your index finger on his lips. “don’t say that.”

“Dunno,” Joel insisted again. “Seems pretty fucked up to me.”

You shook your head. 

“I’m a grown-ass woman. Can decide for myself. Frontal lobe fully developed or whatever they’re saying, you know? And I want you, Joel. I want this.”

“Typical of you to use big words at a time like this.”

He was right. It happened quite often when you were nervous. 

You were surprised he had noticed. 

Joel cared about you much more than you'd ever realized. All that bustling around the house, making sure everything was in order, you'd always interpreted it as him liking things his way. Now you understood that his gestures weren't meant to say "don't touch anything else" but "I'm thinking of you," covered up by the gruff, distant demeanor he'd always had.

You moved first, taking his hands in yours, intertwining your fingers with his, before placing them on your waist. 

“Touch me, Joel.” 

His hands remained still, testing your skin beneath his palms.

“Please,” you whined, grabbing at his wrists, sliding them up to your torso, stopping them next to your breasts. 

His fingers tensed, then relaxed and brushed against your nipples. Up and down, gently. 

You moaned. 

Joel’s eyes studied you, as if trying to memorize every distinctive mark on your body, every crease in your skin, every curve.

“Yes…just like that,” you smiled, purring at him like a cat. 

A smirk that he couldn’t hold back played on his lips. 

“So soft and beautiful,” he whispered, almost more to himself than to you, kneading your breasts.

He probably didn’t touch a woman in years but you weren’t even remotely preoccupied with that.

His hands were capable, hands which used to fix, they know how to make things right, they know how to handle with care. 

You’d seen that so many times you’d lost the count. 

You’d also seen how they could be dangerous but you weren’t scared in the slightest. 

You were only scared you wouldn’t know how to stop, craving more and more of what he was doing to you.

You let go of his wrists, caressing the expanse of his shoulders while his fingertips closed around your nipples, pinching and pulling gently. 

A whine escaped your lips as Joel laid you back down on the bed, climbed on top of you, kissed you again, and pressed your body against the mattress.

His rock hard cock was rubbing against your panties, by then so wet that they were useless. 

“Give it to me”, you pleaded, running your hand over a scattering of freckles that dotted his chest.

“Not yet. It'll hurt,” he tried to calm you down. 

Honestly, you were so wet you didn’t believe him, so you kept pushing.

Joel gripped your neck with one hand, letting the other slide down your stomach, all the way to your panties, slipping his fingers under the fabric. 

“Be good,” he teased you, letting you feel his digits just barely on your folds, “or you’ll get nothing.”

You groaned as you felt the tears stinging your eyes again, a single one sliding down your cheek. Joel licked it off your skin and replied unyielding, “Damn, you really are stubborn. 

Maybe I should shut your mouth for a while.“ 

He smiled mischievously, and in an instant a flash of realization hit you.

”Yeah. Maybe you should,“ you nodded. 

”Hmm, want to try? Then maybe you’ll get a sense of what I mean.“

 You watched him straddle you without weighing you down; with both hands under your armpits, he lifted you up and rested your head against the headboard. He picked up the pillow and tucked it behind your neck.

“Like this”

 His cock bobbed in front of your eyes as he stood up slightly to bring it up to the level of your mouth. 

Your tongue shot out instinctively, licking the tip, catching him off guard.

You giggled when you saw him get flustered. 

“Ain’t something to laugh about,” he scolded you, but a small sense of revenge welled up inside you, and you stuck your tongue out again, testing his cock once more. 

It was red and swollen, and you could see a thick vein bulging along its entire length.

It curved slightly upward, which made you think of how deliciously it would hit that spot inside you once it was there. 

It was perfect, and the only thing holding you back was Joel’s stern gaze fixed on you.

His hand was on your neck again as he made you take it into your mouth, pushing you forward. “You want it so bad, huh? All right, show me what you got.”

You tried to relax your jaw as he pushed it inch by inch between your lips, onto your tongue. Salty, thick, and throbbing, you felt it slide across your palate, filling your mouth.

 Joel was right, and it annoyed you to admit it—even just to yourself. 

It was a big deal. Thick, throbbing, and incredibly imposing.

You struggled to get half of it into your mouth, holding the rest in your hand, saliva dripping profusely from the corners of your lips.

Your pussy, deliberately ignored, was crying out for attention, your panties sticking to your folds. 

Joel looked down at you, his eyebrows furrowed, a bewildered expression on his face as he tried to hold back from cumming the moment you started moving up and down his shaft.

Bobbing your head, you pressed it against your tongue, letting its salty taste coat your taste buds, its vein beating against your lips.

“Fuck, what a sweet mouth, honey. Fucking perfect,” he babbled, clinging to your hair. His hips jerked a little too hard, involuntarily, triggering a gag reflex in you that you could barely suppress.

You panicked for a second, then readjusted your jaw to accommodate its thickness, his bush grazing your nose. 

You moaned as he began to move, trying to breathe through your nose, your hand at the base trying to contain his thrusts inside your mouth. 

“Look at me, sweetheart. I want you to watch me while you do it.”

You lifted your gaze to meet his, and you saw it soften, looking a little pathetic. 

He was biting his lower lip, deep wrinkles furrowing his brow, his mustache beaded with sweat, as he was desperately trying to prolong the moment, not to burst into your mouth right away.

His hand clasped around your hair held you in place, almost commanding, but not tight enough to hurt you—just a delightful tug that seemed to say, “Keep going.”

Up and down, completely covered in your saliva, it went deeper and deeper as your mouth. Your eyes were watery, your lips swollen, and your chin wet, yet you didn’t want to stop. 

Your tongue caressed it, your mouth sucked it in, your cheeks hollowed out, its tip finally reached the back of your throat, and you stayed there until you were out of breath.

Joel pulled out of you with a wet pop, and your tongue darted back to the tip in an instant, swirling around it, then focusing on the underside, a couple more licks and Joel was over the edge.

He stopped you just before he exploded in long, sticky white streaks across your face.

You stopped to lick your lips and savor his taste. 

“See? I did it,” you dared to say, smiling proudly at him.

“You did perfectly,” he growled, petting your hair “now lay down for me, honey, let me give that pussy what she wants.”

“For someone who didn't want to do this, you're really going to town, Miller,” you laughed as he helped you lie back down beneath him.

You had never called him by his last name before, but at that moment you found yourself liking it. 

“Aren’t you just a little minx?” He bit back, smirking, manhandling you on the mattress. 

His fingers clung to the edges of your panties, pulling them down past your thighs.

He took a good look at your naked pussy, unconsciously licking his lips at the sight. 

“Fuck, look at her. She’s drippin’,” He whispered, running a finger through your folds and bringing it up to your eyes. “See? Soaking wet.”

You felt your cheeks burn, almost feeling a little embarrassed for a moment, but then turning the tables, taking his finger and greedily licking it in your mouth. 

“Yeah… just like I said… a minx” he uttered. 

He took his cock in his hand, rubbing it against your clit, and your expression changed instantly, a convulsive moan escaped from the back of your throat. 

“Hmm, you’re not laughing anymore, are you?” He teased. 

He entered slowly, sinking deeper and deeper into you, until your hips were pressed tightly together and your foreheads touched.

He wrapped his hand around your head, beginning to move inside you, stroking your hair, while your tongues entwined again in a kiss filled with urgency, mess, and need.

You took him in almost effortlessly, your walls stretched to accommodate him as if they’d been waiting for nothing else, sucking him in as if your pussy wanted to swallow him whole.

 Joel was trembling, sweaty, and hot, his hair plastered to his forehead, as he thrust inside you. He never withdrew completely; he’d pull back a little only to reach that spot again.

For a man his age, he was holding out for an incredibly long time. But then again, he was well accustomed to holding back around you. Few gestures and an incredible number of words that you knew were trapped in the back of his mind.

You didn't know exactly why—no one had ever explained it to you—but you had always sensed that he carried something broken inside him, a wound that had never truly healed.

You could see it even now, in the way he looked at you, in his almost frightened eyes, veiled by something you couldn’t quite put your finger on but that seemed to say, “I’m afraid to show myself so vulnerable. I’m afraid you’ll see right through me.”

You were almost certain he hadn’t been this close to anyone in years—not like that, at least, not in such an intimate and overwhelming way. 

You felt your peak coming, hard and strong, a breathtaking sensation running up from your tummy to your chest. 

As your orgasm streaked, your hand instinctively returned to the scar on his temple, caressing it as if you wanted to heal it, as if your touch were enough to make it vanish, even though you liked it and it was so intrinsically his.

Joel’s body tensed a moment later, and he let out a grunt, muttering, “Dammit, I’m so close.”

You could feel his cock twitching inside you, so hard, its tip pressing against your sweet spot over and over again.

Even though the temptation to keep him inside you was strong—and you’d been on the pill for a while to help with terrible cramps you suffered every month—in a moment of clarity you decided it was too soon.

“Come on my tits,” you moaned, shaken by his thrusts. 

Joel pulled out of you just in time, moving next to you, aiming for your tits as you arched your back welcoming his thick, long streak painting your skin. 

The feeling of his cum running down between your breasts was heady, it made you feel like a whore and a saint at the same time. Your pussy clenched around nothing, still writhing in spasms.

Joel collapsed onto the bed next to you, breathing heavily, his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Fuck me…this was…fuck,” he muttered incoherently. 

You chuckled softly as you tried to catch your breath, “Yeah.”

Joel pulled you into his arms and kissed your forehead. “Best mistake I ever made.”

You looked at him sideways, reaching up to his lips and whispering, “But if it feels so good… is it really a mistake?” before giving him a little kiss.

Joel smiled, craning his neck to return the kiss. You felt his smile on your lips.

“Maybe not,” he replied, winking. 

The storm outside was passing and so was the one in your heart. 

You’ve never been particularly possessive of others before— Most of your boyfriends never caught much attention apart from yours and, in all honesty, you never loved them enough to feel threatened by anyone else. With Joel, however, you always find yourself sticking a little closer to his side, your hands roaming his shoulders a little bit more obviously whenever the two of you are out. He’s never given you a reason to feel intimidated, but you’ve never been with a man as attractive as Joel Miller. 

He catches everyone’s eyes. The cashier at your favorite food truck, the teller at the bank, the security guard at the mall; everyone stares with varying degrees of want and need. Joel, for the most part, doesn’t seem to notice: He thinks the cashier is staring because he orders way too many olives on his fish taco, and the teller because she’s trying to figure out if he’s going to rob the place, the security guard is just doing his job at keeping the weird man in check at Victoria’s Secret. 

But you know better. They want him just as much as you do, and you need to figure out a way to keep people away. 

The first time you give him a hickey, Joel laughs it off. He says something about being too damned old for that but you notice the way his fingers tighten on your hips, the way his breath stutters and how he doesn’t ever try to pull away— The mark is on his chest, hidden away with any t-shirt, but every time you see it brings a thrill that you’ve never felt before, the little ‘O’ shaped bruise going from deep purple to a soft blue to green to finally fading entirely. You actually miss it when it’s gone, your fingers tracing the pattern you’ve memorized over his chest as the two of you lie in the afterglow one evening.

“What’re ya doin’?” Joel asks when you lean over him, his chest still shiny with sweat. You poke your tongue out, running over his nipple, tasting and testing. His breath stutters, a hand coming up to the back of your neck. “Not sure I can go again so quick, sugar.” 

You chuckle against his skin, climbing over him as you nose his pecks, your mouth going from one nipple to the other. 

“You don’t have to.” You tell him, your naked body molding against his as you move upwards, your teeth dragging across his chest until you reach the hollow of his throat. 

Joel whimpers when your mouth latches onto his skin, biting and suckling until his hips are buckling up into yours, his fingers digging into your love handles as if he’s unsure whether he wants to pull you close or push you away. 

“Goddamnit, woman.” There’s no real heat to his voice, and you grin when he tilts his head backwards, giving you better access to the column of his throat. “Everyone’s gon’ see it.” 

“Good.” You say, your tongue running over his Adam’s apple before you bite down onto the side of his neck. “Let them all know you’re mine.” 

Joel chuckles. “ ‘S that what I am?”

You pull back just enough to stare at him, one eyebrow raised, both of your hands sprawled on his chest. “Are you not, Miller?”

“Of course I am.” He says and, this time, his voice doesn’t carry any of the teasing it did before. Joel’s hands run up your sides, his callouses catching on the soft skin above your ribcage. “ ‘M all yours.” 

His whispered words make you shiver, the weight and truth of them settling somewhere deep inside your core. You shift, fully straddling him now, Joel’s soft cock brushing against your ass when he grips you. 

“Say it again.” 

“I’m yours.” Joel tells you, his brown eyes locked into yours. “Just yours, sugar.”

The kiss you share is bruising, teeth clacking against each other, your nose pushing against his as his hands dig into you, pulling your naked body as close as it’s physically possible. Joel whines when you bite down onto his bottom lip just on the side of too hard, his hips bucking against you; you’re still so wet from your slick and his come that you slide against his navel, your clit catching on his pelvic bone. Your mouth goes from his lips to his jawline, sucking hard on the little patch next to his chin where his beard doesn’t really grow. 

“Baby—” Joel says, and you can’t tell if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth scrape against his jaw when you turn your face to the side, latching onto his pulse point. 

“Say it.” 

“I’m yours.” He says it quicker this time, unthinking, his head thrown back against the pillow. You leave another mark behind, the redness already deepening by the time you bite down on the soft of his collarbone. “Let me— I need to be inside’a you.”

Joel turns a little, reaching for the bedside table where you know he keeps the blue little pills he swears are for ‘emergencies only’ but you swat his hand away. 

“Leave it.” You say, leaning back so grab a hold of Joel’s half hard cock and he raises an eyebrow at you, hesitating for a moment before he finally leans back. “I want you hard because of me, not because of the pills.” 

Joel opens his mouth, but you shush him with a kiss. You know his desire for you isn’t at stake here. You know that it happens and that his refractory period is going to get longer with age and stress and that it’s not a you problem or a him problem but you don’t want to hear it at that moment. Instead, you kiss him until Joel is writhing underneath you, panting into your mouth. 

It’s not easy, or sexy, when you finally push Joel’s only half hard cock inside of you. You’re still wet and open enough that you’re able to sit somewhat comfortable on him but it’s not exactly easy to do so, and Joel needs to help you at one point, hissing through his teeth as you sink little by little. You run your hands over his chest once Joel is fully sheathed inside of you, your nails dragging over the dark hairs there, thumbing his nipples in the way you know he likes.

The power you feel when you watch him from above, a trail of purple bruises down his neck and chest contrasting even more with how furiously his skin is blushing, isn’t something you can quite explain. You wish you could reach for your phone, take a picture or a thousand of him like this, hairs standing on ends, panting even though neither of you are moving, his eyes hazy from desire. 

“I love you.” He says, the words stuttering and mending together when you start to move your hips back and forth, just a little bit. “I love you.”

“I know.” You smile, leaning down so you can latch your mouth to his shoulder, the muscles rippling under you. “And everyone’s gonna know too.” 

You can feel him hardening inside of you, thickening and pulsing as you speed up the movements a little— Not yet bouncing, just teasing, circling your hips the best you can as you press your chest down onto his. Joel’s hands knead your asscheeks and you know bite down hard when he tries to use it as leverage to dictate the pace. 

“Nuh-uh.” You soothe the bite with your tongue, tracing the indents of your teeth before you pull back. You peck him on the lips, lightly, restraining yourself from biting his bottom lip again— You don’t want to hurt him, not really, just enough to leave traces of your presence behind. “You take what I give you.” 

Joel’s chest rumbles underneath you, somewhere between a laugh and a moan— That’s a sentence you’ve stolen straight from his books, the sort of taunting you’ve heard time and time again when Joel is in a teasing mood. 

“Is this payback?” He asks, but he’s grinning ear to ear. 

“Maybe.” You lift yourself just slightly before sinking down onto him again. “Or maybe I’m just figuring out why you like bossing me around so much.” 

“You’re a real menace, ain’t ya?”

“Oh, am I?” You raise your hips a little, hands pressing down onto Joel’s chest as you hold the position. “Want me to stop?”

“Please don’t.” The tendons on Joel’s neck strain as he holds himself back and your stomach flutters at the knowledge that he could easily flip the two of you over but, no matter how many seconds pass before you sink back onto him, Joel remains still. “I’ll be good— Just please don’t stop, sugar, c’mon.”

You’re uncertain if you’re taking pity on him or on yourself but you finally allow your body to move at a pace that has you moaning above him, fingernails digging into Joel’s chest as you chase your pleasure; Joel doesn’t seem to mind, his fingers grasping whatever part of you that he can reach, his big hands roaming from your ass to your hips to your chest and then back to your ass— He plants his feet on the mattress, hips bucking upwards into yours.

“Fuck, Joel—” You lose rythm but he’s right there, pistoning his hips up while he pulls you down onto him, your clit grinding against him with every thrust. “Joel.”

“That’s right, baby.” He grunts, fingers bruising your hips with how much he grips you. “Say my name— Tell me who’s the only one that makes you feel like this.”

That snaps you back to reality. You dig the heels of your palms onto his chest, and Joel groans when you push into a particularly sore bruise— A groan of pain, this time, and he frowns up at you. 

“No!” You whine, taking the hands that are gripping your hips and pinning them above his head; Joel interlocks his fingers with yours so fast you think he might not even be aware that he’s done it. “I’m in charge here. You don’t get to make me feel anything.” 

Joel gives you a small, toothy grin. He looks boyish like that, smiling up at you, his curls a mess where they sprawl over his forehead and pillow. 

“Yes, ma’am.” He says, but his hips still ondulate one last time before he finally lets his weight fall back onto the mattress. 

This time, when you move, you’re not thinking about Joel’s pleasure. With your hands in his, both still pinned above Joel’s head, you move for yourself, hips circling and bucking until you find the right position, the tilt of your hips that has the head of his cock brushing up on just the right spot inside of you. 

Joel comes inside of you with a strangled cry, his fingers squeezing yours as he holds onto you just as much as you hold onto him, the tendons on his neck straining as he struggles to stay still. It makes for the prettiest picture, you think, having Joel like this— Teeth clenched, chest flushed, his neck and torso littered with red and purple shapes that you put there; the man that is always such a fortress, big and strong and capable, turned into a bruised, whining mess underneath you. 

You ride him all through your own orgasm until your legs and lungs are burning, your slick and his come slipping out of you as Joel’s cock softens. You let yourself topple over him, your nose bumping against his jawline as you rest on the crook of his shoulder. Joel finally lets your hands go, his arms wrapping around you, both of you clammy with sweat and spit. You poke your tongue out, circling a particularly nasty bruise on his pulse point. 

“I’m goin’ to get ripped to fuckin’ shreds at work tomorrow.” Joel says but you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Poor Joelie.” You coo. “Got fucked for an inch of his life and now everyone will know.”

“Fuckin’ menace.” Joel barks out a laugh, tilting his head enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to your lips. “You’re lucky I love you, pretty girl.” 

And you know. By God, you know.

You blow out air, shifting to get closer, and before you can stop yourself you’re pressing the needle into his skin. Joel tenses, his nostrils flaring and his head bows, forehead pressing to your shoulder as he internalizes the pain.

“Sorry,” you whisper, because what else are you supposed to say as you stitch him up, but you continue, pulling the thread through. “Sorry, Joel.”

“Don't apologize. Just... keep goin'. Ain't your fault I'm too damn stubborn to stay outta trouble,” He lets out a slow, controlled breath, fingers digging into his own thigh to distract from the sting. “You're doin' fine.”

You press in and through his skin, tugging it tight, his forehead staying leaned into your shoulder. He smells like smoke, probably from making the fire last night. The fire that had attracted the clickers. The fire he had made to keep you warm.

Biting your lip, you focus on the needle, on the light weight of it between your fingers. It might leave a scar, and you wonder what he’ll remember when he sees it. The pain or the chill, or the hands that did the stitching.

“Almost done.” you murmur, and he doesn’t respond. You pull it taught again, ignore the shake in your pinky finger when you press in, your left hand squeezing the inflamed flesh together.

He lets out another low grunt, the kind he always makes when he is trying to hide the pain, as if somehow you won’t know it hurts. When he speaks again it's tight and pained, his face still hidden against you.

“How long's it been since you done this?” He asks, one hand dropping to your waist, a light grip that's probably meant to comfort you more than him.

“I’ve never done this,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the task at hand. “I’ve never…stitching wasn’t my forte.”

You pull the string taught again, holding it with your left hand while your right hand grabs your pocket knife. Slicing the thread, you drop the blade and tie off your work. The skin puckers and you wonder if it’s painful, if the blood seeping through means you did a shit job.

“Alright,” you whisper, patting his upper thigh gently. “All done.”

He hisses through his teeth as you pat his leg, the touch more pain than comfort. But he doesn't say anything, just raises his head and looks down at the stitches with a grimace. They're ugly as hell. Jagged and messy. But they'll hold.

“Damn, you weren't kiddin’,” he mutters, a hint of dry humor in his voice. “You really ain't got a skill for this, do ya?” His hand doesn't leave your waist, his fingers tightening fractionally as he looks up at you.

You smile a fraction and shake your head. “Guess not.”

His mouth twists as he inspects the work again before nodding at his pack. “Gauze.”

Leaning backwards you dig inside the backpack, pulling out a roll and handing it to him. You’re quiet as you watch him slowly wrap his leg, the red seeping through the white and he continues to wrap until no red is visible.

“When we get back we’ll get you looked at,” you say, propping your elbows on your knees. “Make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

He grunts in response, his fingers working the gauze around the wound with a practiced ease that speaks of too much experience. There's no doubt this isn't the first time he's patched himself up like this. His gaze flicks up to you, eyes narrowing slightly, as if he can sense your worry. “Don't need someone fussin' over me. I'll be fine.”

“Joel,” you make your voice hard. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not.” He drops the gauze roll into his pack and shifts, attempting to stand but falters, his bad leg still on the floor while his other leg is bent in a kneeling position. His face twists in pain.

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Yes. You are.”

You stand, holding your hand to him and he glares at it before slowly taking it, bracing his weight and standing up. He hops once, finds his balance with a sharp exhale. You glance at his exposed leg, the other still hidden by the denim of his jeans.

“You’ll need new pants too.” You murmur, and his hand is warm in yours despite the October chill.

“Pft,” he grunts, hoping once more. “No shit. Help me get these on ‘em.”

You bite back a grin before releasing his hand, bending to grab your bags. Your horses whine at you, as if impatient to get back to Jackson, and you untie one, bringing it closer to Joel. “Get on up.”

He eyes the horse like it's personally offended him, but he doesn’t argue. With a muttered curse and more effort than he'd ever admit to, he swings himself onto the saddle, only barely managing not to faceplant in the process. His jaw clenches hard enough you can see it from where you stand.

Once settled, he shoots you a glare that's meant to be intimidating but just makes him look like an irritated preteen. “Happy now?”

You don't even try to hide your smirk this time as you mount your own horse beside him. “Ecstatic.”

The corner of his mouth twitches with some sort of amusement before he nudges his horse forward with another pained sigh. “Just get us home before I bleed all over this damn saddle.”

The entire ride is quiet, and you prefer it that way. You aren’t sure what you should say to him, because all you want to say is sorry. Sorry for the fire, for the clickers that came and almost took your lives. Sorry for being partnered with him, that you’re a crummy replacement for Tess.

Sorry that no matter how hard you try, he’s the last thing you think about when you sleep, and the first thing when you open your eyes.

Surprisingly Joel stops at the clinic first thing when you get back to Jackson, and hands you the reign’s of his horse. “You mind?”

You don’t at all, and you lead both horses to the stables, stopping by the town center to hand over all the goods you had scavenged. You walk home alone, and the chill is bone-shaking by the time you make it to your room. You know it isn’t really that cold outside, that the cold you feel is more than skin deep, but you push it away, showering in silence. You wash away Joel’s blood and the feeling of his forehead pressed to your shoulder. When you finish, you half expect him to be sitting on the foot of your bed, asking you what this pull is. Because he has to feel it too. It can’t just be you.

Toweling off, you’re curling into the mattress when the door knocks so hard it rattles. You get up, annoyance creasing your brow as you tug open the door and stop dead.

Joel looks down at you, exhaling through his nose in the quiet of the night. You glance at his leg and then back to his face and you feel too exposed in just your sleep shirt and shorts. Crossing your arms over your middle, you nod at where his injury is, hidden beneath new jeans.

“Get that checked?” You ask, and his chin dips to look down as well.

He seems to hesitate, his gaze flicking down to the way you hold your arms in front of you like a shield. Your bare legs and the soft curve of your hips are just visible through the thin cloth of your shirt, and for the briefest moment he feels like he shouldn't be seeing you like this. Then his eyes are on your face again, his expression schooled into his usual tight mask.

“Yeah,” he affirms, shifting his weight off his injured leg. “Doc said I'll have a nasty wound, but I'll live.”

“Ah,” you click your teeth. “That’s my bad. Maybe next time it’ll be straighter.”

He chuckles, grinning a little before it melts back into his face, features a mass of serious curiosity. He whispers your name and it nearly knocks the wind from you. “Look- I-”

His words stutter, and part of you wants to close the door in his face. He’s breaking down the wall you both have built, the safety that was carefully constructed after the end of the world, and you aren’t sure you want him to.

“Joel,” You rasp, shaking your head. “You don’t- it’s okay.”

“No,” he says quickly, one hand moving from where it was resting at his side to press against the doorjamb by your head, “No, it ain't. I need to say this.”

He's so close now, all broad shoulders and quiet strength. You can see the shadow of a pulse fluttering in the hollow of his throat, can smell the faint scent of firewood and sweat that still clings to his skin. Your eyes rise to his again, drawn to the intensity in his gaze like a moth to a flame.

“You helped me.” He mutters, and you shrug.

“You would’ve done the same.”

“Would I have?” He questions, dark brows furrowed. “I don’t- after salt lake, I-”

You interrupt him because you know he beats himself up enough already. You step forward, shaking your head. “Yes. You would have.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, as if you've taken the wind right out of his lungs. His hand drops from the doorframe and for a moment he just stands there, looking at you. His fingers brush against your arm—barely there, hesitant—before curling gently around your wrist.

“Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head once before pulling you into him without warning. One arm wraps around your back while the other comes up to cradle the nape of your neck. He holds onto you tightly, like maybe this is all he knows how to do now, hold on so nothing else can be taken away.

You freeze for a second before melting into it, pressing closer until his scent envelops every inch of you and warmth spreads from where his body presses against yours.

It’s unclear how long he holds you, but you don’t rush it. You revel in the feeling of his hand in your hair, his chest beneath your cheek, heart pumping just a bit fast.

When Joel steps back, it’s too soon and you feel cold, like your chest has been cracked open in winter weather. He clears his throat, shifting uneasily and you tilt your head.

“I don’t know if I can do this right now,” he whispers. “After- salt lake. I don’t…I don’t know if I can stomach it.”

You swallow, throat like sandpaper and you nod. “That’s okay.”

His eyes search your face like he's trying to find a hint, some sign that you don't believe him, but you force a reassuring smile. It's small, and it probably looks fake even to you, but you don't think you could manage anything more convincing right now.

His head dips a fraction defeat lacing his posture.

“I ain't good for you.” he says softly, staring at the floor.

“Is anyone really good anymore?” You murmur, and his eyes meet your own. “I’m not too sure.”

Joel hums, nods once. “When you stitched me up. It hurt like a bitch. But I knew I didn’t- I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to do it.”

“What about Tess?” you ask because you’re cruel to yourself. “She would’ve.”

“Yeah. She would’ve,” his reply is calmer than you would’ve expected. “But that don’t matter since she ain’t here. You are.”

You don't say anything. You don't know what to say, what response would satisfy both you and him right now. Instead, you stare at him, at the faint lines around his eyes, the tired set to his mouth. He looks worn, exhausted, and you wonder how much of that exhaustion is from the wound on his thigh and how much is from something else entirely.

“You’re something,” he murmurs, and you unfold your arms. “something I wanna…I wanna keep.”

His accent is thick, running over you like syrup and your joints loosen in his verbal hold. You consider him, the scarring on his knuckles and the short chop of his hair, and then you reach for his hand, fingers tracing over the leathered skin.

“Then have me,” you whisper, your lips twisting before you peer up at him. “Go on.”

His eyes grow dark and fixed on yours, drinking in the sight of you like a starving man. He takes a step closer, so much so you can feel the heat radiating off his body once more. It would be so easy to press up against it, to feel the solid length of his frame against your own.

Instead, he raises your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles.

Your lips part as you watch him, the careful display of tenderness, and when he drops your hand you’re stepping forward, into his space, and your mouth finds his.

It’s a deep kiss of tongue and teeth, slow as the rotation of the moon. Joel’s hand slips to your back, palm spread between your shoulder blades while the other cups the side of your jaw. Your fingers curl in his flannel, eyes shutting right as your neck arches to meet his.

He groans against your mouth the sound low and rumbling deep in his chest. His hand presses flat to your spine, pushing you closer still until you're molded against him, your bodies fitted together like puzzle pieces. His thumb brushes your jaw, his mouth open and hot against yours, claiming every inch of you as his.

And you let him because you can’t find it in you to stop him anymore, your back arching, fingers fisting tighter in his shirt. You could drown in this moment and you wouldn't care.

“Stay,” you murmur as his tongue slides against yours. “Stay.”

“If you let me.”

You’re nodding quickly, hands trailing up his chest and around his neck, and when he dips to pick you up, his arms around your thighs you don’t make a sound.

He's strong enough to carry you like this, holding you easily in his grip like you weigh nothing at all, and he takes a few steps before lowering you at the entrance to your bedroom. You take his hand, pulling him to the bed and he pushes you down gently, his body covering yours in a single movement as his mouth finds yours.

Slowly, almost torturously, he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down the side of your jaw and to the sensitive skin of your neck. His teeth graze the pulse there, a ragged exhale shuddering through him as his fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts.

“Can I?” He whispers, and you can’t tell his eye color in the dark.

“Please..” you choke out, heart racing as he tugs your shorts and underwear down. His fingers are thick as they circle your entrance, and your head drops back to the sheets, chest rising and falling in quick succession.

Joel's breath is uneven against your cheek as he drags his fingers through your slick heat, groaning when you arch into his touch. He spreads it over you lazily, teasingly, before dipping two fingers inside, slow at first, letting you adjust to the stretch.

“Fuck.” he grits out when your walls clench around him immediately. You bury a hand in his hair while the other grips at the sheets beneath you like they’re a lifeline. His free hand pushes up your shirt until it bunches under your arms and then dips back down to palm at one of your tits with bruising pressure.

His mouth finds yours again while his fingers curl just right inside of you; not fast enough for release but too good to want him to stop.

“Still okay?” Joel asks softly, brows furrowing as he slows the work of his hand.

“Keep going, feels good.” You whisper. He pauses, only hesitating for a moment before his fingertips push into you, stretching you more. Your lashes flutter and your thighs spread, allowing more of him in.

He helps you undress the rest of the way, hands soft and gentle against your skin as he peels off your shirt and then his own. When his bare hips slip between yours, he glances up at you.

“I don’t- have a condom.” He murmurs, and for some reason this makes you smile. You run a hand up his neck, to his face hovering inches from your own.

“S’okay,” you whisper. “Pull out okay?”

He nods, a barely-there gesture that has his hair falling across his forehead, and he looks younger this way. The age lines are smoothed out as he rubs his thumb against your hip, his gaze fixed on yours. He leans down to kiss you, his body slotting against yours as his hands slide up your waist, fingers splaying against your ribs, and when he pushes in you squeeze your eyes closed.

A gasp falls from your mouth, echoing into his and Joel groans at the first feel of you.

His hips set a slow, torturous pace; his chest flush to yours, lips skating the sensitive skin of your neck. You press your face to the underside of his jaw, gasping softly into his ear. Your hands rove restlessly up the expanse of his back, nails dragging across his shoulders, and he shudders against you. You feel the flex of his fingers at your hip, his breath hot against your throat. This is more than you expected from him, more than you're used to, and it's so much that you could cry.

He kisses your mouth, your cheeks. The space between your brows and your heart flutters. You’re so full in a way that makes you realize just how empty you were.

His hand moves between your bodies and he rubs at the nerves there, the action slow and careful. His eyes are open, watching your reaction and when you shutter around him he nearly chokes.

“Joel-“ Your voice breaks as his fingers continue their relentless circling, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you until you're trembling beneath him. His name tumbles from your lips again, half-plea, half-prayer. He groans when he feels your walls clamp down around him harder than before.

He keeps his rhythm slow but deep, just enough to leave you teetering on the edge of release without tipping over completely. His forehead presses against yours as he works both of you toward that same precipice with measured strokes until finally, you break apart in shuddering waves.

Joel gritting out curses between kisses while heat pools low in your belly before spreading outward like liquid fire through every vein, your toes curling and your arms around his neck go limp. He curses again before the weight of him within you is gone, and you’re panting as his hand travels to himself, pumping hard with grinding teeth until there’s a warm liquid on your thigh.

He shutters, his hips twitching before he leans to the right, slumping slightly but not crushing you. You blink up at the ceiling, your heart hammering inside your ribs and pumping loudly in your ears. Joel is still for a few moments beside you before he sits up, reaching for his shirt and he wipes at your thigh. The care of the act makes your heart sore.

It takes you another moment to manage the energy to speak, your muscles feeling like jelly. You roll to face him as he tosses the shirt to the floor. The sight of him, bare and flushed in the dark, makes the ache between your thighs worse. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair and stares at the ceiling, the rise and fall of his chest more even now. He says your name, but it’s so quiet it sounds like he’s repeating it to himself.

You sit up, covering yourself and your eyes flick to his thigh. Red leaks at a slow pace down his skin.

“Your stitches.” you whisper, and he glances down briefly before looking back at the ceiling.

“S’alright. Was worth it.”

You bite back a smile. Swinging your legs over the bed, you go to stand but his hand reaches for you, stopping you with a gentle tug. You glance at him and he looks…open.

“It- was worth it,” he murmurs. “Right?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes seem so dark in this light, at the vulnerability etched into the lines of his face. This is the most open you've ever seen him, raw and real, and a part of you is afraid that it'll disappear as soon as you answer. But you don't hesitate, because he needs to know.

“Yeah,” you say softly, gently squeezing the hand he still has on your wrist. “It was.”

X

Joel Miller ML