My Cloud

Smoke.

You can see it: thick and dark against the pearl white sky, snow frozen on your eyelashes. You haven’t felt your toes for a few days now; your fingers numb this morning.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

It can also mean a myriad of other things: raiders, murderers, the worst humanity has left to offer. Yet, the blood stains the ice beneath you as you drag your feet, and you know you’ll take your chances.

You don’t have any other choice.

The wound in your stomach is deep, the result of a skirmish with a raider who thought he’d try his luck with your hard-earned dinner catch. He came off worse than you: dead, in fact, but you’re pretty sure you’ll be joining him soon enough if you can’t stop the bleeding.

Your father’s voice echoes in your head, the peeling wallpaper and damp ceilings of the rotting apartment in which he took his last rattling breaths.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You were eight when the Cordyceps outbreak unfolded. He tried to hide you, left you in your bedroom as he took a shotgun to your mother, the woman you once knew already infected, robbed from the both of you.

You’ve never forgotten the sound, though. The snarls ripping from her throat as she lunged, the thud of her body against the floor. Him scooping you up in his arms, tearing through the end of the world to get you to safety.

The QZ was safe, for twenty years. Bleak, depressing, devoid of any joy; but free from fungus and all the destruction it left in its path. You grew up quickly, earning your rations sweeping streets and shovelling shit. Your father worked himself even harder, going without so you could have more.

He trained you for this: taught you how to handle a gun, to break an arm, to hold your breath and purify water you can drink without poisoning yourself. He sharpened you, honed your skills, all whilst his body was failing him. He gripped your hand the day he died, told you he was sorry, for all of it.

And he left you alone.

You crawled under the wire fencing that night, and you’ve been on the move ever since. Six months of chewing rabbit and washing yourself in streams, hiding in trees and gutting clickers from the inside out. All in aid of searching for that idea of more, the one your father told you must be out here somewhere.

You won’t let it all be for nothing.

And yet, the blood soaks your fingertips as you apply pressure to the wound. The tip of your nose remains numb, and flurries of snow cling to you stubbornly, turning to deadly mush inside your shoes, the hood of your jacket, freezing your spine and shortening your breaths.

Smoke means fire, and fire means warmth.

///

Picking the lock of the cabin is easy.

Another skill drummed into you, and one you’re savagely glad for. You can’t feel your digits, of course, but you watch them work of their own accord, the catch springing free.

Sure enough, flames are crackling in the grate of a stone fireplace. The place makes you think of a ski lodge you’d visited when you were young: a thick rug across the floor, a table with cutlery strewn across it, a wooden balcony hung with drying linen.

“Nice,” you whistle lowly, crouched and ready to greet the inhabitants. Your precious pistol is cocked in your hand; a poignant gift from your father. You take a step forward; a droplet of blood splashing against the floorboards.

Your ears are pricked, listening for a pair of lungs, the creak of a boot — any indication that you’re not alone. You’re fighting every natural instinct you have to rush to the warmth, heart beating out of your chest.

Nothing moves. Nobody comes.

You drop your shoulders, breathe in and out, sliding your weapon into the back of your jeans. Later, you’ll picture your father’s face if he’d seen what was to come. The way he would’ve reprimanded you for letting your guard down so easily.

Goddamn gun’s no use in your pocket, sweetheart.

Then, a real voice comes from behind you, still out in the snow. It’s harsh, deep, and unforgiving.

“Hands up, turn and face me.”

You raise your palms, turn slowly on the spot. Your brain works fast: calculating your odds, trying to figure out how — if — you can get the drop on your attacker.

He doesn’t shoot, though. He just stands there, hunting rifle aimed at your head, icy drifts swirling round the both of you. Your feet teeter on the edge of what you now guess to be his home.

He’s a lot older than you, for sure.

Dark hair streaked with grey, thick moustache and slivered scruff adorning his reddened cheeks. His eyes look almost black; set beneath a strong brow with a curving nose, full lips drawn into a scowl. Tall and foreboding, but you note that you’re not scared.

You’ve been trained for this.

He makes a gesture, shaking his head, indicating you move backwards. The man corners you once you’re inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“Don’t even think about tryin’ to shoot,” he mutters, and you shrug, feigning innocence.

“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

He chuckles, the noise rumbling through his chest as he tuts in disbelief. You’re envious of his thick overcoat, the layers he has on beneath it. He’s well-built: broad shoulders and the curve of a belly pushing at his flannel shirt.

That’s good. ‘Least you picked somewhere you might be able to eat a hot meal before he puts a bullet between your eyes.

You’re dizzy from the blood loss by now, the puncture in your stomach draining the fight from you. You lower your arms to your sides, and his eyebrow raises.

“Don’t remember sayin’ you could do that.”

It’s your turn to laugh then, despite your predicament, the fact death could whisper in your ear at any given moment. You’re stubborn as hell and you know it, and you have a feeling he is too.

“Take the gun out. Two fingers only. Put it outta reach.”

///

You wake up, seemingly, on a cloud — soft sheets and thick pillows, a contrast to the pallet you slept on in the QZ, the forest floor where you’ve been unceremoniously laying your head.

You feel disorientated, a searing pain across your forehead. Your eyes focus: it’s dark outside besides the sliver of moonlight, a total white-out with flakes still falling.

“What.. The fuck?”

You still have your sweater, torn apart and caked in rusted blood. But, beneath it, bandages wrap round your midriff. Panic swims in your chest, bile rising in your throat. You squirm, grasping at the sheets.

Where the fuck are you?

“Easy, easy.”

You stop thrashing. It’s him: face in the shadows of the candle that burns beside him, slouched in a chair at the foot of the bed. Watching, waiting.

“What did you do to me?!” you demand, failing to keep the tremble from your voice.

“I stitched you back up, that’s what I did.”

Swallowing, you gingerly pick at the bandages and gauze, flesh underneath pulled gruesomely tight.

The bastard saved your life. You don’t know why, or how he even had the supplies to, but he did.

“Think I managed to stop the bleedin’,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, I’m still here, so I guess you’re right,” you groan, pushing to sit up against the pillows.

“Try not to move so fast. You, uh, hit your head when you fell. Don’t want you passin’ out on me again.” He stands, gripping the bedpost, fingers curled round the wood. Your fingers find a lump on your forehead, a scab stretched over it, and you wince.

So much for being fucking capable.

“You didn’t need to do any of this,” you gesture around you weakly, rubbing at your temples. A glass of water sits on the dresser beside you, a shirt and a pair of jeans folded at the end of the bed.

“I know that. Not exactly sure you’d have done it for me, either,” he shrugs.

He’s not wrong. You crossed the threshold of his home, ready to murder any and every occupant if you had to. Instead, you collapsed pathetically, and woke up in the owner’s bed.

“Saw you a mile off, kiddo. Tracked you all the way here, to my place.”

You scoff, regretting it when it aggrevates the fresh threads in your belly. “I don’t fucking think so.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and he sits near your feet, glancing toward the window. You recoil slightly, still unsure of him and the sheer size of his body: wide chest, big hands, solid arms you can see tight against his flannel.

“What, you thought I’d just let you walk right in? You think I’m some kinda fool?”

“So why didn’t you just shoot me back then?” you spit, not enjoying the condescension in his tone.

“Well,” he mutters, looking at your blood-soaked clothes, “in truth, wasn’t sure I’d have to.”

You feel exhausted, even after a few minutes of confrontation. The tiredness settles itself deep into your bones: all you want to do is close your eyes, luxuriate in the simple pleasure of a warm bed.

“Look, I’ll leave you to get some rest,” he murmurs, heading for the door, and you’re nodding, eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

You’re not even sure why.

“Then what?”

He stops, moonlight seeping through the blinds, illuminating the curve of his nose.

“I’ll bring you some soup. When you’re ready, of course,” he tells you, like it’s the most normal statement in the world. The tears sting, and you let them wash over you as the door shuts quietly.

Soup, in a strange man’s bed. The abnormality of your situation is overwhelming, but even if you wanted to escape, high-tail it out the window like your father taught you, you won’t.

You’d be dead within a few days: a hole in your stomach, concussion fogging your brain, fingers and toes saved from the brink of frostbite.

No, you’ll stay. Make the most of your would-be murderer’s hospitality whilst you can.

You don’t even know his name.

///

“Rabbit? Again?”

“You got a problem with that?”

His fork stabs at the meat on his plate, knife slicing it cleanly. You chew and swallow rhythmically, unsure of why you’re complaining. It’s not like you had ever dined out on fine steak and fries, but you don’t want him to know that.

Joel.

Fifty-six, Texas native, one dead daughter and a missing brother.

Three months have passed, and you’ve grown accustomed to the quiet, robust companionship on offer. His rushed surgery may have saved your life, but you developed an infection soon after, no thanks to the raider’s rusty knife that had plunged into your stomach.

Joel found it somewhere in his heart to keep you alive: sponging you down when fever burnt through you, swaddling you in blankets when your teeth chattered through the night. You floated in and out of consciousness as he pumped penicillin into you - the vials of which you have no idea how he came across.

Still. You were indebted to him, now. Twice.

You discovered Joel hadn’t been here for long before your arrival: nine months, in fact. Setting up a home to sustain himself during a harsh winter, the previous occupants dying of old age. He wanted a base, somewhere to rest and recoup, before continuing on to find his brother, some settlement in Jackson he’s heard whispers of.

Or so he tells you. You choose to believe him, anyway.

You pulled your weight around the cabin as soon as you were able to, heading out on supply runs to the nearby ghost towns when you finally felt strong enough, compiling a mismatched wardrobe and a library for yourself. Joel hasn’t asked you to leave, and you find yourself, inexplicably, wanting to stay.

Warm showers mean scrubbed fingernails and clean hair. Three meals a day mean relaxed shoulders and a full belly. You’ve shed the skin of the girl you were in the QZ, the girl who survived six months alone in the a world that tried so hard to kill her.

You still see her, in the cracked mirror above the fireplace. You know she’ll never truly leave, but you think you like it that way.

It’s quiet, out here. Peaceful, in a way you’ve never known life to be. The snow is still lingering, but Joel tells you gruffly that spring isn’t far away: new life unfolding, all blossoming trees and baby birds. You can’t wait to see it.

If — when — Joel decides to move on, you think you’ll stay. No infected this far north, he tells you. Raiders don’t bother, either. You’d manage, but something in your heart tells you you’d miss him, even with his tightly-drawn brows, monosyllabic answers and permanent scowl.

There’s gotta be more than this, sweetheart. This ain’t a life. You need to go find it.

You hope your father, wherever he is, can see you’ve found it.

///

Joel’s gloves land on the table beside you, leather slapping against oak.

“Thought we could share some of this tonight.”

You look up from the new pile of books he’s found for you: Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë, family recipes and guides to grow vegetables. He’s holding an old glass bottle, amber liquid sloshing inside it, label hanging on by a thread.

“Share... With me?”

He lowers himself into the chair beside you with a groan, bones creaking, overcoat discarded. “You see anyone else here?”

Your eyes roll, used to his remarks. “Nobody likes a smart ass, Joel.”

“You ain’t packed your bags just yet,” he counters, and you snap shut the novel you’d been perusing, dust climbing into the air.

“What is it, anyway?”

“This,” he smirks proudly, “is whiskey. Tastes best neat.”

You take the bottle from him, nose wrinkling at the cobwebbed decoration. “You sure it’s still any good? It’s just, you know, I’m kinda unwilling to risk my life again.”

“It’s fine,” he chuckles, eyebrows raised. “See how it’s unopened? Could be a hundred years old, and would taste just as good as the day it was made.”

“A hundred years old, huh? Means you’ve got about twenty years on it, in that case.”

Joel chews his lip, eyes narrowing at the barb. The push and pull between you both is so familiar now: biting remarks that surely would make others wince.

Not that it matters. No other witnesses exist besides faded smiles in cobwebbed photo frames, and they can’t judge you now.

Sometimes, there’s a twisted, perverse thrill to be had from seeing just how far you can push him.

“‘m takin’ a shower,” Joel mutters, swiping the bottle from your hands. The glass clinks against the chipped china sink, and you watch him rooting around in the cupboards beneath. His shoulders flex as they move beneath his shirt, and you find yourself dwelling once more on how fucking broad he is.

The thought slips away as he stands, two tumblers joining the bottle on the sideboard. Wondering again just why he wants to share it with you, you watch Joel stalk off down the hallway, the sound of the shower humming rhythmically moments later.

You collect your books, decades-old newspaper cuttings acting as place markers. You linger over a novel at the bottom of the pile; a smutty romance you keep well hidden from your makeshift roommate. You save it for after sundown; feeling the blood burn low in your belly when you’re curled in your sheets, poring over line after line of heaving chests, panting moans and torrents of passion.

You’re not sure what Joel would make of that particular title.

You pass the bathroom as you retreat with your stash of new titles, steam seeping out of the crack between the floor and wood. You’re momentarily struck by a startling visual of Joel beneath the stream of warm water, sluicing down the column of his throat, rippling off his collarbones, soaking the dark hair nestled on his sternum.

You flop onto the bed, books clattering to the floor. Stretched out on your back, you stare at the ceiling, longing for a distraction — a way to end the frustration you’re feeling, once and for all.

Where the fuck is this all coming from? Why now?

The lock to the bathroom door clicks in its hinges; you know if you turn your head just a little, you’d be able to see him. So you wait, and you watch him leave, totally oblivious to your staring.

///

For once, you don’t complain about rabbit for dinner.

Tongue seemingly stuck to the roof of your mouth, all your thoughts are occupied by the man sitting across from you. Try as you might, you can’t forget what you’ve just seen: that broad chest, dark hair threaded with silver peppered across his smooth skin, growing thicker over his soft tummy.

The thin, white towel round his narrow hips, only partway concealing a bulge of a certain size.

Come on, you tell yourself. It’s Joel. Just Joel.

Twenty-eight years your senior. Not your biggest fan.

All the self-preservation you’ve built upon, clawing your way out of a place determined to suck the life from you, surviving raiders and murders and a hole in your stomach. You’re not about to forget yourself over a glimpse of skin.

Joel collects the plates when you’re finished eating, clearing his throat loudly. “You alright to get the fire goin’ if I clear up?”

You nod, grateful for a distraction.

Soon enough, flames are crackling in the grate, socked feet folded beneath you. You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood; iron washing over your tongue as Joel takes his place beside you on the couch, whiskey in hand.

“Some people would mix water in with this, but I want your first time to be a good one.”

You know he doesn’t mean anything by the words he’s chosen. He wouldn’t have even thought about it.

Still. It’s not lost on you.

Joel fills your glass first, before tipping his head toward you, swallowing his down whole. You follow his lead, spluttering as the liquid burns your throat.

“Jesus, girl. What did ya do that for?”

He smacks lightly between your shoulder blades, helping you clear your airways. His fingers linger a little, resting at the nape of your neck, and you involuntarily shudder at the contact.

“Can’t be shown up by you, can I?” you jest croakily, regaining a modicum of composure. There’s a warm feeling spreading from your chest; you’re not sure if it’s the drink, or the sensation of his hands on you. Finally.

You nurse the next tumbler, sipping it slowly, learning to enjoy it. You don’t think you’ve ever spent this much time with Joel — unless you’re out hunting together; you shooting, him dressing, or arguing over who’s next to take the linen to the river for cleaning, or the rare few times you’ve watched a VHS with one another, mostly in silence.

“‘s Burt Reynolds. Someone told me I look a little like him,” Joel points at the screen: an extremely handsome moustachioed man swanning around in too-tight denim jeans and a cowboy hat. You snort, almost choking on your beef jerky. “Was that person your mother?”

The television remains silent tonight, though.

It’s just you and Joel, the fire hissing and spitting, and impossible darkness outside. You relax into the couch, warm to your bones. He cricks his neck, groaning in satisfaction. His hands are covered in scars, forearms much the same. You wonder how they got there; how this stoic, brooding man beside you came to be.

“Joel?”

He lifts his head, huge fingers swirling his tumbler in the low amber light. “Hm?”

“Tell me about Texas.”

///

After an hour, the fire has almost died out, the two of you talking too much to notice. Well, Joel’s talking. You’re listening intently, watching his grin grow wide and eyes shine as he tells you stories of his brother and daughter.

“We’d walked for an hour to get these ice cream cones Sarah insisted on havin’. We get back to our street, ‘n Tommy’s showin’ off for one of the new neighbours. Ends up trippin’ over a hosepipe, damn cone went all over him. God, me and Sarah didn’t stop laughin’,” he chuckles, chin resting on his glass.

You can feel it, see it: the raucous, bubbling giggles, dribbling pink splotches of strawberry ice-cream, burning hot sidewalk and the squeak of rubber sneakers.

It fills you with joy and sadness in equal measure. Your own fuzzy memories of life before were never too far away.

“Were you, uh, ever married? To Sarah’s mom?”

He exhales, carding a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “Sure was. For about a year.”

You note the way his shoulders slouch, expression unreadable. You almost wish you hadn’t even asked. Still, the liquor makes you bold, so you press a little further.

“Was she your high school sweetheart?”

Joel scoffs. “Now, what would you know about high school sweethearts?”

You move to pour another mouthful into each glass, shrugging. “Hey, I had a boyfriend once — for a few months, at least. Back in the QZ.”

“I ain’t surprised, pretty thing like you. Even if you are a pain in my ass,” he sighs, two thick fingers wrapped round his tumbler.

You’re blinking slowly, registering the fact that Joel just called you pretty. There’s no denying your attraction to him now. The pulsing sensation below your navel is proof enough.

“Okay, so, who’d you lose your virginity to?”

You’re not sure where this line of questioning has come from; all you know is that you’re enjoying yourself.

Joel’s face screws up in disbelief, but he tips the remaining liquid down his throat regardless, glass slamming against the worn wooden coffee table.

“Melissa Horton, summer of 1986. Back seat of my Chevy.”

A giggle bubbles in your chest. It’s just so Joel.

He leans back into the couch, turning to face you. “Let me guess: you lost yours to this boy back home?”

Teeth in your lip, you nod, suddenly shy. “I was eighteen, for fucks sake. Everyone around me was having sex — something to do, I guess, when you’re not shovelling shit in the sewers. A way to feel alive, you know?”

Joel nods, eyes still on you. You look away, face reflected in the blank television screen.

“But there’s been nobody since?”

You shake your head. “Nope. A whole damn decade. What about you, Mr. Big Romantic? Any more hookups in the backseat?”

“Watch it,” he mutters. “I, uh, had someone. Back in Boston.”

You stay quiet, giving him space to continue if he wants to. You’re curious; watching him pick at the loose threads on the couch, moustache quivering.

“Her name was Tess. She and I.. We were together for a long time.”

You nod at his words; some things in this world don’t need explaining. Loss comes in so many different, horrifying forms. Relationships are temporary, connections are fleeting, and nothing lasts forever.

Something you’re trying to remind yourself of right now.

“What was she like?” you ask tentatively.

“She was.. She was somethin’. Brave. Nobody fucked with her.”

You laugh, raising your glass in a toast. “Sounds like I would’ve liked her.”

“I think so too. Wasn’t half as annoyin’ as you are, though.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t see you kicking me out.”

“Guess I kinda like the company. Even if you are a brat sometimes, baby,” he chuckles, warm and low, gaze noticeably trailing over your body.

Hot hooks of desire claw at your skin, burning inside you like you just sunk the whole bottle of liquor. You feel yourself shifting under the intensity of Joel’s stare.

Baby. That’s new, and you like it.

You let yourself wonder what would happen if you reached out to touch him: slide your fingers in his hair, your lips over his. If you climbed into his lap, tasted the whiskey you’ve shared off of his tongue, instead of from the glass?

Would he let you? Would he respond, in kind?

Would Joel Miller fuck you, if you asked him to?

“Joel, I —“

Then, his face disappears in opaque darkness.

///

The slow, distant hum of the generator is no more: all electricity gone from the cabin, rendering the lamps useless and shrouding you in gloom.

His voice comes from beside you, harsh and agitated. “What the fuck?”

You don’t move, listening as he ambles over to the matches kept above the fireplace, the dying embers below providing little light. He strikes one, and his features are illuminated, contorted with frustration.

“It was your turn to get gas for the generator,” he barks, and his gruffness throws you back in time; back to that first day, his rifle aimed at your head for trespassing into his space.

“Yeah, last week! Check the chore sheet — pretty sure you’ll see your name there instead,” you hiss, Joel moving to light the candles spread out across the room, in case of emergencies.

“Well — you didn’t think to fuckin’ remind me?!”

You get to your feet, incensed by his words. “Since when did that become my job? Don’t get shitty with me because you forgot, asshole.”

The last hour melts away like the flurries of snow across the plains in the weak spring sunshine. Tenderness replaced with fury, soft confessions forgotten, vitriol in the place of poorly-disguised lust.

Because that’s the way it should be, between you and Joel. That’s the way it works.

Right?

You stay rooted to the spot. He shrugs his coat on, muttering to himself under his breath. The fragile candlelight flickers, spidery shadows thrown over the walls.

“‘m gonna go check it. Grab the flashlights under the sink, would ya?”

You say nothing as the door closes, breeze blowing through the cabin as it does so. You peek through the shutters; moonlight sprawling across the mountain peaks, Joel bent in half as he inspects the generator.

Won’t do any good for his back, you muse.

Seeking out the flashlights as per request, you use one to check the chore sheet pinned to the faded cork board. Nothing more than a scrap of paper, jobs childishly divided under the headings of yours and his names.

“That fucker.”

Sure enough, his name is there. Just like you knew it would be.

“You talkin’ about me?”

You squeak in surprise, and he has you pinned, just like the day you arrived here. No rifle or life-threatening wound this time, but the scowl on his face is just the same. It almost makes you laugh, if you weren’t so pissed at him.

“You see anyone else here?”

You parrot Joel’s earlier words right back at him, watching his jaw tick in annoyance. He closes the space between you, your back against the kitchen cabinets.

“Just like I said,” he mutters, something about his tone turning your insides to liquid, a wetness pooling in your underwear. “Y’can be a real fuckin’ brat.”

A beat of silence follows.

A shared look of longing.

A mutual moment of insanity.

Joel tugs you towards him, your lips finding his in the dim light. Fingers scratching against the scruff along his jaw, you moan wantonly into his mouth. His hands slide against your bare skin beneath your shirt, palms so rough, and you break into goosebumps as a result.

You’re not sure if this is borne of building anger, pent-up frustration or both. All you do know is you’re putty in his hands, already so responsive to him as he continues to kiss you so deeply, your head bent back to accommodate his frame above you.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this: these hands that have held you hostage once — then saved your life — are now exploring the most intimate parts of you.

“We’re really doin’ this, huh?” he murmurs, cradling your jaw. Your own fingers drift over his jeans, skating across the hardening length at the apex of his thighs. His thumb lingers on your lips; you take it into your mouth by way of an answer, watching his pupils dilate as you swirl your tongue around it.

You don’t want to beg. You’d never make Joel do something he didn’t want to do — not that the stubborn bastard would let you. You release him with a wet pop, eyes wide and imploring.

“We really are.”

Your voice is quiet, unrecognisable; thick in your throat with unbridled need for him. It’s all the permission he needs.

Joel kisses you again, pushes you gently downwards till you’re laying flat on the dining table. His tongue is still in your mouth until you break apart breathlessly, helping him tug your shirt over your head.

You’re braless beneath it, his huge, warm hands cupping your tits, rough thumbs catching on the peaks, a growl in his chest as he does so. Joel just stares at you, at your chest, eyes blown black in the muted lighting.

“Christ,” he mutters darkly. “So goddamn perfect.”

His words spur you on; back arching off the wood as he bends to smear messy kisses against your throat, leaving sticky trails across your chest and the scar he repaired on your belly as he travels lower.

His fingers wedge between your jeans and the curve of your stomach, pulling you upright. Teeth capturing your bottom lip, Joel works the button open, and you’re shuffling desperately to try and rid yourself of any remaining clothing.

“What is it, baby girl? You want me to taste her?”

“Fuck, Joel. Please — I’ve never —“

“I know, baby. I know,” he soothes, thick fingers sliding the denim over your ankles, hooking into the band of your panties, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor.

He’s taking his time, revering in the sight of you — but you need Joel’s mouth.

You need his tongue.

Soon enough, you’re laid out naked before him, still stood there with his heavy overcoat and boots on. Joel shrugs it off, moving to hold your legs apart, spreading you open for him.

“Look at that. Know you’re gonna taste so sweet for me, baby.”

He bites into your inner thighs, your fingers threaded through his hair. You’ve never heard yourself make these sounds before — not even when you’ve touched yourself in the dead of night, struggling to remember the feeling of coming undone like this.

Joel licks a broad stripe over your centre, and you’re already convulsing, trembling as he continues to lavish you with his tongue. You watch his curved nose nestled right where you need the pressure, and before long, stars are bursting behind your eyelids as you spasm against his mouth.

“Good girl.”

His voice rouses you from your euphoria, and Joel pulls you to the edge of the table, into his arms. You taste yourself on him as he kisses you; blood simmering hot in your veins. “You okay?” he asks, lips against your forehead.

“Need more.”

Joel studies you for a moment, checking in, then tugs at his own clothing, buttons and boots bouncing melodically off the stone floor. His chest is as broad as you remember, wiry dark hair peppered over his soft tummy, trailing down to —

Fuck.

He’s huge. Stiff and leaking, flat against the curls beneath his navel.

Joel notices your hesitancy, hand under your chin to reassure you. “Hey, hey. Look at me. We don’t need to do this, not if you don’t want to.”

You swallow, take him in your hand. He hisses as you squeeze him, all soft velvet and hard steel. Your voice is barely a whisper, apprehension bubbling in your throat. “It’s just — like I said, it’s been a while.”

His lips press against your temple, your thumb running across the tip of him. You bring it to your mouth, relishing the salty tang across your tastebuds.

“S’okay, baby girl. We’ll go slow, I promise,” he groans, keeping you upright with a hand on your lower back. You nod in consent: Joel wouldn’t hurt you.

You want him. You want this.

He slides inside you inch by inch, letting you feel the delicious stretch and burn, fingernails deep into his shoulder, face in his neck. Good as his word, he takes his time, peppering kisses against your shoulder blade.

His chest rises and falls in tandem with yours, both of you sharing in the euphoria. “I want you to watch, baby. Watch yourself takin’ me. See that you can do it.”

So, you do.

Joel whispers in your ear, teeth nipping your earlobe, tongue soothing it over. You’re doin’ so good baby, look so pretty spread open f’me.

You feel yourself growing slicker and sweatier at his words until, finally; he’s fully sheathed inside you.

You’re so full. He’s taken over your senses; plugging you, filling you to the brim. You don’t know where you end and Joel begins. He’s everything you’ve ever known and will do, forever.

“Move, Joel. Please.”

He’s crowding over you, fucking into you on the table he almost shot you over. It’s a heady realisation: you urge him on, and his thrusts deepen, and you’re already cresting the wave, riding the blissful sensation of him inside you.

“Baby, ‘m not gonna last long, squeezin’ me so good—“

Joel’s breathing is ragged, knives and plates falling to the floor as his pace increases. You feel him everywhere, fucking you in a way you’ve never experienced before. You’re so close, and you know he is too. “Here, Joel,” you pant, hand on your tummy, and he nods, sweat sheening across his forehead.

“Want one more from you first, darlin’. Know you can give it to me.”

His hand closes round your throat, claiming you as his own. You bite and scratch and sob in his arms, falling over the edge as your legs shake around him. You can hear Joel, vaguely, calling you his good girl, telling you he’s coming, painting your tummy with it.

Foreheads pressed together, your skin is aflame. You’re sticky with him, drenched in sweat, and sated beyond belief.

He kisses you, tenderly this time. In a way that feels more strangely intimate than anything that’s already passed between you both.

Breathing fresh air into your lungs, you press your lips to the tip of his nose. “Now what?”

He tilts you both back upright with a groan, a soft hunger in his eyes you’ve never seen before.

“I’m thinkin’ we do that all over again.”

///

Dawn bleeds through the drapes, fresh blue sky tinged with rose petal pink. Joel’s sleeping arm is banded round your middle, resting above the jagged scar he’d slid a needle through all those months before.

His breath is warm in your ear; back pressed to his chest, the same place you’d both collapsed from exhaustion a mere few hours ago. Joel fucked you twice more, here in his bed, sucking at your pulse points and moaning your name like a mantra.

You untangle yourself from him gently: dressing in one of his discarded shirts, desperately needing to pee and drink something other than whiskey. Downstairs, all remains as you left it. The half-drunk bottle, two tumblers, and hastily extinguished candles.

You stand by the window, gulping thirstily from the glass you’ve poured. The blossoms are burgeoning on the trees, birds collecting what they need for their nests. Joel was right; spring is looming, and you’re glad for it.

It’s truly a sight to behold — you don’t remember it much from your childhood. You suppose life moved too fast to stop and watch it changing right in front of you. It’s a privilege to see it now.

The bottom stair creaks over your shoulder, and soon enough, you’re engulfed in a bear-like embrace. Joel’s palms rest against your tummy, and he kisses your cheek in greeting.

“Hey, you,” you murmur shyly, turning in his arms. Dark eyes still cloudy with sleep, he raises his eyebrows at your choice of clothing, and you smack him lightly on the chest.

“‘Least you could do was let me borrow it.”

“Guess you’re right,” Joel concedes, hands finding your ass beneath the hem. You hiss a little when his fingers dig in to your skin; you’re still so sensitive from his ministrations the night before.

“Shit, ‘m sorry. Y’just — last night was really somethin’.”

Eyes rolling, you kiss him chastely, a contented hum reverberating through his bare chest as you allow yourself to be wrapped into it.

He turned you inside out last night; your toes curling, skin soaked with sweat, his name on your lips as you came. You weren’t sure what to expect of him today: whether he’d tell you it was a mistake, it shouldn’t have happened, or — worse — ask you leave.

You knew, though. As soon as you were falling asleep, the way Joel quietly asked you to stay there in his bed with him. Something had changed, had shifted so irrevocably you weren’t sure he’d ever just be simply the man who saved your life again.

He’d snagged a tiny piece of your heart, a fortress you were insistent on making impenetrable. It frightens and excites you in equal measure.

“We better head out soon, get some fuel. Get that generator up and runnin’ again,” he murmurs, squeezing your sides softly.

You blink up at him incredulously, eyebrows raised.

“We? Need I remind you of that damned list one more time?”

You’re laughing as you say it, pushing away from his chest. His hair is rumpled, crescent-moon shaped scars from your nails along his upper arms, a bruise sucked into the column of his throat.

“I’m thinkin’ we scrap the list. Place belongs to us both now, anyway. Ain’t that right?”

His eyes are wide, searching yours, thumbs stroking across your skin. You already feel your body responding to him; a sensation you cannot deny.

You wouldn’t even want to try.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “That sounds about right.”

///

The one he’d chosen, selected, picked. Breathed it into your ear one night, then panted and hissed it; layered it against your sweat-smeared skin while the air is stained with sex. If you think hard enough, you can feel his fingers at the base of your neck even now. Recalling easily how full, practically stuffed with him you can be when his cock slides into you, how he makes you stretch, how he makes you moan—

Swallowing, you draw a circle on the paper with your pencil. Tapping the lead. Focusing on it. Attempting to find a beat to drown out whatever other thoughts your brain wishes to conjure, when your ears tune into it.

That bite.

The noise of his teeth sinking into the skin of it; the sound of the sweetness oozing from his chosen fruit today. And it forces your eyes up. Them flicking, chin still dipped, as you unknowingly glare—head wanting to shake, to plead.

Because this game had begun so innocently, but now is anything but.

Every few days, he’d try a different fruit—something to undo you. To make you watch, force your gaze to land on him, his own attempt at torture until he managed to slide his hand between your thighs in the file room, the small kitchen, and see if he’s earned a similar effect as the mango.

Today, your body will confirm he’s ruining you.

Although, you’re not sure it had been a fair fight. Not with it being close to eight days since the last time you’d had him alone. A thing your body was distinctly aware of. Reacting instantly to the scent of his aftershave. That was without the sound of his voice, all intentionally velvet, smooth when he addressed you—making a patch appear in your underwear just from the way he'd whispered it.

He'd given you an out when he'd been as early as you. Offered the chance at a great morning. A thing you'd smirked at, told him he needed to work harder if he wanted to have you bent over at work.

You suppose you've brought this on yourself. Shouldn't have dared him, shouldn't have pushed. Shouldn't have laughed when he'd gritted his jaw and dug the base of his palm into his eye and added, aw, you been missing me, Peña?

Because now you're on the edge, wound up, back close to snapping from how desperate you feel to have his hand, his tongue, his cock. Feeling taut, twisted up, so much so that the sound of chair legs scraping on the floor grates through you. Making you jump, causing your heart to hammer against your ribs.

It’s all you can do to focus on tapping the lead against the page, leaving dots of frustration along crisp white, trying not to look, nearly succeeding, until Steve speaks again:

“There a reason y’got a peach today, Jav?”

Your gaze snaps up, attention commanded. The elephant in the room called out, acknowledged. Breath held as this silent game becomes no longer that. Your throat dries, eyes caught on the beads of peach juice that are skating down his fingers—ones you know intimately. Practically able to conjure the feeling of how they curl inside of you as you sit, clenching around nothing, shifting, twisting in your chair to cross a leg over the other as you remain very much bothered, very much aroused.

Blinking back into the room, you realise it’s just the two of you.

A dread filling, flooding your gut. Because you’re not sure how long you can hold it together, so close to asking, to begging. Expressing how needy you are, just like he said you would be when he’d bid you goodbye before he’d had to follow a lead.

You despise letting him win.

Prefer the way you keep your cards close to your chest. But, you suspect he knows, can read how your breath is harder to find again, that is sounds louder—if that’s at all possible as you watch him smile.

Leaning back, finishing one half of the fruit, the chair groans in the quiet as he rolls his hips, lifting his leg, resting his ankle on his opposite knee. Dragging, sliding his eyes up and down what he can see of you from behind your desk.

“Don’t.”

Swiping his thumb across his lower lip, eyes glowering with something unreadable. “Keep your eyes on me, hermosa.”

“Stop it.”

“Watch.”

And you do.

Unable to break your gaze. Following, practically forced to as he picks up the second half, eyes snapping to his other middle finger as he raises it, before he drags it along the centre of the fruit. Sliding it against where the pit was, intention there, clear as fucking day. It causes your hips to move on instinct as juice is forced up from the pressure, making your mouth fall open, drop, hanging. It just open, feeling as dumb as you likely look as you press your thighs together even more intensely.

Then, he repeats the movement. And again, and again—

“Peña.”

He makes a noise, sliding two fingers into his mouth, tongue swirling around it. “Fuck,” he groans, head bent, eyes wide, large and brown, staring into you, “Almost tastes as good as you, Peach.”

You swallow. A retort dying, wilting.

It never quite appears. And even if it did, he’d have robbed it with his next step, his next move.

Dragging the tip of his tongue along the centre of the fruit, where the pit had been, his eyes on you—brown, practically filled and brimming with lust. The act and look so reminiscent of when he’s between your legs, you know it’s intentional. A message, one only you can understand. Your mind remembers those times when your fingers are grasping at his bed sheets and his name leaves like a cry from your lips.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, Peach?”

Leaning forward, elbows to your desk, you dig them in until it hurts.

Trying to keep yourself in control, in check—not wanting to stand because you’d be over there. Skirt hiked in your fingers, showing him the evidence of what he’s done, the concrete proof, before taking a seat on him, test to see how much of you can feel through his choice of pants today.

“Yes,” you hiss from between your teeth.

Elongating it, making the S’s almost roll as you almost plead with him with your eyes.

“Not like your nickname?”

“You know I do, Peña.”

Dragging his mouth against the fruit, you whine—somewhere in the back of your throat. Seeing the tip of his nose catching it, bits of peach lifting with his tongue as you try to clamp your mouth shut.

Until he repeats the motion, mouth fully latched to the fruit as he makes a noise so similar to the one he does when his mouth is on your pussy. When he’s devouring; when he’s trying to write out his name with his tongue as though he doesn’t own you.

As though you haven’t belonged to him for months now.

Your palms slam on the desk, finding yourself standing. Legs shaking, trembling. His face blanking, mouth detaching from the halved peach as lines crinkle across his forehead, eyes softer, apologies almost ready to appear.

“File room. Now.”

The look on his face is gone in a flash, forehead smoothing, lips curling into a smirk.

Not arguing, not demanding you sit. Be tormented more.

can you imagine him taking one from you, but you're quicker. grabbing his wrist, pulling the berry and his fingers to your mouth as you wrap your lips around them. sucking lightly, just enough that he'd remember the familiar sensation, but not enough to make him groan.

🎨 the doing you ourselves - use the emoji, pick a number between 1-20 and be given a paint sample shade (I have twenty in total) and make a moodboard, gifset, edit or fic including/influenced by your colour. 

🛻 thou. y’all. you - send in a game, FMK, would you rather, etc  

✏️ late night words - request this and be asked a fun question by me into your inbox. please specify if you wish for phone crossword (sfw) or hotel crossword (nsfw-ish)

👄 cold lips blue - warm us all up with your fave photo of pedro, ppcu character or equally, a fluffy or happy thot about a PPCU boy (no rpf please)

👯 I like the way you - send a message in for me to share where you’re loving on SOMEONE ELSE. this could be a thing you’ve made for them, a fic you’ve read and loved or simply that you just love on them (for this one, please exclude me) 

🌶️ browse by spice - send in spicy thots, and let's have some sinful birthday fun (please be aware i don't write/read noncon/dubcon)

🎉 my birthday - send in ‘what’s your fave’s’ here, such as books, movies, tv shows, (not fic recs pls) and you may also wish me happy birthday… I suppose hahah

other things to note:

🍊 there will be other things going on from me, such as sharing fun fandom events for you all to see, posting some of my fave recs from others

🍊 the last chapter of do me yourself will also be out on the 9th as normal at 19:00 BST

🍊 there will be a birthday bash masterlist (to collect anything and everything) there. this will have a link to my usual masterlist, chapter twenty of DMY and other things to help you navigate my blog while there's cake being flung everywhere

no pressure taglist here:

@thetriumphantpanda @goodwithcheese @secretelephanttattoo @pedgito @psychedelic-ink

@morallyinept @maggiemayhemnj @julesonrecord @burntheedges @katareyoudrilling

@eupheme @nothoughtsjustmeds @luxurychristmaspudding @perotovar @scenaaario

@ezrasbirdie @swiftispunk @joelscruff @toxicanonymity @msjarvis

@katsheadinclouds @rhoorl @janaispunk @intheorangebedroom @joelsgreenflannel

@iamskyereads @hellishjoel @kedsandtubesocks @nerdieforpedro @survivingandenduring

Shenanigans taglist:

@maggiemayhemnj @julesonrecord @morallyinept @goodwithcheese

@rhoorl @katareyoudrilling @burntheedges @trulybetty

@oonajaeadira @imaswellkid @5oh5 @schnarfer @janaispunk

@thetriumphantpanda @toomanytookas @fuckyeahdindjarin @thelightsandtheroses @chronically-ghosted

@laughing-in-th3-purple-rain @harriedandharassed @oliveksmoked @survivingandenduring @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin

@tightjeansjavi @sp00kymulderr @beskarandblasters

@connectioneverywhere @perotovar @mando-abs @nerdieforpedro @magpie-to-the-morning

@iamskyereads @beefrobeefcal @luxurychristmaspudding @the-blind-assassin-12

@sawymredfox @ohforficsake @grogusmum @ezrasbirdie @tinytinymenace

@alwaysbethewest @sin-djarin @yourcoolauntie @djarins-cyare @whocaresstillthelouvre

And that isn’t even the most distracting sight, not as the first slurp meets your ears. Head snapping, eyes wide, focused on Javi as he brings the mango to his mouth—tongue swiping at the juice, off-yellow droplets sliding down his hand.

“Enjoying your fruit, Peña?”

He doesn’t unlatch his mouth from the sliced cubes, brows knitting together, chewing slowly—his sunglasses having slid down his nose. “You enjoying watching, cariño?”

Smirking, thighs pressing together—you’re not sure you can articulate how much. Skin peppered with sweat, the thin cotton between your thighs likely damp, guaranteed to slowly ruin if you keep watching him.

But you’re not sure you can drag your eyes away if you tried. Tongue sliding across the front of your teeth, fingers gripping the arm of your chair as you try to banish the memories, the thoughts—his head, hair all tousled from your own fingers, as his shoulders nudge your thighs apart. As his thumbs dig into the back of your thighs, as his lips close around your swollen clit, sucking, tongue flicking, making you heave, making you moan, making you—

Clearing your throat, you cross your leg over the other. “Oh, I am enjoying the view, yes.”

Snorting, he digs a hole into you, shaking his head as he continues to chew and swallow.

If you didn’t know what it looked like to fuck the scowl from his face, you’d still find him intimidating. He’s always been hard to read, except when he wants something, then it's obvious, practically translucent.

Now, there's this thing between you outside of his visits to your boss. Where you warm his bed and he occasionally takes you for breakfast.

Fingers, long and thick, grasp the mango—more juice sliding down his fingers as you find yourself licking your lips. Warmth spreads through your core, a tingle spreading between your thighs as you flutter around nothing.

And you have a choice, a thing that goes from clandestine to public. Dragging the metal of the chair closer, holding his gaze as he stares at you, unfazed, unblinking, just his jaw sliding as you slowly wrap your fingers around his wrist.

For a moment, his eyes eyes flick from where you meet to your face, as you bring his hand to your mouth.

“This okay, Peña?”

And his mouth twitches at the corner, tilting his head in agreement, as you slowly ease his fingers into your mouth. It’s instant, the sweetness that fills your mouth. Your tongue quick to swipe over, licking it all from his fingers—

“Fuck, hermosa…”

You grin, with difficulty around his fingers, mouth full, eyes wide as you look at him through your lashes. Making him think—reminding him of darker nights and smokier rooms—before sliding them free from your tongue.

Groaning, kissing the tip of his fingers, you place his hand down on the table, resting his wrist on the edge. “Now, imagine that around your… eggplant.”

“Fuck.”

Sitting back in the chair, you take a steadying breath.

“You're fucking filthy.”

Shifting, you smile. “Only for you.”

His eyes drag up and down your frame, making your skin warm, close to like fire enough to torch the thin layers of your clothes as you grow even wetter between your thighs.

Swiping your thumb across your lower lip, dragging it to the tip of your tongue. “Tastes so sweet.”

And he leans forward, face turning close into your ear, nose pressed to your cheek, breath fluttering over your ear, so reminiscent of when you're bent over, his chest on your spine—

“Bet you taste sweeter.”