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from Eden | chapter five: the night comes down like heaven

joel miller x f!reader

the whites of your eyes turns black in the low light in turning divine we tangle endlessly like lovers entwined -- the night does not belong to god // sleep token

pairing: plant shop!joel x f!reader

wc: 12.5k

rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI

summary: you turn, desperate and cold, towards the light.

content tags: smut, angst, no-outbreak/modern au, reader is married to an OC, unhappy marriage, weaponized male incompetence, reader is an academic and a plant person, infidelity, guilt, jealousy, a little bit of possessiveness, description of a panic attack, feeling nauseous but nothing happens, fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected PIV (with joel), fingering and implied oral sex (m!receiving) with ryan, squirting, some use of religious imagery, plant daddy joel being the man of my dreams, some tags left out to preserve the plot

a/n: posting this after waking up to 600 followers. I can't believe the reception that this series has gotten, and it makes me so emotional to think about all of the lovely comments that you all have left and i'm truly so grateful for the friends this series has given me. there will be an epilogue to tie up the story, releasing in a couple days. I love you all, thank you for being here 🥺🖤

thanks you for everything, @chloeangelic 🤍 | divider by @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on AO3

You stand at the gate, waiting to board the plane back home, back to reality. Back to lies. You don’t know how you’re going to do it, but you know you have to. The few sessions of the conference this morning had been interesting, but you could hardly focus. Your mind was everywhere but present in the stark white conference room. Your hands hadn’t stopped shaking, and the notes you tried to take were scrawled in wiggly lines on the pages of your notebook. What now? What now? Your phone buzzes in your hand, and you turn your eyes to it.

[Joel Miller] Everything will be okay, little sunflower.

You want to believe him, desperately. He has told you that things will be okay several times over the last twenty-four hours, always in soft tones that blanket over your anxiety and try to snuff it out. Now, though, it isn’t working.

The announcement over the loudspeaker startles you, even against the constant hum of noise in the airport. “Good afternoon everyone, we will now begin boarding–”

The words are cut off by a ringing in your ears, a familiar and prevailing wave of panic washing over you, like the freezing hands of death are palming their way from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. The heavy weight of it settles in your stomach, and your hands start to twitch. You dig your fingernails into the soft flesh of your palms and feel the need to run, to get away, to escape to someplace safe. Somewhere safe from this day, from this life, from your guilt, from this crowded airport terminal. The ringing in your ears subsides into a heightened cognizance of every conversation, every movement, every breath that the people around you take. You are suddenly acutely aware of every single person that surrounds you, and you feel suffocated by them.

Knowing your boarding group will not be called right away, you click your suitcase handle free and drag it to the hallway of the terminal. Rolling your suitcase along with you, you begin to pace narrow lines up and down behind the rows of chairs at your gate. You have to move; you have to keep moving. There are people standing, crowding the space, waiting to clamber aboard. You maneuver around them as you pace back and forth, back and forth. You’re sure they think you’re insane, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You force deep breaths in and out of your lungs, every one of them shaking. Your phone buzzes again, but you don’t look, you can’t look. The fingernails dig tighter into your palm, and for a brief moment the slight pain grounds you. Your other hand fidgets with the handle of the suitcase incessantly, your fingertips digging into and twisting around the hard plastic.

When your boarding group is finally called, you take a final deep breath and step behind the other passengers that have already queued up. You shift your weight from foot to foot, opening and closing your fist. Every time you re-remember what’s happening, re-think of Ryan back home and Joel on the other end of your phone, you can feel every beat of your heart in your chest. When you find your seat, a nearby dad with his small daughter has to help you lift your suitcase into the overhead bin because your arms shake too badly to do it yourself.

You’re mostly silent on the drive home from the airport, even though Ryan asks you several questions about the trip and about the conference. You try to tell him about it, you really do, but the ache in your chest and the nausea tugging at your insides is too much and you can barely open your mouth. You can barely speak without being afraid of throwing up. The panic has not subsided, and he can read it on your features. He’s known you for a long time, one wrong twitch of your hand and he knows you’re on the edge of a panic attack. You tell him you aren’t feeling well and that it’s making you anxious, which he accepts, rubbing calming strokes of his thumb into your thigh. You want to throw his hand off of your leg, open the car door and let yourself tumble out into the grass, but you stay still, hands grasping at the cuffs of your sweatshirt. You feel your phone vibrate in the pocket of your leggings and think that it must be Joel, but there’s no way you can open the notification now, not with Ryan beside you.

You try to eat the dinner that you and Ryan pick up on the way home from the airport, but you only make it about five bites in before you’re taking a gulp of soda to keep from gagging when you try to swallow, digging your fingernails into your palm again. Joel’s messages have been left unread for a couple hours; you don’t feel safe opening them, even if they’re innocent. It’s several more hours before you’re remotely calm again.

When the hour is late and your stomach has settled, Ryan comes up behind you as you stand over the bed, unpacking your suitcase. “Missed you,” he says, and his hands find your sides. Your heart hammers in your chest, and every beat makes your head rush and your eyes throb. Your hands start to tremble again and you silently beg them to stop; if you concentrate really hard you can almost do it. What are you going to do? Back away? Run out the door? You can’t, you can’t. Your guilt-ridden mind screams at you, in loud, clear, panicked tones. If you say no, he’ll know what you’ve done. He’ll know. He’ll know. Say yes, you have to say yes.

You don’t actually say anything, but you let him kiss you anyway. His lips feel foreign, like you’ve never kissed them before. The once comfortable and familiar taste turns sour in your mouth, like fruit that has gone rotten right under your nose. He lays you down on the bed, but Joel’s voice is there, an echo of I will make it mine, I will make it mine. You’ll have me, I promise. He’s going to be mad, you think, you fear. You’re letting Ryan touch you, and you think it’ll make Joel mad. You’re his, you’re his, but you’re Ryan’s…you’re Ryan’s.

When Ryan slips his fingers into you, the sensation almost feels like coming home. He knows how to make you come, he always has. It’s something you suppose you’re thankful for. It’s one of the reasons you’ve convinced yourself you don’t need to leave. As fucked up as it is, at least he can still make you see stars with his fingers inside of you. Maybe that means things are okay. You ache, you burn with what you’ve done, but you let yourself fall into him anyway. Fucked, fucked up. It takes time for him to make you come, your body so wired with anxiety you can’t let go. He talks to you in soothing tones, tells you to relax, but you can’t. He’s skilled with his fingers, and right now you kind of hate him for it. He gets you there eventually, and when he does, kissing your knee and sliding his fingers out, you fight the urge to cry. You don’t want him to make you come anymore. It feels good, yeah, doesn’t it? But knowing that this was only the start, knowing the rest of sex would have to follow, didn’t ever make it feel that good for long.

He flops down on the bed beside you; consciousness is returning to your limbs. You sit up and twist around to face him. His clothes are long gone, so are yours.

“Your turn.” He smiles, putting his hands behind his head. You blink at him in stunned silence. You want to cry, want to tell him to go fuck himself, but you don’t. You never do.

You maneuver, laying down against his leg. You trace your fingers along his thigh, through the soft hairs there. You’re stalling, like you always do. Procrastinating taking him into your mouth. He coerces you into this so often, asks for this so often, that now you hate it. Hate the taste of him, hate that he asks for it, hate that you feel like you can’t say no. You wonder if he ever picks up on your hesitation, ever notices that you aren’t into it. If he does notice, he never seems to care. When you finally take him in your mouth, you tell yourself this will be the last time. This will be the last time.

It ends as it so often does, with his cum wiped from your stomach and his hand on your thigh, his chest rising and falling. His perfect girl. Always such a perfect girl. Joel’s voice echoes his: so perfect for me. Perfect, perfect, perfect. You’re tired of being perfect, of having to be everything everyone expects of you. When do you get to be you? When do you get to be fucked up? You fight with every muscle in your face to keep the tears from coming, to keep them to yourself long enough to get away.

Ryan loves you, idolizes you. You realize as you lay there, the familiar smell of his sex on your skin, that this isn’t all it is. He fetishizes you. He takes advantage of you. You’re always so kind, so soft, so giving, so compassionate. You will let anyone do anything to you. It has to stop, it has to. You can’t be the world’s doormat any longer.

“You deserve better,” Joel had said that day at the coffee shop, that day you had told him everything. “I would take such good care of you,” he said on the phone.

“Is that a promise?”

“Anythin’ for you, my sweet little sunflower.”

“Gonna go shower,” you say quickly, feeling Ryan’s hand come to your back, petting soft strokes on your skin.

“Okay, hon,” he says, reaching for his phone. You reach for yours. You hope there’s a text from Joel, but when you tap the screen to bring it to life, there’s nothing there. It’s late, he’s probably asleep. You’re alone.

Then there you are, in the shower again. You stare up at the showerhead, letting the streams of water mesmerize you. Without looking, you turn the dial further, hot water burning your chest. Good. You hope it burns him off of your skin forever, one final time. Letting him and all of his transgressions against you steam off of your skin and bubble down the drain. You wash your hair, even though it doesn’t need it. You know what you want to do, know what you have to do. Your whole body buzzes with it, your heart galloping in your chest. You have to go. You have to see him. There’s no place you’d rather be than in his arms right now. You know he would make it all go away, make all of the bad go away.

When you come out of the shower, skin steaming hot, Ryan is asleep. He snores softly, and you know there’s no chance of him waking. He sleeps the most soundly right when he falls asleep. He’s a heavy sleeper. You can do this. You can do it.

Your whole body trembles as you pull on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You don’t bother with a bra, you don’t care. You don’t know what is coming over you, but you move like a woman possessed. You’ve never done anything like this. Even as a teenager you never snuck out, never lied about where you were. You have always been perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. No. Not anymore. Now it’s time to be fucked up. You slip on your shoes and close the door quietly behind you, gripping the door handle so tightly you feel like you could shatter it.

–

Joel’s bedroom light is on.

You stand at the back door of the greenhouse, the keys hanging limply from your fingers. The night is dark, cloudy, and cold. Your breath fogs in front of your face. The glass drips with condensation, and it’s starting to rain a bitter freezing rain, not quite cold enough to snow. The air cuts you to the bone, your hair wet and starting to freeze on the ends. You laugh, despite yourself. Here you are, a shell of a woman, sopping wet, in a garden. Fingernails clawing the dirt, you crawl your way into your salvation, into your Eden. There’s no place that has ever looked more like heaven than this.

Turn towards the light, little sunflower. So, you do. You finally do. Resolve stills your hands, and you slip the key into the lock in one fluid motion. There’s a finality to this action. You’ve made your decision, and as you open the glass door from the outside at 2:30 in the morning, you’re no longer scared. You just want him. You want to breathe in his scent, feel his warm body encompass yours, feel the tickle of his mustache on your body. You want to feel safe. You know he’ll come, you know he’ll hear the door close from his room directly above the greenhouse’s back door.

When you latch the door closed again and the damp warmth of the greenhouse surrounds you, this feels like coming home. The plants are nothing but dark shadows, backlit ghosts watching you carefully, ready to pay witness to your crime.

Sure enough, after the greenhouse door thuds closed, a few seconds later you hear heavy footsteps as Joel descends the stairs. The door that leads into the store from his apartment opens and closes. He flicks the switch in the main store, the light filtering through the glass wall and bathing you and the plants in a warm haze. He sees your silhouette through the glass, and you can see even through the distortion that he visibly softens. He opens the door.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Scared the absolute shit outta me.” His features are knitted with worry, he looks panicked. He hadn’t been asleep, you guess, since his light was still on, but his hair is disheveled and looks like he’s been laying for a long time on one side. His eyes are heavy. That white t-shirt is back across his broad frame, and a pair of green plaid flannel pajama pants hang low on his hips and pool over the tops of his bare feet.

“I know, Joel. I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He steps closer to you, and you close the rest of the distance. You reach for his face, and his eyes search you, looking for a decision, looking for an explanation. Tears lick at your eyes, and you try to blink them back. You swear you can still feel Ryan in your mouth, and the thought makes a tear escape down your cheek, burning as it goes.

“No,” you cry, and his arms are around you in a heartbeat. He encompasses you; his warm body surrounds you. You feel the muscles in his chest contract a little when your cold, wet hair starts to soak through his shirt. You realize you’ve never touched him this much, never been this close to him, even after what happened on the phone the other night. He smells incredible, like soap and clean laundry, and something so undeniably him. He smells like a safe place, like something you want to drown yourself in. You can’t help it as the tears come, the relief of finally being in his arms overpowering you. One of his hands is on the back of your head, cradling you into his chest. The other rubs soothing strokes over your back, accompanied by his soft voice. It’s alright, angel, it’s okay. I’m here now, I’m here. Your arms hang limply around his back.

“I’m sorry,” you cry into the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

“Shhh,” he soothes, “none of that.”

“I shouldn’t be here,” you cry again, a sob wracking your body.

“It’s the only place I want ya to be,” he admits, pressing a soft kiss into the crown of your head. You pull back from him and look, his soft eyes knit together in concern. At the first true sight of him that you’ve gotten up close like this, you feel that familiar thrum of desire course through your body. He’s right here, yours for the taking. It scares you, but it also doesn’t. You need him. He’s so warm, he’s so safe. You feel like nothing that happens now could be wrong if he makes you feel like this. You need him more than you’ve ever needed anything. He brings his calloused thumb to your cheek, swiping away the remainder of your tears. He leaves his hand on the side of your face, and it encompasses your jaw, his fingertips grazing the back of your neck, before he slowly drags his hand down your neck and over your back.

“I need you,” you breathe, bringing your hand to his face, ghosting over the angle of his jaw, hair bristling the pad of your thumb. You can barely breathe, the possibility of what can happen now weighing heavily in the air.

Joel has a decision to make. He doesn’t know exactly what happened to make you come here close to tears in the middle of the night, but he has a guess. You were back from a trip, and he can assume what Ryan might have wanted from you. It makes his blood run hot, makes his vision go blurry. The thought of your husband touching you, using you, after everything he’s done, makes him want to drive straight to that apartment and kill him. The feeling scares him, but as he holds your face in the palm of his hand, holds you to his body, you’re all that matters. He realizes with a sick twist in the base of his gut that you are all that matters now. You, Sarah, Ellie. You, Sarah, Ellie. If he has the three of you, he can do anything. He knows this is wrong, of course he does. He holds another man’s wife in his arms, in his greenhouse, in his home. What he said to you on the phone he certainly meant, but it was easy to say. Easy to say in the night, in the anonymity that distance gives. You are all flesh and blood in front of him now, the snake in the garden…though neither of you is sure who is who.

Is this so wrong, wanting to be loved? True, unconditional, reciprocal love? Wanting to be cherished? Respected? If this is what casts you down to the depths of Hell, you’ll happily descend. You move to grab the other side of his face too, as if to beg, cradling him in your hands. You pluck the apple from the tree.

Your eyes meet his, desperate, pleading. He gives you the most imperceptible nod, but you feel it against your palms, the serpent whispering permission. You crash your lips into his, and the juice of your sin spills from your mouth and down your chin. As he lets you slot his plush bottom lip between your own, all you feel is relief. Relief to be here, with him, surrounded by his warmth, his softness, his scent. Then, his hands are on you with desperate grasps and pulls, like he’s trying to cover every inch of you with his hands as quickly as possible. He’s wanted to touch you so badly for so long, and now he wants to take everything. His warm hands push your coat to the floor, and you let out a shiver, but he’s quick to pull you back against his feverish chest. As you lick into him, he feels like the first thing you’ve tasted in years.

The glass fogs. The rain patters persistently, covering the greenhouse in glittering streaks of water. The cold, harsh, damp outside, meets the soft, lush humidity inside. In the middle, a rigid pane of glass, pressing both worlds apart. Like the quiet before a storm, the cool air churns with the hot, swirling into a funnel until the force of it all propels the tornado to the surface of the Earth, manifesting in a destructive whirlwind that threatens to destroy everything in its path.

“I need you too,” he breathes into your mouth, his hand coming to the nape of your neck. “Need you so bad, I can’t stop. I can’t stop.” Ever so gently, he tugs on your hair there to pull your head to the side. You let out a low moan as his lips trail from the corner of your mouth and down your jaw to your neck. He nips and sucks gently at the skin behind your ear, careful not to leave a mark, and you’re sure you’ve never before felt any euphoria like this one. Your hands reach out to search for his skin, and he hisses when your cold fingers find the hem of his t-shirt. The muscles of his stomach contract under your touch when your icy palms spread over his sides. You want as much of him in your hands as you can possibly get. You want to consume all of him.

“I couldn’t…ohhh…I couldn’t–be in that ap–apartment anymore,” you stutter as his lips find the dip of your collarbone, his index finger pulling the collar of your sweatshirt to the side to make room for his mouth. He takes his hand out of your hair, satisfied that you’ll keep your neck open to him, to envelop you in his other arm, those arms you’ve admired for weeks. His forearm brackets your back, his warm hand splays across your side, wrinkling the soft fabric of your sweatshirt.

“You’re safe now, angel. You’re safe. Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks as he kisses his way back to your lips. You stare directly into his soft brown eyes, dark and full in the low light, his desire pooling in them for you to drink in with your own.

“Yes, Joel. I’m so sure. Please.”

His movement is quick as he scoops you up by your thighs and into his chest. You wrap your legs and arms around him, your head buried in his neck. “You can take me here,” you murmur into his skin.

“No, baby,” he coos softly into your hair. “We’re going to take our time.”

You groan as you place soft kisses into him as he turns and exits the greenhouse. You never could take your eyes off of his neck, and now you cover it in soft bites and swipes of your tongue as he groans, finally taking it for yourself. He flicks off the light, and as he opens the door to the stairs, you remember.

“Sarah and Ellie,” You panic, lifting your head. He lets out a small chuckle.

“S’Friday. They ain’t here. Sleepover.”

Thank god.

When he gets to his bedroom, you reluctantly tear your mouth from his neck as he gingerly lays you down on the bed. As he stands over you, you drink him in. He runs a hand through his hair, making it look even more wild, his curls poking every which way. In the dim light of the room, you can see the deep flush of his neck, a stark contrast to the white of his shirt. You let your eyes graze down his chest, to the soft curve of his tummy, before settling on his pajama pants. There’s no way he’s wearing underwear, you decide quickly, the way they’re tented around him. You were right, that night in the hotel room. He is huge, and the sight of it, the sight of all of him towering over you, sends a low and deep throb through your belly, flutters of anxiety in your chest. You’ve never had anyone besides Ryan, not like this.

“You’re so beautiful,” you tell him, and fuck, do you mean it. He’s the most beautiful person you think you’ve ever seen. He chuckles, and more red dances up his neck. He’s so perfect you feel like you could die from it.

He leans forward to kiss you. “Hush,” he says, but the most adorable smirk turns up the corner of his mouth and you feel it against your lips.

As he pulls away, you sit up and take his hips in your hands, before pushing his shirt up. He crosses an arm over his chest to grab the hem and pull the fabric up and over his head. All the while, you press soft kisses to his tummy, the little smattering of hair tickling your nose. He’s more perfect than you even imagined, all of those times that you played this out in your mind. On his skin, you taste salvation.

“Let me see you, please,” he pleads, and you reluctantly pull back from the softness of his belly. His fingers lift the hem of your sweatshirt, and he quickly realizes you have nothing underneath. He sighs as he lifts it over your head, exposing you to his hungry eyes for the first time. You freeze, instinctively bringing your arms to cross over your chest. Suddenly, the heat of his gaze feels like too much. He instantly reads your hesitation and sees the way you’ve stiffened. He leans forward into you, supporting himself with a strong arm, and places a soft hand on your skin right above the elbow.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” He asks gently, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” you breathe, but suddenly you can’t meet his eyes. “I want you so bad, Joel, it scares me.”

He sits beside you then, the mattress dipping under his weight. He pulls a blanket from the base of the bed up and over your shoulders. You wrap it around yourself and lean into him. He envelops you in his arms, places soft kisses on the crown of your head.

“Let’s just take it slow, okay?” He says gently between kisses into your still damp hair.

“I’ve–” you start, and your cheeks burn with the admission. You feel his heartbeat against your cheek, the soft rise and fall of his chest soothes you. “I’ve never been with anyone else.”

He inhales and starts rubbing soft strokes into your arm with his hand. “I wondered.”

You lift your head from his chest, and your eyes meet his. They’re knit together with worry, and you can sense that the guilt of it all might be starting to thicken his blood too. You reach up for his face, smoothing your thumb over the patchy hair there. You press your lips to his again, and his hand slides to your back to pull you closer into him.

“I want it to be you,” you whisper against his lips. He swallows your confession before deepening the kiss, his tongue swiping your bottom lip before it swirls into your mouth. You groan, please Joel, I need you, and at that sound he gently lays you down, your head still in the crook of his arm. He leans up on his elbow, holding you close to his body. The blanket falls from one side, and his eyes tick to your breast as soon as it’s exposed again. He goes to cover you back up with the blanket, but you bring your hand up to his wrist to stop him. He brings your fingers to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the tips of them. He reads your face, but you feel calmer now, nestled into his warm body. You feel his skin against yours for the first time, and it feels divine.

“You tell me if you want to stop, f’it’s too much. One word and it all stops, do y’understand?” He soothes, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. You nod under his lips. “Good.”

“Can I touch you?” He asks, his free hand still holding yours as he presses kisses to your fingers until you give him permission to put it elsewhere.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, Joel.”

He starts drifting his rough, calloused fingers around your belly before spreading his palm over your soft skin. His eyes drink you in, like he’s memorizing every inch. He takes one of your breasts in his hand, and your mouth falls open when he gently squeezes it. It’s like he’s experimenting, his hand mapping your body into a three-dimensional render in his brain. He touches you like one would touch a sculpture, his knowledge of the gravity of his actions evident in the gentleness of his movements. He leans over you to take your nipple into his mouth, and you whine into his hair. He’s everywhere, and you feel drunk on the scent of him. He stays there, kissing and licking your chest, smoothing his hand over your stomach, your arm, knitting his fingers between yours, then repeating it all again. You feel euphoric under his touch, under his tongue. It feels like you’re finally, finally where you’re supposed to be, like you’ve finally found the lighthouse and brought your boat safely to shore. You’re no longer drifting, lost in the dark churning waters. Joel is here, Joel is yours, and everything is okay now.

He slides his arm from under your head to allow himself more freedom of movement, and he urges you back onto the pillows with a gentle lay back for me, baby. He crawls over you, his lips never leaving your skin as he traces kisses and swipes of his tongue up the softness of your belly, over both of your breasts, before he kisses up your neck to your lips. You’re lost in him, and it feels like the rest of the world outside of this room doesn’t exist. You remember his possessive tone, the demanding growl in his voice when he told you what to do over the phone, how to touch yourself. You like knowing that’s in him, that it’s there for you if you ask for it, but right now this is what you need, soft touches and gentle words, and he knows it.

He lays over you, propping himself up on an elbow. His knee is slotted between your legs, but not so close as to push his thigh into the wet heat of your cunt. You throb, a deep ache, and you want more. His cock presses firmly into your thigh through his pants. As he kisses you, you can’t help but run your hands over his biceps, across his shoulders, down his back. You drift your fingertips over his chest, his tummy. He shivers. You want to engrain every inch of him into your hands so that you never have to live without the knowledge of the way his skin feels, the way his muscles move. You know you’ll never be able to go without him again, go without this again. You feel like a virgin, the way Joel touches you, revels in you. In some ways, you suppose you are.

He ghosts his fingertips down your side, until he meets the waistband of your sweatpants. He pulls back from your mouth, his lips plump and shining from your tongue. His eyes are intense and black with desire. You drop your hands from his back and start to push your sweatpants down, but his hand stops you.

“You don’t have to, baby. M’happy just to hold you like this.” He pushes his palm back up the length of your side, and you groan when he finds the softness of your breast again.

“I want it, Joel. I–” you let out another whimper as he kisses into your neck. “I want you everywhere.”

He hums, and kisses reassurances into your skin. “And what’ll you do if it becomes too much?” he asks with his teeth grazing your ear.

“I’ll tell you,” you sigh.

“Promise me,” he says.

“I promise.”

“Good girl.”

Hearing those words in person, rather than just through the phone line, ignites your blood. You whine at the words, and he smiles into your neck, his scruff tickling the sensitive skin there. “You like that, don’t you?”

You can only groan in response, your hands drifting over his sides. He sits up and back on his heels, between your legs. You reluctantly let him go, your body suddenly cold in the absence of his heat. You spread your legs around him, making room. He brings his palms to your thighs, pushing up the length of both of them simultaneously, and you squirm under his touch and instinctively spread your knees further. His thumbs graze the insides of your thighs, so close to where your body aches for him. He squeezes the creases of your thighs, and he chuckles when you writhe under his hands. He hooks his fingers over the waistband of your pants, and he looks at you one more time to confirm that this is what you want. You nod, and you pull your legs up so he can slide them off. He tosses them to the side of the bed, and his hands are immediately on you. He pushes your legs apart, his eyes dark and trained directly on your lace covered center. You start to feel nervous, like he won’t like what he sees, but he doesn’t let you wonder for long.

“Fuck,” he groans, dragging a finger over the lace on your hip. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your cheeks heat up at his words, and part of you wants to shrink away, hide your face in your hands, but the way he looks at you, the black of his eyes, stops you. He looks at you with reverence, with more than desire. He looks at you like you hung the moon, like you put every star in the sky.

“So are you,” you smile softly, reaching out for him. He takes your hand in his, leans forward to kiss your palm. He smiles into it.

“Can I?” He asks, eyes back on the lace covering your cunt, and god, you want to devour him with the way he looks at you. It’s hard to fathom the careful consideration he’s giving you, his recognition that each touch is new, each movement of his hands or his mouth scarring over your open wounds.

“Yes, Joel…please,” you whimper, and he’s quick to oblige. He scoots down on the bed until he’s laying between your legs, spreading them around his broad shoulders. He doesn’t stop kissing and licking your thighs as he brings his index finger to drag up your lace covered folds. You let out a ragged moan at the first contact, and he smiles into your leg. He places a soft kiss over the fabric, and you involuntarily buck into his lips.

You can see his careful restraint waning as he hooks his fingers around the edges of the lace and starts to pull the fabric away from your hips. You lift them again for him, and as soon as the wet lace peels from your cunt, his eyes are on you. “So fuckin’ beautiful, honey.” He grazes the back of his index finger through the stubble there. You’re mostly shaved, the way your husband always wanted it. He shouldn’t ask, he knows he shouldn’t ask. “S’he make you do this?” he half snarls. You nod, the heat of shame rising to your face. He clicks his tongue in a tsk, “S’a shame. Don’t ever do it for me.”

His mouth is on you then, and a smile plays on your lips at his words. He groans, deep and animalistic, as he smells and tastes you for the first time. He licks a full stripe up through your folds, before placing several open-mouthed kisses over your clit. You sling your panties off over your foot before settling your heels onto his back. He hooks his arms around your thighs, holding you to him.

As he kisses and licks into you, you’re no longer afraid. You trust him, and you want him to have all of you. You thread your fingers through his hair, and he moans at your fingernails grazing his scalp. He sucks your clit into his mouth, and the lewd sounds it makes sends heat to the tips of your ears. He looks up at you, and you’re sure you’ve never seen anything so beautiful in your life. His eyes are dark, wrecked, as he gazes up at you through his eyelashes, his mouth never leaving your cunt. He continues to lick, kiss, and suck at you until you’re a writhing mess beneath him. You’ve never had anything like this. He feels all of your muscles tensing, and he urges you with quiet words into your folds to relax, baby, relax for me. You do, and as soon as you let your muscles go limp, the pressure in your belly starts to build. You’re suddenly aware that this is another moment, another turning point. You start to tense back up, but he lays a gentle hand on your stomach right above where he kisses you.

“S’okay, darlin’ girl. Lemme have it.” At his words, any last hesitation you had crumbles, and your first orgasm crashes over you and shudders through your body, your hips squirming under his mouth. He never lets up, continuing to eat you through it, licking up everything your body gives to him. “So, so good for me, angel,” he soothes between swipes of his tongue. “Most beautiful sound in the world.”

When you come down, chest heaving, he places soft kisses to the insides of your thighs as he brings a finger to your entrance, coating it in your slick. He looks up at you, waiting for your permission, which you happily grant him. His lips shimmer in the dim light of the room, your desire coating his mouth. You feel free now. You’ve come for him once already, and the initial anxiety of it has faded. Now you just want to drown in him, let him completely devour you. You’ve been waiting for his fingers, always watching his hands as he works, as he cards them through his hair, as he fidgets with them down by his sides. Now, those long and thick fingers that you’ve mentally drooled over for weeks tease your entrance before he slides his middle finger into your wet heat.

“Christ, you’re soaking for me, angel,” he swears, your cunt sucking in his finger greedily. He’s quick to wet another, sliding his middle finger out before pushing two back in. The sensation is familiar, but it feels strange to have it come from someone other than Ryan. That was the only part of sex with him you enjoyed, and now it feels strange coming from someone else. After not thinking about him for several minutes, the reality of the situation floods back when you feel Joel start to stroke the spongy spot inside of you that only one other man has ever felt. You wanted this, wanted his fingers, but you tense, and he reacts. He looks up at you concerned. He searches your features and sees hesitation, the ecstasy from moments before has turned into something pained, upset. He withdraws his fingers immediately.

“Talk to me, baby,” he pleads.

“I–” you don’t really know what to say. You feel guilty, like you took something from him. You remember that he made you promise to tell him, so you try. “It’s just…”

“Whatever it is, little sunflower, I want to know.”

It feels wrong to bring any mention of Ryan into this room, into this space. This place, here under Joel, has become sacred to you. It feels wrong to form Ryan’s name in your mouth.

“I…I don’t know…I don’t know if I can do that,” you admit, and tears start to lick at the corners of your eyes. You feel so silly, so childish, and you’re scared he’s going to decide that this is a waste of his time.

“That’s perfectly alright, angel, okay?” He climbs up your body to take your face in his hand. You lean forward to kiss him.

“We can be done if you want,” you sigh.

“Do you want to be done?” He asks, his thumb swiping across your cheekbone, his eyes searching your face.

“No,” you admit. You don’t, you really don’t, but you’re afraid you’re scaring him off. He kisses you again, pulling your head into his.

“Me either,” he smiles gently, and you can see in his eyes that he means it. You feel his erection against your leg again, and you become acutely aware that he hasn’t gotten any attention. You feel guilty that he’s spent so much time on you, but you haven’t even seen him yet.

“Do you want me to suck your dick?” You ask, unable to meet his eyes. You want to, or you think you want to, or you think you should want to. You’re not sure you even like doing that anymore, not after all the times you’ve done it without really wanting to. Doing it out of obligation. He reads the expression on your face, sees that you can’t meet his eyes, and he places a kiss on your lips.

“No, baby. Not tonight.” You feel relieved at his words, and when he reads that relief on your face, he knows he said the right thing. Ryan has done damage - he can read it all over you. He remembers the story you told him over the phone, about Ryan leaving you with blood on your thighs. He’s sure there’s more that’s happened, more that he’s done to leave you like this. He feels sick with it, overwhelmed by his desire to take care of you, cherish you, make sure that no one ever hurts you again. He certainly doesn’t want to let you walk back out that door, though he knows that’s what will have to happen.

Not tonight, not tonight. Does that mean this can happen again? Fuck, you hope so. You hope it can happen every day for the rest of your life. “Can I see you, at least?” Your soft request breaks him out of his thoughts. He doesn’t know how he got so fortunate, having someone look at him the way you do. You’ve already called him beautiful twice tonight, and that sure as hell isn’t something he’s ever been told before. He can read it in your features, the way your eyes cloud over with lust when you look at him. He feels drunk on it, drunk on you. He never thought he’d get to hold you, taste you, let alone spread you out on his bed. Now that he has, he’s scared he’ll never be able to stop. He already knows he won’t.

He chuckles lightly. “Of course, honey.”

He places another kiss to your lips before clambering off the bed. He pushes his pajama pants down, and you can’t help the fact that your eyes are trained directly on his cock beneath the fabric. When it springs free, your breath hitches. God, he is huge. Nervousness pools at the top of your stomach, but you can’t pull your eyes away. You don’t want to. You shouldn’t compare - you shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. He’s so much bigger, and you want him inside of you so badly you can hardly stand it. You want to feel that stretch, the one you’ve never felt, at least not since your first time so many years ago.

A fresh wave of blush spreads up Joel’s chest at your gaze. He brings a hand to wrap around the length of him, pumping himself a couple times and catching a drop of precum on his thumb. You should say something, anything to reassure him.

“Fuck,” you gasp, and that wasn’t what you planned to say. He chuckles and crawls back onto the bed, his cock heavy between his thighs. “Joel, I–” Your whole body is humming. You need him so badly you think you might go fully insane. “Please. I need to feel it, please.”

He wasn’t expecting that. You can tell by the way his eyes flick to your face, the way they open wider, the look of carnal desire overtaking his features.

“Darlin’...” he cautions, aware that that move is a big one, and one he doesn’t want either of you to take lightly.

“I know, Joel…I know, just–” you can’t breathe, your eyes rake over his body again and again, and your mind is hazy. “Please, I need you.” You shouldn’t want it, you shouldn’t, but what does it matter now? You’re already guilty.

His words are an echo of what he said that night on the phone, through the crackle of a speaker. Then you’ll have me. He crawls over you, licking kisses into the soft skin of your tummy. “But if we’re going to do that, I need to get you ready for me, s’much as I love hearing you beg for my cock.” His lips turn up into a sly smirk.

Your heart races at his words and you suddenly feel like you’re burning up. “What do you mean?” you ask as he lays his head on your chest between your breasts, looking up at you with those impossibly beautiful eyes. His curls splay across your skin.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says as he presses a kiss to the side of your breast.

“Why would you hurt me?” you bring a hand to his head, nestling your fingers into his curls and playing with them.

He turns his head into your skin as if to hide his face and chuckles a little. “I don’t know how to put this delicately, and m’not askin’ for intimate details…” Your cheeks start to heat up at his words as you start to understand what he means. “But if you’re not used to my size then I gotta get you ready for it, or else it’ll hurt.” His cheeks are flushed as he presses kisses to your sternum. “Y’understand?”

“I understand,” you nod, splaying your palm over the side of his head and brushing the curls from over his ear.

“’nd I know you said you didn’t want me to finger you, but I need to just stretch you out a little, get you ready.” You groan at the thought. As much as his fingers made you nervous, making you remember Ryan and all the times that he made you come that way, you know this would be different. “But not if that makes you uncomfortable.”

“No, I think that’s okay,” and you do mean it. You take his hand and turn it over in yours. He has the most amazing hands, and you never could keep your eyes off them. Was there any part of him you could keep your eyes off of? You bring his fingers to your lips and kiss his knuckles.

“It’ll feel different, sweet pea. No two—shit,” he loses his words as you suck his index finger into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around on his skin before bringing his middle finger to join it. “No two people feel the same,” he chokes out, his eyes impossibly black as he watches his fingers disappear into the heat of your mouth. “Christ,” he mutters, pulling his fingers out and wrapping them around your face, dragging your own spit along your skin. “The day you’re ready for it, baby, you’re going to look like heaven with your mouth around my cock.”

And even that, even that is different. You never once felt good with Ryan in your mouth, even when he would make noise and praise you in the ways that he did. You always felt used, no matter what he said. Joel’s words are already different, already the way he talks about you makes you feel cherished, loved, revered. Maybe you do want him in your mouth. Not tonight, no…not tonight. But someday, hopefully someday soon you do.

He pushes up to bring his lips to yours, his kiss heavy and wanting, like he’s been waiting his entire life to kiss you, even though he’s been doing it all night. He moves to sit beside you, and he pulls you into his lap to settle between his legs, his warm chest pressed against your back. “S’is okay?” he asks into your neck, ghosting his fingers over your belly.

“Yes,” you breathe, letting your head fall back on his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he coos, drifting his hands down your body to splay over your thighs, spreading them apart for him. “Now,” he starts, drifting a finger through your folds gently, and he places a kiss to the shell of your ear. “Don’t need to make ya come like this f’that’s too much, okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh.

“Just talk to me, okay? Tell me f’you want me to stop and I will, no explanation necessary,” he soothes, dragging two fingers around your entrance, gathering the slick pooled there and smearing it all over the velvety skin. You nod your head wordlessly, already lost to the feeling.

“Sweet little sunflower, you listen so well,” he praises, licking your earlobe into his mouth and dragging his teeth against it. You let out a ragged groan, and your hips buck into his fingers. He starts tracing tight circles around your clit, and your breath hitches at the pressure. You would close your eyes normally, trying to focus on the feeling rather than the circumstances, but here you do no such thing. You gaze down over your own body, watching Joel’s hand circle your clit, watch his other hand envelop you, squeeze your breasts, pinch your nipple between his fingertips. His legs are splayed out around you, his cock is hard against your back. His chest is warm, so so warm, it’s like you’re leaning against a furnace. His lips don’t leave your skin, licking kisses into the side of your head, your neck, your ear. He pushes his fingers in a v-shape between your lips, and you involuntarily grind into his hand, desperate moans tumbling from your mouth as he drags them up and down, up and down. He pulls them between his fingers before starting it all over again. All the while he murmurs the loveliest and filthiest things you’ve ever heard into your skin. Look at you, honey, do you know how beautiful you are? Prettiest body in the world. Prettiest woman in the world, inside and out. This tummy, these thighs…do you know how stunnin’ you’re gonna look with my cock buried inside of you, baby girl?

With every word, more and more arousal seeps out of you and onto his fingers, dripping down your body and onto the sheets. By the time he pushes a finger inside of you, you’re practically begging for it, his name constantly falling from your lips. You involuntarily tense, your body sucking in his finger desperately. "Relax, honey. Gotta stay relaxed for me." You let your body fall limp against him, and he coos, good girl, good girl in response. When he’s satisfied that you’ve gotten used to him, he adds another. More hushed tones, more praises until you’re limp again. On the third finger, he kisses into your ear and murmurs, “See? See how fuckin’ tight you are, little sunflower? This is why I needed to get ya ready.”

You groan, already so fucked out and he hasn’t even given you his cock yet. You’re drunk on him, every inch of your body engulfed in flame, every bone in your body calling his name. “Never taken a cock like yours, Joel,” you murmur into his neck.

He groans at that, fucking his fingers in and out of your wet heat. He drags his other hand down your body until he reaches your clit, circling it with his perfect fingers. “We’ll just have to change that, won’t we?”

Your body is so soft and pliant for him now, and you’re more relaxed against him than you think you’ve ever been. “Think you’re ready for my cock now, angel,” he coos, sliding his fingers out. You whine at the loss, saying his name. He chuckles darkly into your hair. “What’s the matter?”

“Mmm,” you hum, “was close.”

His hands haven’t left your skin, his wet fingertips kneading into the soft flesh of your thighs, of your belly. “Want me to finish it?” he asks, dragging his hands down to the creases where your hips meet your thighs and eliciting another groan from you.

“Please, Joel,” you beg, and he obliges. His fingers swipe at your entrance before he shoves three back in, your body falling apart at his touch.

“Remember when you did this for me yourself?” he asks, and you barely hear him over the orgasm that is threatening to claw its way through your body. You nod, or at least you think you do. “I like doing it myself better.” He mutters, licking into the skin at your neck. At his words, the feeling of his body against yours, the way both of his hands move with practiced ease and precision, it all crashes over you in a rush of heat, in a rush of the most divine pleasure you’ve ever known. The way he pets that rough spongy spot inside of you and circles your clit sends wave after wave of electricity through your blood, and before you know it you feel your body hurtling over the edge. Ryan is long forgotten, your body already replacing his memory.

“Joel, I’m gonna—” you start, but you can’t finish, can’t warn him, a choked groan escaping your throat instead. You don’t even realize what’s happening, a black haze clouding your vision as you gush around him, a hot stream of liquid soaking his fingers and the sheets below you.

“Oh fuck, there you go, angel. There you fucking go,” he growls, not letting up as your body convulses in his lap. You can’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears, can’t feel anything but the blazing heat of your orgasm. When you come down from it, your consciousness returning, all you feel is his hands and lips on you, murmuring praise after praise into your skin.

“Shit, Joel, I’m sorry, I—” you start to babble, but he hushes you with a swipe of his wet fingers over your lips.

“What the hell you apologizin’ for?” he asks, grazing his fingers against your jaw.

“I didn’t mean to do that, I’ve never—” you start, but the heat of embarrassment under your skin stops you from speaking.

“That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, baby. Never apologize for that,” he soothes. “Could watch you do that forever.” He smooths his palms over your skin, and you melt further back into him at the sweeping warmth of his hands. “Definitely ready for my cock now, aren’t ya, angel?”

“Please, Joel, yes,” you groan. He brings his fingers to your chin, tilting your head so he can kiss you. You can still taste yourself on his lips, smell yourself on his mustache. Nothing in your life has ever been better than this. If God is here on Earth, he’s here right now with you. Joel carefully maneuvers out from behind you, settling you softly against the sheets and away from the wet spot.

As he positions himself over you, trailing kisses along your body, his warmth surrounds you, makes you feel safe and secure. Nothing can touch you here. Nothing bad can exist here. He’s so beautiful, you can’t believe he’s here with you, above you, pulling you apart piece by gorgeous piece. You’re so relaxed, already so fucked out. He kisses you deeply, like his life depends on it, licking every word of praise he can think of into your mouth. “Are you sure you want to do this part?”

He notches the head of his cock at your entrance, dragging himself through the evidence of your desire, of your desperation. You feel the spiral in your chest now, in your belly, some semblance of guilt crawling back into your psyche through the haze. You know that even though it’s him positioned at your entrance, you’re the one pulling the clouds down to the Earth, you’re the one forming a tornado, ready to destroy everything for the feeling of this man inside of you. You’re the one who came here. Your lust, your guilt, your resolve churn within you, barreling like a freight engine as it spirals towards everyone you’ve ever loved. You know it’s over; it’s done. There’s nothing left but this, and everything that you’ve already done makes you guilty no matter what. So, so guilty.

“Need to hear it,” he rasps, breaking through your thoughts and ending the charged silence.

An impossible ask, you think. Cruel, cruel cruel, another man above you as your husband sleeps at home. As if he hasn’t pulled two orgasms from you already, four if you count the times on the phone.

“Yes.” It comes out in a breath, in a whisper, in a prayer. “Please, Joel. Please.”

He pushes the tip into you, and your head pushes back into the pillows as you let out a ragged groan. The stretch is unimaginable, one you’ve never known. I deserve this, you think. I deserve the pain, and by god do you want it.

He licks more praises into your skin as he continues to push forward, a hand firmly on your hip. “Shit,” he groans, “you’re still so fuckin’ tight. You gotta relax for me, baby.” He coos as he kisses you. “Breathe, honey, please,” and you do. He feeds you his cock half-inch by half-inch, and you keep breathing and consciously relaxing around him. “You’re doin’ so good for me, angel. Takin’ me so well.” You breathe and relax, and with a broken groan he pushes all the way into the softness of your body. Both of your mouths are open, lips grazing each other, eyes locked in rapture. You’re panting, breath coming in short bursts, and he soothes you with kisses as he stays seated inside you.

“Look at you, angel,” he groans as he peers between your bodies to see where you envelop him. “Like this sweet cunt was made for me.”

You reach up to grab his face in your hands, and you lick into his mouth and take his plush bottom lip between your teeth. When you pull back to look at him, his eyes are so full, so saturated with lust, with something more that you won’t let yourself assume. He leans on his elbows, bringing his fingers to brush the hair from your face. He stays fully seated inside of you, your body fluttering and convulsing around him, oozing for him. He smiles at you, wraps your hair around his fingers lightly, playing with it. “You’re so incredible,” he says, watching his own fingers as they mess with your hair. Your hands run along his biceps, across his shoulders, through his messy curls.

“So are you, Joel,” you smile softly, watching the way his eyes flick over all of the features of your face.

“Did you know,” he starts, brushing both of his palms along either side of your head and pushing away the hair before taking a few strands in his fingers to play with them again. “Did you know that the first thing I noticed about you was your eyes?”

“No,” you chuckle lightly.

“They were. Your eyes are so soft, so expressive, so beautiful.” He remembers seeing the pain there, seeing everything you were trying to hide. The pain is mostly gone from your eyes now, replaced with a fucked-out reverence, and he knows he’ll never get over the way you look at him.

“Joel, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” you smile, brushing his cheekbone with your thumb. You almost forget the impossible stretch of your pussy around him, your body relaxed around his size now.

“You know what,” he starts, smirking, “I’ll take your word for it this time.” He places a soft kiss on your lips. “Since you’re wrapped so perfectly around my cock.”

You smile involuntarily, hiding your face in his palm. He chuckles as he kisses you again, deepening the kiss quickly to tell you what’s about to happen.

At the first drag of his cock back out through your body, a desperate groan claws out of your throat. You’ve never felt anything like it. Before you have time to process the loss, he’s pushing his way back in. He takes his time, and with each slow thrust back through your wet heat, the tip of his cock kisses your cervix. He feels impossibly deep, nudging parts of you that you didn’t know existed. When your quick breaths turn to drawn out moans, he picks up speed. All the while, his lips are on you, praises tumbling from his mouth. All you can do is moan and twitch under him as he fucks into you, long strokes turning into a slow grind of his hips as he stays buried in your heat as deeply as he can reach. He’s been painfully hard for what feels like forever, wanting nothing but to focus on you. Now, as your cunt wraps around him, he’s sure he’s never done anything good enough to deserve the heaven of your body. You’re his now, his, his, his.

“Shit, baby. You’re gonna make me come, squeezin’ me like this.”

Please, please Joel, you think you beg, but you’re too fucked out to know. He leans back, pulling your legs around him and settling your ass on his thighs. At this angle, his cock brushes your g-spot with every thrust, and you feel your eyes roll back in your head. You can feel your body plummeting towards oblivion, and before he can even reach down to draw circles on your clit, your body erupts. You barely realize what’s happening as you soak his length again, soak the coarse hair at the base of it. The sound that comes out of Joel’s mouth is like nothing you’ve ever heard, though you barely hear it at all through the fog, just vague sounds of fuckin’ good girl, shit, shit, shit. He tosses your legs to either side of his hips before he collapses back onto you, fucking you down into the mattress as his now sweat-kissed forehead finds the crook of your neck.

As you come down from your high, he slows. He rolls the two of you over without pulling out, holding onto you so that you end up splayed out on top of him. “How ya feelin’?” he asks into your mouth, and you nod against his lips.

“So good, Joel.” You move to sit up, and his hands brace around you.

“Slow, baby,” he cautions, and you soon see why - sitting on top of him pushes him even deeper. You groan raggedly, steadying yourself with your hands on his chest. After a moment, a moment filled with soft touches from Joel and calm reassurances, you slowly start to grind your hips against him, the coarse hair at his base tickling your clit. His hands fly to your hips, guiding you gently back and forth against him.

“Shit,” he swears, taking you in as you ride him. The way your body moves, a thin sheen of sweat shining on your skin in the low light, makes him want to forget everything else he’s ever seen and only ever remember this sight before him now. He pushes himself up with one arm, the other wrapped around your waist, until you’re straddling his spread legs, his chest pressed against yours. You continue to roll your hips over him, still getting used to the size and the angle, and he never takes his lips from your body as you do it. “So fuckin’ perfect,” he moans into your collarbone.

He grabs you to still your movements, and then he bends his legs behind you so he can fuck up into you. Every thrust pushes desperate sounds from your throat. You kiss him sloppily, his movements making it so that your lips can’t stay connected, a mess of teeth and tongue. You drag your fingernails through his hair and down his neck, and that sends him over the edge. With a deep grunt, he angles your hips back to pull out of you, before reaching his hand down between your bodies to push his cock over your mound. He thrusts it through the heat between your bodies, and with broken moans he lets it consume him. Thick ropes of cum spill over your belly and his, and you grab both sides of his face in your hands to bring his lips to yours. He can barely close his lips around his moans as you lick into his mouth. He lets himself fall back, bringing you with him, and you giggle as you let your weight press him down into the bed. He brings his fingertips to your face, gently swiping a sweaty piece of hair away from your forehead. You smile, a tired, fucked out smile, and his eyes drink you in.

“You’re incredible,” he says into your mouth, unable to stop kissing you. He never wants to taste anything else ever again. The freezing rain patters on his windows, streaks water down the glass. No warmth has ever felt better than this.

–

You open the door to the bedroom quietly, careful not to let the old door squeak. The smell of Joel hasn’t left your skin. It feels as if he’s still with you now, and you smile at the memory. You just need to get to the shower. If you can get to the shower, you’re home free. You cast your eyes up to the bed, and Ryan is sitting up.

He’s awake.

Your stomach jumps into your throat, your heart beats wildly, the sound echoing between your ears. You suddenly feel so, so sick, everything coming apart in an instant, your stomach churning in deep waves.

“You know, you really scared me.” He starts as he looks up to meet your eyes. His phone is in his hands, the screen the only illumination of his face. He turns the screen for you to see, and there is a map with your picture in a small circle. Your fucking location. “I woke up and you weren’t here. I checked the whole place. Called your name, but you were gone.”

Stupid stupid so fucking stupid. How could you forget to turn it off? You’re starting to shake. You have to lie, have to come up with a reason you were gone, have to…have to lie, have to lie. You have to fix this. Have to fix this. Can’t hurt him, can’t hurt him. Can’t hurt him with the truth.

He’s calm. He’s so calm and it scares you more than if he was screaming at you. “I watched you all the way home. Wanted to make sure you got back safely.”

You start to speak, say his name carefully, but he stops you by raising a hand.

“I opened up the app to see where you were. I was so scared. You’ve never disappeared like that before.”

“I–”

“Then I saw where you were. Your little picture over top of that fucking shop. I tried to think of a reason, any reason that wasn’t that one.” His voice is not even shaking, it’s even, resolved, and so fucking angry. “I’m so stupid, so so stupid.”

“You’re not–”

“Don’t,” he warns, and you knot your shaking hands into each other, pulling and twisting your fingers. You know he’s taking your silence, your demeanor, as confirmation….as a confession. If you hadn’t done anything wrong, you’d be rushing to his side to comfort him, reassure him, give him an explanation. Instead, you’re standing at the entrance of your marital bedroom, coming apart at the seams. He knows, he sees it. He’s known you for nearly a third of your life. How could he not know? How could he not know? He hasn’t seemed to notice the depth of your pain for the last few years, the way you have detached, become a shell of your former self. But this? This he knows, of course this he notices. You hear Joel’s echoed Don’t in your head from that night, that night on the phone. He warned you; he warned you there would be consequences to what you were about to say. You’d so flippantly ignored them, thinking yourself…what? Invincible?

“I should have known. All that time, I remember thinking it was so nice of him to hire you, to help us. Then that day at the shop, I saw. I saw the way he talked about you, the look on his face when he figured out who I was. I told myself it was nothing, that it had to be nothing, that I was overthinking.” His voice remains measured, slow…like he’s been sitting here in the dark, debating what to say to you, rehearsing these words. He probably has been.

“Ryan,” you start, and this time he doesn’t stop you, and the silence is petrifying. The weight of ten years hangs in this silence. You’re not sure what to do with it, what to do with the moment he’s allowed for you to say something. Your eyes are down on your hands, and this time you cannot still them. The wave of tears starts at your chest and washes its way up your throat and behind your eyes. You let out a choked sob, all of the guilt and fear pour out of you. You can’t stop it. Your legs start to buckle under you from the severity of your shaking, and you grab onto the bedroom door frame.

“I–I’m so–I’m so fucking sorry.” It’s all you can think to say, all you know to say. It’s not enough, you know it isn’t. The choked sobs are coming faster, mangled breaths ripping themselves from your lungs. You try to slow them, you’ll hyperventilate.

He huffs out a breath of air through his nose, shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, well…that’s nice.”

The venomous sarcasm laces his words, and you clap a hand over your mouth. You try to breathe through your nose, pinching your eyes tightly closed. This is so much worse than if he screamed, threw something at you. This quiet resolve, this quiet anger, is horrible.

“You should leave.” You look at him through foggy eyes, blurred through with tears. Your nose runs down around the top of your index finger. “God knows you have somewhere to go.”

You are cast out, cast out and cursed for eating your fill, for gorging on your desire. You don’t say anything more, don’t grab anything but your car keys as you turn and run out of the apartment. Thankfully, your car is still warm. You climb in, your whole body trembling. The night is still dark, but the freezing rain has stopped. A few patches of stars are visible to your bleary eyes through the drifting clouds.

You pull out your phone, open a message to Joel. You tell him “He knows,” but that’s all you say. You can’t stomach seeing his name, can’t stomach the idea of seeing him. You want to see him, of course you do, but the guilt pierces your heart and eats you alive. It’s too much to take. You don’t want to do what Ryan expects you to, as if that somehow absolves you. If you don’t run back to Joel, it’s almost like you’re not guilty.

You drive for what feels like an eternity, your phone vibrating several times in the plastic cup holder. It rattles around, and finally you pick it up and toss it onto the passenger seat, so the vibrations are quieter against the fabric.

Your awareness comes back, and you look around to see that you’re finally alone. You pull off onto the side of the country road, the shoulder half the size of your small car. You drove far enough out of town that there’s nothing that surrounds you except for the long expanse of corn fields, yellowed and down to the nub. A wind turbine rotates against the first hazy light, imposing blades silhouetted against the purple ghost of morning.

The calls have stopped, a five next to Joel’s name. You know Ryan will not try to call. With a sick relief, you realize it’s over, it’s done. It was awful, it was venomous, it was nothing like what you’d imagined or hoped for, in fact it was the worst that you could have imagined. But it’s done. You’ve never felt a crushing weight of guilt like the one you do now. It threatens to split you open. He didn’t deserve this, he never deserved this. No one deserves this. You hate yourself for what you’ve done, for giving into a fantasy, for plucking the trust from Ryan’s heart and stomping on it, burning it, ripping it apart. You will have to live with what you’ve done for the rest of your life, knowing that even though he hurt you too, you’ve hurt him in a way that no human being should hurt another. You stupidly thought you could fix it, keep from hurting anyone, solve it before anyone had to know, before anyone had to hurt. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But there’s another feeling that seeps through your chest, through the bloodied fingers of guilt that squeeze around your heart. You’re free. You’ll be eternally damned for what you’ve done, but you’re free. Your clothes, your skin, smell like Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.

With another careful look around, you bury your head in your hands and do what you have wanted to do for months, for years. You take a deep breath and let out a heart wrenching, blood curdling scream.

Somewhere in the distance, the last of the ginkgo leaves fall from the tree outside the café window, pooling gold on the harsh pavement in a reverse halo around the trunk.

You’re free.

thank you so much for reading, for coming along on this journey. epilogue soon 🖤 tags: @sp00kymulderr, @imaswellkid, @pedropascalsbbg, @totallynotastanacc, @softiedingo, @futuraa-free, @secretelephanttattoo, @la-vie-est-une-fleur29, @hier--soir, @jupiter-soups, @sawymredfox, @missladym1981, @cosmoscoffeee, @weho2kcmo, @pedrotonin, @joelsflannel 🤍

#yesssss #i just wanna punch ryan tbh #fic rec #such a good series #loved every single chapter of this I swear #it's a MUST read

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red-pill-blue-pill · 4 months

Text

'Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him.'

Holy shit!!!!!!! these are always so poetic, there are so many references and so many layers to the story, it's like nothing I've ever read before. The way you capture the rawest purest form of desire and love and lust, and how easy it is to relate to those feelings. Feelings some of us have always been resigned to just feel and not express, cause how the fuck do I even put into words this passion, so consuming, so powerful, that's eating me from the inside out???? I don't know, just thank you, thank you, thank you!!! 🫠🙏🏻💖

a lover's pinch | seven

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute. word count: 11.1k jesus series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.

Tuesday.

It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.

It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.

You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.

There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.

Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.

It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.

Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.

You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.

He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.

You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.

Still nothing.

Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.

You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.

First from yesterday afternoon:

Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x

And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:

It’s raining and miserable here

Wish I was still in new york

With you

Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.

You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.

No. You don’t think about that at all.

When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.

The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.

It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.

He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.

“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”

You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.

“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”

A family matter?

Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.

Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.

Numb fingers type;

Are you okay? Where are you?

But no response comes.

No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.

The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.

Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.

A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.

Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.

Thursday.

Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.

This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.

The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.

The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.

Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.

So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.

And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.

He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.

He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.

Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.

He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.

Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.

Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.

Where were you today?

You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.

Wednesday.

A week goes by with no word from Joel.

No word from you either.

You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.

So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.

“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”

“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”

An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.

“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.

The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.

He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.

And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.

You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.

‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.

Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.

For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.

Joel says your name then.

Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.

And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.

Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.

Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.

“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”

“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”

“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.”

“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”

“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.

“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”

“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.

“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”

And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.

And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.

One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.

“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”

You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”

Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.

Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.

“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”

Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”

“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”

“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”

“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”

And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.

The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.

You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.

“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.

“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.

“Are you hungry?”

You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”

Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”

It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.

The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.

He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”

You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”

Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.

“Full?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Is this your house?”

“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”

A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.

Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.

“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”

When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”

You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.

“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”

“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”

He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.

And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.

“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”

Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.

“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”

“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”

“Do I?” you scoff.

“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”

You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.

“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”

“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”

And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.

“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”

“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”

You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.

“Then why do you keep letting me?”

“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”

“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”

You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.

“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”

He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"

“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”

He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.

You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?”

Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”

You blink.

Daughter.

Daughter?

“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.”

You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.

His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.

You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.

Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.

Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.

There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?

“Please say somethin’.”

There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.

Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.

“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”

“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.

“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.

“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.

“Is she okay?”

“Ellie?”

“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter. “Yeah.”

“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”

“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”

“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.

“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”

“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”

“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”

And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.

“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.

“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.

Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.

It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.

And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.

He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.

He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.

“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”

The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.

“Said you were sick?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind?”

“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”

In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.

“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.”

And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.

At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.

His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.

“So are you, Joel.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.

“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.

“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”

“She just said it so well.”

“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”

“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him

“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.

And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.

He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.

The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.

Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.

It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.

“You should rest.”

But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.

“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.

“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”

His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.

His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.

And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.

Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.

Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.

The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.

He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.

Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.

Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.

It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.

His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.

He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”

Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.

“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.

“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”

“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.

“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.

“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours.

He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.

“Hmm?”

“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”

“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.

Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.

It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.

In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

Thursday.

Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.

Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.

A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.

There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.

An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.

A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.

You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.

You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.

“Good morning, cowboy.”

Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.

“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”

“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.

“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.

“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.

Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.

“I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.

“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”

“And what exactly is the whole experience?”

“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”

Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.

“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.

He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.

“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.

As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”

Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.

“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.

“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”

“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”

“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”

Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Is that right?”

“S’right.”

“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”

And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?

You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”

“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.

Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.

Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”

“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”

Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.

“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.

Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.

But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.

Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.

Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.

At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.

You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.

Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.

“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”

A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.

“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.

He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.

And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.

He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.

The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.

“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.

Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.

“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.

“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.

“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”

Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.

He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.

“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.

“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.”

When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.

He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.

The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.

And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.

Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.

But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.

Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.

A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.

“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, right hand on the wheel, left hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.

“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”

The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.

The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.

Our little secret.

a/n refs:

in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.

the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]

the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']

the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]

eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]

thank you for reading! x

#fic rec #merry fucking christmas

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red-pill-blue-pill · 4 months

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So honored to be in this list nect to great fic authors!! 💖

Sanctuary update — new works and authors added ⋆｡°✩

every day I wonder if Pedro Sanctuary is going to become Joel Miller Sanctuary

Consuming internet content is your own responsibility. Most of it is 18+, also mind authors’ notes.

If you'd like to recommend a fic - welcome here.

by @hier--soir — a lover’s pinch — Joel Miller

by @fanatic-writers — Adventures in Baby Sitting — Din Djarin

by @beskarandblasters — New York or Nowhere — Joel Miller

by @prolix-yuy — Decoherence, Cognitive Dissonance — Jack Daniels / Whiskey

by @mvtthewmurdvck — undercover peña — Javier Peña

by @trulybetty — New York | Part I — Marcus Pike

by @millerscoffee — soft spot for trouble — Javier Peña

by @toxicanonymity — Clock, App Store: stepdad!Joel, ring doorbell — Joel Miller

by @brewsterispunkk — angel of small death — Joel Miller; FIND YOU AGAIN — Din Djarin, Pero Tovar, Javier Peña

by @penvisions — of beskar and kyber — Din Djarin

by @cool-iguana — Care — Joel Miller

by @swiftispunk — sugar daddy Javi G — Javi Gutierrez

by @red-pill-blue-pill — As friends. — Joel Miller

by @holacia3 — Guy at the bar — Javier Peña

by @ladamedusoif — My Kiss, Only For You — the Thief

by @mandoisapunk — Firsts — Javier Peña

by @softlyspector — Moss & Mushrooms — Joel Miller

by @inklore — roadside delight — Joel Miller

by @ezrasbirdie — cupcake, car salesman jack daniels & his cupcake - the headcanons — Jack Daniels / Whiskey

by @lukas-matsson — Honey-Honey, How You Thrill Me, THEY'RE DATING — Jack Daniels / Whiskey

by @avenging-fandoms — COWBOY HAT RULE — Jack Daniels / Whiskey

by @harryleatherfit — for so long — Joel Miller

by @pedrointofolklore — This is me trying, Long story short, Rosebud — Joel Miller

by @pedropascalsx — be still my beating heart. — Max Phillips

by @justagalwhowrites — Yearling — Joel Miller

by @cupofjoel — does your mother know? — Joel Miller

by @beardedjoel — closer — Joel Miller

by @tieronecrush — ONLY ANGEL — Javier Peña

by @palioom — toolbox — Joel Miller

by @steeb-stn — 700 words of Prospect hurt/comfort — Ezra

by @creedslove:

New dad Joel, joel miller breeding kink, Cock warming with Joel, Lazy sex on the couch — Joel Miller

Javier helping you when you are anxious, Javier painting your nails when you are too tired, Comforting Javier — Javier Peña;

dad whiskey headcanons — Jack Daniels / Whiskey

by @brighttears — Safe — Joel Miller

by @mrsquill — Two Chances — Joel Miller

by @jokersfangirl84 — Words Get In The Way — Frankie 'Catfish' Morales

by @sp00kymulderr — the exact colour — Ezra

by @pintsizemama — The Green Velvet Chair — Ezra

by @oonajaeadira — WINKTOBER DAY 24: Tender Sex — Ezra

by @oogaboogasphincter — A Dimension of Our Own — Ezra

by @absurdthirst and @storiesofthefandomlovers— Tovar's Desires — Pero Tovar, Javier Peña

by @darkroastjoel — *not a thing,* not a thing part II — Joel Miller

*smooches*

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red-pill-blue-pill · 4 months

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Care

Summary: Joel gets sick and has a hard time letting himself be taken care of.

This can be read on it's own but it is in the same universe as Grays in which, Joel likes to be read to and held and have his hair stroked.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Word count: ~3.2k

Warnings: sick fic, Joel being bad at being looked after, descriptions of illness, Joel’s bad attitude, reader is implied to be from the south/Appalachia (and has an accent), food as a love language, food mentions and eating, minor internal angst

A/N: I’m out here living in the comforting Joel Miller universe, how are you guys? Seriously, though, thank you all for always being so patient with me while I take a million years to write something new. I love you and I hope you like this. I actually have two more things partially written in this 'verse so let me know if that's something you'd like to see too. I don't want this fic to wear its welcome out, especially since the reader is so specific 💕

A half melted trail of snow and ice winds it’s way from the front door to the living room. The stamp of familiar boot treads pressed into each watery puddle, the hills and valleys of the dirty slush left behind.

“Joel?” You call, unwinding your ice flecked scarf from around your neck before you toss your keys down on the little side table and let your backpack fall to the floor.

For a moment, the only answer you receive is the creak of the house in the brutal wind, panes of window glass rattling in their frames. You hang your scarf on one of the hooks by the door, and brush melting ice away from your soaked winter coat.

You open your mouth to call out again, when he answers you, voice graveled and strained. “In here, darlin’.”

The knot of worry that has been tangled in your chest all day eases just a little.

Joel’s been fighting off some kind of sickness for the better part of a week, reticent to admitting that he was feeling bad and even more adverse to letting anyone help him through—refusing to rest or let his shifts slide to someone else.

That morning he’d woken in a particularly bad state but insisted on going on patrol anyway, and in a veritable snowstorm that has yet to let up.

The storm had rolled in early that morning and the sheets of snow that had been falling all day have, even now, yet to taper off.

The visibility had been so poor, you’d half expected Joel to walk back through the door minutes after he said goodbye, without a kiss as was usual because he knows he’s sick even if he won’t admit it.

You hang up your coat and kick off your boots, carefully tiptoeing around the melted ice scattered all over the entryway.

That, more than anything else, tells you how bad he’s feeling.

Joel is good about taking his shoes off and hanging his coat up in the hall closet and keeping the ice and mud tracked into the house to a minimum. He’s particular and precise; mostly neat about things, aside from plates occasionally left out on the table, clothes left on the floor overnight, bed unmade for days.

When you round your way into the living room, you find him splayed out on the couch, booted feet on the floor to preserve the furniture at least, eyes closed, and still covered in a thin layer of mostly melted snow. His hair is damp from the elements, skin pale and flushed an uncomfortable shade of pink, an arm slung over his eyes as he breathes heavily.

“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter and cross the room to take a seat at his hip. “You look like death warmed over, sweetheart.”

He gives a weak chuckle and then swallows painfully, a cough catching wetly in his chest. “Mm.” He moves his arm and peels his eyes open, blinking lethargically at you. The circles beneath his eyes are a grayish purple, the skin puffy and dry with exhaustion. You make a sympathetic noise. “Go on,” he says, voice grating. “You can say I told ya so.”

“Now why would I go and do somethin’ like that when I can do somethin’ much worse?” You fidget with his coat sleeve and then rake your fingers through his hair, the strands soft and gray and damp at the ends from the snow and the fever he clearly has. “You’re just gonna have to let me take care of ya.”

He grunts and starts to sit up. “No,” he says, finality in his voice. “I’ll just get you sick—”

“Joel, if I was gonna get sick I’d be sick already, you’ve been fightin’ this thing for a week,” you push a hand against his shoulder to keep him in place. “And I don’t think you heard me right. I ain’t exactly askin’ here.”

He shakes his head. “‘M fine. Been through worse.”

“I know. We all been through worse. I’m still not askin’.” You roll your eyes, unimpressed with him. “Now quit fussin’.”

“I don’t fuss,” he grumbles.

“You sure don’t,” you coo, and reach for the zipper on his coat. “Sleepin’ on the couch in wet clothes ain’t gonna help anything, I can assure you a’ that.”

And he doesn’t fuss for once, maybe just slightly in defiance of your accusation, as you help him out of his coat and scarf and collect his gloves from the floor.

His breathing is labored when he sinks back into the couch again, eyes closed, lips parted because he clearly can’t breathe through his nose anymore.

“You need rest at the very least, Joel,” you murmur. “Please at least do that for me. I worry. I’ve been worried.”

He blinks at you again, eyes slowly coming open, and you have to wonder at how close to sleep he’d been again so quickly.

Maybe the key to getting him to ease into someone else taking care of him, is making it sound like it’s something to do with you, because he only nods.

Warm hazel irises disappear again, eyes flickering closed.

You touch his forehead and then turn to unlace his boots. “Sorry about the mess,” he says.

You work one boot off and then the other, massaging his ankle and then the back of his calf, the hinge of his knee. The hem of his jeans are wet. “A little water never hurt much,” you dismiss, hooking your fingers into the backs of his boots, the burden of his coat, scarf, and worn leather gloves on your other arm, and stand.

He catches at your wrist before you can turn away, thumb rubbing slowly over the inside of your wrist. “You really don’t gotta do anything for me.”

“I know it, Joel. I want to.”

“Mm.”

“Why don’t you make yourself useful and go on upstairs? You need help?”

He rolls his eyes and sits up slowly. “I ain’t that bad off.”

You’d like to disagree with him, since collapsing in a heap on the couch with his coat and shoes still on was a direct contradiction to that sentiment. It’s just like Joel to ignore the clear signals his body was sending him, and keep going until he couldn’t anymore, refusing help along the way.

You’re probably lucky he didn’t get lost in the damn storm; or pass out, fall off his horse, and break his neck.

“All right,” you pat his knee gently. “Get goin’ then. Be up in a minute.”

He groans when he stands and moves towards the steps, mindful of the puddles still dotting the path from the door to the living room.

The stairs creak as he goes up and you listen for all the squeaks you know the places in the floor will make as he moves toward the bedroom, hanging his coat and lying out the scarf and gloves to dry, boots left in their usual place by the door.

When you find him in the bedroom, he’s still in his clothes, breathing deep and even, on top of the comforter.

He startles awake when you push your knee against his thigh, holding yourself above him on caged arms. “When’d you eat last?”

“This mornin’.”

“You need to eat. If I run you a bath, will you be okay while I cook somethin’?”

He circles an arm around your back and pulls you down onto his chest. “Just lay here a minute.”

“All right,” you murmur and pull to the side, so you can cradle his head in your hands, press your lips to his forehead and sweep back his hair, smoothing the damp ends behind his ears. “If you just listened to me you wouldn’t be this bad off.”

“I know it.”

He smells like ice and snow, leather and pine; skin and sweat. You’re hard pressed not to just bury yourself in him, let both of you fall asleep like that.

Joel’s breath is hot, overly warm where it presses against your skin in shallow swell, breathing raspy and pained.

It makes you ache with guilt. You should have put your foot down about him resting days ago.

His face is slack when you pull back to look him over, asleep again, though his arm stays tight around you, thick muscle bound across your back in a comforting band, the flat of his palm cupped against your side.

You shift until you can press your cheek to his shoulder and rub one hand over his chest, listening to the strained rattle of his breath in his lungs. Worry picks at your heart, the heat of his skin so potent you feel hot, though he keeps shivering as he sleeps.

Still, you lie there with him for a long time, curled next to his sleeping body watching the snow whip past the window, evening encroaching and then blanketing the world in black, crystalized snowflakes still snaking through the air. His heart beats as steady and strong as it ever has, familiar and comforting against your ear.

Eventually, you lift your head. “Joel,” you say softly, hand on his cheek. He jerks awake, looks up at you, eyes hazy and disoriented. “Bath? Then you can sleep a while longer and I’ll get ya somethin’ to eat.”

Your mind is running through every home remedy you know, anything to ease the discomfort.

There’s little to do but wait out the sickness, in this world. How easy you used to have it. Some part of you still feels the urge to get up and grab your car keys, venture out to your local pharmacy for cold medicine, a bottle of sprite, and vapor rub.

You’ll have to settle for forcing water and tea made from local herbs on him, homemade chicken noodle soup with half the ingredients substituted for something else at the start of Wyoming’s long winter, warm bath water and your own hand rubbing his chest.

“All right,” he agrees.

He follows you to the bathroom and waits patiently while you fuss over the temperature of the water, and then over him, fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders.

It’s hard not to look at him, the shape of strong shoulders barred naked to you, the twist of tendon that leads into his collarbone from his throat, the muscle in the back of his neck.

But there are the circles under his eyes, too, the exhaustion in his gaze. You don’t look away from him, and he doesn’t shy away from you as you undress him, something unspoken between you as he lets you manhandle him, fingers brushing his chest and belly and the curve of muscle in his bicep.

Something burns in your chest, reaches desperate fingers out to him, though you can’t say what.

“The steam will help,” you say when he’s in the tub, groaning as he sinks into the water, gritting his teeth against the temperature.

“That’s an old wives tale,” he grumbles.

“It is not and all you gotta do is sit there either way,” you tug on a lock of his hair. “Holler if you need somethin’, and try not to fall asleep and drown.”

He huffs out a laugh that turns into a tired, phlegmy cough. “Yes ma’am. I’ll do my best.”

“Y’always do,” you say and close the door behind you.

Joel wakes with the memory of your lips pressed to his forehead fresh in his mind, and the promise of soup after a nap. He feels a little better with the sleep, though every joint in his body joins together to form a dull ache that extends from the top of his head to his toes. A heavy pressure rests behind his eyes, though his chest feels a little clearer if still sticky with sickness.

Christ, the way he aches.

This cold or flu or whatever is worse than he remembers it being. He could have shaken this, kept going and gotten over it, a couple years ago.

Feeling his age maybe, becoming that old man he sees in the mirror.

He’s shivering again and wishes he was back in that too hot bath water, sweating out a fever.

You’d curled up with a blanket on the floor next to the tub and read from the book you normally only read to him aloud in the evenings, making sure he drank that cup of horrible tasting tea you’d bought him, watching him from the corner of your eye and fidgeting with your sweater sleeves until a thread came loose.

He’d have to do better the next time.

You might not ever admit it to him or yourself, but he’s given you cause to fret the last week or so, and really worry the last couple hours. It grates, but if it keeps you from worrying a hole through your favorite sweater, he’d just have to find some way to swallow the ache of embarrassment and trip of guilt that came with someone looking out for him.

This winter he’s come to realize that taking care of people is important to you too. You do it in a different way than he does. Feeding folks mostly but it’s also—wrapping a scarf around his neck, mending Ellie’s jacket with needle and thread, making sure he and Ellie have eaten and rested, cooking things from your memories of home for him and his and no one else, sharing that very secret part of home and of yourself—so he’d better learn how to get on with it or risk running you off.

Even if it makes him feel useless and guilty, it’s important to you.

He gets to his feet and makes the trip downstairs where he can hear you singing lowly, the sound of some long forgotten song—sounds of mountains and coal mines and cooking and a particular kind of life that you’d never get to have.

The kitchen is smeared with heat, fog stained and dripping; windows heavy with the dark of nighttime, wind and snow still howling past in a gray-white blur. He leans against the doorway, arms over his chest, and just listens for a minute, the pounding in his chest and head dying down.

“Hey,” you stop singing as soon as you sense him behind you, smiling at him over your shoulder instead. “Sit down, baby.”

And since he’s trying to be better about this and he likes it when you call him that, he does as you say and sits at the table. You push a bowl of hot soup in front of him and hand him a spoon. He can only faintly smell the salt of the chicken broth.

You lean against him and wait for him to try it like you always do when you make him something good, nose pressed to his hair. “Go on,” you encourage. “You need somethin’ in you.”

He takes the spoon you offer him, reaching back with the other hand to cover your fingers on his shoulder, squeezing tight as he takes a taste, hoping you hear what he always wants to tell you.

“Y’know I’d tell you it’s good, but I can’t really taste anythin’, darlin’.”

A kiss to his temple, hand on the back of his neck, brushing through hair that’s more silver than brown lately. It feels better than he’ll ever admit, like sunshine, something essential he’ll never know how to live without again.

You laugh, “Well, that’s real good to hear because I want you to drink somethin’ gross.”

He pauses. “What?”

“Keep eatin’.” Your hand feathers affectionately through his hair again, then presses to the back of his neck and forehead. “Fever went down, I think.”

“You’re gonna get yourself sick,” he says and tips his head gently away from your hand.

You sit down and pull your chair close to his anyway. “Little late for that, I reckon,” you say and push a cup in front of him. “Drink up, cranky,” you direct, and then lay your head on his shoulder, heavy and warm and soft.

“Gonna tell me what it is?”

“Poison. Puttin’ you outta your misery.” He can feel the movement of your jaw in his chest, like you’re one and not two.

“Cute.”

You hum and scrub your cheek against his shoulder. “My mom always gave it to me when I got sick. Honey and lemon.”

He pauses.

For all your cooking from your childhood, you never talk about home and he’s never pried about it.

“Lemon, huh?” He asks instead. “Well, color me impressed.”

“Saved some of the juice from this summer,” you explain with just a touch of pride. “Anyway, she’d get that in me, and some kind of pop, and then, soup and crackers. I tried makin’ it how I remember but we ain’t got any of the right stuff,” you chatter and then abruptly stop, voice thick.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, though he wouldn’t complain if you went on. He’d like to know all that stuff about you, what your mother made when you were sick and what you were like as a kid and what exactly you think of when you think about home. “It’s supposed to open up your sinuses. Then maybe you’ll be able to taste the soup.”

He drinks it and it is gross, but he swears he can taste the soup better after. You smile, just a little triumphantly. He presses his knee to yours beneath the table. “My mama always did the same,” he offers after a minute. “Chicken noodle soup, no matter how hot it was outside and it’s always hot in Texas.”

You meet his eyes, gaze fond and full of something he can’t quite decipher. “Yeah?”

“Mm, and I guess I did the same with Sarah, too. From a damn can though, and burned it somehow half the time.”

When the dishes are stacked in the sink and the lights are flicked off, the whole house dark, you urge him back upstairs and into bed.

Rest, you say. He needs to rest.

He’s never been good at that, but he’ll try for you.

There’s a shiver climbing up the back of his spine again, the crush of a cough in his throat, but you burrow close like there’s nothing to worry about, and that eases something inside him.

There are worse sicknesses to be worried about. And if he gets you sick, he’ll just take care of you through it. He’d even try to make you soup.

You settle against him, and the pressure and warmth of your body against his chases away some of the ache lodged around his ribs.

Joel kisses your forehead when your breathing finally slows and peters out into something even and deep, hand fisted in his shirt.

He doesn’t sleep any, watches the night and the snow fall down and wishes nyquil were something that still existed. Still, twisted between your fingers ain’t a bad second.

💕 Thank you for reading! I would love to hear any thoughts you might have! 💕

#fic rec #I'm about to cry at the cuteness #what a good little treat to enjoy at the end of the day

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red-pill-blue-pill · 4 months

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because you worth it ART.... TALK ART!

PEDRO PASCAL celebrating 5 year of Talk Art Podcast | via robertdiament

#he looks so fucking good #i can't get over this video #his arms #his hair #his fucking face

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red-pill-blue-pill · 4 months

Text

PEDRO PASCAL this weekend in London 🇬🇧

#the carrie sweatshirt!!!!

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red-pill-blue-pill · 4 months

Text

from Eden | chapter three: cold love, hot blood

joel miller x f!reader

Gold rush, acid flux Saturate me, I can't get enough Cold love, hot blood Running to your heart when you're thinking of – aqua regia // sleep token

pairing: plant shop!joel x f!reader

wc: 8.3k

rating: explicit, 18+ MDNI

summary: working at the plant shop gives you a new sense of comfort; however, joel struggles to keep his feelings for you in check.

content tags: angst, no-outbreak/modern au, reader is married to an OC, unhappy marriage, weaponized male incompetence, reader is an academic and a plant person, being attracted to someone that isn't your husband, guilt, jealousy, a little bit of possessiveness, infidelity, references to Joel being married (in the past), reader is on her period, non-graphic period sex, feeling used, emotionally void/somewhat reluctant sex, non-graphic masturbation [f & m (blink and you'll miss the m)]

a/n: this one is an emotional rollercoaster, but what else did you expect? keep holding on and please read the tags 🖤🖤 thank you to everyone who has continued to follow along in this story and have sent me such thoughtful messages - you all have made this such amazing experience. far beyond anything I expected.

as always, thanks to @chloeangelic for helping me with the tags and for blind reading (though there's more now tehe) and @adamantiumspy of course for beta-ing 🫶🏻 | divider by @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on AO3

Joel knows he’s treading in dangerous waters. When you’d come in that first evening, dripping from rain, his first instinct was to be worried. You were pretty, there was no doubt about that, but he saw something else behind your eyes that conveyed exhaustion, pain. He didn’t know you then, but he liked to think he could read people pretty well. He’d been in customer service long enough to hone that skill. In the greenhouse, your expression subtly lit up when you started talking about nitrogen of all things, and he’d felt a pang in his chest. He wanted to make you laugh, just to see light shift the colors in your eyes again. When you did smile at him for the first time, revealing what you studied, he allowed himself to find you beautiful.

You hadn’t left his head since. Every day when he would flip the OPEN sign, he hoped you’d come in. When you came in for the U-bend, he didn’t want you to leave. That’s why he asked you about the sunburned monstera. He truly hadn’t known what was wrong with it, but he hadn’t actually been planning on asking you, at least not until he saw your sweet smile and soft eyes again. As you stood at the counter to check out and leave, he realized he didn’t want you to. He’s not sure what came over him when he let slip a few little pet names for you; he just wanted to make you smile, make you a little nervous. Little sunflower certainly seemed to do it, and you were so flustered he couldn’t help but blush a little himself. He hopes he never forgets the look on your face, your embarrassed little smile. He knows he won’t.

Then, you’d come back…the sink wasn’t draining still, and you’d almost started crying in his greenhouse. You were playful when you teased him about the squeaky door, but within minutes your bottom lip trembled, and he felt the sudden urge to sweep you into his chest. He knows he hardened when you mentioned your husband, but he couldn’t help it. The idea that someone had you, that you belonged to someone and could never be his to have, made him sick. Sick with want, sick with jealousy. He could see it in your face that you’d been able to tell; he knows he couldn’t hide his disappointment at learning that you were married. He hated himself for feeling anything of the sort. You weren’t his to want. His offer for coffee had come out of his mouth before he could pass it through any kind of mental filter, he just wanted you to stop looking like you were about to cry. He knew what it was to be anxious, knew what it was like to feel like you were suffocating with it. He wanted to help you escape, wanted to calm you down. He didn’t know quite what to make of what you’d said about your husband, but he wanted to. He wanted to know what was so clearly tearing you open from the inside, clawing its way to the surface with such fervent desperation that it had you standing in his greenhouse with tears licking at the corners of your eyes. If he couldn’t have you the way he wanted to, at least he could still know you. Maybe a friendship, just being close to you in any way he could get, would be enough.

Then you told him everything. He felt like someone had a heavy boot on his chest the whole time you let all of your worries spill out onto the table for him to see. He hadn’t expected you to open up to him like that, but he was relieved that you were. He wanted to be there for you, his body ached with it – to know you, to shelter you, to comfort you. So the man you were married to was responsible for the look on your face, the way your body was curling in on itself, the tears threatening your waterline. He was struggling to keep his anger suppressed. You are so sweet, so gentle, and the idea of a man taking advantage of that made him fucking sick.

Your words also brought something old and tamped down deep in his soul back up to the surface, a lot of feelings he’d forced himself to forget. He’d been unhappily married once, and while his marriage had ended mostly cordially, he distinctly remembers the times before. The feeling of waking up to an unfortunate reality day after day, the way it sanded him down to nothing and made him feel trapped in his own home. He saw that same pain, that same exhaustion in you. His heart surged with the desire to protect you, to lift you out of your situation, to hold you in his arms and promise you the world. He couldn’t do that; he couldn’t do any of that. He shouldn’t even want to. Fuck, if only he could keep his eyes from drifting to the way your lips move when you talk.

He knew it was ballsy to ask if you wanted a part-time job at his shop, but he did genuinely want your knowledge. The girls and Tommy were invaluable, making it a truly family-run business, but none of them were as adept at caring for the plants as you would be. The way you talk with such knowledge, such passion, he’s not sure he’s ever met someone who loved what they did more than you seem to. He wanted to do something, and while hiring you to work at his hardware store was a far cry from holding you in his arms or driving you out of town, it was, at least, something he could do. A way he could help.

Joel admitted to Tommy that he’d hired you over two glasses of whiskey. His brother raised an eyebrow, finished his drink in one swig, and set his empty glass down on the counter. He had seen the way Joel looked at you, the way he had hurried you out of the shop, but he had also clocked the thin silver band on your ring finger.

“You sure about this?” Tommy asked him, pouring himself another.

“No,” Joel sighed, taking another sip of his drink. “But I think she’d be a big help.”

“S’at all?” Tommy eyed him, his look almost accusatory. Joel didn’t answer.

–

It had been surprisingly easy to tell Ryan that you got a job. It made sense, things were tight. You know a lot about plants, and they needed someone at Miller Supply with some expertise. Ryan found the whole thing exciting, knowing that a job like this would be something you’d enjoy. You don’t say how it should be him, that it should be Ryan working to supplement your meager research stipend. You should say something, you should yell and scream and threaten to leave him, but you don’t. Quite frankly, you don’t really care anymore. If you can get up in the morning, do your work, go see Joel…nothing else really matters.

The end of your first day at the shop is marked by the delivery of the carnivorous plant shipment that Joel told you about on your first visit. You’re busy repotting a few orchids when he brings the box into the greenhouse, beaming.

“Real excited about showing you these.” He places the box in some empty space on one of the tables. He pulls a Leatherman out from his front pocket and uses one of the knives to cut open the sealed cardboard.

As the two of you pull out sundews, Venus fly traps, and a couple pitcher plants, he asks you questions about each of them. You happily answer them all. Did you know the hairs on the fly traps have to be triggered in a certain number of seconds for the trap to close? Sundews grow in bogs. Bats sleep in a certain species of pitcher plant, tucking themselves into the pitchers at night. Frogs lay their eggs in some, too. Giddy with the opportunity to talk about something you love, his eyes feast on your happiness. Your depth of knowledge, your passion, the smile that crinkles your nose. He watches you, watches the plants, eagerly nodding along to the sound of your voice.

“Thank goodness I hired ya,” Joel smiles, arranging the newly acquired nursery pots on the wire mesh table. “I’m afraid these’d be dead before too long without ya, sweet pea.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Joel,” you say, blood rushing to your ears at his words. You lean so that your arm pushes into his. “You’ve been doing this a long time without me.”

His soft brown eyes meet yours, and he licks his bottom lip as he turns his attention back to the table in front of him. “Yeah, well…” He doesn’t say more, and it’s quiet for a couple minutes as you arrange the plants, the two of you working in comfortable silence.

“Joel?” You set down the pot you’re holding, and the pitcher-tipped leaves flop slightly. You steady them with your fingertips.

“Yeah?” he asks, his eyes on you again. You meet his gaze, and suddenly feel so lost in it. This man had shown you nothing but kindness and compassion since you’d met him, and you’re not sure what you ever did to deserve it; in fact, you’re sure you don’t deserve it, but god if you aren’t grateful for it. The whole day today, since you’d first walked in, nervous about your first shift and seeing him again after everything you’d divulged yesterday, he had put you at immediate ease. He cracked jokes throughout his small tour of the store, his eyes shone with pride and affection as Sarah taught you how to record transactions in the ledger and Ellie taught you how to mix paint. Knowing Joel felt too good to be true. As he stands here next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne mixing with the warmth of his body, you’re filled with an immense sense of relief. The kind of relief that is only felt when easy happiness is found again after so much time has been spent without it.

“Thank you.”

He smiles, that kind and bright smile. Something like desire, the dull and persistent ache of wanting something you can’t have, squeezes its fist around your heart. “You’re more than welcome, daisy girl.”

After work, Tommy and Joel take you out for drinks at the hole-in-the-wall a couple blocks away to celebrate your first day. As you sip your cider and laugh with them, you think maybe, maybe, this can be enough. After a little booze loosens his resolve, Joel lets slip a you did a great job today, little sunflower. Tommy clears his throat and takes a sip of his beer, his eyes cast down at the wet cardboard coaster on the sticky table. Joel only looks at you.

NOVEMBER

The days are getting shorter, but the longer you work at the greenhouse the more it feels like a safe haven. You and Joel fall into a comfortable companionship, even though your breath still catches in your throat every time you see him, every time you hear the sweet drawl of his voice. He’s so easy to be around, so kind and thoughtful. Ellie and Sarah take an easy liking to you, and Tommy enjoys teasing you about your nerdiness, though his eyes always carry an affectionate and appreciative warmth. Tommy is the only one that seems to suspect your feelings for Joel, the way his eyes shift between you. Maybe he sees something in the way Joel looks at you too? You allow yourself a little delusion, wanting it so desperately you convince yourself that it could be true. If a man like Joel could look at you with affection? With want? It would be all you would ever need.

You were worried that working part-time would impede your progress on your degree, even though that doubt hadn’t even crossed your mind the day Joel asked you if you wanted the job. What you end up finding is that you’re working better, more effectively, when you’re a little busier. The happiness you feel working at the shop might have a little something to do with it too. Ryan notices the shift in your mood, notices that some of the anxiety has seemingly lifted from your shoulders. He’s glad for it, thinking that you just needed a change. He’s right, even if he doesn’t know why.

It’s a cool autumn day when something shifts again, the clear sky making the air colder in the absence of an insulating blanket of clouds.

“Joel, we really need to get a hose in here,” you say as you carry an arm full of plants from the sink behind the front counter back to the greenhouse.

“I know, s’on the list…” he says as he watches you from his spot on the floor, kneeling in front of the hose attachments, rearranging them. “Just need redirect the water main.”

“Well get on it, Miller,” you smile as you pass him.

He smirks at you as you push open the greenhouse door with your foot. “Who’s the boss here, again?”

As you meander through the greenhouse, trimming yellowed leaves and checking the soil, you listen to music through your headphones. After about an hour, Joel comes in. You remove one of your wireless earbuds as you look up at him. He removes his hat and runs a big hand through his curls before placing his cap back on his head. “Whatcha listenin’ to?”

“Music,” you smirk.

“Funny.”

“Actually, I think you’d like this one,” you lean over the table to hand him the earbud you’d taken out of your ear. He takes it from you, his rough fingertips brushing against yours. He pops the earbud in his ear, and you quickly pull out your phone to start the song again. It now plays in both of your ears. I’ve been lost before, and I’m lost again I guess, but I never lost this feeling or this pounding in my chest. I have traveled many miles, I don’t wanna walk no more. Every road and every highway led me right back to your door. Joel starts nodding his head along to the music, a little grin playing on his lips.

“I do like it.”

“Thought you might.”

“Joel!” Tommy’s voice penetrates your little bubble, and Joel twists to eye the door. The sky is darkening quickly, closing time rapidly approaching. The grow lights in the greenhouse will kick on any minute, the plastic timers in the sockets ticking their way to five o’clock.

“I’m comin’,” Joel grumbles, and as he turns on his heels to head for the door, he doesn’t remove the earbud. As the greenhouse door squeaks closed behind him, you smile to yourself and queue up another song you think he’ll like. You continue to do this, and you can see him through the glass panes flitting about between aisles, helping the customers that are left in the store. You can see the flash of white in his ear – he’s still listening. So are you. Something about him listening to music that you’re choosing for him, listening to it with you, as he goes about his job feels almost intimate. It’s something between just the two of you that no one else gets to hear, and you pray the Bluetooth will stay connected at this distance.

Over the next couple days, all you can think about is Joel’s little smiles as you shuffled through songs you thought he’d like. The way he would turn over his shoulder to look at you through the glass, nodding when he liked a song you chose. This feels like something, or at least it doesn’t feel like nothing.

You start texting more outside of work. Nothing serious, just small conversations. Joel sends you memes, little videos he thinks will make you laugh. You send each other songs sometimes, and you send him pictures of cool plants that you see during your research, knowing he’ll be excited to see them.

“You got a beautiful woman livin’ in that thing or somethin’?” Tommy asked him one day at the shop after Joel had looked down at his phone and smiled one too many times. If only he knew. Joel was never on his phone, notoriously frustrating to text, and Tommy, Ellie, and Sarah all knew something was up. They teased him about it, and Joel instinctively tried to check his phone less, waiting for quiet moments to text you back. He didn’t want them to know it was you, even though neither of you were doing anything wrong. In their family group chat, Ellie sends a silly video of a pug accidentally shooting a rubber ball out of his mouth several times, and Joel laughs. He copies the message with the video and pastes it in a new message to you. He hopes it makes you laugh too. He imagines you looking down at your phone and smiling at something he’s sent, and the thought makes his chest hurt.

“It’s about time we did this,” Ellie says, standing on her tip toes on the top level of the step stool, fastening rubber tubing to the metal beams between panes of glass.

“I know, I know,” Joel mutters, doing the same on the other end of the greenhouse but without the need for a step stool to do so. He and Tommy had finally redirected the water main so there was a tap in the greenhouse. The area immediately outside had been dug up and put back, awkwardly fitting puzzle pieces of grass slightly raised out of the earth. It had taken them all weekend, a few beers, and one too many comments about the state of Joel’s back. Tommy made an off-handed comment about hiring someone else to come do this, since they were business owners now, Joel, what the hell we still doin’ the menial labor for? But Joel wouldn’t hear it. If there was a job to do at his own home, his own business, he would be the one to do it.

Running piping through the greenhouse would create an irrigation system, removing the need to carry plants to and from the stainless-steel sink behind the front counter. It was one of those tasks Joel didn’t think much about, and he hadn’t really realized how tedious it really was until you came along and pointed it out. He wanted to make your job easier, make his plants happier, because he knew it’d make you happier too. You hadn’t worked the weekend and weren’t on the clock today; you had a tight deadline and several meetings in at the university. Joel hoped that by the time you come in tomorrow, this job will be done, and he can’t wait to see the smile on your face. Wow, look at you, Miller, he imagines you’ll say, and despite himself he thinks yes, yes, look at me. Look at me and not at him.

The longer he goes without admitting himself to you, the longer he goes without knowing what your skin feels like, what your lips taste like, what your body tastes like, the more he feels his sanity slipping through his calloused fingers. He wants you more than he’s possibly ever wanted anything, and no place to put that need except for his own fist, desperate and quiet in the dead of night.

The sound of chatter outside the greenhouse turns Joel’s head, and he hears Tommy’s voice alongside one he doesn’t recognize.

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it,” the mystery man says, and Joel doesn’t think much of it. It’s a Monday, they’re open, it’s just another customer. He turns his attention back to the pipes, fastening a length of it to the wall of the greenhouse with a zip tie, snipping the long end of it with the scissors in his Leatherman and tucking it into his jeans pocket.

The man opens the greenhouse door, and something stirs in Joel that he can’t identify. The look on this man’s face, something about it, makes him feel uneasy. At seeing Joel, this man looks like he’s been struck across the face. Does he know this guy? Did they once have an awkward interaction? Joel wracks his brain for a memory that isn’t there, but the man’s voice breaks his thoughts.

“You must be Joel,” he says, and Joel is sure something’s wrong now. He can’t remember this guy at all. How does he know his name? Business card, maybe, he thinks.

“Guilty as charged,” Joel says, lowering his arms and brushing them off on his pants. Ellie has stopped working too, clearly reading the awkwardness of the situation, and standing to watch it unfold from her perch on the step stool.

“I’m Ryan.” Joel hears the words and understands them immediately. A thousand sensations erupt in his body at once, and he knows he absolutely can’t listen to a single one of them. He lets his customer service training take over, tamping down the blinding anger and raging jealousy that are swirling in his stomach like a hurricane.

“Ryan,” Joel repeats, and he hates the taste of it in his mouth. “S’good to meet ya.” Lie. “Been wonderin’ when you might stop by.” Truth.

“Yeah, figured it was time to see the place my wife spends all her free time these days,” he says, with something like resentment in his voice but a smile on his face. You had told Joel that Ryan was happy for you, and maybe he was, maybe he had been until he came here. My wife, my wife, my wife. Joel feels like he’s going to throw up. He should be the one saying that, he thinks quickly, before reason catches up. Ryan lets out something akin to a laugh, then says, “M’just kidding. I actually want to thank you, man. You didn’t have to take her on.”

What’s happening? Joel can’t figure out what Ryan means, what his words are meant to do. He can’t get a read on him at all and he fucking hates it. He runs through a mental pro and con list, wondering what would happen if he lost it on your husband right here, right now, socking him in the jaw and kicking him out of his store for everything he’s ever done to you. He quickly decides that something like that would only give you more to deal with, and that’s the last goddamn thing you need. The man standing in front of Joel has given you enough to worry about for two lifetimes. As much as he wants to say, hey man, you’re a terrible husband and a load’a dead weight on the shoulders of your lovely wife, and you don’t fuckin’ deserve her, and give Ryan a bruise deep enough he’ll feel it for days, every throb of his face a repeat of Joel’s words, he can’t. He knows you’d come to him, eyes red and puffy, crying why’d you do that Joel? Why did you hurt him? No…as much as he wants to, he can’t do that to you. It would only be for him, only be to tamp out the raging flames inside him. It wouldn’t be for you.

“S’my pleasure,” he settles on, and it’s so so hard for him to stop there. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. I wanted her here, with me, instead of there, with you. My little sunflower. At least he means what he says. “She’s a tremendous help.”

Ellie stands there, shifting her weight on the step stool, the tiniest smirk tipping up the corner of her lips. “We love having her here,” she says.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Ryan responds. “She certainly knows her stuff.”

“Did ya come ‘round just to thank me?” Joel asks, and only sorta regrets the way that sounds.

“No, no…I, well, I wanted to get her something.”

Oh, now this was too much. A gift? With what money, exactly? Joel thinks bitterly. You’re buying yourself a gift, really…at least, monetarily.

“That’s nice,” Joel offers, lying through his teeth. “What’s the occasion?” He has to pretend he doesn’t know, doesn’t know everything. It’s killing him. He’s going to have to go directly upstairs for a swig of whiskey after this just to calm his body down from this adrenaline high, to still the unrelenting drumbeat of his heart in his chest.

“Well, her abstract was accepted for a conference,” Ryan explains, and Joel grinds his teeth together to keep from saying I know, she told me, she texted me that.

“Oh yeah, I think she mentioned that. S’really excitin’, she deserves it.” Joel does fucking mean that.

“Yeah,” Ryan crosses his arms over his chest, and Joel can’t help but think how small he looks to him right now, even though Ryan is not a short guy. “She definitely does.”

“What did you wanna get for her?” Ellie asks, stepping down from the step stool and breaking this awkward standoff.

“Well, she loves orchids, and I thought I could get her one. I know she works here, and maybe that makes it a dumb gift, but I think she’d love it.”

I know, I know she does. I know what she likes too. Joel feels so weird about this whole thing, and he doesn’t quite know what to do about it. “S’a good idea.” He tries to make it sound convincing. That’s when he notices Tommy through the window, standing in one of the aisles and rearranging cans of primer on the shelf without looking, eyes trained on Joel. When Joel meets his eyes, Tommy looks away. “Which—uh, which were you thinkin’ about?”

“I’m not sure, I know she likes white flowers the best,” Ryan says somewhat absentmindedly, now meandering the aisles and peering at the various plants displayed there. He stops in front of a moth orchid, full of white blooms with delicate yellow at the center. It’s a good plant, a solid choice, but not for you. Joel can’t help himself. Moth orchids are everywhere, grocery stores, farmers markets, Target. No, a gift for you should be something unique, beautiful, special. He wants to let Ryan pick the moth orchid, give you a lackluster gift, in the hopes that you won’t really like it that much. Well, you will, because you love all the plants in here; but, if he were choosing, he’d pick the white and green paphiopedilum, having heard you say on more than one occasion that the slipper orchids are your favorite. He only has a couple in stock, and there’s only one that color. Yes, that’s the gift he would give you. A little flower for his little flower.

“What about this one?” Ryan asks, gently touching one of the white petals.

“You know, I’ve heard her say she li—” Ellie starts, but Joel doesn’t let her finish.

“I think she’d like that one,” he finishes, and Ellie looks confusedly at him before her features shift, her eyes take on a knowing glint and go wide, her jaw falling slightly slack. Shit, well, Joel will have to deal with that later.

“You think?” Ryan questions, picking up the plant and looking it over.

“Yeah, s’like you said, she likes white flowers, right?”

“Yeah.”

“S’a good choice, then.” Joel reassures, moving to stand in front of the white and green paphiopedilum so that it’s tucked behind his back.

At the counter, Joel doesn’t let him pay. “S’on the house,” he says, opening and closing the cash drawer to clear the transaction. “Employee discount, n’all.” Ryan protests, but Joel won’t hear it. Tommy leans against the counter, arms crossed. Joel can read all over his face that Tommy’s having a hard time keeping from decking him too.

“The fuck was that?” Ellie blurts out as soon as the door is shut, and Ryan is gone.

“Ellie,” Joel half-scolds, knowing that he has no right to the moral high ground.

“You gonna tell me why you let him pick a half-assed gift? Don’t think I didn’t see you hide that paph behind your back.”

“Stop swearin’,” Joel urges, pulling the ledger out from under the counter. He’s going to record the loss of inventory, place a zero in the amount column. So much left unsaid in that small circle of ink.

“You like her, don’t you…I mean really like her.” Ellie says slowly, a statement rather than a question. Just then, rapid footsteps descend the stairs from the apartment and Sarah opens the door. She looks around, sees the looks on everyone’s faces, and sighs, letting her shoulders drop. “What’d I miss? Feels like a funeral in here.”

“Dad’s in love.” Ellie whispers, and Joel whips his head up to look at her, his pen coming to a full standstill on the page. There’s now a straight line coming off the word in the ledger: paphiop—.

“I fucking knew it,” Tommy mutters, looking down and pressing his hand over the back of his neck.

“Oh, is that all?” Sarah chuckles. “I already knew that.”

The plant had been waiting for you when you got home that day, and when Ryan told you where he’d gotten it you almost had a fucking heart attack. Oh, you gasped, afraid that anything else you might say would give away your panic. You tried to be nonchalant, tried to be “happy” that Ryan had finally “made it over there,” but your palms were sweating, and your heart was doing backflips around your ribcage. You think Ryan said Joel was nice, that he’d met Ellie and Tommy, but all you could hear was the roaring in your ears. You thanked him for the gift, for thinking of you, even though you knew that it had been your money that bought it anyway. You didn’t even hear your own voice as you said it.

Even now, days later, the thought of that conversation, the mental image of Ryan and Joel in that greenhouse, was enough to send your stomach straight back into your throat. When Joel saw you next, he didn’t mention it. Neither did you. What would you have said? I’m sorry you met my husband?

Instead, you think of coming into work that next day and seeing the irrigation system. You’d actually laughed, you were so excited about it. Joel! you cried, bringing your hands together in front of you and leaning forward onto the balls of your feet. Oh, Joel this is amazing! He chuckled, that warm and delicious sound, and you didn’t know it then but, in that moment, he looked at you like you held the entire world in your clasped hands.

Here, now, you’re with Ryan, and his voice breaks your memory. “You’re leaving tomorrow,” he says, matter-of-factly. The conference is this weekend, and you’re laying out your clothes on the bed, running through your mental checklist of things you need to take. The orchid Ryan got for you sits on the windowsill, the white blooms illuminated in sunlight like ghosts against the cold glass of the window.

“I know,” you say quietly. You know what looms behind his words, where this is headed.

“We should…do something.” He’s insinuating. This is how he always seemed to ask you to have sex with him these days. Unceremonious, like a business transaction. You’re not sure why it even matters that you leave tomorrow, you hadn’t slept together in a few weeks anyway. You certainly weren’t starting anything, and he had mostly stopped asking. What’s a few more days? Maybe he just doesn’t like not having the option.

“I’m on my period,” you remind him.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he reassures. You want to believe him, but you struggle to. Being on your period always made you feel gross, unwanted…and many times sex on your period was little more than Ryan requesting you take care of him. Perfect time for a blowjob, or something like that. The familiar nag of duty, or something like it, lays its icy hand on the back of your neck. You know it’s ridiculous, know that you can say no. You can always say no…but why does it feel like you can’t?

“Okay,” you say, but it’s barely more than a whisper. Whenever you go a long time without giving into him, you feel guilty. When he asks, you feel like you owe him, even though you know deep down that you don’t. He’ll know, your brain lies to you. He’ll know everything if you don’t do it.

When his lips meet yours, you think of Joel. When Ryan’s hand finds the small of your back, you want to feel something, anything. You want to feel something as he kisses you and licks into your mouth. All you want to do is pull away and stop, maybe run, leaving everything behind and never coming back. How dreamy that would be, driving and driving until you can’t see the city anymore. Kissing this man that you love despite yourself, who loves you, should make your body come alive. It should make electricity shoot through your veins, feel like butterflies in your stomach. Isn’t that what they always say? For the last few years, you told yourself it was because you’d been together so long. Ten years is a long time. Maybe that’s why you don’t feel anything anymore. Maybe that’s why your body stays silent, even under his touch. Maybe no one can keep the spark alive that long.

You let him do what he wants with you, your body splayed out on a towel to keep the blood off the sheets. When it’s all over, your cunt throbs with the desire to finish. It mixes confusedly with the dull ache that comes with the swelling, with the blood.

After he slides out of you, he asks, “is it okay if I go get in the shower?” You nod reluctantly. The sting of eminent tears blurs your vision. You hope he’ll leave quickly enough not to see them.

It isn’t okay, but what are you going to say? I want you to care about me. I want you to stay and wipe the blood from my legs. I want you to feel like I’m worth taking care of, worth respecting. More than just a body for you.

You don’t want to have to say anything, so you don’t.

You lay there after he’s gone, blood drying on your thighs, feeling raw and naked and exposed. Somehow this feels worse than the other times he has tossed a towel in your direction when it’s over. You feel more exposed now than you had across years of being laid bare for him.

It’s fine, he had said, the blood doesn’t bother me. A lie, you decide then, caked in your own blood and him. Maybe he was right, it didn’t bother him, so long as he got what he needed from you. You reach into the nightstand and pull out your vibrator, switching it on full power. You hold it to yourself in desperation, feeling your blood and his cum leak from you. If you’re going to suffer this, you can at least take something for yourself. You think of Joel, think he wouldn’t do this to me. You don’t know that, not really, but you’re so sure of it you feel it in every deep cavern of your body. You let his name form in your mouth when you come, even though you don’t even let the empty room hear it.

You wait until he’s out of the shower and back in the living room before you get into the shower yourself, not wanting to even pass him in the hallway. Under the hot water, you try to even out your breath. How many other times have you stood here and lost your mind? You turn the dial more, heating the water until it burns your skin. You want to burn him off of you, not be able to smell him on your skin ever again. Your body contracts in on itself, and you hug your arms around your middle as the hot water flows over the back of your head, soaking your hair into a humid curtain around your tear-streaked face.

He goes about his days, making promises he won’t keep, blissfully unaware of how he has stripped you down to the bone. If you were the only one suffering, at least no one else had to get hurt. That’s what you had told yourself, again and again, night after night of letting hot tears fall down your cheeks as he snored softly beside you.

He promises you equality, domesticity, sacrifice, devotion. Instead, he leaves it all to you, watching you stress and panic and clean and plan and cook and earn and take care. How can one person do every job of two people? This isn’t what he promised you, standing in the garden that day. This isn’t what he promised you. If he had said “I promise to let you down, to disappoint you, to disrespect you, to lie to you.” Maybe then you would have run, maybe then you would have finally said no.

When you’re as clean as you can get, steam rising off your body from the heat of the water, you walk back into the living room. You made sure to check your eyes in the mirror first to make sure they don’t betray you, betray the hurt that you feel. You look at your phone and see a message from Joel. It’s a picture of one of the moth orchids in the greenhouse. Little buds are forming.

[Joel Miller] You sure know what you’re doing! :-)

The message almost makes you lose it again.

“Oh, shit,” you say, laying it on as thickly as you can, feigning genuine surprise as you look at your screen.

“What’s wrong?” Ryan asks, and you feel his eyes on you from the couch.

“I forgot I have a shift at the shop.” It’s a lie of course, but you can’t stay here. There’s only one place you feel safe, and you need an excuse to go. Turn towards the light, little sunflower.

“Now?” He asks, and from his tone of voice you’re relieved that he seems to believe you.

“In an hour, yeah.” Plausible. “I totally forgot.” You lie again. It feels easy. You wouldn’t forget about a shift, that isn’t the kind of person you are. If you’d really been scheduled today, it would have been in your calendar, a little green dot next to 13:30 Miller Supply.

“Sounds good,” he says. “Say hi to Joel for me.”

The bell jingles as you swing open the door to the shop, and when the smell of wood and fertilizer hits your nostrils, you feel a small wave of calm.

“Well, hey there,” Joel smiles, and your chest instantly feels tight again. You’re relieved to see him, you always are, but something about it today feels wrong. Whatever you couldn’t clean out of yourself from Ryan still dribbles out, mixed with your blood, and when you see Joel’s eyes you feel like somehow he knows. You tell yourself there’s no way he does. He doesn’t. Why do you feel so weird and guilty?

“Hey.” You try to force a smile. You look around, see that he’s alone. Sarah and Ellie aren’t here, Tommy isn’t either.

“Everythin’ okay? Didn’t have you on the schedule today. Thought you’d want the day to prepare for your trip.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m—I’m fine.” You don’t even believe the words coming out of your mouth.

Joel looks at you for a few moments before he speaks. “Don’t wanna offend ya, missy…but you don’t look okay.” He leans down and rests his forearms onto the counter, studying your face. You want to take the five long strides over to him, bury your head in his chest, inhale the scent of a man that you know would treat you the way you deserve. You know it so deeply in your bones that they ache with it.

“I just thought I’d…make sure everything was okay with the plants before I leave.” A flimsy excuse, and you know he knows it. He cared for these plants for years before you got here, plus you’d just been in yesterday.

“Hmm…” He’s watching you intently, his eyes flicking down to your hands, which are fidgeting with each other nervously. You’re twisting the silver band around your ring finger. You hope he lets it go. If he asks again, you’re afraid you’ll tell him the truth. “Well, that’s conscientious of ya, sweet pea.”

Thank god. You’re relieved, but the pet name forms a lump in your throat.

He doesn’t follow you back to the greenhouse, but his eyes are trained on you until you disappear between the aisles. He knows why you’re here, or at least he feels like he can hazard a pretty good guess.

Fuckin’ prick, he thinks as he brings his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He rubs harshly up and down between his eyes, the pads of his fingers pressing into his tear ducts. He knows you just lied to him, nothing about the way you entered his shop told him you were okay. He’s sure something happened back at home, and he doesn’t know what to think about the fact that you came here as a result. He doesn’t blame you for lying, he’d done a fair bit of lying to himself lately too.

He remembers lying to himself even then, back when he was in a position like yours. His wife was always gone, always somewhere else, leaving Joel to care for Sarah nearly all alone. She hadn’t wanted to be a mother, and it had become painfully obvious. Girls trips, work trips, evenings at the tennis club, anything to get out of the house. Joel wasn’t sure he’d wanted to be a father either, but when he saw Sarah smile up at him for the first time, he knew he’d do anything for her. Fuck the expectations he’d had for his life beforehand, before her small little fingers curled around one of his. He loves Sarah more anything in the entire world, but he remembers the late nights: working at odd hours, so exhausted and so sleep deprived he could barely function. All the while, his wife was…wherever she was. Sarah would cry for her, and Joel would hold her to his chest, rocking her back and forth and telling her I know, sweetheart, I know. I’m here, I’m here. Eventually, Joel had to call it off. He had to. He was financially supporting the habits that kept her away from her family, and in the end, she was more dead weight than anything else. She was hurting Sarah more than she was helping her. When Joel told his wife that it was over at the kitchen counter in their house, little Sarah asleep upstairs, she hadn’t even cried. If anything, the tension in her face relaxed for the first time in the two years since Sarah was born. Joel had given her everything, and in the end, he gave her freedom too.

He remembers it all, and in this moment, he can almost feel all of it again as if he’s living it for the first time. He sees the pain of his past in your eyes, and it rumbles in his chest and pushes waves of memory against the shores of his mind. It’s been thirteen years on his own. He’d been out a couple times with a couple different women, but nothing ever felt right. Relationships never felt like a priority, not when he has Sarah and Ellie both now to care for. But you…something about the way you mirror him, the familiar struggle that he knows so well, he feels the same drive to care for you, to rescue you, that he did when he took in Ellie. Your softness, your passion, your intelligence, the way you care for innocent and voiceless beings and use your voice to advocate for them…yeah. Your soft beauty, the way you blow a stream of air over your forehead to push hair out of your eyes, the way your hands fidget when you’re nervous, the way you dance a little around the greenhouse when you think no one can see you. You’ve climbed inside his mind, so long devoid of feelings like this, and you’ve built a little home there. Maybe Ellie was right.

He pushes himself off his forearms, resolved to meet you in the greenhouse. You would be gone until Friday at that conference, and when you’d arrived today, he had been busy convincing himself he wouldn’t miss you. He could keep convincing himself of that, but he’d rather do his convincing in the back with you. He hears your soft voice before he opens the door. You’re just on the other side of it, standing over the section of paphiopedilums, over the one he wants to give you, your back to him.

“You guys’ll be okay without me for a few days, right?” he hears you say, poking your finger in the moss in one of the orchid pots. “I think your dad’ll take plenty good care of you while I’m gone.”

You’re talking to the plants. Did you always do this? A big, stupid grin spreads across his face. Shit, he’s in trouble. As if he didn’t already know it.

You barely hear the greenhouse door open since Joel had finally oiled the hinges after you’d teased him that day about the creaky door. “So…” he starts, closing the door behind him. He has a playful grin on his face, his eyes crinkling. Fuck if that smile isn’t going to be the death of you. “They okay with you leavin’, little sunflower?” He asks.

“Heard that, huh?” You smile softly and turn the rest of your body towards him, maybe not feeling as embarrassed as you should. He nods, his eyes still shining as he crosses his arms across his chest. “I think they’ll survive,” you tease. You feel your tension ease. He always seemed to do this to you, bring you out of your fog. Something about those eyes, those messy curls. It was impossible to feel sad around him. You didn’t want to be sad with him. You could do that at home. The light, little sunflower.

“Did they have anything else to say?” he jests.

“You laugh, but they’re better conversationalists than most of the people I know.” A smile plays on your lips, and his eyes flick across it.

“Sounds like you need better people to talk to, tiger lily,” he smirks.

“Mmm, that’s a new one,” you smile that stupid smile that only his silly little nicknames bring out.

“Thoughts?” his voice is low, syrupy.

“Jury’s still out,” you chide, smirking up at him.

“Still think the plants are better conversationalists?”

“Than you?” you smile, “definitely.”

“I’m hurt, little sprout.” He places a hand over his chest in fake offense. “Thought you liked my ramblin’.”

“Mm, that is why I come here.” Your smile softens, casting your eyes down to the plants in front of you.

“I would hope you come here to work.” You hear the smirk still present in his voice.

“Sometimes.”

When you look at him, force yourself to meet his eyes, you can feel your heartbeat in your chest. Your palms are starting to sweat, the tips of your ears are hot. This man is going to make you lose your mind. You want to tackle him to the ground, eat him whole.

He takes a step towards you, close enough you could reach out and touch his chest. You wonder how he’d feel under your hands, years of contracting and manual labor making him strong, the planes of his chest would be firm to the touch. Warm, definitely warm…and soft.

“Only sometimes?” His voice is low. You think about what it would be like hearing it rumble in his chest against your ear. “What else d’ya come here for then, little flower?”

Little flower, little flower. The light, the light. He knows the answer, and so do you. You. You, you, you. I come here for you. You can’t say it, you won’t. It’s a line you can’t cross.

“I—"

Before you can finish, his lips are on yours, his hand encompassing the side of your jaw, fingertips pressed to the back of your neck. His mouth is pressed firmly against yours, more of a desperate press of lips than a kiss. Your eyes are open wide from shock, arms hanging limply at your sides. You close them gently, letting his blurry features fade into darkness. His mustache tickles your face.

Your brain catches up with your body in blind panic and you yank yourself away, his hand falling from your face. Your fingers fly to your lips.

“Fuck,” he chokes out immediately, guilt wracking his features as he sees the look on your face. He looks at you, eyebrows knitted together above those massive brown eyes, dark with pain.

He says your name carefully. “I’m so sorry, fuck, I—”

Your body burns, every nerve split and frayed, sparks igniting the edges. If you don’t get out of here, you’re going to catch fire, his lips like a match strike.

“I have to go,” you breathe, words barely coming out. You push past him, through the greenhouse door, the little help keep us happy! sign fanning away from the door with the force of your yanking it open. You don’t turn around, don’t look back. He doesn’t call after you. Your eyes burn, tears licking at the corners, and you swallow a sob back down your throat. Not here. Not yet.

It’s not until the cool November air hits your face and you’re ten hurried strides from the door that you let the choked sob escape.

thank you for reading! 🖤 the song they listen to is love me like you used to by lord huron 🫶🏻 tagging @sp00kymulderr, @imaswellkid, @pedropascalsbbg, @totallynotastanacc, @sawymredfox, @softiedingo, @futuraa-free, @secretelephanttattoo, @la-vie-est-une-fleur29, @janaispunk, @lilipads, and @hier--soir (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)

#fic rec #sooooo good #(as always)

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