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swiftispunk · 5 months

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autumn air | joel miller x f!reader

a your summer dream one shot

your summer dream masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | follow @swiftispunkupdates and turn on notifications for updates

The heat of autumn is different from the heat of summer. One ripens apples, the other turns them to cider.

– Jane Hirshfield, The Heat of Autumn

pairing: joel miller x f!reader rating: 18+ word count: 10.4k series warnings etc: [NO OUTBREAK] we'll call him dad's buddy!joel, fairly soft!joel, age difference (28/50), angst, smut (will specify with each chapter), fluff, alcohol, food, secret relationship until it's not. series summary: after falling head over heels for your dad's buddy on vacation, it's now time to navigate the real world together. or, a year in the life with joel miller. chapter summary: it's been a month since you returned home from costa rica and you and joel have fallen into a blissful routine. when a rude awakening threatens to disrupt that peace, together you must make a decision...or two. chapter warnings: smut, unprotected p in v sex, discussions of somnophilia, BONDAGE-ish, oral (m receiving), exhibitionism, some body/cock worship, joel miller's filthy mouth, anal play, cum play, shitty landlords and shittier roommates, being allergic to cats, feelings, almost getting caught (again), fluff, angst in the mildest sense, one little pov swap. no use of y/n.

A/N: well hello. sorry this took about a hundred years. welcome to our first glimpse of life post-vacation. this turned out to be a lot more set-up than i anticipated, so please be patient as there is lots more still to come and to happen. BUT WE GOTTA START SOMEWHERE, OK?

a forever thank you to @joelscruff pretty much just for existing at this point but also for beta'ing this bad boy

It had taken just over a month for your weekends to become this.

Lazy, dreamlike collages of playing house with Joel Miller. Learning to like black coffee and the slow, patient pace of suburbia, a stark but welcome contrast to the ceaseless stress of work and the incessant, gnawing rift that's been developing between you and your roommates.

Here, curled up on his couch or busying yourself in his kitchen, it's easy to forget. To savour the private hours you share here in his home, listening to him noodle absently on his guitar or talk your ear off about his brother's new baby. To pretend this all isn't some colossal, breakable secret.

Summer slips away and you're still living inside a snow globe. What was once a cozy hotel room now replaced by an aging Craftsman on a cul-de-sac. A new private oasis, one that feels infinitely more real.

Even if you are the only two people still privy to it all.

Well, three people.

More than anything though, your weekends have become this. Joel's broad body over yours, forehead and chest dampened with sweat, glowing in the orange-pink haze of a sunset.

His thick fingers wrap around your wrists where they're pinned against his mattress, granting a wish you'd voiced as he'd laid you down and kissed you, deep and slow.

I think it'd be so sexy if you tied me up, you'd told him and his eyes had burned with hungry fascination, fiery at your willingness.

You don't know what it is about Joel, but you just want to try everything with him. And he is equally as willing to provide

Let's try it like this first, he'd suggested, gripping your arms and manoeuvring them beside your head, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of intent to lock you firmly in place beneath him. Your cunt had throbbed and your mind had gone fuzzy but Joel had still leaned in to whisper, You tell me if you like that and–Christ, you do, you really fucking do.

So you tell him. You tell him again and again and again. Every time he asks you, implores you, orders you to tell him how good he makes you feel and how wet you are for him, how desperate you are to touch him even though you love that he won't let you.

He's asking again now, you think, but it's getting too hard to answer. He's drawing it out, the roll of his hips into yours agonizingly slow, the drag of his thick cock moving in and out nearly too much to take after he's already made you come twice.

He likes it this way, you've come to learn, now that you're home and free from prying eyes, safe to take your time and truly relish in each other's bodies. And for how torturous it can feel–like right now, sticky-wet and limp below him–he knows you love it too.

"Fuck–listen," he commands you softly.

You whimper, straining your ears through a thick fog of pleasure to obey him. His brows are knitted together in concentration, plush lips parted as he glances between your bodies, encouraging you to follow his gaze to the place where you're connected, where his cock is still impaling you, glistening wet with your last release. You both watch as he pulls out before lazily pushing back in, a wet squelch filling the room as your drenched walls swallow every inch of him.

"So fucking wet for me. Always are, huh?"

He groans, catching your quiet sob as he dives forward to kiss you, licking into your open mouth with the same indulgent, unhurried pace that he's fucking you.

"You love takin' this cock," he says, dragging his lips downward along your neck, over the seashell that hangs there, nipping affectionately at the skin above your breasts before taking one pebbled nipple into his mouth. You moan, so sensitive, your body betraying you as you writhe against the sheets and his hands loop tighter around your wrists in response.

"I know, baby, I know," Joel murmurs, and you think you can hear the control wavering there in his voice, just a bit, as he moves to suckle at your other nipple, flicking the bud of it under his tongue just to hear you cry out again. You feel his smirk against your skin. "Bein' so good. So good."

You're drenched, soaked between your legs and around his length, sweat stuck to every crevice so you feel almost humid, dizzy and faraway and so fucking full.

And then Joel's lips are at your ear again, hot breath condensing on the skin there too and the air feels altogether too thick. Too foggy.

"I just wanna feel you come one more time," he whispers.

You're shaking your head before the words can even leave his mouth.

"Can't…Joel, I can't," you croak.

"You can," he assures you. "Did it last week, remember?"

You whimper and nod–he's right. With much coaxing and patience and Joel's unwavering attentiveness, he'd drawn three orgasms from you, something you'd once thought impossible. But then again, you weren't sure you could come at all by a man's hand before you'd met him.

"What do you need? Let me get you there," he pleads, teeth coming down on your earlobe and sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

His mouth is on yours before you can answer, kissing you until your lips are numb beneath the scratch of his moustache and your will to deny him steadily wanes.

"Tell me," he says against your lips and your heart flutters as the hands around your wrists move, Joel interlocking his fingers with yours instead. A different kind of warmth spreads through you at that, a new form of ecstasy, one laced with devotion and tenderness for this man who takes such expert care of you, always.

"Need it…harder," you manage as tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "Fuck me harder, Joel. Please."

"Yeah?" he grits out, thrusting into you with more force on his next stroke and pushing the air from your lungs. "That what my girl needs?"

You whine and it sounds like yes, so he does it again, just once–another quick, hard push into your spent pussy that has you gasping and keening.

"Let me hear you say it, sweetheart."

You groan, search for the words, knowing he likes this too, for you to be just as vocal as he is. To hear in your sounds and your cries and your wanton pleas how much you want him.

"Yes, yes, yes," you tell him in a rush, already feeling some tangled swell of something curl in your lower belly. "Just–just like that. Please. More."

"One more time," he grins with another deliberate rock of his hips. Fucking bastard.

"Please," you beg, fingernails digging into the backs of his hands when you squeeze down into his grasp.

"Fuck–yeah," Joel growls, taking you by surprise when he suddenly collects your hands above your head, freeing his own to tug you further down the bed and fold your legs into your chest. He crashes forward, big hands finding your wrists again and keeping them pinned where they are as he begins to fuck you with new vigour. The new angle hits somewhere deeper, each rough thrust of his cock into you nudging at that spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your mind go blank, the tangle of pleasure building in your core already threatening to unravel.

"Shit," Joel curses above you, refocusing your attention on his face, his expression almost pained as his chest heaves above you. He's trying to hang on, you realize. For you.

You moan as you lock eyes with him and you wish you could touch his face or run your fingers through his messy curls but you like this just as much, maybe even more. The unrelenting grip of his hands around your wrists, held high above your head so your body is spread long and open for him to use. You don't think you've ever trusted anyone like this before. That you've ever felt this safe and cared for.

"Come on, baby, come on," Joel's chanting as he pounds into you, his low drawl cutting through the noise of whatever lewd sounds are spilling from your throat. "Fuckin' come for me. Just one more. Yeah? God, you're so fuckin' good. This pussy's so fuckin' good."

"I wanna come, Joel–I wanna come," you whine.

Joel groans raggedly as a tear drips from the corner of your eye and pools into your ear. His fingers remain firmly curled around your wrists as he falls forward onto his elbows and then his mouth is at your ear too, breath warm and voice deep.

"Yeah?" he hums. "Show me. Show me how you come for me. Show me how much you fuckin' love this cock. How much you love gettin' fucked like this."

A broken squeak catches somewhere in your throat as your mouth falls open, Joel's cock mercilessly hitting right where you need it with each stroke and you can feel it now, as the swell begins to crest and his words echo through you, your arms still trapped under his grasp, rendering your powerless in the very best way–you're going to come again.

You cry his name and Joel only fucks you harder, determined in his efforts as you begin to tense beneath him and a fire ignites in your belly. It's a gradual build this time, clawing and bubbling till it finally erupts in a burst of blinding white warmth, Joel's voice carrying you through the haze of release.

"Yeah–good girl, that's it, honey, there you fuckin' go," he rambles as you fall apart, walls constricting around his length as wetness pools down his balls and Joel just keeps fucking you. "Fuckin'...shit, baby–fuck, m'gonna come. Where do you want it?"

Still lost in a syrupy daze, you say without thinking, "Mouth–my mouth. Joel, wanna taste you."

"Oh, fuck–"

But it breaks him, that request–those words in your shattered, weary voice, teary stare locked with his–and all too soon his muscles go rigid, cock spasming deep inside you as his climax hits him before he can grant your wish.

"Shit, shit, shit," he curses as he pumps you full of his seed, his face a mess of pleasure and shame at his unceremonious orgasm, brows furrowed almost apologetically as he rides it out. His fingers loosen around your wrists and his forehead collides with yours, his form quaking above you as the last of the aftershocks pass over him and your lips crane up to meet his in a sleepy, breathless kiss.

"Fuck, m'sorry," he sighs, shaking his head as it falls to land in the mess of sheets beside your face.

"Shh, it's okay," you assure him. And it is okay. You just wish you were touching him. "Let me go, babe."

"Oh, fuck, sorry, honey, sorry."

Joel hurriedly releases your wrists, simultaneously pulling out of your wasted cunt and curling into your side. You turn to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck and twisting your fingers into his hair like coming home. You hadn't realized until now how much you'd missed having your hands on him.

He's still catching his breath, gaze foggy as he cups the side of your face and tenderly strokes a calloused thumb across your cheekbone.

"You okay?" he asks, eyes searching.

"Mhm," you grin. "I was hoping for a taste, but I guess I'll survive."

Joel smirks, but it's a bashful little thing, and you know him well enough by now to know the pink in his cheeks is only partly due to exertion. He's embarrassed.

But hell, if he's not going to make it up to you.

You watch his face carefully as he begins to trace a line down your body with his fingers, taking his time as he draws them over the gentle curve of your hip to the sweat-laced hinge of your knee. He kisses you, slow and soft as he coaxes your legs apart, sighs into your mouth when his hand moves to the apex of your thighs. His tongue plunges between your lips at the same time his fingers sink between the wet seam of your folds, so gentle. Even so, it makes you whimper into his kiss, shudder as he dips the tips of his fingers to your sensitive entrance and coats them in the spend steadily leaking out of you. You moan softly when his tongue in your mouth is replaced by those fingers, close your lips around them instinctively and suck lightly at the welcome taste of your combined releases, salty-sweet and warm while Joel moves to press wet kisses into your cheek.

"Thanks," you whisper dreamily as Joel withdraws his fingers, trailing them over your chin before settling his hand on your waist and pulling you into his chest.

"Dirty girl," he hums, hushed and underscored by a sleepy laugh, his eyes already slipping shut above you.

"Mhm."

You feel the comforting touch of his lips against the top of your head and then he's rolling onto his back beside you, looping an arm under your neck and encouraging you to take your rightful place against his side.

But while Joel is already drifting off, you feel strangely giddy, electric and enrapt as you gawk at the rise and fall of his broad chest, the lax set of his features, his thick lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. It's darker now, the sun faded beyond the horizon outside his window–still far too early for sleep but time, you've found, doesn't mean much when you're wasting away your weekends at Joel's. Inside these hours, you cling to the memory of a Costa Rican resort; eat when you're hungry, sleep when you're tired, fuck when it feels good and mourn when it ends. Slog through the week until you're back in his arms and free to do it all again.

You know this feeling. This beautiful, tangible, dangerous feeling. You haven't voiced it yet, and neither has he. But you know.

You sigh and steer your thoughts elsewhere.

"I really do love this cock, you know that?" you muse, brushing your fingers featherlight along its veined underside, the heft of it lying soft and heavy against his belly.

He huffs a quiet chuckle, peeking down at you with one eye open while your fingers continue to trace absent patterns over velvet smooth skin, still faintly sticky with you.

"Yeah?" he smirks.

"Yeah," you nod, unable to stop yourself from ducking down to softly kiss the tip, letting your lips linger when you hear Joel sigh.

"S'yours whenever you want it, sweetheart."

You flash your gaze upwards but his eyes have slipped closed again, one thick arm slung over his forehead.

"Whenever I want it?" you press him.

Now his eyes open, his brows coming together as he takes in the mischievous glint in your eyes and your lips hovering just above his softened cock.

"Uh–maybe not right now."

"No, no, of course," you smile. "But maybe I…wake you up with my mouth some time?"

At that, Joel's eyes widen and then he chuckles somewhat disbelievingly, shaking his head above you, eyelids slipping closed again.

"Sure, baby," he grumbles. "You wanna suck an old man's cock in his sleep? I won't kick ya outta bed."

"Oh, fuck off," you laugh, lightly smacking his arm before settling back in to the space you've carved out for yourself against his shoulder.

Joel shifts before you can get comfortable though, groaning a little as he rolls over to face you. His eyes are open again and he's grinning, leaning in close to brush his lips over yours.

"Maybe I return the favour some time," he whispers. "Get you all nice and wet while you're sleepin' so I can wake you up and slip right inside that sweet little cunt of yours."

"Fuck," you shiver, unconsciously pushing your hips into his at the thought. Leave it to Joel and his fucking mouth to make you already want him again. "I–you wouldn't even need to wake me up, Joel. You could just take me in my sleep."

That seems to catch him off guard.

"Jesus," he marvels, pulling back to search your face. He's not grinning anymore. "Fuck, that's–you'd let me do that?"

"Anything, Joel," you vow as you loop your arms around his neck and clutch tightly at the curls at the back of his skull. "Anything."

You close the space between your mouths and kiss him deeply, mould your lips to his with all the words still left unsaid till you're breathless and impatient with it, unconsciously pressing your chest into his and sucking hungrily at his plush bottom lip. There's no real intent behind any of it, just a need to be close, to consume.

"Goddamn," Joel moans when you break away to kiss along the greying scruff at his jawline. "You're somethin' else."

"I know," you murmur against his skin.

"Christ, baby, I-I don't think I got another round in me tonight," he admits almost sheepishly, but you don't mind. This is enough.

"Shh," you tell him, traversing your lips lower to explore the column of his neck, tasting the even pound of his pulse below your tongue. A reminder that he's here with you, alive and well. And how that knowledge makes you sick with warmth, a twist in your guts that almost hurts, like a preemptive pain at the thought of losing this, losing him.

Oh, god. You know this feeling.

"Go to sleep," you breathe, before you say something else. "It's okay. It's okay."

As it turns out, you don't get the chance to wake Joel up with your mouth, because the next morning, he's up before you, the smell of brewing coffee luring you towards consciousness. The stand fan beside his bed blows cool air over your face and shoulders as your eyes adjust to yellow sunlight and your body aches and creaks with the reminder of last night. The sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway saves you from starting to miss him.

You can't bring yourself to lift your head up off the pillow, even as he places a steaming mug on the nightstand beside you and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Hey," he murmurs, gently shaking you to life with a hand on your hip over the covers. "You awake?"

You peek up at him, smiling blearily through the sleep in your eyes. Clad only in a pair of grey sweats, his belly–with its now fading tan–is on full display, curls messy atop his head. He's so handsome in the morning, all puffy-eyed and soft.

"Yeah, but I don't wanna get up.''

Joel smiles back, just a fleeting thing before it fades and his brows knit together. You frown in turn as his gaze drops to the hand he has on your side and his thumb strokes nervous circles into your skin.

"Was thinkin' we could go for a drive or somethin' today."

His voice is low, almost pensive, too sad for such a simple request. But you get it, know all too well where it stems from.

Because drives out of town are all you have beyond the safety of his home, the safest way to keep this thing a secret. Sunday after Sunday of Joel bailing on your father's invitations to go golfing, while guilt slowly eats away at him.

And it hurts Joel, you know it does. Truthfully, it hurts you too. But it's better this way, at least for now. You're still not even sure what you two are doing together, and you're not sure Joel does either. All you know is this feeling, this ache in your bones and this swell in your chest, that sense of fragility you always feel when you're with him. You're not ready to let anyone shatter it. Not yet.

You sigh, sit up a little straighter and place your hand over his on your hip until he finally meets your eyes.

"Where?" you ask.

"I don't know…nowhere," he shrugs, lips twitching ever so. "Lockhart, maybe, f'you want."

You squeeze his fingers playfully just to watch his smile widen–and it works.

"You craving barbeque, cowboy?" you tease and his eyes sparkle with positively endearing excitement.

"Chisholm Trail?" he suggests.

You scoff.

"Fucking–yeah, right. Kreuz all the way."

Joel laughs, throaty and genuine in a way that makes your heart swell–even if his taste in barbeque is… questionable at best.

"So s'that a yes?" he presses.

As if there were ever any doubt.

"Yeah, okay. But I have to stop in and feed Henry."

He grimaces and you smirk sympathetically. You'd be offended by his obvious distaste for your cat if you hadn't come to discover a fact about him that hadn't mattered much at all until you'd got home; Joel is allergic.

"I'll wait in the truck," he grumbles.

You make yourself at home in his kitchen, topping up your coffee and leaning against the countertop while Joel showers upstairs. Staring out his kitchen window to the quiet street outside, you sip your coffee and think about how much you like it here. How comfortable you've become in his home. How much it feels like his and how lucky you are to know him here.

Cluttered and almost haphazardly decorated, Joel's house feels like somewhere truly lived in, the art and photos that line the walls borne out of memories more so than aesthetics, a mess of disorganized posters from music festivals and surely inherited paintings.

Mostly there are photos of her, his daughter Sarah at various stages of her life. Family photos of her as a child, tucked under the arm of Joel or his brother you've still yet to meet. Polaroids of her with friends as a teenager, framed graduation photos from high school and college, action shots from countless varsity soccer games.

One custom magnet stuck to his fridge still gives you pause, pink and flouncy and faded with time. Sarah's name, ornately printed over her exact birth date and time, a constant reminder of a truth you'd rather not think too hard about.

It had made your heart sink the first time you'd seen it, when you'd come face to face with the unfortunate realization that Sarah is one year older than you.

You try not to look at it too much, if you can help it.

Of course, Sarah herself is unavoidable, since Joel had already shared with her what you're still too scared to share with anyone.

Sarah, the third and only other person to know about you and Joel. You hadn't even been mad that he'd let her in on it; if anything, you'd been envious of their trust in one another, how Joel had waited less than a day after coming home to tell her about you.

To your surprise–and maybe also his–she'd taken it…fine. Apparently, just content to see her father happy even if she'd been somewhat taken aback by his choices. You have to admire her maturity; you're not sure how you would have reacted if you'd been in her shoes.

Sarah's acceptance had crossed one gigantic, cataclysmic fear from your long list of gigantic, cataclysmic fears.

Still, your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you hear the front door opening behind you and a familiar voice calling out as footsteps round the corner into the kitchen.

"Dad?" Sarah's voice says. "Dad–oh, hey."

She stops in her tracks and you straighten up from the counter, smoothing out your shirt–Joel's shirt–and offering her your best smile.

"Oh–hi, Sarah."

She smiles back, polite if not a little unsure.

Because yes, Sarah's been altogether more accepting than she has any right to be. But that doesn't mean it's not still awkward as hell.

"Is my dad here?" she asks.

"Uh, yeah, sorry, he's just–he's in the shower."

"Ah, okay, no worries. How's it going?"

"Good–yeah. Fine." You wrack your brain for any other details, ultimately coming up short and landing simply on, "Busy."

Sarah smiles knowingly.

"How's he?" She nods in the general direction of the stairs.

"He seems…"

You ponder it for a moment, think about Joel all giddy-eyed and soft as he'd brought you coffee in bed this morning. How every Friday since you got home, he's pulled up outside your apartment without fail, right on time to sweep you away to your own mini-version of paradise. How he does it all without pretension, just the same burning need to be together that's been plaguing you since vacation ended.

You smile. Sigh a little more dreamily than the moment calls for.

"Great," you settle on at last.

Her responding smile is genuine, sweet and full of understanding.

"Good," she says. "He seems it."

That softens you, that his contentment isn't just in your head, that she can see it too. Not that you have many doubts about his feelings for you–it's just nice to hear.

"I'm just gonna grab something from upstairs," she announces then, and you make some non-committal sound, not quite go ahead–because this was her house long before it was yours–but a dismissal all the same. She flits out of the room and you take a long, steadying breath.

It gets a little more painless every time, but you expect it'll take a while to feel totally at ease around her. You're certain you were once forced into play dates with the girl and now you're–

You shake your head to dislodge the thought, swallow down the rest of your coffee so fast your stomach burns with an acidic twinge.

How the fuck does Joel drink this stuff like this?

She's back before you can even finish washing your mug, calling your name over the sound of the faucet.

"I gotta run," she tells you. "You can let him know I stopped by. But don't tell him about this–" she winks and waves a photo at you that you can't quite make out, clearly the thing she'd stolen from upstairs, "–It's for his birthday."

She smirks slyly and you smile back, offering her a thumbs up.

"Got it."

"Well, see ya."

"Bye, Sarah."

She skirts out the door and you let out a long breath.

Easier with time, easier with time, you remind yourself. Everything about this gets easier with time.

It's hard to imagine, sitting in the front seat of his truck, how there was ever a time you didn't think Joel Miller was beautiful.

The weight of that truth had hit you like a ton of bricks that first night in Costa Rica, and it strikes you still now, in the way you stare openly at the sight of him with one hand on the wheel, the other curled casually around the nape of your neck. His legs are spread wide, dark denim stretched taut across his thighs, the sleeves of his light blue shirt rolled up to his elbows, brown eyes on the road before him. Windows rolled down so a warm, late-summer breeze plays in his salt-and-pepper curls and sunlight glows on his exposed skin.

Classic rock radio underscores the hum of the engine and you're both singing along to the sweet sounds of Creedence and there's that damned feeling again, gnawing and incessant, burning sharp around the edges of your heart.

Sometimes you can't believe he's really yours.

You sigh, a deeply longing thing as your eyes rake up and down his body. Joel catches it.

"What's wrong?" he asks, tearing his eyes from the road to turn down the music and glance over at you curiously.

What's wrong is you're fucking insatiable; you want him again already, truly mournful you'd missed the chance to get your hands on him this morning before you'd hit the road. And in the quiet confines of his truck, the smell of Joel and leather all around, his competent fingers on the steering wheel and the hand on your neck that's starting to feel almost possessive…you practically ache at the thought of having to spend a day out and about when all you really want is to be back in his bed.

"I was supposed to…" you shake your head, unsure of how to bring up your conversation from the night before. "Why'd you get up before me?"

Joel smirks, seeming to understand your train of thought.

"What?" he laughs, gently squeezing your neck. "You wanted to suck my cock that bad?"

You frown, putting on a show of petulance.

"Yes," you grumble.

Joel laughs, fiddling absently with the chain of your necklace, his fingers just barely brushing your skin. You can't help the way your eyes slip closed in response.

"How do you know I didn't take you in your sleep?" he hums, his tone light, but still enough to make you shiver with the reminder of your words from last night.

"Mm-mm," you reply, a little breathless as you lean back into his touch and shake your head from side to side. "I would know."

Joel chuckles.

"Probably right," he concedes, letting you go to grip the wheel with both hands, much to your dismay, his eyes refocusing on the road. "Anyway, I don't think I'd be able to–"

He stops mid-sentence, contemplative and then momentarily distracted as he makes a left hand turn. You ogle his hands deftly moving on the steering wheel until Joel straightens out and clears his throat, at last glancing back in your direction.

"I'd need to wake you up," he finishes.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he nods, reaching back across the seat to lay a hand on your thigh, just below the hem of your sundress. "Don't think I'd be able to come without hearin' all those pretty sounds you make–" he smirks and meets your gaze, his sweet brown eyes somehow doleful and smouldering all at once–"Without seein' your eyes."

The hand he has on your thigh moves to cup your chin, gently twisting your face in his direction. You bite your lip and make a show of batting your lashes at him.

"These eyes?" you tease but Joel isn't smiling anymore.

"Hm," he hums lowly, snaking his hand carefully back to its place behind your neck. Only this time, his grip is firm, commanding in the way it nudges you across the bench towards him. "Why don't you come over here and show me what you had planned?"

Your heartbeat stutters, arousal coursing through you in an instant, unabashedly giddy at the offer. Your mouth falls open unconsciously, as though your body can already feel the weight of him between your lips. Joel's eyes flit between your face and the road, gauging your reaction, sensing your hesitance when, in spite of how badly you want him, you find yourself peeking over your shoulder to the passing cars outside, the scattered pedestrians on the sidewalk. You're nearing downtown Austin, and the streets are far from quiet.

"They can't see," Joel assures you, easily redrawing your attention. "S'just you and me."

It steadies you, that resoluteness. Always does. You're already unfastening your seatbelt and twisting at the hip, leaning across the bench to plant a kiss behind his ear.

"Let them look," you murmur. Joel chuckles darkly, the sound laced with something like pride. He's been rubbing off on you.

"Attagirl."

You bite down lightly on the hinge of his jaw before moving lower, making quick work of his belt buckle while Joel conveniently comes to a stop at what you can only assume is a red light.

The lack of movement makes it easier to unbutton his jeans, to palm at his burgeoning bulge through the fabric of his boxers before yanking them out of the way too, at last freeing his semi-hard cock.

You think you actually moan at the sight of it, salivating openly as you grip him at the base and slip his length between your lips.

"Oh, fuck–" Joel groans, one hand moving to gently cradle the back of your skull as his cock comes alive in your mouth. "Yeah, there you go…"

You preen at the response, stroking the length of him with your fist while your tongue dances around his tip until you feel him harden fully in your grasp and your jaw begins to strain around his girth. You moan around him when you taste salt, pulling off him to lap sweetly at his slit and collect the beading precum there. Joel's fingers tighten in your hair.

"Shit, that's good, honey…" he sighs.

There's a jostling as he steps on the gas and then you're moving again, the precision of your tongue faltering as you bounce in his lap. You surrender to it, swallow him down once more and do your best to match the bob of your head with the bumps in the road.

Of course it's more challenging than you could have anticipated, and you splutter around him when he comes to an unexpected stop, Joel quick to pull you off him with a hand in your hair.

"Shh, hey, you okay?" he asks, voice strained but oozing concern. You just nod determinedly, already diving to take him back in your mouth, all the way down so your lips brush against the coarse hairs at his base and welcome tears prick at your eyes.

"Fuck–" Joel grits when you begin to move again, up and down with focused intent, eager with it, greedy. "Jesus, wait."

You pull off him, glancing upwards to the edge of his window, fearful perhaps that you'd been caught. But Joel's hand on your head is already pushing you back down so your cheek brushes against the wet tip of his cock.

"You're good–just…slow, baby," he tells you. Oops.

"Sorry," you laugh.

"Just love it that much, don't you?" he asks, stroking your hair.

"Shut up," you mumble, silencing his responding laugh when you brush your lips featherlight over his length. "But yes."

You show him as much, tilting your face and dragging your lips and cheeks along his shaft, all languid and adoring as you plant an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin between his base and his balls. You peer up at him and your pussy throbs at the realization he's not even looking at you, eyes fixed on the road while his other hand moves downward along your spine before easing your skirt up over your waist. You sigh a breathy groan and lick a wet stripe up the underside of his cock as Joel slips his fingers below the waistband of your underwear. Then time seems to stop altogether as Joel glides his hand through the seam of your ass down to your neglected cunt.

Your breath hitches, arching at his touch, forgetting his cock for a moment as Joel dips two fingers into your slick heat with the same absent ease with which he'd been stroking your neck a moment ago. He curses under his breath when he feels how wet you are, steals your focus completely when he slowly begins to fuck his middle and ring fingers into you. You whimper as you pulse around his digits and it takes everything in you just to close your lips around his cock again, sucking him up and down, working to match the pace of his fingers moving in and out of you.

"Yeah, baby," he praises you softly, dick twitching between your lips as his truck comes to yet another stop. It crosses your mind that at a red light, the risk of someone seeing you like this–Joel's fingers in your cunt, his cock taking up your mouth–increases tenfold. You're so far gone now that the thought only makes you wetter.

Only then he retracts his fingers, making you gasp when he trails them, slick and dripping, to your other hole, coating the tight ring of muscle with your arousal.

"Shh," Joel coos when you falter with your movements, crying out at the welcome contact, your vision blurring when he carefully presses one thick, wet finger into your asshole.

Fuck.

Together, you've discovered how truly crazy it makes you when he does this, whether he's slipping a thumb into that tight ring of muscle while he fucks your pussy or generously offering you his tongue there whenever he eats you out. He hasn't fucked you there yet–because you haven't asked–but each time he does this, it's like a beautiful reminder of how much you do want it, how much you're still aching to be so, so full of him, everywhere.

Another time, he'd said, that last day in Costa Rica. You have every intention of holding him to that.

"Don't stop," he growls because you've apparently lost the will to do anything but keen and whine at the feeling of his fingers inside you, his cock stiff and leaking in your grasp. You steady yourself with one hand against his thigh as Joel steps on the gas and you wrap your lips securely around him again. It's overwhelming–the bumps in the road now forcing his cock deeper down your throat and his finger deeper into your hole.

"Fuckin'–yes, good girl. Don't you stop, sweetheart."

You increase your pace then, near-frantic in the way you moan around him, bobbing up and down as you swirl your tongue hungrily around the head of his cock. Joel pushes his finger deeper, nearly to the knuckle, blinding you with pleasure as you cup his balls, all weighty and warm in your palm, feeling the moment they begin to tighten and Joel's face screws up above you.

"Fuck, m'gonna–look at me," he orders hurriedly and you do, glassy gaze flashing up to meet his for just a fleeting moment before he's spilling down your throat with a ragged sigh, eyes flashing between yours and the road.

His hips jerk upwards as he empties himself, hot and salty over your tongue. You keep your cheeks hollowed around him, swallowing down everything he gives you with reverent willingness, your thoughts clouded by the image of his come filling your ass instead. It's almost impossible to think of anything else with his thick finger still impaling you there.

"Fuck," Joel almost laughs it ends, sliding his finger free from the tight fist of your hole to lay an affectionate slap against your ass. His truck comes to a stop and you feel as though you've been pulled from a dream when he cuts the engine and a hand in your hair is pulling you off his length, encouraging you to sit up. You're on your street, you realize, already parked outside your apartment. Joel hastily tucks himself back into his jeans while you take in your surroundings, still buzzing with unrelieved tension.

On your knees beside him, he finally turns to face you with a blissed-out gaze. You await his praise, certain it's coming, but instead, he places a hand below your chin, fingers coaxing at the hinge of your jaw.

"Lemme see," he says expectantly.

You smile, parting your lips and presenting your clean tongue for him. Joel smirks.

"Good girl."

You warm at those words–just like always–as he pulls you in for a kiss, long and deep, leaving you breathless when he ends it far too soon.

The click of his truck doors unlocking breaks the spell.

"Go feed your damn cat."

You huff, exasperated and far from sated, hopping out of the truck and already teeming with anticipation over what awaits you when you return.

A grating voice greets you the second you walk through the door.

"Hey! You're here."

You're not surprised to find it's Megan, the more overbearing of your two roommates, standing from her place on the couch in the living room. You are surprised to see Deena there, too, though, wringing her hands nervously in her lap and staring at Megan.

You get the unpleasant feeling you've just interrupted a conversation.

"Uh, yeah," you mumble awkwardly, eyeing the two of them suspiciously as you make your way towards the kitchen. "Just feeding Henry. What's up?"

You think you know, but you feign confusion all the same, turning your back to Megan and rummaging in the cupboards for Henry's food. You hear the familiar patter of his paws against the laminate flooring before you see him, but then he's there on the counter, nudging his sweet face against your wrists as you crack the can and scoop the nasty sludge into his bowl.

"We need to talk," Megan continues and you finally look up to find she's staring at you and Henry with her arms crossed over her chest.

"I have a ride waiting," you say hurriedly. You're not doing this now.

You toss the empty can of food into the recycling bin, pat Henry's head affectionately as he eats and make your way towards the door.

But Megan says your name before you can get there, stopping you in your tracks.

You sigh.

"I–alright," you decide.

This should only take a minute anyway. You just need to explain, for the hundredth time, that you're still figuring out the situation with Henry. Still working on finding a new apartment since you've stubbornly decided not to take the route of asking your parents to take him in the meantime. You can figure it out, and you will. Yes, you've been putting it off, but...you just need some time.

You cross the room and take a haphazard seat on an ottoman. There's a beat of awkward silence, and then Megan retakes her place on the couch. Deena stares at her feet, her incessant fidgeting putting you uncomfortably on edge.

Megan takes a deep breath.

"There's no easy way to say this," she starts.

Your eyes narrow. "Okay."

Another excruciating pause, Deena picking at her fingernails, Megan steeling herself with another, long, drawn-out sigh. Your eyes flit between them as an uneasy sense of dread begins to wash over you.

"We can't wait anymore. We've had to offer your room to someone else," Megan says at last.

And that's–well, that's not what you'd been expecting to hear.

It's quiet for a long moment as you work through what that means, staring blankly between the two of them. Deena avoids your gaze, her foot tapping out a nervous pattern into the floor that's starting to drive you slightly crazy. Megan watches your face as every emotion possible flits across your features, first anger, then confusion, then something akin to panic when it finally clicks.

"You're kicking me out?"

"Look, I know it's not ideal–"

"Where the hell am I supposed to go? I've been looking for a new place, I just need more time."

The anger seeps back in, betrayal stinging behind your eyes. They can't do this. Can they?

"You've had almost a month to figure out this cat thing," Megan contends, irritation coating her words now too. "And Steve says he'll evict us all if you don't re-home it or leave."

You know–you know that.

"I was…I'm trying to figure it out."

"Are you? I mean, most of the time you're not even here anyway. We never see you."

"I…"

Your head is spinning, denial setting in while you cling to whatever argument you have left.

"You guys let me move in here," you say meekly. "You knew about the cat."

Megan nods. "We were desperate, too, okay? It was a mistake, and I'm sorry. But we can't lose this place. Do you know how crazy rents are nowadays?"

Yeah, you really fucking do. You just shake your head, fully aware there's nothing more you can say. They've clearly made up their minds.

"I'm sorry," she repeats. "We can give you another month to find somewhere new. If there's anything we can–"

"No," you cut her off, hastily standing, humiliated and desperate to just get out of there and back to Joel. "It's fine. Sorry. I get it. Um, I have to…my ride."

Megan's nodding again, something like sympathy in her eyes.

"Of course," she says, dismissive.

You ignore their lingering stares on you as you quickly kiss the top of Henry's head and then all but run out the door, slamming it shut behind you.

Joel Miller is an observant man.

He's still learning you, studying your tells. Though, he has to admit, you're somewhat of an open book. Silent in your sadness, stoic in your frustration, tears that well up in your eyes when you're feeling small or angry. He knows. Since that day on the back of the boat, he's known.

So when you stalk back towards his truck, hop quietly into the seat beside him and buckle your seatbelt with a steely expression, wordless and hard, he knows.

"All good?" he asks, knowing right away that it's not. You face him, your smile all tight and deceptive.

"Mhm."

You nod, offering him only a cursory glance before you avert your eyes to the windshield.

Joel frowns, wonders if he should pry. He thinks you've come to know he won't, that maybe you're in the habit of exploiting that by holding fast to silence when you'd rather not burden him with your emotions. As if you ever could.

You're an idealist, he's discovered. The type to build up a plan in the image of perfection only to deflate when it fails. One crack in the foundation and you come toppling down, walls caving in, imploding in on yourself with spectacular force.

Not unlike him.

But Joel is adaptable. He's had to be. Whether it was becoming a father at twenty-one, saving Tommy's skin at every turn, or–most unlikely of all–meeting you, he's found a way to manage whatever life has dared to throw his way. To rebuild his plans until they take the shape of something resembling good.

So, he gives what he thinks you need, what he thinks he's always been for you: A distraction. The illusion of perfection.

He turns the key in the ignition, takes your hand across the centre console and drives you out of town.

The tightness around your eyes never fully disappears, your voice always escaping you in this subdued, quiet timbre. Joel, meanwhile, never falters in his steadfast positivity, even as concern claws painfully at his insides with each passing second you keep him in the dark. You smile sometimes, like when he gripes about your choice of barbeque joints or tells you how he'd grown up in a town kind of like this one. But it reminds him of how you'd smiled at him on the plane to Costa Rica. Shy. Vacuous. A little phony.

Still, he doesn't push it. He walks with you hand in hand all afternoon and talks enough for the both of you, tries to tell himself that when you're ready to share, you will. Because he knows, he knows there's something bothering you. He has to fight with every instinct in his body not to rip the answer straight from your throat, just so he can offer a solution or ten.

But he doesn't, because he knows. That when the time is right, the truth will pour from your mouth like a waterfall, and he'll be there to help you when it does.

It's not until he's pulling up outside your apartment that your anxiety seems to reach a visible fever pitch, your hands pressed tightly together, body tense under the arm he has slung over your shoulder. You're frozen where you sit, but it's not the familiar reluctance he's used to seeing on Sunday nights, that kind of yearning sadness he also feels when it's time to say goodbye for the week.

No, it's something else. Something like fear that keeps you glued to your seat, eyes fixed downwards, not at him.

Joel sighs.

"Hey," he nudges at last, unable to stop himself from tilting your face towards his with a coaxing hand on your chin. Your eyes appear far away, almost black with dread. It's been so long since he's seen them like that, and he fucking hates it. "Where'd you go, sweetheart?"

You shake your head, unconvincing as you frown and attempt to pull free from his grasp. He doesn't let you.

"Nowhere."

He sighs again and maybe he should just fucking let it go, but his own fears are creeping in now, fear that it's him that's done something wrong, fear that you're not giving him a chance to fix whatever's broken.

His hand moves to cradle the side of your face, and this time, you don't fight him. Your eyes close and you lean into his touch, soften just the tiniest bit as he lightly scratches his fingers into your hair.

"I can't help you f'you don't talk to me," he says and it sounds almost like a plea.

You take a deep breath and when you open your eyes, he sees wetness there, glistening under the dim light of a streetlight outside.

The waterfall crests…

"I have to leave my apartment," you admit in a whisper.

Joel frowns. "What do you mean? Thought you already knew that."

…and then cascades.

"No, like, I have to leave now. They're giving me a month," you go on, your voice rising in volume and pitch as the wetness in your eyes pools into bonafide tears that spill out into his palm. "I'm not supposed to have the cat–I know I'm not supposed to have the cat. But I mean, they knew too! And they let me move in. I thought they'd have my back if the landlord said anything but now I guess they're giving my room to someone else and I have no idea where the fuck I'm gonna go–"

"Stay with me," he interjects simply.

"Joel."

It's a quiet protest, a tilt of your head and a flatness in your voice as you grip his wrist and pry his hand from your face. Joel just shrugs like it's not some monumental thing, like he's offering you a morning coffee or a ride home from work.

"I got a spare room," he says but you're already shaking your head. "You're there half the time anyway."

He holds one other truth close to his chest, the fact that he wants nothing more than to have you around as much as humanly possible. That every second he's not with you feels incomplete and hollow and how he hasn't felt that way in god knows how long.

"I can't ask that of you, Joel," you argue stubbornly.

"Well, you're not askin'. I'm offerin'."

You stare each other down, a bittersweet sort of stalemate as he watches a series of emotions flit across your face. A warmth as your tears dry, a hardness as your brows furrow, concern in the way you chew the inside of your cheek and fight with what he's sure is your admittedly admirable longing for independence.

And there's the fear. There's always the fucking fear. Because he knows what the offer implies. It's fast, too much. All of it, all of this, happening so goddamn fast all the time.

"That's like...that's like living together, Joel," you whisper at last, and the fear is there too, in the hushed squeak of your voice.

Joel sighs. He knows.

"M'not sayin' you need to stay forever," he insists. Mostly true. "Just till you figure things out."

He twists to face you, reaching out to toy with the seashell that hangs from your neck, a reminder of when things were easier. It seems to placate you some.

There's a long beat, Joel smoothing his fingers along the chain of the necklace he gave you while you watch him, deep in thought.

"What about Henry?" you ask at last and Joel grins. He knows he's won.

"I'll survive," he vows, too fast. Fuck it.

You think it through for another breath and then finally, a smile cracks your stony features.

"This is crazy," you almost laugh. Joel laughs too, because it is.

"Too crazy?" Please say no.

"No."

"Good. It's settled then," he says, and it is.

Another month passes, and now your every day is this.

Hurried mornings and drives to work, a bottle of cream for your coffee and an endless supply of antihistamines for Joel. Changing leaves and kisses on cheeks and a spare room that's more Henry's than yours. What little belongings you have wind up there too; a forgotten twin bed, a cheap dresser Joel had disavowed as "practically garbage," posters that you'd hang on his walls if you weren't still convincing yourself this is all only temporary.

Joel turns fifty-one and you celebrate with take-out and your best attempt at Blue Lagoons, a neatly wrapped framed photo from Sarah of him and her, years ago.

It gets harder and harder to pretend that you're still just figuring things out with him, because Joel is now undeniably your boyfriend and you are now undeniably his girlfriend and–even crazier–you're now undeniably living in his home.

Which makes it all the more ridiculous that it's still a fucking secret.

It's fall now, the days growing shorter and cooler, your hours with Joel spent more often tucked in bed than on day trips to Lockhart. You can't think too hard about it or else it starts to feel insane–the fact that barely two months ago your heart had seemed irreparably broken and now you're sharing a home with another man, a man with whom a future still feels altogether impossible.

It should make you panic, and you think maybe it would…if you weren't so stupidly, unbearably, perfectly happy.

You know this feeling, this giddy all-encompassing joy, this certainty that nothing this good could ever be bad. He calls you his girl and it's never felt more true. You're his, and you're perfectly content, for now, to stay that way.

But, as ever, reality is tapping incessantly at the doors of your new life, and it's a Friday night in late October when the whole thing threatens to come crashing down.

You lay with your head in Joel's lap on the couch, his fingers playing softly in your hair while some action movie you've both seen a hundred times flashes on the TV. It's routine at this point, these moments of domestic intimacy that will undoubtedly morph into something else once his fingers wander to other places.

You think you feel it now, as he trails his touch down your shoulder, along your arm, finally resting his palm on your hip and squeezing. His gaze drifts from the images on screen to take in your body as your breaths begin to shorten and you nudge yourself a little closer to him.

That's when his phone rings.

You peer up at him as he reaches over you to the coffee table and glances at the little screen, your brows furrowing when he frowns at the caller ID.

"Who is it?"

Joel clears his throat, and very pointedly drops his hand from your side. "Your dad."

"Oh."

It's stupid, the surge of unease it elicits, the way you sit up and bite your nails nervously as Joel answers the call.

"Hey, buddy," he says while you hastily turn the TV down a notch or two.

Your worry deepens when Joel turns to you with panic in his eyes and asks, "Right now?" into the phone.

You stiffen–mouth the word, what at him–but Joel is looking over his shoulder, out the window behind you to the street outside.

"You're–? Uh, okay, just gimme a sec."

He hangs up and stands, reaching behind the couch to close the curtains, whispering, "Shit," to himself as he does.

"What? What's going on?" you demand, feeling suddenly frantic.

"He's, uh, stoppin' in to say hi."

"What?"

Your voice rises about ten octaves, and then you're on your feet too, Joel already flitting past you to unlock the front door, peeking through the glass there as a pair of headlights pull into his driveway.

He turns back to you, frozen in the middle of his living room.

"What are we doin' here, sweetheart?"

"I–"

You shake your head, glancing between the front door and the stairs, before your gaze finally lands on Joel, his expression almost helpless. He's leaving it up to you, just like always.

"I'm not ready," you admit hoarsely.

He nods, too understanding for his own good. "That's okay."

But it really doesn't feel like it. It feels cowardly. Guilt and fear, usually suppressed beneath layers of happiness, bubble to the surface in a white hot flush. Joel takes two steps towards and places his hands on either side of your face, steadying you.

"It's okay," he repeats. "It's your call. Always."

"I'm sorry."

"Shh, none of that," he soothes, silencing you with a kiss. "Where's the cat?"

"Hiding, I don't know."

"Okay," he says again. "What are you gonna do?"

You almost laugh, but there's little humour in the sound. "The same, I guess."

Joel smirks, offers you one last parting kiss and finally lets you go.

"I'll come get you when he's gone," he promises but you're already halfway up the stairs, fleeing in a rush as a knock comes at the door.

Exactly twenty-six excruciating minutes pass. You know this, because you watch each one pass on the alarm clock on his bedside table.

Henry's there too, you find, seeking refuge in Joel's bed just like you. You sit with him, legs crossed in the middle of the mattress, and wait. And while you wait, you stew.

It's ridiculous. This is ridiculous. Hiding from your dad like some misbehaving teenager stashing drugs in their closet, as if he still had some kind of power over you. As if the big secret you're hiding isn't the one thing making your life worth living at the moment.

So what are you so afraid of?

You ask yourself that same question a hundred different times until the doorknob turns and Joel is stepping into the room with a sympathetic smile.

He keeps the door open behind him.

"Hey, baby."

"Hey," you whisper, like you're still hiding. "How was that?"

"Fine," he shrugs. "Gave me hell for skippin' out on golf the past few weeks. Thinks I must be loved up or somethin'."

He's trying to keep his tone light, but something twists in you when he says that word, that one neither of you have said yet.

He's so good. What are you so afraid of?

"Hm."

"Almost had a heart attack when he saw the damn litter box," he laughs.

Panic paints your features but Joel raises two hands soothingly, stepping further into the room.

"It's okay, it's alright," he assures you. "Told him I was cat sittin' for a friend. He didn't think nothin' of it."

You're still frowning, but you nod, hands clamped anxiously in your lap. Joel steps closer, around the side of the bed, close enough to tilt your face upwards to meet his eyes.

"You okay?"

You shake your head. You're so afraid. What are you so afraid of?

"Feel stupid," you mumble.

Joel sighs then, his knees popping slightly as he crouches onto the floor before you, clutching both your hands in his.

"You're not stupid," he says softly, bringing your fingers up to his mouth to plant a tender kiss against your knuckles. The same spot he'd first kissed you. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Joel sighs, long and slow. You shimmy on the mattress so you're facing him, squeezing his hands like you're afraid he'll disappear if you don't. He stares at them as he speaks.

"I know…I know you bein' here puts you in a shitty position," he starts. "Hell, I know bein' with me puts you in a shitty position–"

"It doesn't–"

"But," he cuts you off, meeting your eyes at last, something warm and intense smouldering in the soft brown. "I'm not in any rush. Okay? We can keep this under wraps for s'long as you want. I mean that. I'm just–I'm just happy you're here."

You hold his stare, cup his weathered cheek in your palm and let whatever's burning behind his eyes melt into yours. He's doing what he always does, giving you the choice. He's so good. He's so good to you.

So what are you so afraid of?

"I think we should tell them," you murmur and the smouldering burn turns to glittering anticipation, dulled by uncertainty while he looks for any trace of a lie on your face.

You know he won't find one.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You're sure? 'Cause we can wait–"

"No," you assert, clutching at the greying curls on the side of his head fiercely, tugging him in closer. "Joel, I–I'm happy too. I want them to know. They should–they should be happy we're happy, right?"

He allows himself a smile, and you feel your fears start to fade away.

"Should," he agrees.

"And if they're not then…then I don't care. I care about you. No more secrets."

"Alright," he whispers, emotion coating his words before he's wrapping his arms around your middle and burying his face into your chest. You hook your legs around him, some noise between a laugh and a sob getting caught in his t-shirt. "No more secrets."

He holds you like that for what feels like hours, knelt before you as though you were some kind of deity, safe in his arms while you stare down the barrel of whatever comes next.

At last, he frees himself, the energy shifting as he rises up off the ground with two hands on your thighs and suddenly everything realigns. Joel towers over you, strong and solid, so perfect it feels almost criminal to keep him all to yourself.

His calloused fingers stroke your cheekbones and you stare up at him, worshipful, blanketing his big hands with yours.

"I'm your girl, right?" you breathe alluringly.

Joel nods, his voice gruff, "You're my girl."

"Then let's let 'em know."

He hums, almost a growl, hinging to connect your mouths in a searing kiss and–finally–there is no more fear.

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #dbf!joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #your summer dream #vacation!joel #joel miller fluff #joel miller one shot #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x y/n #dbf!joel miller

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kiwisbell · 4 months

Text

let it snow [joel miller]

It's cold on the trail. Joel keeps you warm.

12 days of pedro masterlist | my masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags/warnings: an early winter smattering of daddy kink, feel free to picture game!joel or show!joel here, post-outbreak, jackson!joel, christmastime fuzzies, soft old man!joel, self-indulgent age gap (20s/50s), protective!joel, christmas tree hunting, hiking, sex in an apocalypse, snowball play(?), fingering, frostbite does not exist in this universe, thigh fucking, dirty talk, ellie loving dinosaurs, snowball fights, a joel who enjoys what little peace life brings him

word count: ~ 5.3k

read on ao3!

a/n: hi, lovelies - this fic is my contribution to @hellishjoel's 12 days of pedro celebration! everyone please check out the masterlist linked above to check out the other works from all of these amazing authors!! thank you endlessly to my parents @northernbluess and @tieronecrush for beta'ing this fic and reassuring me every step of the way - i love you both to the moon and back. i hope you enjoy and as usual, please mind the tags and please tell me what you think!! ❄️

super cute dividers by @saradika-graphics!!

Fall comes on slow. The leaves begin to bleed orange from the arteries. The air crackles with bright, cold wind that bites and pokes. Debris crunches underfoot and the trees shed their lustrous coats. It’s nothing like the onset of winter in Jackson—the downward crash of an overnight snowstorm that crests too quickly for the residents to prepare.

It's a crystallised, overrefined flurry of soft flakes that gather on thatched rooftops and bury the barren, browning garden beds in the western corner of the village. It’s a nighttime assault of gnashing wind carrying fractals of ice and snow, and before most are awake, Jackson is snowed in.

The children are thrilled. All of them too small to have known anything but the walls of the town, they burst from their homes, half-zipped coats and bright-and-early tummy-rumblings and wondrous impatience, to stick out their tongue and catch the still-falling snowflakes. Parents and caretakers and teachers straggle, still pulling on their own boots and coats, in the effort to stay close to their charges. Snowballs are packed together and hurled from behind fortified walls of snow; passers-by are pulled unwittingly into the two-sided, relentless barrage; and the shrieks and cries crackling into the dead white air are born from the watery womb of promise, not terror.

There’s some joy yet to be found in this world.

He isn’t participating in the frozen-water war, but he’s watching from the margins, leaning against the wall of the schoolhouse with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes hawklike as he observes your every move.

A group of young girls has inducted you into the battle and now you’re hiding with one of them behind a wall, packing a tight ball of snow in your hands, barely protected by your threadbare gloves. He can see the grip of the cold on your body, the way your breath circles above your head, a silvery halo. He can see the slight shivers that start in your lower spine and tremble their way up to the back of your neck, and he can see the phantom imprint of his hand resting there, warming your nape, curling his callused fingers around your brain stem and guiding you the way he liked. He can see your gentle touch not only in your hands but in your smile, in the soft application of snow to the top of the wall as it begins to melt, in the sweet curl of your mouth as you help a child who has fallen to their feet.

Swiping an accumulation of snow from the child’s nose with your thumb, you mouth some words he cannot see. The child sniffs happily and wraps their arms around their mother’s leg.

You sneak away from the barrage of snowballs and blow some warm air into your cupped hands. He shifts off the wall and begins to prowl toward you.

When he’s close enough, when no one is around nor awake enough to notice, pulls you into the alley between the schoolhouse and the theatre.

His mouth captures your surprised exhale, stealing the visible puff of warm air for himself, swallowing it down as he pries you open for him. His hand rediscovers the slow, warm pleasure of its resting place on the back of your neck, gently steering you, unkindly pinning your body to the wall.

He feels the itch of your gloves as you cup his face, and his other hand lifts to circle around both of your wrists, idly pressing them beneath his heavy coat, against his heart. It thuds strongly, pouring its rhythm into the grooves of your palms.

He crowds you, making you small, his desire for this closeness prodding your inner thigh. You go oh-so easily, the gruff sounds he spills into your mouth tapping, chiselling, knocking down each vertebrae. Carefully, with the slide of his warm, wet tongue along yours and the greedy assault of his mouth, he shapes you for himself and turns you into the pliant little thing he needs you to be.

You moan softly into his mouth, and his answering groan is something rabid. Your spine curves to him, gravitational pull, wooden slats of the building at your back tugging the fabric of your coat. He will kiss you until you’re breathless and preening under his touch because it’s what he always does. He will inculcate you with the knowledge that you’re for his eyes only.

When he pulls away, he watches you chase his mouth with lidded eyes and kiss-bruised lips, and he smirks. His hand moves to your head, gently smoothing down your crown to your jaw, the way one tenderly pets a kitten.

“Got you somethin’.”

You raise your brows. “You did?”

“Mhm.” He nudges his nose against yours and relishes the smile you give him—eyes crinkling at the corners, irises reflecting glistening sky. “Open your mouth for me first. Go on, now.”

You obey, letting your tongue loll out, more from habit than anything. Still, he’s pleased, unfurling the hastily-wrapped paper package in his pocket and placing the small square of chocolate on your tongue.

You close your mouth with the help of his hand on your jaw, and the gentle snap of the chocolate bleeds the melting centre down your throat, disseminating the oaky flavour on your tastebuds.

“Y’like it?”

His voice is a carving knife. You're split down the middle by his simple show of affection, spilling out into his arms, wrists still clasped in one of his big hands.

“It’s good,” you tell him. “I’ve never…”

His smile digs a thumb into your open wound. “I know. Took it from the kitchen.”

You lick your lips and swallow the rest of the melted chocolate. Joel watches the action from the moment your tongue darts out to the moment it retreats. “Maria will have your ass.”

“Hmm, Maria can tell me off much as she wants. Wanted to give you somethin' sweet.” He presses in closer, hands dropping to your hips, kneading the pad of his thumbs over your hips. You're wearing old jeans whose waistband is fraying. “What do you say?”

This is the fun part of the game you play. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, teasing, begging entrance even though he knows there isn't a world in which you would deny him. You part your lips and take his thumb into your mouth, swirling your tongue and cleaning off the taste of leather that still lingers on his skin.

“Thank you.”

He strokes your jaw with his thumb. “You wanna know what else?”

You're already leaning into his palm as he cradles your cheek, and he’s so proud of the volcanic thaw in your eyes. “What else?”

Joel reaches back into his coat pocket and places something small in your palms. It’s a smooth wooden figurine that smells faintly of sawdust and is carved in the perfect likeness of your home, which sits across the street from his.

“‘s almost Christmas,” he says, suddenly so unsure of himself as he watches you turn the little shack over in your hands. “Thought you might like—”

But you're leaping onto him like a little monkey, your mouth crashing against his. It’s all lips and teeth and tongue and he can taste the chocolate he placed there just moments ago. The chimney of your miniature home prods his chest as you hold the figure close, tucking it safely between your bodies.

“Easy, baby girl,” he says with a low laugh, not-quite pulling away, letting you lick into his mouth like a cat after milk. The scratch of his beard will leave patches on your chin and everyone will see them. He grins, tilting your head up and soothing the worried skin with soft kisses.

“I love it,” you tell him, sighing into his body, “so much. I love it, Joel.”

“Good.” He nudges his nose against your temple. “Take good care of it, now.”

You nod, scratching at the too-long hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. “How do you know that it's almost Christmas?” you ask him after a moment.

“Took a guess,” he says, nipping your earlobe. “Y’know, the big tree they put up in the middle of town helps.”

You playfully tug his hair. “Asshole.”

“So goddamn mouthy. Gettin’ spoiled.”

“You're the one spoiling me,” you purr, mouthing wetly along his jaw.

Joel chuckles. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

“You know”—your voice takes on a musical lilt—“I don't have my Christmas tree yet.”

Joel lifts his brows. “You want a Christmas tree?”

You lift one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t really remember the holidays.”

The watery shimmer under your irises reminds Joel just how much more life he's lived. You were young when the outbreak started, both parents lost to the virus before the first week was out. You’d hid under your bed for three days straight before FEDRA found you.

They’d taken you, underfed and dehydrated, to the Colorado QZ, where you spend most of your adolescence until it was bombed by Fireflies. You'd managed to sneak away before they could round you up like FEDRA had. You’d travelled with one group to the next before Jackson welcomed you.

There's a scar on your throat, just below your jaw on the right side, and another at the nape of your neck. You've been held at knifepoint, you told him in the early days of knowing one another, by the very same people who'd taken you in as one of their own. They’d offered you up as trade for some deer meat. Joel traces the mark and feels his throat constrict.

The kind of life you’d led before Jackson… He’ll make sure you never have to run again.

“Let’s get you one,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

You pull away from him to meet his eye. “Joel…”

“Tommy’s got a saw behind the bar. I can take down a tree. We’ll bring it back ‘n’ put it up in your place.”

The grin creeps up at the corner of your mouth. “You're going soft, Miller.”

Joel just crowds you back against the wall and slants his mouth over yours. He has no problem going soft when he can feel the wooden edges of his gift to you prodding the flesh of his chest. Let it pierce him.

Joel has few rules he's willing to push back on. At his age, he's lost some of his jagged edges, compromising on more. When he's got you like this, tucked into his side, wearing only his shirt, he remembers exactly why he enforces these few rules.

The light is soft in the winter; it doesn't quite penetrate his eastern-facing window the way the summer sun does. He blinks awake, feeling you shift next to him, your nose buried in his throat. Your arms are wrapped tight around his middle, one leg hoisted over his torso.

“C’mon, baby,” he grunts, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Gotta get up.”

He can feel your sleepy pout against his neck. “Mph.”

“Yeah, I know.” Joel chuckles, slumping back into the mattress. You shift so you're on top of him, your thighs bracketing his hips. Sitting up, you explore his bare chest with your soft hands, migrating down the length of his torso and his softening belly. He grabs your hips and soothes himself awake by rubbing his hands up and down your sides. The fabric of his shirt draped over your body shifts under his palms.

“I’m patrolling with Tad,” you tell him, “so we’ll have to put up the tree when I get back.”

“No, you're not.”

You cock your head. “Tommy told me—”

“Tommy doesn't know what the hell he's talkin’ about,” says Joel. “You and I get the day off. And I”—he pulls you down toward him and secures his hand at the back of your neck—“know a spot.”

Your answering hum is playful. “You know a spot. I had a couple boyfriends back in the QZ who knew a spot, too, Miller.”

“I ain't your old boyfriends,” he says with a faint growl, landing a light smack on your ass. “There’s a good trail west of here. Some trees what would look nice all done up.”

You beam down at him. Your hair is somewhat tousled from sleep and the fuzzy light haloes your head. “You aren't worried about raiders?”

“Don't think I can keep you safe?” He caresses your bare thighs, his cock interested in the warmth of you on his lap.

Your mouth fits over his, fingers threading through his hair, and Joel settles into the steady rhythm of your heartbeat fluttering against his own chest.

“I think,” you whisper, “that we're already late. Let's go get a Christmas tree.”

Half an hour later, he’s still yawning on his way to the stables and wishing he was in the warmth of his bed instead of out here in the biting cold. Joel runs his gloved palms together and fixes his rifle over his shoulder.

You, of course, are fresh-faced and early, securing the saddle over your chestnut mare Princess. Joel pats her snout and inspects your pack where it hangs on the hook nearby.

“Forgot your bandages again.”

You hum and it's music. “You always have extra. Ready to go?”

“Sure you’re not waiting for Tad?”

You gently pat your horse’s back. “Tad is terrified of you, so he's terrified of me. You're ruining my reputation, Miller.”

“That so?” Joel sidles up next to you, pushing your pack into your arms. “You got a complaint you wanna file?”

“None so far,” you say, biting down on your grin, “but there's always time. Better be careful with me.”

“I’m always careful,” Joel says into your ear. “Now go on. We got ground to cover.”

There is a method to Joel Miller’s madness. Tommy knows damn well he needs to pick his battles. But Joel will always win when it comes to you. That is where he simply does not compromise.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, Tommy.”

His brother’s hands fly up, palms out, already pleading his case. “Joel, listen to me—”

Joel slaps the book against Tommy’s chest. “I don't need to hear your goddamn excuses. She doesn't go with anyone but me.”

“Listen,” says Tommy, tossing the worn leather agenda aside. “We've got people out sick, and they ain't about to go out in this cold. And you need to be with Flynn, ‘cause Christ knows he ain't trained up enough to handle anything up in those woods.”

Joel scoffs. “And Tad’s trained up enough to go with her? Don't give me that shit, Tommy. She goes with me.”

“Joel—”

“We clear?” He squares up to his brother, folding his arms over his chest.

Tommy rolls his eyes at Joel’s posturing but concedes nonetheless. “Fine. I’ll take Flynn.”

“Good.” Joel turns to leave for the stables. He’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s a strong girl,” says Tommy, “and you can't play guard dog forever.”

The snow has settled a bit in the week since the first fall. It's crystallised and hardened underfoot, packed tightly. Icicles dangle from the naked trees on the outskirts of the woods, and your breath mists. The cold penetrates your jeans and the slivers of exposed wrists where your gloves don't quite meet your coat sleeves. Hugging Joel around the middle, your body heat shudders through him.

“Snow like this is always a goddamn problem,” he mutters.

“Covers tracks,” you say.

“That's right. You do listen.”

“Well, when you give me chocolate…”

Joel veers Princess north and brings your gloved palms to his mouth so he can breathe warm air into them. You sigh your thanks, bumping your forehead into his back before returning to your vigilance as lookout. Once you're well out of the way of the city walls, it's easier to get wrapped up in the blistering wind. You bring your bandanna up over your nose and watch Joel do the same as you pass the river. It’s frozen over, not blue but a sheet of miserable white. You mourn the loss of colour as the wind nips at your skin.

“We’ll have more cover when we break through the trees,” says Joel. “Shuffle closer to me.”

You do, sliding your hips forward. Princess’s reins around one fist, he covers your hands with his other, squeezing you intermittently. His body heat helps you settle comfortably into him.

“What was your first Christmas like with Sarah?”

Joel chuckles. “She was one hell of a rowdy kid. Had to fish her out of the tree one time—only turned my back for a goddamn second.”

You smile fondly. “Thought you were gonna have to drag Ellie kicking and screaming out of that snowball fight the other day. She was a minute away from nailing your brother in the face.”

“Hmph. Asshole probably deserved it,” says Joel. “Sarah’d never hurt a fly. She saved spiders; threw ‘em outside instead of killin’ ‘em. But she’d get along with Ellie. Sometimes I look at her and see Sarah.” Joel’s quiet for a moment, guiding Princess past the tree line where the wind begins to penetrate in bursts rather than a constant stream of cold. ��Do you think that's wrong?”

You frown. “No. I don't think so. Sometimes, I talk to kids in town that remind me of you. They’ll have a nose or eyes that make me think of you, and I’ll think it’s so nice that we’re all still here, still kicking. You know? There are parts of Sarah in Ellie and there are parts of that tree over there in me. When we love someone, we see them everywhere.”

Joel brings Princess to a halt about a half-mile into the woods; a trail veers off to the east next to you. He loops her reins around the branch of a tree and helps you off the horse. “Y’know,” he says, “you're too damn smart for your own good.”

“You’ll do well to remember that, Miller.” You shove your bandanna back down so it lies limp around your neck. “Now show me this spot.”

Joel failed to warn you that it involved a hike. An honest-to-fuck hike. You and your boots are used to traversing long distances, but you hadn't particularly prepared to trek through the frozen woods in December on a few hours’ sleep, a couple hours’ orgasm, and a hastily-chugged cup of coffee. Not had you prepared for an uphill hike in the brutal cold just to find a fucking Christmas tree.

If you didn't like him so damn much, you know for a fact you'd happily throttle your Joel.

Your Joel, who can't seem to find a tree that's good enough for you. Too tall, he'll say about one, won't fit inside your place. Too skinny, he’ll say about another, you could barely string lights on that.

Your lungs are burning cold. Every breath you inhale feels like swallowing needles. Your chest heaves and your cheeks are numb and you’re drawing up what's left of your resolve to give him a piece of your mind.

“Nah, not this one,” he’s saying, knocking his fist against the trunk of another tree. “It’s practically hollow. Would crumble the second we—”

“Joel, if you could find a tree you do like so we can head back and I can stop freezing to death, that would be so, so appreciated.”

Your teeth chatter the whole time, but you get your message across. Joel stops, his hand splayed against another tree, a smaller one with a decent-sized middle, and turns to face you.

“You cold, baby?”

It's not an innocent question. Around you, the wind whips at the branches of the tallest trees and crackles through the air. But Joel’s voice, slow and gravel-thick, permeates the breeze. It bites deeper, to the gums, latched in your skin. It’s warm.

No—it's hot.

Joel’s hand drops from the tree. His foot crunches the snow under his boot as he takes a step toward you.

Wordlessly, you nod.

“You had lots to say before, baby girl. Thought you wanted your Christmas tree.”

You do. Fuck, you want to go home. You want to curl up in his bed with another cup of coffee and warm yourself up with his body. But Joel is staring at you, eyes hard, rubbing his gloved hand over his mouth, and the alternative now feels much more tempting. “Uh-huh.”

“I think you should see for yourself,” he says, “whether or not you want this one. Go on.”

He's playing some game. He’s ringed with silvery light, a soft and hazy glow backlighting his longer hair, threaded with grey, his body so broad, solid, strong—

There’s none of your Joel in the way he stands. This is the Joel who’s used to following orders. This is the Joel he never lets you truly see: the man who has seen so many more years, seen so much more of the world.

You pass him, hiking farther up the trail, to inspect the tree. It is decent; just taller than you, but thick enough to stay upright, plush with needles. A gentle tug at your scalp, a puff of warm air on your cheek, the dizzying weight of him at your back. He’s twirling a lock of your hair between two gloved fingers.

“You like it?” he says gruffly, his mouth mere inches from your ear. The telltale tingling begins in your core and you swallow hard.

“Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh. None of that. I wasn’t thinkin’, sweetheart.” He nips at your earlobe, hands trailing down your body, underneath your heavy coat, sitting warmly on your hips. “Gotta keep my girl nice ‘n’ warm. Got all caught up in my own head, thinkin’ like a carpenter. Let me make it up?”

He loves so selflessly that it can feel bizarrely like greed.

Sometimes, you forget that he’s so much older. That he lived his own way of living for a long time before you came along, that he knows this planet like that back of his hand, that you can’t even begin to name a country or a food or a song that FEDRA didn’t teach you. That you’ve only just begun to experience the terror and the pain that’s engulfed this world for so long.

Joel Miller’s lived a long life. He’s choosing to spend these moments with you, in the cold, dead woods, picking out a Christmas tree. For as long as he’s been waking up with you, his girl, he’s wanted you longer. He’s tired. He’s old. But he’s finally getting to choose.

He’d like to think he deserves a bit of choice after all this time. So, again, he comes back to you, like the last time and the last, spreading his fingers over your body and cupping you, molten gold, in his hands.

Settle down, his brother told him a few years back. You deserve this, Joel. To just… settle down, if you can ever find a way.

You’re his way. He intends to make it clear.

“Need to hear you say yes, baby,” he says, shifting your hair aside, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck where it’s warm and quiet and smells of the coffee he always makes you.

“Yes,” you whisper, reaching back to fix your hand at the nape of his neck and glue him to you. “Please. Please, Joel.”

He grins, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, the fluttering veins below your jaw. He steals every one of your heartbeats for himself.

“All right,” he says. “We’ll get this one.”

Eyes lidded, you watch over your shoulder as Joel fiddles with the button of your jeans and yanks down your panties with them, now hanging limply off your knees.

“Joel!” you gasp. The cold air bites your thighs, your ass, your poor, slick pussy, as he unwraps his present. Playfully squeezing your ass, he grinds his clothed front against you.

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbles, the smug bastard, pinning you to the tree by his strong hips, your fingers splayed on the trunk. Above you, pine needles flutter down to the ground around you, but the trunk doesn't budge.

It is a good tree.

“‘m cold,” you manage, putty in his hands, under the sweet, slow kisses he's pressing to your jaw.

Your petulant whine rivals the pitch of the wind off the mountain trail. The whistling air shrieks. The hard weight at your back absconds with the warmth it brought you, and he's bending to one knee, packing a not-quite spherical ball of snow in his gloves.

“You’re cold?” It doesn't sound like a question and you're nodding anyway, your cheek scraping the bark of the fir tree. It smells of terpenes and the shingles of bark bleed resin.

“I’m so cold, Daddy.”

He stands, and a huge glove is caging your ribs, a bearded cheek nuzzling your temple. “Let’s see, baby girl. Open wide.”

He brings his other hand between your exposed thighs and, lips prying at the corner of your mouth, cups the feebly-formed snowball against your pussy.

“Daddy,” you gasp, writhing away and grinding into his hand all the same, your mouth open in a long, pitiful cry. Your silvery breath ascends in a long-limbed dance with his own.

The snow melts in moments, rubbed firm into the scorching heat of your body, but you feel the biting cold against your clit as if it were pulled between a set of pearly teeth.

“See?” There’s a cruel tone of mocking in it and you preen like it’s a sweet lullaby. “Nice ‘n’ warm.”

He mouths at the crook of your neck, hot and wet, tongue dipping into the junction between your ear and your jaw, where it’s soft and does not hurt when he bites down.

The once-packed snow, now tepid and formless, drips down your thighs, and the air is so cold it begins to freeze again. Joel hears your helpless moan and takes pity, unbuckling his own jeans just enough to pull out his cock.

But he doesn't slot himself at your needy hole and push slowly inside you the way he did last night. No—he guides the leaking head between your thighs and closes your legs around him, the length of him flush to your cunt.

“Ohhhh, fuck.” You shiver, dropping your forehead against the tree, as Joel lubricates his cock with the melted water of the snowball and begins to fuck himself between the cushions of your thighs. “Joel… oh my God, Daddy—”

He grunts, taking it slow, the wet slide of his cock electrifying, cold and warm all at once, his body caging yours against the tree. With every thrust, the head of his cock catches on your clit, and he gasps in your ear, nibbling your exposed skin. You grasp at his hair, the hand that presses down on your belly, fixing him to you.

“That's it, baby. Goddamn, you feel so good. So fuckin’ soft, just for me, all for Daddy, right, baby girl?”

“Yes, yes! I’m yours, all yours, please…” Your thighs twitch when his cock drags along your clit once more, and it's so good—but it's not enough.

“I know,” groans Joel, lowering your joined hands to your clit and rubbing slow, aching circles over your slick pearl. A strained moan rumbles in your chest and your head grows heavy, falling back on his shoulder. The pleasure, white-hot and insistent, makes you forget all about the cold air savagely biting off chunks of your skin. It's all Joel. “I know, baby girl. That feel good?”

“Mmmm,” you manage, breathless and panting, your exhales swirling up into the air and disappearing in the trees. He keeps your hands joined, working in tandem to pleasure your needy clit. “Mhm, so good. Just like that.”

Joel nods into the crook of your neck, keeping the pressure steady on your clit as he continues to get himself off between your legs. “My pretty girl, so cold,” he rasps, “so needy. Y’know I’d get you anything you wanted.”

You nod vigorously, wetting his cock with your arousal, gloved fingers slick on your pussy. The rough grind of the leather closes an electrical circuit up and down your body. Joel Miller has always known how to make you feel safe, cared-for—sensations you'd never known before Jackson. With him, you're glutted, satiated. With you, he’s begun his long winter’s task of settling down.

“Let go for me, baby,” he says, taking your jaw between his teeth as he feels his stomach tighten, his balls pulling up. “C’mon, baby girl, let me feel it. Get yourself all warm with me.”

He rubs your clit faster until you're seizing, core tensing, your mouth open in a long, low cry that echoes down the trail. Joel talks you through it, good girl, that’s it, I know it’s a lot, honey, just let go, and your fingers flex, trapped in his, as you come until your legs are trembling.

Joel hums like he's satisfied, his hips pummeling into your backside in stuttering thrusts that indicate he's coming, too. “You gonna let me come, baby girl?” he says, baring his teeth against your cheek. “Gonna forgive me?”

“Yesyesyes! Fuck, you’re so good. Please come for me, Daddy, please!”

“Fuck, baby, I will. I will.” And he does—stuffing his cock between your thighs, it begins to pulse beneath your cunt, spilling hot cum all over your legs, your pussy, the tree he’s pinned you against. All the while, he holds you tight, his mouth greedy on you, words coaxed into your ears that aren't meant for another soul.

“You’re mine. All fuckin’ mine.” He's rambling as he comes down, spurts of cum still dribbling from his cock down your thighs. “Goddamn perfect.”

You shiver as the cold begins to seep back in through your skin, even as Joel helps pull your jeans back up over your ass. It's a bit uncomfortable, feeling the slide of his cum on your legs underneath the denim, but you smile anyway, letting him guide you to face him, your foreheads pressing together.

“I like this one,” you tell him. Joel laughs, bringing your mouth to his for another kiss.

“Dude, where the fuck did you get this?”

You look over your shoulder at Ellie, who inspects your miniature figurine, now with a home just inside your foyer.

“Joel gave it to me,” you tell her.

“Whooooa. You think he could make me a dinosaur?”

You turn to Joel, who's nursing some bourbon and hiding a smile in the rim of the glass. “That's a great question, Ellie. What do you think, Joel?”

“C’mon, man, when do I ever ask you for anything?”

Joel chokes into his glass. “Every goddamn day of your life, Ellie.”

“Okay, well, just think about how cool it would be to have a dinosaur. It’s basically the real thing.”

Joel shakes his head. “Yeah, okay. Maybe next year.”

“Ugh. Fine. But don't think I’m not gonna remember.”

Idly rubbing his back, you lean into him and turn your head toward the tree. It sits tall and proud in the corner, strung with a couple coloured lights Maria had found for you, hung with baubles that some of the schoolchildren had been thrilled to make. It's a bit bare in spots, haphazardly decorated, prickly to the touch.

“You like it?” asks Joel, nudging his nose against your temple.

“It's perfect.”

He grins into your cheek. “You think she’ll like the dinosaur?”

Your eyes fall to the smattering of gifts under the tree, tossed into spare crates and bags.

“Ellie, why don't you open first?”

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