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swiftispunk · 1 year

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say it with your hands | joel miller x f!reader

part two

pairing: joel miller x afab!fem!masseuse!reader

word count: ~5.6k (how did this happen)

rating: 18+ minors dni

summary: post tlou/we are in jackson. ellie convinces joel to see the town masseuse. it goes mostly okay.

warnings etc: smut, awkward!joel, joel being kinda mean to himself, age gap implied, involuntary boners, lots of sexual tension, oral (m receiving), sunshine!reader, pet names (sweetheart, sugar, sweet girl, darlin’), little bit of POV hopping dw about it, probably bad massage technique descriptions idk what i’m doing sorry. NO USE OF Y/N.

A/N: the first of the two soft and sweet joel fics! we are fixing our man’s back whether he wants it or not. god this was sooo cathartic to write actually as someone who wants nothing more than to give this man some goddamn peace. and also as someone who wants to bite his tummy.

special shoutouts to vee, ziggy, nicole, sam and @pedgito who gave me some much needed advice with this.

inspired by this ask <3

Joel Miller does not need a massage.

Sure, his lower back aches most hours of the day and the tension in his shoulders makes it hard to raise his arms above his waistline and fine, being on his feet for too long sends shooting pains up his spine and into his neck. And yeah, okay, maybe right now he’s hunched over the kitchen table after reaching down to tie his boot lace, frozen where he stands with a palm pressed to his back, groaning out a symphony of agonized grunts.

But he does not need a massage.

“Uh, Joel?”

Shit.

Ellie, catching him in his compromised state, that same supportive hand on his back holding him together as he tries and fails to straighten his wretched, old spine.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” he says through gritted teeth, because he sure as hell isn’t going to get away with lying, not looking the way he’s looking right now.

Plus, it’s not the first time she’s found him like this, his aging muscles giving out on him, weakened by time and overuse. It’s hardly a rare occurrence to find Joel clutching at his lower back like he is right now, bemoaning every minor movement or gentle stretch, cursing each time he arches it just so - trying in vain to breathe some life into it - only to find it causes the same excruciating pain.

Still - Joel Miller does not need a massage, goddamnit.

“You should really get it checked out, dude,” Ellie chides him - again, not for the first time.

“No,” he repeats, voice strained as he slowly but surely straightens himself out - now that he’s got a point to prove.

“Maria told me there’s a lady who does massages, she can get you an appointment if you just - ”

“I don’t need a massage,” Joel insists, though the achy moan that catches in the back of his throat when he curves his back up just a little too far kind of gives him away.

It’s just that Joel can’t stand the idea of some stranger’s hands all over him - poking and prodding and pointing out all his various problems.

He can do that just fine by himself.

“Suuure, you don’t,” Ellie says with a roll of her eyes, crossing the room to offer Joel a supportive arm, helping to escort him down into one of the kitchen chairs.

“There, we go,” she lauds him for the simple act of taking a fucking seat. Now he’s the one rolling his eyes.

“Don’t patronize me,” he grumbles, but he’s softening the words with an arm around Ellie’s waist, honestly grateful to her and all the unyielding assistance she offers him.

Not that she should fucking have to.

It’s that thought that has him reluctantly agreeing to let her book an appointment when Ellie implores him again, “Will you just go? Please?”

“Fine.”

Joel Miller does not need a massage, and yet here he is at your door, note from Ellie with the address and time Maria’d given her, sighing deeply and steeling his nerves before finally knocking.

You answer the door and Joel is surprised to find he doesn’t recognize you, or at least, he’s never properly noticed you before. He’s also surprised to find that you’re much younger and, honestly, prettier than Joel had been expecting, having been picturing some crotchety old hippie-dippie type, maybe with prior experience pre-apocalypse.

Instead, there you are, all smiles and welcoming gaze, throwing a new wrench of unease into the gears of Joel’s anxious brain - the very worst kind of wrench, at that: attraction.

God help him, he’s never going to survive this.

“Joel Miller?” you ask, already expecting him.

You know of him of course; everyone knows something of Tommy Miller’s mysterious older brother. You’d heard all the rumours - good and bad. Murderous former smuggler...caring, attentive father...surly old man...doting elder sibling - Joel Miller, as you know him, is something of an enigma.

But standing in your doorway, head low and shoulders hunched, face contorted in obvious discomfort, you see nothing of the esoteric killer you’d been warned about. All you see is a man - a man in need of serious help.

You notice he’s also strikingly more handsome up close, having only ever encountered his face from a distance. Now you see him for real - all patchy bearded and grey haired, hook-nosed and strong jawed; Joel is gorgeous.

“Yeah, uh, my kid - ” he clears his throat before going on, “Uh, my kid and Maria? Sent me here,” Joel stammers, eyes fixed on the note in his hands. “I have an appointment, I guess.”

You smile warmly back at him as his - almost helpless - brown eyes meet yours. “Come on in, Joel.”

You lock the door behind him as he obeys; Joel’s your last client of the day.

Your set up is right there in the living room, massage tables foraged from various supply runs, separated by dividers you’d built yourself, handmade candles filling the room with the aroma of lavender of peppermint.

Joel assesses the scene nervously, looking exceptionally out of place in the centre of it all, awkwardly wringing his hands together.

“So,” you begin, guiding him with a gentle hand over his arm towards one of the beds. “What’s bothering you today, Joel?”

“Uh - back. My back.” He gestures towards it as best he can with his limited mobility.

“Anywhere specific?”

“Uh...all of it?” he says like a question, embarrassed to admit it.

You smile at him again, hoping to put him at ease. “That’s no problem. We’ll get you sorted out.”

It’s a promise, one you plan to keep. Joel nods back at you, attempting his own smile in return, still looking visibly tense standing in the middle of the room uncertainly.

“Okay, well, I’ll just step out of the room,” you say kindly when Joel stays quiet before you. “You - just undress to your level of comfort, and I’ll be right back.”

He nearly chokes, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead.

“My level of...what?”

You give him another smile, because you get it. You’re used to this reaction from your clients in Jackson. It’s new territory for most people who come to see you, having spent the last twenty years experiencing various levels of suffering, many too young to know the process of receiving a professional massage.

Well, semi-professional in your case. But still.

Joel, however, looks old enough that he could have very well been to a masseuse before the outbreak, but something about his reluctant discomfort tells you that whether today or twenty years ago, Joel Miller is not the type to seek out help for anything.

“You can strip down completely, or just to your boxers,” you say patiently. “Lie down on your tummy and cover your bottom half with the sheet on the table. I’ll come back when you’re decent.”

You give him one last encouraging smile and duck into the other room.

Joel stands dumbstruck beside the bed, breathing shallowly. He doesn’t know what exactly he’d been preparing for, but getting naked for a pretty, young stranger sure wasn’t it.

Because Joel doesn’t wear boxers - he’s in his late fifties, and has spent the majority of his life up until now on the run to some degree or another. Not to mention the fact that he rarely finds himself in scenarios where he has to take his jeans off in front of another human being. Commando’s just how he lives, it’s habitual.

So he has to make a choice - he could run for it, leave you waiting in the other room till you finally figured out he’d taken off. Or he could suck it up - and see through what he’d fucking come here for.

He sighs, long and agitated. Then he strips off his boots and clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. Exposed against his own good will, he situates himself face down on the bed, shoddily trying to cover his ass with the sheet, straining his back when he reaches around too far doing it.

Fuck.

He can’t contain the laboured sound that catches in his throat, finally succumbing and planting his face into the semi-circular pillow in front of him.

“You okay?” you call from the other room, hearing the strained noise from where you’re waiting.

“Fine,” Joel responds, sounding anything but. “M’decent,” he adds, feeling anything but.

You make your way back into the room to find that he’s followed your instructions perfectly, although the sheet looks a bit twisted up over his lower half. No problem, nothing’s exposed that shouldn’t be, and either way, you’re getting an impressive view of his broad back, tan and weathered with time, faded scars lining the thick arms he has glued against his sides.

Keep it professional, you tell yourself.

You approach his side slowly, making sure he hears you coming, not wanting to startle him. You take a moment to set your faithful kitchen timer to one hour on the desk beside the table, the same desk covered with a combination of bottles of homemade and collected massage oils.

“So,” you say as you coat your hands with the oil you think Joel will like the most - an all-natural one you made that smells like eucalyptus and patchouli. Your slick fingers finally making contact with Joel’s deliciously broad shoulders elicits a full-body twitch from the man. “Did you do anything in particular to hurt it?”

Joel tenses as you run your hands gingerly over his back, spreading the cool oil over his skin and feeling your way for any noticeable areas of concern, not applying too much pressure just yet.

“Got older,” he mutters gloomily.

You smile even though he can’t see it, aching to take away some of the sadness in his voice. “We all get older.”

Joel’s heart pounds as you feel your way over his sides, pressing into his lower back gently, pinky fingers brushing the edge of the sheet. You glide your fingertips between his shoulder blades then, finding plenty of tension there. He’d been telling the truth - the damage seems to consume the entire landscape of his back.

“You don’t look old,” you say while you continue getting to know his muscles in slow, calculated movements.

“Don’t need to lie to me,” he grumbles in that same somber tone.

“Well this is more than age anyway,” you say, feeling just truly how fucked-up his back is. Deep-seated knots twist his muscles from his shoulders to his glutes, buried far below his skin. “Are you on your feet a lot?”

“Was, before I got here.”

“Hm,” you say around a knowing smile. “Weren’t we all?”

Joel hears the undercurrents of a painful backstory behind your words but he doesn’t pry, still trying to slow his heart rate and fucking relax. He has to admit he’s finding it harder to focus as you begin to apply more pressure, concentrating your fingers into the flesh of his lower back now, where you’d felt some of the most glaring snags, kneading into the knots there methodically, calming his muscles and his mind.

“That feel nice there?” you ask quietly, sensing the tension leaving him, wanting to help him just the way he needs.

Joel sighs as your expert touch begins to loosen some of the strain in his low back, a blissful release suddenly spreading throughout his body from the place your fingers touch. His eyes fall closed as he lets slip a tiny moan of pleasure.

“That feels amazing, sweetheart,” he breathes.

He goes tense again, eyes flying open. Because he hadn’t meant to say that.

But you hardly mind, burning pleasantly at the way his Southern drawl cloaks around the endearment, flattered more than anything and understanding to a fault. He’s just comfortable, and you’re glad he is too. That means you’re doing your job right.

So you just keep working into the area that had made him so relaxed a moment ago, pretending he’d said nothing at all.

“Where’d you learn how to do this?” Joel asks curiously after a long moment, genuinely interested and also trying not to get too lost in the feeling of your touch - to stay focused and keep you talking so his stupid big mouth doesn’t get away from him again.

“My mom did it,” you tell him, palms digging deeper into the flesh above his ass, gliding them up in long strokes along either side of his spine languidly, back and forth till you feel the twists in his muscles giving way to you. “She taught me a lot before she died. Then I just read everything I could; books in the QZ I grew up in, more from the library here. Self-taught, really. Council was nice to enough to let me do this as my job.”

“Why do you do it?” Joel presses, voice coming out more wrecked than he intends, as your fingers discover a particularly tricky spot between his shoulder blades.

“I like helping people feel good,” you tell him. “Plus I think it’s the only thing I’m actually any good at.”

Joel’s not sure about the only part but he definitely agrees you’re good at it.

Then he can’t help it; your obvious kindness coupled with the movements of your palms on his back have Joel descending into an unexpected state of peace, melting into the spongey mattress of the table, face smushed against the hollowed pillow. He realizes, as your fingers work slow miracles over him, how long it’s been since anyone’s had hands on him - let alone meticulous, caring ones like yours. It sparks something in him - something long denied, buried as deep as the knots in his back.

He’s not sure how much time is passing - could be hours, could be days. For once, he’s fine not knowing.

His breath catches when your fingers wander back down towards his low back and find a tough bundle of knots there. Another moan slips his lips as you lean into it, unwinding the the pain to the best of your ability.

“There?” you ask, smoothing out the muscles with measured strokes that have Joel’s brain going fuzzy.

“Right there,” he whispers gravelly, butterflies fluttering in your stomach at the sound of his low voice.

You continue to work your fingers into that same spot, repeating the motion on the other side of his back, where you find similar knots mirrored there.

From then on, Joel is putty in your hands, every cluster of agony breaking apart at your firm touch. Joel’s eyes flutter closed again as he finally gives his mind permission to lose himself in the feeling of being cared for. And it’s heaven, finally, as you erase all the pain he’s been carrying for months - hell, maybe even years.

At least until he feels his cock beginning to stiffen under him, jutting uncomfortably against the mattress and -

Shit.

Fucking - shit.

It’s fine, he tells himself. He’s on his tummy after all, it’s not like you could see. You wouldn’t have noticed his eyes popping open again or the way he’s balled his hands into tight fists at his sides. You can’t hear his thoughts, can’t hear the way he’s screaming in vain at his cock to behave.

He’s not even aroused, goddamnit - or at least, he doesn’t think he is.

So he lets your hands keep working, but it just keeps making him harder, every tender graze of your fingers on his touch-starved skin taking on new meaning, deep relaxation giving way to some intrinsic craving he barely feels conscious of.

“I think I want to get some spots around your shoulders, Joel, do you mind turning over for me?”

God-fucking-damnit.

“Uhhh…”

“It’s just easier for me to reach certain spots - is everything okay?” you ask innocently, noticing the way he’s tensed up under you again.

Joel sighs deeply, as though he could will his stupid cock to soften if he tried, instead of it growing harder still at the soft sound of your sweet voice.

Once again, he’s faced with a choice. Lie there in protest and be forced to tell you the truth, or give in and turn over and be forced to show you the truth.

Somehow, the latter seems easier than trying to find the words to explain himself.

Against his better judgement, he rolls over onto his back with a sigh as you step back and remove your hands from him. Joel chances a glance down his body and yeah, there’s no denying it, his semi-hard cock is tenting the sheet, noticeably so.

Fucking hell.

You fight for your life not to react.

Of course, Joel doesn’t know you’ve read all about this - there’s an easy decorum for this kind of thing. For one, it’s perfectly normal for men - you know this. And all the books say the same thing: don’t make note of it, don’t make it sexual, and don’t mention it unless the client seems uncomfortable or says something.

Not making it sexual is already proving to be a bit of a challenge - Joel’s naked front is even more beautiful and broad than this naked back, his chest a sprawling panorama of thick pectoral muscles over a luscious tummy that’s just a little too...distractingly biteable. You take note of the aged scar that lines his one side, ragged and grisly looking, although healed with time.

What’s more, it’s clear he’s well-endowed beneath the sheet, even when he’s not fully erect. You pointedly avert your eyes before you start thinking about it too much.

You’d be more than happy not to mention it but the problem is that Joel seems visibly embarrassed, his eyes continuously darting downwards when he thinks you’re not looking, giving you no choice.

You’ve got to put this man at ease.

“Hey, Joel, don’t worry about it,” you say soothingly and Joel just about dies with mortification at the acknowledgment. “It’s super normal.”

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” he grumbles.

“It’s true - it’s perfectly natural. You’re just relaxed - it’s a good thing.”

He shakes his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling and very much not on you standing over him, practically right above his eyeline.

“M’sorry,” he groans, his face burning red, hands still squeezed into fists beside him. Hard and naked in front of a beautiful, sweet, kind, young woman. He’s never felt more vulnerable in his whole goddamn life.

You offer him a smile even though he’s still not looking at you. You hope he can at least hear it in your voice.

“We’ll just both pretend we don’t see it,” you say, applying more oil to your hands and beginning to work your thumbs into the flesh above his shoulders. “Deal?”

Joel takes a deep breath and tries.

Your fingers are convincing enough all on their own, Joel’s focus going foggy again when you run your hands over the tight lumps in his shoulders and neck, tips of your fingers tracing over his bare chest, the both of you feigning indifference to the very real presence of his now very hard cock under the sheet below you.

Joel lets his eyes slip closed again and now you’re the one trying to slow your heart rate, reminding yourself for the hundredth time to keep your thoughts professional.

His shoulders, you find, are almost worse than his lower back when it comes to finding bunches of knotted muscle, no doubt worn and torn from years of gun slinging and backpacking and who-knows-what-else.

“What did you do for work before all this?” you ask in that same honey-sweet voice that has Joel falling deeper into a peaceful trance below you, a tiny moan escaping his lips as your thumbs dig into the muscles where his neck meets his clavicle.

“Contractor,” he answers you, voice coming out a quiet whisper, the most he can muster at the moment.

“Working man,” you sigh, realization washing over you. “You’ve been carrying some of this tension a long time.”

For some reason, Joel feels like he could cry at that.

“You got no idea,” he says instead, voice thick.

It’s quiet for a long while then as you maintain your steady motions on his shoulders and upper back, trying and failing not to ogle at that perfect, wide chest and that supple belly, his hard cock still staring you down intoxicatingly from under the sheet.

His face, too, is difficult not to marvel at - strong lines softened into a restful state, lips parted slightly and eyes sealed shut, his moustache bristling with each lengthy breath that passes through his open mouth.

Because now Joel is the most relaxed he’s been in a long time, he thinks. Even his backstabbing dick, glaring up at him, isn’t enough to deter him from the sense of calm you’re inflicting on him. The scent of your burning candles and the tender touch of your hands on his skin a downright sedating combination.

He’d do anything you say if you said it with your hands. Hell, he could kiss you for making him feel this good and so what if his cock twitches at the thought of that?

Eventually you both just forget about Joel’s erection - or, at the very least, get used to it being there.

The two of you would be content for it to last forever, but then your kitchen timer is going off beside you, a loud ding cutting through the haze - that’s an hour, done in the blink of an eye.

Your hands linger on his skin as you step back, Joel groaning audibly at the loss.

“That’s our time,” you tell him, wishing it wasn’t true.

“Shit - already?” Joel asks, eyes slowly opening to shoot you a devastating grin, otherwise too blissed-out to move.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him smile. You’d done that.

“Afraid so,” you say like it’s the worst news in the world, which it kind of is. You soften it with a smile back at him.

“I think I might need a hand gettin’ up here,” he admits, feeling as though he’s been fused to the table, his brain fuzzy from the hour of relaxation and the seemingly uncontrollable arousal between his legs.

“Of course,” you murmur, happy to keep finding ways to help the man, bracing a hand behind his neck and gripping his arm with the other, slowly pulling him upright, the sheet shifting slightly on his lap, exposing the hairs on his lower belly, an enticing trail leading to his still-hard cock.

You’re face to face now, Joel sitting up on the table and stretching his back experimentally, you standing in front of him, still grasping his arm like you forgot to let go.

“How do you feel?” you ask him faintly.

Joel smiles for real now, a contented, lop-sided thing. “Better’n I’ve felt in a long time, sweetheart.”

You beam back at him. It’s the best kind of compliment, making someone else feel better; you live for it. And hearing it in Joel’s tantalizing drawl, another charming pet name slipping out once again, it’s enough to make your heart soar. You could die happy knowing you’d made Joel Miller feel good.

You’re still gripping his arm you realize, finally making to pull it away. But Joel, surprising both you and himself, catches your wrist in his hand before you can - holding you there.

“You really don’t accept payment for this?” he asks inquisitively. “’Cause I kinda feel like I owe you my life right now, darlin’.”

His gentle tone softens the intensity of his words, but you find yourself brightening at them nonetheless.

“Helping people is enough for me,” you shrug.

Joel looks back at you with something akin to adoration, eyes narrowing.

“You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?” he hums in wonder.

There are those damned butterflies again - stronger this time and paired with an unexpected spike of arousal at his tender tone, so different now compared to the surly, grumbling man he’d been when he’s first come through your door.

“J-just happy to help, that’s all,” you say breathlessly.

Joel’s big hand on your wrist spreads out on your forearm and moves up over your elbow. You watch it carefully - curiously - feeling its heat against your skin, welcoming it.

“Real sweet…” he repeats, voice husky and low, looking and sounding totally serene, almost far away. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, doesn’t really think he can stop; that thing that’s buried deep inside him suddenly rising to the forefront -

Desire, he realizes. Radiating out of him and straight into you.

Joel’s touch is making your head spin a bit - even though you’ve had your hands all over him for the last hour or so. Now his face is closer than it’s ever been to yours, the scent of the fragrant oil on his skin mixing with his undeniably masculine musk, competing for ownership of your nostrils. His cock is still rock hard and very much there under the sheet and your eyes won’t stop flitting down to it no matter how hard you try.

Joel’s eyes follow yours there, his fingers coiling a little tighter around your arm, a charged energy flowing through you where his skin meets yours, so different now than it had felt a moment ago.

Because Joel’s right - you are a sweet girl, most of the time. And you do love helping people. Perhaps it’s that instinct that has your next words falling from your lips before you can stop them,

“You know, Joel,” you say, voice matching his low timbre, tilting your head slightly so his eyes meet yours, your hand drifting to the edge of the sheet, ghosting over his veiled cock. “I could help you with this too, i-if you’d like.”

Your eyes dart down to his hard length beneath the sheet again, just to make sure he knows exactly what you mean.

“Z’at right?” he breathes with a welcome smirk. “What, like, some kinda happy endin’ or somethin’? You do that for anyone who comes in here?”

You smile back at him. Truth is, you’ve never done this with a client before.

“Mm-mm. This would just be for you, Joel,” you say, voice dripping with sincerity and seduction. “I just want to help. I wouldn’t feel right sending you home like this.”

An hour ago Joel might have been shocked at the offer. Now his skin prickles at the thought, heart racing in the good way as your fingers grip the fabric invitingly. It would be rather unfortunate to have to leave your place in the state he’s in.

His eyes appear to glaze over completely then as you slowly pull back the sheet, his cock finally springing free. Joel doesn’t feel embarrassed about being exposed anymore, kind of wants to you see it, to see what you’d done to him.

You, meanwhile, have to fight back a gasp when you see his cock revealed at last; it’s as big as you’d deduced from the towering tent it had created under the sheet, stiff and thick and begging to be touched. Just like the rest of him.

“Can I...?” you ask, hand hovering over it, eyes flipping between it and his face. You’d thrown professionalism to the wind - that much is clear - but you’re still desperate for his approval, to know this is really what he wants.

Joel’s thoroughly charmed by your asking permission, faint smile now glued to the corners of his lips; you clearly don’t know that he’s already surrendered to you more than he has to anyone in a long time. He doesn’t need to think twice.

“Please, darlin’.”

He sounds so earnest, almost pleading. Who are you to deny a man in need? You keep your eyes fixed on his face as you reach out to wrap your fingers around his cock, watching for the moment his lips fall open at your touch.

Joel should have seen it coming. Your hands had worked miracles over his back and shoulders - of course they’d do the same on his dick. Palms still slick with residual massage oil, you pump his length in long, firm strokes, coaxing out hearty drops of precum as you squeeze around him competently. You press a hand to his chest - that chest you know so well now - and lay him back down on the table. Joel, defenseless as your fist continues to stroke his aching cock, obliges willingly.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he sighs as he fans out on the table once more, giving your hands tenancy over his body for the second time that day.

“Is that good, Joel?” you inquire softly, fingers gripped tightly around his cock now, focusing your strokes towards the tip so his head falls back against the face cradle.

“Fuckin’ amazin’, sugar,” he hums, voice escaping him in a breathy groan.

Your heart flutters at the praise, and it’s all the encouragement you need to duck down and flick the tip with your tongue enticingly.

Joel just about loses it, his head snapping back up to take in the sight of you leaning over him, hand held around the base of his cock and lips now wrapped around the tip, the taste of his salty precum hitting your tongue as you swirl it over his slit with expert care.

“Christ,” Joel growls, the sound sending sparks flying to your core as you smile around him, beginning to move up and down over his length, wetting it from base to tip and causing Joel to moan out a symphony above you.

Not for the first time that day, Joel is losing focus, your mouth driving him even crazier than your hands. But there’s just one problem -

“Darlin’, wait,” he says, his words getting caught in his throat when you lick a thick stripe along the underside of his dick.

“What, Joel?” you ask, hand still clutched around his cock, voice sickly sweet as you stare up at him wide-eyed and wet-lipped. Joel groans noisily at the sight.

“You’re not gonna make me lie here naked while you keep all those clothes on, are ya?” he manages, voice gruff with unrestrained lust.

You smile. He’s right - it’s hardly fair at all.

“Of course not,” you assure him. You step back and Joel hoists himself up on his elbows to watch you hungrily as you strip off your shirt and jeans, marvelling at you in just your panties (no bra, not in this world), as you stand before him without an ounce of diffidence in your stance.

“Goddamn, you’re gorgeous, sweetheart,” he says reverently, shaking his head in near-disbelief.

“Can I finish taking care of you now, Joel Miller?” you ask him alluringly, taking a moment to coat your hands with a fresh layer of massage oil as you do.

Joel barely chokes out a, “Yeah - yes,” before you’re bending over his body again to take his cock back in your mouth, sucking and bobbing on his length in earnest as you run your hands over his belly, leaving sleek streaks of oil along the tan, fleshy skin there.

Joel marvels at the curves of your topless body over him - doesn’t want to ever look away from it - but it’s hard; he can’t stay focused as your slippery hands find his cock again, working the base while your mouth works the tip, that skillful combination again making him see stars, elbows giving way under him so he splays out onto the table once more.

“Fuck me, your mouth, sweetheart,” Joel groans, as his big hands tangle in your hair, his touch sending a tingling sensation down your spine and making wetness sprout between your legs. “Don’t stop - fuck - don’t you stop.

You moan softly around him, causing Joel’s hips to buck up into your mouth of their own volition, momentarily making you choke in the most perfect way, spit mingling with precum mingling with oil and it’s exquisitely messy, Joel’s fingers knotting tighter in your hair and giving you the confidence to increase your pace on him, desperate now for his release.

And Joel feels it coming - tight heat knotting in his gut as his cock hits the back of your throat over and over -

“Darlin’, I’m - I’m close - ” he tries to warn you.

“You can come in my mouth, Joel, it’s okay,” you tell him truthfully, voice hoarse and sultry when you pull off of him, just for a moment, glancing up at him with a smile that’s maybe too eager.

Joel doesn’t mind it in the slightest. “Fuckin’ Christ, keep goin’,” he grunts and you suck him back down, moving with intent now - intent to finish, to taste.

He doesn’t make you wait long, heat in his core erupting at the feeling of your lips locked around him, coming streaks of spend down your waiting throat when you pull off him to stroke him fervently, coating your taste buds and filling your mouth as he groans out a string of curses above you.

Joel’s eyes stay fixed on the ceiling when he comes, but you make sure he’s looking back at you again before you swallow his seed, just so you can catch his awestruck reaction when you do.

Then, you can’t help it - it’s right there, so close, how could you resist? - you kiss your way over the trail of hairs on his lower belly, taking the opportunity to nip lightly at the squishy skin of his tummy.

Yep, you’d been right. Way too biteable.

“Shit, sweetheart,” Joel laughs breathily, skin glossy and muscles gooey, melded into the massage table - probably forever. “Now you gotta let me say thank you somehow.”

Yeah, right. At the moment, you’re not sure Joel can even move.

“Well,” you say, finding your discarded clothes strewn on the floor and slipping them back on, Joel watching you unabashedly. “You could come back. Same time next week?”

Joel smirks, head titling towards you from its place on the cradle to give you an endearing little wink.

“It’s a date, sweet girl.”

END.

joel miller taglist -

@milla-frenchy @bellaramseymyluv @iconictragedies-reads @tieronecrush @moriartyyouwhore @devilmademepostit @wednesdayday @serenaxpedro @technicolourrry @scarlettstarletts @wroetospidey @princesapedro @kittenkes @youbetterstopstop @javier-penas-wifexx420 @casssiopeia @lavenderslace @beardsanddetectives @zoannearts @bigboiseason123 @mc1503 @lunapascal @livinxdeadxgrl @leeeesahhh @stephredstan13 @djarinsgirl @love-the-abyss @daemonnix96 @mydailyhyperfixations @sexygaypalpatine @worhols @pr0ximamidnight @pepsimunson @montenegroisr @detectivedaughter @huffle-punk @pedropascalismahdad @cutesyscreenname @jae-michael @casual-obsessions @sundaypub @imyourlittlescarlet @take2-pastelnap @beskarandblasters @midnightswithdearkatytspb @westeros-needs-me @obsessive-mannerism @wild-hearts-runfree @scuba-seamus @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jellybeanxc @ethereal-soft @johnwatsn @joelsversion @strang3lov3 @fea-bonita @the-queen-of-fools @pedgeitopascal @pedrit0-pascalit0 @oneofutoo @ikigailereve