Being inclusive with your reader insert fic is a kindness. It tells people of color (poc) that you are considering someone who does not look like you in your fic. It shows love and dedication to our craft. It tells poc that they belong here too and they can see themselves in your story.
Poc aren’t look for activism in fic, we know fandom isn’t that serious, but we should be able to have that same level of escapism when we turn to fic and fandom. We belong here too. This space is for everyone, not just one group of people.
Just to give a few examples of how simple it can be: say “skin warmed” instead of blushed, say “cradled your head” instead of running fingers through hair, say “angles yourself to kiss” instead of standing on tiptoes, use italics to indicate Spanish to take out a throwaway line of “you didn’t understand Spanish” things like that. Small changes that do not impact the fic at all but make a world of difference in inclusivity!
And for anything you can’t/don’t want to change, simply add warning in the beginning. Things like hair descriptors, anything reader might wear, some backstory for reader (especially involving family or where the story is set), readers job, things like that. A lot of times just having that heads up before the fic makes a world of difference!
And one example of kindness we as writers always worked to change: until recently (just a couple years ago) it wasn’t common to label the gender of the reader. But those who aren’t female asked writers to label it so they know which to read and which to avoid, and now it’s common to label the gender/pronouns of the reader. So it is possible! It just takes effort! And I’m a writer myself so I know it can be done!
We can pretend to be a bartender or a bounty hunter or an actress or anything else. But we shouldn’t have to imagine we’re a white one.
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this is certainly being written as a personal service… but pope cody definitely loves himself a chubby girl. i’ve written about this before, but i need more. minors dni. 18+ only
pope cody experienced a shift in attraction after catherine and amy. it had been a while since he had a ‘crush' and after a year or two, he felt as though no one would waltz into his life and tug his heart strings enough to tie him down.
he would go to strip clubs with craig. follow him around like a sick puppy, eager to go home and do absolutely nothing. he would get lap dances by women craig deemed 'sexy enough for the cover of vogue.' they were always thin—the only difference among each woman was the size of their boobs and assess.
he would also go to bars with his brothers and watch them flirt. he would just sit there quietly, observing and realizing how pathetic everyone looked, waiting around for someone to come up to them; or drifting into the depths of their drunk mind to temporarily silence whatever waited for them outside.
pope never fully entertained these women. neither would he agree to the plans his brothers had for him that contained stepping out of his comfort zone to become a man whore.
"i’m not like you, craig," he’d say. "i’m perfectly content with being std-free."
when they would nearly beg him, he’d say, "someone will come. one day. or maybe not. whatever."
he repeated these words in his brain. over and over again.
and then he met you.
you were unlike catherine and amy. younger than them with a different attitude and style. you also had a tummy.
pope thought about bodies when he’d jerk off late at night. not in the degrading way, though. he wasn’t making fun of bodies. but he would think about women with pudges, thick arms and legs while he pumped his cock. he would get off to the thought of sinking his fingers into big thighs with stretch marks dancing along the fatty parts of hips. he would get hard ons while thinking about a faceless woman with precious rolls riding him — his cock, his face, his legs.
sure, he occasionally had sex dreams of catherine or amy, but their bodies and faces only remained as they were in real life for a few minutes. after a solid five minutes, they’d morph into someone else.
once pope met you, he thought that woman in his dreams was you, and it was the worlds way of notifying him that you were on your way.
pope cody was absolutely enamored by you from the jump.
he loved the way your shirt would ride up and expose your stomach that would try to sneak out of your bottoms. he loved how large your thighs were, and how they’d eat up your shorts when you’d sit down. he’d even sink his hands in between them for heat when he’d get too cold. he loved how your body would move when he’d fuck you from the back. he loved counting your stretch marks and running his fingers over them before clutching at your love handles.
he always made sure to let you know how beautiful you were when you’d voice slight insecurities. if you complained about your arms being too big, he’d say something corny you’d usually hate hearing from anyone else.
"i think your arms are beautiful. i don’t think anything other than how strong they are, and how delicious they look in those little tank tops you wear.”
if you complained about having thick legs, he’d give some dirty responses.
"if i were sick and they offered me assisted death or something, i’d ask them to let me die in between your thighs. i’d want you to suffocate me."
you’d probably swat at him and tell him that was terrible, but he’d just shrug and say, "i love being in between your thighs. that would be the perfect way to go."
if you’d take pictures and complain about your stomach being 'too big,' he’d kiss all over it and grip it while he fucked you in missionary. he would throw your legs onto his shoulders while his hands clutched at your tits and stomach. he would thrust so deep inside of you that you’d forget why you were insecure to begin with.
pope cody would also love the weird things a lot of chubby girls hate. the little fat that crawls out of certain tops that dip too low near the armpit. if you were to say, “i hate tops like this! my boobs look weird and the cut makes me look bigger," he’d roll his eyes and tell you to stop throwing a tantrum because he likes that shit. he likes when parts of you pool out of your clothing.
let’s just say… pope cody would be on his hands and knees for a thick girl. he’d want your tummy out all the time. he’d want your thighs out all the time. if it’s warm, he wants them out.
he’s the most body positive person out there. he’d buy you a million bathing suits. he’d take all your bathing suit pictures on his phone and most likely jerk off to them when you’re away.
pope cody is a thickkk man, and he for sure would want a thick woman.
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Day Fourteen of Pedrotober 2025: Freebie!
Pedrotober is hosted by @norththelemon and @alyssamariag. Find the complete prompt list HERE and view my entire Pedrotober 2025 catalog HERE.
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
Summary: You bring home a pumpkin from the greenhouse and Joel helps you carve it!
Rating: M but only for some fade to black suggestive thoughts!
Word Count: 1126
a/n: This one is dedicated to my Pudas, who truly never stops encouraging me to do the things I think I can't do and without whom much of my finest work would not exist.
You haven't thought about carving a pumpkin in years. Arguably, there's no reason for you to even be thinking about it now, but life in Jackson is different. Life in Jackson is almost...normal. And so, pumpkins.
"What if I snuck one out of the greenhouse?" you ask as you pull your sweater over your head.
Joel's across from you, down to his boxers as he tugs on a shirt to sleep in before crossing the room to you. "Bullshit."
"I could," you insist, because it's true. You spend every day in the greenhouse and you're certain that no one would even notice if one tiny pumpkin went missing from the crazy number you'd somehow convinced to grow this year. "Would you help me carve it if I did?"
"Would I help a thief carve a pumpkin?" he asks, loosely looping his arms around your waist to draw you closer. "Wouldn't that make me an accomplice?"
"No, but it would make you the world's best boyfriend."
He looks down at you, amused. It's an emotion you realize he's only recently allowed himself to feel again, the thought that he's comfortable enough to share it with you warms you as much as his body against your own. "And here I thought I'd already earned that title."
"Maybe," you shrug, playfully kissing his cheek. "But maybe not. Maybe you still need to prove it to me."
He huffs. "I don't need a pumpkin to prove that," he assures you, his fingers already toying with the edge of your sweater.
It hits the floor seconds later.
"What are you up to?" Joel asks without hesitation. He's standing in the kitchen, right where you expected him to be when you got home. You are in the doorway, coat still on, your hand behind your back.
"Nothing," you reply innocently, moving toward him with a gentle sway of your hips. His hands find them like clockwork, but then one slips behind your back to try and grab your wrist. "Hey!"
"You're up to something," he reiterates, haphazardly wrestling with you until you finally show him what you've been hiding. "You didn't."
There's no stopping the smile that appears on your face. "I did," you confirm, holding out the tiny pumpkin for him to see. It's just barely big enough to fit in the palm of your hand, but it's cute and it's certainly small enough that no one would even think to miss it. "It was the smallest one."
"Baby, you can't carve shit out of that."
"Come on, Joel," you plead, "I know it has potential. Don't discount the lil' guy before you carve him.
He takes a step back, one hand coming up to rub his forehead as he paces across the kitchen. It's a move that you're familiar with, the gears turning in his head as he pauses for a moment to stir whatever he's started on the stove for dinner. "Can you watch this for a minute?" he asks you, back still turned in your direction.
"Yeah?" you're barely able to return before he's heading toward the garage, leaving you to stare at what looks like some kind of soup. When he reappears, he's got a stack of what looks like some old newspapers in one hand and his Swiss Army knife in the other. It's only after he sets everything on the kitchen table that he looks back at you.
"There," he says almost casually, gesturing to the items like he's expecting some kind of reaction. "You can carve it."
You tilt your head to the side. "Really?"
"Really," he returns, his expression softer now than it had been before.
Unable to contain your excitement at the prospect of engaging in a tradition far too old for the world you live in now, you squeal and rush to sit at the table, setting the pumpkin to the side as you lay the paper out across the surface. Joel laughs lightly, returning to the soup on the stove as you eagerly carve into the tiny pumpkin.
"Can we roast the seeds, too?" you ask without looking at him, too focused on carving the top out to reach the seeds in question.
He stirs the soup, "Might as well. You already stole the pumpkin."
This causes you to look up at him with a frown, but you don't respond. Instead, you move to grab a spoon and a bowl, making quick work of removing the inside of the gourd. Once you've handed it to him with an appreciative smile and a kiss to his jaw, you return to the table.
"Hold on, you're doing it wrong," he says a few minutes later, his hands covered in pumpkin as he preps the seeds for the oven.
You look up at him in shock. "How can I be carving a pumpkin wrong?"
Joel washes his hands and puts the sheet pan in the oven before taking up residence in the chair at your side, reaching over to gently grab the knife out of your hands. "You've gotta be more delicate with it or you're gonna mutilate the poor thing." You watch as he carefully eases the knife back into the pumpkin, carving at a slower pace. When he's finished, he holds it out in front of you both proudly, "there. Now Lil' Boo just needs a candle."
"Lil' Boo?" you question with a laugh.
Joel nods, "it's fitting. He's little and he's a pumpkin and halloween and..." he explains animatedly, but he stops when he realizes that you're far more focused on him than you are on the pumpkin. "What?" he asks, setting the tiny jack-o-lantern back on the table.
"Nothing, it's just..." you begin, taking the opportunity to lean in to kiss him softly before continuing, "you seem happy."
It's obvious that your comment catches him off guard, but he only hesitates a moment before cupping your cheeks in his hands to draw you into another kiss. It's more lengthy than the last, and you only break it for a moment so you can leave your chair to crawl into his lap, straddling him as your lips descend upon his once more.
"How long do we have until the seeds are done roasting?" you whisper as you trail your way along his jaw and down to his neck, his hands roaming your back as you do.
"About twenty minutes," he replies just before forcefully directing you back to kiss him again.
You smile into it, mumbling against his lips, "plenty of time, then."
"For what?"
"For me to show the world's best boyfriend," you begin, pulling back to run your hands down his chest toward his waist, "that I am the world's best girlfriend."
Day Two of Pedrotober 2025: Clint, Freaky Tales
Pedrotober is hosted by @norththelemon and @alyssamariag. Find the complete prompt list HERE and view my entire Pedrotober 2025 catalog HERE.
Pairing: Clint Flood x f!reader
Summary: The tension that's been flooding through your veins since Clint hired you to watch his daughter finally reaches a breaking point.
Rating: E. Y'all. It's straight up pwp. Unprotected p in v, oral (fem receiving).
Word Count: 1596
a/n: GOD I love Freaky Tales and I love Clint, and this was such a fun one to write! It's inspired by a request I got a while back!
Something's been building between you for weeks. Months, actually. Really since the first time you stepped foot in the house he should be sharing with his wife, but instead he's been sharing with you. You and his daughter, the child he hired you to help care for at the recommendation of your uncle's cousin, who just happened to run a late night video store that he happened to walk into the day his wife died. The same one he returned to a few weeks later, desperately looking for something, anything, that might make his daughter stop crying.
And, as it turns out, you're the thing that helps.
But tonight, after the hairline fractures in whatever has been brewing between you turned into full blown cracks, you're the one trying to stay quiet in fear that she'll start again.
Clint has you pressed up against the door to the garage, his hands lighting a fire along your skin as they skim beneath the oversized sweater you're wearing. It was, you figure, only a matter of time before you ended up here, with his lips fused to your neck and a groan threatening to escape your lungs.
"Gotta keep quiet, sweetheart," he whispers like a promise into your skin, but you know that staying quiet is about to be as difficult for him as it is for you. Or it will be if this evening continues to progress the way you think it will. It means that the bedroom isn't an option, not his nor the one next to it that he lets you stay in when he gets home later than he expected. The kitchen you're standing in still feels too close, the baby monitor on the counter where you'd left it, and you realize that there's really only one other option.
"Clint, the car."
He mumbles something against your neck, breath hot as you try to determine if he's even heard you. It's only when his hand reaches for the doorknob at your side that you realize his mind has caught up with yours. "The car," he confirms, roughly tugging you against him as he pulls you both out of the way to open the door. When you step to the side, he catches your arm, but you glance at him with what you hope is a look of reassurance, because you want this. You want him.
"I'm just getting the monitor," you explain, and he softens, releasing you so you can grab it to take with you. When you turn back, he's staring at you with a hint of sadness in his eyes, but it's gone by the time you rejoin him, his hand on the small of your back as he ushers you into the garage.
The car is new, or at least new to him. You were there when he brought it home, able to identify that the sound of the motor was different the moment he pulled it into the driveway, but you understand why he did it. It was the same reason he sat inside it for far too long that afternoon, his movement slow when he eventually came into the house. But in the present he moves quickly, settling into the backseat and tugging you on top of him after. You lean back to put the monitor in the front seat as he closes the door after you, sealing you both in silence.
Clint's breath is heavy, building the heat in the small space as his hands find your hips. You test the waters by grinding down, pressing against the bulge in his jeans that you'd longed to take care of earlier. But you couldn't then, fearful of the way his daughter might wake at the slightest sound. Now, however, all bets are off.
"Tell me you want this," he asks of you, searching for the confirmation that what he'd seen in your gaze earlier is true. "Tell me I can..."
"Yes," you confirm, cutting him off before tangling your fingers in his hair and guiding his lips to yours. Your teeth clash against his and his hips shift up against yours to match the urgent pace you're both keen to set.
The windows are already fogging when he strips you of your sweater, and you're cursing yourself for not wearing the skirt you'd almost put on this morning. It doesn't seem to bother him, though, because he maneuvers you with ease, shifting you to the other side of the bench seat so he can slide your jeans down your legs. "So beautiful," he murmurs, instinctively staying quiet even now as he turns you again so you're on all fours in front of him, knees pressing into the fabric of the seat when you hear the sharp clink of his belt.
It's the soft brush of his flannel against your thighs that you feel first, right before you feel him between your legs. At first it's his fingers, roughly circling your clit over the fabric of your panties, but then it's his cock, the drag heavy as he pulls the same garment to the side to press into your folds.
"Okay?" he asks when he bottoms out, and while you feel impossibly full, you nod anyway because you need more, you need movement, you need him. He obliges, sliding out with ease before finding his home again, a motion that he repeats with increased frequency until you worry that the shake of the car is the thing that will wake the child sleeping soundly on the other side of the house.
"Fuck, Clint," you whine, hands reaching for the door in desperation to hold onto something as your arms threaten to give out. He makes the choice for them, pressing down on your spine, fingering the clasp of the bra he let you keep as you find your cheek resting against the seat. His other hand is tucked beneath your stomach, inching its way closer to where you're connected, and then he's circling you again, fingers matching his thrusts until the darkness of the night turns white.
He isn't far behind, his hand pressed harshly against your stomach as heat fills your abdomen. His other hand is on the headrest of the back seat to stop himself from collapsing on top of you, but your earlier prediction was proven correct as he grunts loudly into the silence.
There's no movement for a moment as he returns to reality, both of you a little in awe of what just happened, but then everything speeds up. Clint pulls out, holding your hips firmly as he awkwardly sits back on the seat, twisting to the side at the same moment he hauls your hips upward. "What are you..." you manage to get out before your moan fills the air, his tongue lapping at the evidence of your combined release as you arch into him.
Overstimulation has never been a problem with the boys you'd fooled around with previously, but now it feels like you're floating as you realize that they were just that - boys. And when you reach your hand back it's unclear if you want to touch him or push him away, but he promptly catches it with one of his, squeezing tightly as he continues to eat you out.
"Come on, baby, one more for me," he mumbles from somewhere between your thighs. "I know you've got another one in you."
You're shaking your head, neck aching from the awkward angle he has you in, but just as you once believed it was only a matter of time before you'd know what it feels like to fuck him, it's only a matter of time before you shatter again. And you do, screaming into the darkness as your fingernails pry into the back of his hand.
It's unclear what happens next, but when you regain consciousness you're no longer on your knees. Instead, you're on your back, settled in his lap with the jacket you didn't know he'd taken off draped over your torso.
"What?" you ask breathlessly when you notice him watching you in the dim light.
Clint carefully moves a strand of hair from your sweaty forehead, "I just never thought..."
His words trail off and he swallows as his gaze grows dark and distant for a moment, so you draw him back to you because you understand. You long to remind him that you don't need him to say it, but now isn't the moment. It's not the time. "Me either," you settle for instead.
Your smile becomes contagious, the corners of his mouth curling up to reflect your own, and then you both freeze as the baby monitor comes to life.
Instinctively, he begins to move, the sound of his daughter spurring him into action, but you wait. You know that cry, and you press a hand to his chest. "Wait," you whisper, urging him to pause for just a moment. The two of you listen as her voice rings out, Clint still tense beneath you, but he slowly relaxes as the cries turn to soft coos and eventually drift back to silence. "See," you whisper back as he settles. There's a huff of his laughter as he resumes raking his ringers through your hair. "Think she'll stay quiet long enough for a shower?"
"I think," Clint returns softly, "the better question is whether you can stay quiet in the shower."
And later, when the water is cascading down your bodies, it turns out that you can stay quiet as long as his hand muffles your every sound.
Day One of Pedrotober 2025: Red or TLOU Press
Pedrotober is hosted by @norththelemon and @alyssamariag. Find the complete prompt list HERE and view my entire Pedrotober 2025 catalog HERE.
Pairing: Joel Miller x reader
Summary: When Joel arrives home from patrol injured, you do your best to clean him up despite his grumbling.
Rating: Fluff City meets Angstopolis up in here, but some minor depictions of injury. Nothing too graphic though!
Word Count: 1475
a/n: WELCOME BACK TO PEDROTOBER! This one's for the Joel wives, I love you all dearly (please don't kill me this month)!
He's not back yet. He's always back by now.
Not that you keep track. There's no reason for you to be keeping tabs on Joel Miller, after all. Not when he lives on his side of the street and you stay on yours, and your only real interaction amounts to the way you'll occasionally ask him to assist with repairing something in your house or when you catch him staring at you from across the Tipsy Bison. That should be it. The full extent of your relationship with Joel Miller, laid out on a platter.
Except, you are currently glued to your front window, watching as the sun sinks on the horizon and you wait for him to get home from patrol. You were only watching because you noticed he wasn't home yet, and now you know that you'll only sleep when you see him, when you know he's safe behind his door. Because that's what neighbors do, even if it feels like perhaps the line between neighbors and something else entirely is growing blurry.
You can attribute part of it to the anxious feeling you've had all day. It's been an extension of the shadows that now slowly consume his house, settled in your chest from the moment you regained consciousness this morning. The constant lurking worry that this was the day something would happen. You don't have an explanation for why you feel like that worry is tied to him, though, especially when there's no real reason you should even feel this way about him in the first place.
And yet, you cannot dispute that you do.
It's only when you finally see him limping down the street toward his house that you move and, in the same moment, consider that you probably don't have a say in any of it anyway. No deciding vote in whether he comes home to you and no sway in what he means to you.
Shockingly, he doesn't protest when you meet him at the base of his porch, your arm instinctively curling around his waist, your shoulder under his arm for support as you help him up the steps. You'd expected at least a grumble, but for the moment he's quiet. Equally so when you settle him into a chair at his dining table and move through his kitchen like you've been here a million times before, even if, in reality, you could count the minutes you've spent here on one hand. You're back by his side a moment later, kneeling in front of him with a wet washcloth ready to wipe at the cuts that are more visible under the fluorescent light than they were outside.
"What the fuck happened?" you inquire as you assess the damage to his already worn skin.
He shakes his head as though he's disappointed in himself, like the next words out of his mouth could have been prevented by his own awareness or hand. "Got ambushed by some infected," he explains, and you immediately stiffen. "I'm fine," he insists when he notices the way you've changed your observation of his wounds. "I got thrown and rolled a bit. Tommy took care of them." Silence passes between you before he continues, "but look...I don't need a nurse and..."
He cuts himself off with a wince as you gently try to move his arm. You pull back quickly, watching his shoulders sag when you do, and you both take a deep breath. "Joel..."
"I just want to sleep."
He's doing everything not to look at you, everything to avoid your gaze. "I'm sure you do," you return, reaching toward him again to tug his torn jacket from his shoulders, "but we've got to take care of some of these wounds first or..."
"I need to take care of these wounds. Please, just let me be," he tries to argue, but his actions defy his words again. He doesn't stop your movement, not even when you've cleared his jacket from his shoulders and you start to work at the buttons of his shirt. "Ow, stop," he winces again when you find the source of the red stains lingering on the fabric - a decently sized wound at the top of his stomach, right along the soft curve that's formed since his arrival in Jackson. "Really, I can..."
"Does it hurt?" you ask, ignoring his protests as you dab at the wound.
He recoils, "yes it hurts so would you just let me..." he reiterates again, finding just enough energy to push you away and shift as he tries to stand.
"And would you just sit still?" you fire back, sitting on your heels in front of him as you take a deep breath. It's a feeble attempt at calming the cocktail of emotions flooding through your veins, but it's an attempt nonetheless, and it's seemingly enough to get him to finally lock his eyes with yours and stop his movement. "Please," you breath out after he does, "just let me help. Where does it hurt?"
You watch the tension finally seep from his body, and while you can't be sure if it's the exhaustion or if it is, just maybe, because of you, it eases something in your shoulders, too. "It hurts everywhere," he responds, voice gruff but lighter than before.
It's impossible for you not to smile as something in the air changes. "Alright then, where doesn't it hurt?" you challenge.
It takes only a second for him to recognize your reference, the hint of amusement bleeding into his expression. "Don't start that with me."
"Start what?" you ask innocently, using the moment to worm your way closer, tugging again at his shirt so you have better access to clean the cut on his stomach. He shudders when you dab at it, but he doesn't stop you this time.
"Can't believe you're even old enough to remember that movie."
You look up at him, pausing your work for a second, "are you kidding? It was a formative part of my childhood." Returning your focus to his wound, you try your best to distract him, "I had the biggest crush on Harrison Ford."
You catch the slight curve of his lips. "Figures," he grumbles even as he tries to steel his expression.
Silence lingers in the kitchen after that, the only sounds those of his soft huffs when the pain becomes just a bit too much. When you've stitched the worst of him up and you're standing between his legs, you gently tilt his head back to clean the smaller cuts on his forehead. "Still hurt?" you ask, taking in the unfamiliar calm on his face now that his eyes are closed.
"Everywhere," he whispers again, and, just for a second, you let yourself drown in the moment.
"Where doesn't it hurt?" you ask again softly, testing waters that you aren't sure you should be wading into.
Joel moves, and you're certain he's about to push you away, but then he tilts his good arm up to present you his elbow as he watches you carefully. "Here."
Your heart pounds in your chest, but then you lean down slightly to let your lips press against the rough patch of skin. "Here," he notates again, pointing to a spot along his hairline, and you press a kiss there, too. "Here's not too bad," Joel continues as his voice grows quiet and he follows the motions of a movie neither of you have seen in years. You follow suit, your lips trailing down to his eyelid and eventually to his lips.
It's hesitant at first, the kiss you never truly believed you'd have with him, and for a brief moment, he pulls you in, one hand against your waist to tug you closer, but then it falls, fingers trailing along your ass until it falls limply at his side, the kiss breaking at the same time.
When you pull back, you find peace once more. He's not asleep, but he's tired, the exhaustion finally settling in for him.
"You need sleep," you point out needlessly.
Joel nods slowly, "I do."
You take a step back, ready for him to throw you out, ready for the way you'll probably find him on your porch in the morning as he tells you that this was all a mistake, but he stops your racing thoughts before they go further. "Would you..." Joel trails off, and when you look back at him, you see the same uncertainty that you feel.
You only nod.
You help him up the stairs to his room. He lets you settle him into bed. He asks you to stay. And as you relax into his arms, you find that while you hope that this is the last time he comes home like this, it isn't the last time he comes home to you.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
Rating: Rated M for mature themes involving mental health, loss, and attempted suicide.
Word Count: 1148
a/n: Longggggggg time, no see everyone! The writing muse hasn't visited me much lately, and when it has I'm usually working on projects for my day jobs, so a lot of my energy has gone into that instead of this, but this is one that was actually requested anonymously a while back! Just gonna say sorry in advance.
She's gone. Sarah's gone.
The loss just feels numb now, with the first hours of what people are already starting to refer to as the outbreak ripping lives apart in a way that had once only seemed possible in apocalypse movies. Not that you've had much time to process any of it, even if their screams, hers mixed with his, still haunt you as the sun blossoms on the horizon. It's impossibly beautiful when the light starts to illuminate the room, so much so that it feels cruel. That this kind of beauty exists when there's nothing any of you could do - not you, not Tommy, not Joel - other than go on now in the hope that maybe you'd survive this for her.
For whatever this world might be worth, that is.
You roll over, your back arching from the painful combination of the intense stress of the last few days and the shitty motel mattress you've been trying to sleep on. Tommy had been the one to deem the old Motel 6 safe enough, and Joel volunteered to keep watch despite your protests. He hadn't slept, not really, since it happened, but he'd simply kissed you softly with the assurance that he'd be fine and that you should get some rest. Tommy had made no such protest, but where he passed out quickly, for you, unsurprisingly, sleep never really came.
Sarah wasn't your daughter, not really, even if you'd just recently begun allowing yourself to imagine what it would be like to fill that space in her heart, but it still haunts you in a way that must pale in comparison to the weight on Joel's shoulders. But Joel is Joel, and while all of you try to process the impossible, all you can do is help him through it.
With a heavy sigh, you instinctively check the clock on the table between the beds, only to find the digital screen dark. You glance at your watch instead, the small hands alerting you that someone should take over the watch, but when you glance over at the chair where you expect to find him, it's empty.
"Shit," you say out loud, rousing Tommy from where he'd been snoring on the other bed. "Tommy..." you warn as he blinks the sleep away, and it only takes seconds for him to come to the same conclusion you have. He's up just as quickly, grabbing his rifle as he heads to the door, swinging it open and exposing you both to the cool morning air.
"He's fine," the younger Miller brother insists, although you're not sure if he's convincing either of you. "I'm sure he's just, I don't know, doing a fucking perimeter check or something."
"A perimeter check?" you question, just before the distant sound of one of the infected causes you both to turn. "Fuck. You go left, I'll go right?"
Tommy nods curly before turning his back to you, gun already drawn as he heads down the side of the building. You step in the opposite direction, heart beating in your chest as you will yourself not to scream his name. There's no guarantee now that any sound you make won't draw attention, but it doesn't stop you from increasing your pace the further you go.
You try to reassure yourself that maybe Tommy is right. Joel's probably just out checking the perimeter the same way the three of you had done the night before, but it isn't until you find him behind the motel that you finally allow yourself to breathe a sigh of relief.
He's illuminated by the soft morning sun, his back turned to you, pack at his feet, and for a moment it's almost like he's simply admiring the sunrise, with pastel purple clouds turning to pink and eventually yellow in the sky that stretches above you. There's birdsong, somehow drowning out the distant sound of explosions, and you take a step toward him, your mouth already opening to call his name when you see him raise the gun to his head.
"JOEL!"
Your cry rings out a split second before the crack of the gunshot, Joel slumping to his knees as you rush forward, catching him just before his body fully hits the ground. The gun clatters against the pavement, and you kick it away, holding him against you as the wound at his temple begins to bleed.
"Fuck," you mutter, immediately ripping at your sleeve so you have something to help stop the flood of red. Tommy appears within seconds, the sound of the shot directing him to where you cradled Joel's head in your lap, but he stills when he puts the pieces together.
"I've got you, baby," you whisper, rocking him back and forth slightly as you keep pressure on his wound. He's looking up at you, eyes somewhat clear in what you're taking as a good enough sign. Tommy pulls the shirt off his shoulders and passes it over to you to help, but you don't dare move, keeping the pressure of the now stained fabric pressed against the side of Joel's head. He tries again to hand the shirt to you, but you glare at him, and Tommy backs up a few feet as you turn your focus back to his brother.
You can feel the way he's gripping your arm, clinging to you like a lifeline, and, you realize, you are his lifetime right now. "Why the fuck did you do that?" you whisper to him as your body begins to rock again, the same way you'd watched him rock Sarah just days ago. "Why, Joel?"
"I..." he begins to speak, and while you have no idea how deep the wound on the side of his head is etched into his flesh, you can feel the tears slip from your eyes at the sound of his voice, sure and steady. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't fucking do that to me ever again," you return before he can say anything else. "Don't you..."
"I won't leave you," he cuts you off, and you can feel Tommy's eyes on you as Joel continues. "I promise I won't."
It doesn't feel like enough, not after everything that's happened over the last few days, but it has to be. You remind yourself of that as you push his curls back on the opposite side of his head with your fingers. "You promise?" you ask again anyway.
The sun reaches past the tree line, it's warmth settling over you as you take in his response, spoken loud enough that you know it's for Tommy just as much as it is for you. "I promise," he assures you again, and this time you can see it in his eyes. The vow to you both that even though it feels like you've already lost everything, you'll be damned if you lose one another, too.
Pairing: No Outbreak (or Pre-Outbreak, if you prefer) Joel Miller x reader
Rating: Nothing too crazy here unless I need to warn you about the...no, nevermind, I'm not gonna spoil that. Nothing explicit though!
Word Count: 1843
a/n: Long time, no see! I have been, and I cannot express this enough, completely overloaded with work for what now feels like months, so I have had the bare minimum of time for writing anything that isn't related to either a historical site or legal documents for my daytime jobs. But this one has been sitting in my drafts for a while, and I finally got around to finishing it, so here's Joel!
He calls you in the middle of the night. He's never done that before.
After all, your relationship with your neighbor doesn't warrant anything more. It begins and ends with his daughter, so there isn't much reason for him to call when the rest of the world is asleep. But that was before, and this is now.
There’s nothing on the other end of the line when it clicks on, your spoken greeting met with silence until you’re about to hang up. It’s his whispered plea for you to come watch her that makes you stop. The desperation in his voice enough to have you out the door minutes later, crossing the street in your slippers as the cicadas chirp in the midnight air.
You can’t help but notice that his truck is alone in the driveway when you pass it.
He answers before you can knock, ushering you in like there’s something to hide about your presence here. “I didn’t know who else to call,” Joel explains quickly, his voice low. “Can you stay? She’s asleep in her room. Probably will be all night but I have to…” he rambles, but his voice betrays him at the last moment, crackling and then going silent entirely.
“I can stay,” you assure him, bile rising in your throat as you observe the other obvious pieces now missing from his home - her jacket by the door, the shoes that had once taken up residence next to his - the evidence that she is now missing from what had been her home, too.
You don’t ask where he’s going as he pulls on his boots. You don’t need to, even if a part of you wants to hear him say it. That even though she hasn’t been good to him, even though she couldn’t care less about the child they brought into the world, he was still going after her. He waits for you to question him, but you don’t, because it isn’t your place.
After all, you’re just here for Sarah.
He’d never told you the full story of how they ended up together, living in this house that Joel tried to make a home. You knew he loved her, probably in ways she never deserved. Or, at least, he had loved her, once.
He doesn’t find her that first night, and he doesn’t in the days that follow, either, but he still asks you to stay as he stops at every bar and hotel within a 200-mile radius.
You’re there when the evidence that she’s alive arrives on his doorstep in the form of divorce papers, a witness to the flash of heartbreak that crosses his face before he takes his daughter from your arms and tells you to go home.
You do, repeating to yourself as you cross the street that you’d only been there for Sarah, that he’s got her now, but it’s impossible to stop the other thoughts that linger in your mind. The part of you that wonders how she could have left it all behind.
How she left Sarah, yes, but also how she left him.
“I can stay,” you assure him a few weeks later when he calls an hour after he promised to be home. He’s doing his best, you know that, trying to figure out how to cope with the new challenges that come with being a single parent. Sarah’s only a couple of years old, still too young to truly understand what she’s lost, but he’s caring for her on his own.
So you help.
You become as comfortable in their home as you are in your own, evenings spent with Sarah after you pick her up from the neighbors after work. It’s a routine, putting his daughter to bed before settling in on the couch, where Joel finds you asleep often enough that he’s eventually telling you to take his bed the next time.
It’s easy to protest his offer at first because the suggestion that you might curl beneath his comforter feels like a step too far. For a while, it makes it impossible for you to cross the threshold of his bedroom, the sheets neatly arranged because he knew you’d be there. But eventually, you break, tentatively stepping past the door and toward the bed that smells like him when you ease yourself into it.
The clock on the nightstand reads nearly ten, your eyes drooping as you do your best to take in the details of his space. It’s nothing out of the ordinary - a few paintings, a guitar in the corner, a closet open to reveal a collection of flannel shirts - but eventually you linger on a shape on the wall. There had been a photo there, once. You know there had to have been because it’s been replaced with the empty outline of the frame that had once been displayed there. The shadow of her memory.
It’s then that you realize that all traces of her presence have been erased. Pulled from your memory the same way he seems to be pulling them from his and from Sarah’s. It keeps you awake, far from the tug of sleep, until you hear the garage door opening.
You rearrange the sheets on his bed, you pass him in the hallway, and he thanks you before you return to your home with a strange sense of loneliness settling in your bones.
You can sense already that there’s something off about him when you arrive that morning, surrendering your Saturday to spend with Sarah so he and Tommy could work overtime on a job. He’d called late the night before, out of options, and you had, as always, agreed.
Using the key he’d given you so long ago that it feels like a distant memory, you let yourself in, and he mumbles something about being back by seven before hurrying toward the door. You almost stop him, you should stop him, because unlike every other encounter you’ve had with Joel Miller, there's something different about the look in his eyes this morning. Instead, you say nothing.
The day itself passes quickly, games and some pool time and a nap with Sarah all mixed in with trying to appease her food preferences. The sun rises and then slowly sinks back toward the horizon with no sign of Joel, his seven-o-clock timeline replaced with a phone call to let you know it would be later. To make sure that you’re okay to stay.
You put Sarah to bed, reading her a story and assuring her that her dad would be safely home soon. That he’d come in to kiss her goodnight when he was. It makes you long for something, for her or for yourself or for both of you you’re not entirely sure, but you can see it in the look in her eyes. The same way you saw it in Joel's.
With the lights turned off and Sarah tucked in, your feet carry you instinctively to his bed, curling beneath the blankets, exhausted in a way you only ever are when you find yourself in his bedroom, not that you’d ever admit it to him. You fall asleep, you know you do, because you don’t hear the garage door this time. You don’t wake when he goes to kiss Sarah goodnight or hear the sound of his footsteps in the hall, either. It’s only when his hand gently brushes your shoulder that you jolt back to reality.
“Joel?” You question, trying to blink past the sleep in your eyes to see him more clearly, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you.
“I’m sorry,” he responds immediately, and it’s only when you notice how late it is that you understand why he’s apologizing. “Was on my way home when Tommy called from the sheriff’s office again and…”
“Hey,” you pause him, reaching out to place your hand on his arm. It stops his rambling, but you pull back the moment he tenses at your touch, clearing your throat before you continue. “It’s okay. You’re dealing with a lot right now.”
He doesn’t like to talk about it, but you know what’s on his plate. The divorce and taking care of Sarah is only the start of it. Tommy isn’t much help most days, still too young to truly understand the responsibility that comes with adulthood.
And then you see it again, the look in his eyes. The flicker of something deeper. Guilt, maybe, for what happened with his wife, or that he can’t be there for Sarah the way he’d like to be. Regret, that he hadn’t tried hard enough to make things work, or worry that he won’t be able to provide a good enough life for his daughter on his own. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s something you feel on occasion, too. Something you thought you saw in Sarah’s eyes the same way you could see it in your own when you look in the mirror.
Loneliness.
You know it’s not your place, that you shouldn’t do what you do next, but then you return your hand where it had been a moment before. He doesn’t tense this time when your fingers connect with the bare skin of his arm. “I can stay,” you offer, although when the words leave your mouth you’re not sure that you even understand what you really mean by them. Staying for Sarah has become commonplace, ensuring her well-being a part of your life, but this? This is something else entirely.
There’s a tear that rolls down his cheek, one he tries to hide, but with your hand on his arm you stop him from wiping at it. Instead, you lean up from your position on the bed, reaching to brush it from his face. He moves a moment later, and for a second you think he’s going to refuse your offer, but when you try to untangle yourself from his sheets, he turns back and looks at you again, silently communicating the request he can’t seem to get past his lips.
He disappears into the bathroom, your heart thundering in your chest until he reappears in a t-shirt and sweatpants. The sound continues to resonate through your entire body as he slips in beside you, as he reaches for you, and as you curl yourself around him. You feel his heartbeat alongside your own, steady and sure against your hand as it settles on his chest and against your cheek when you press it into the panes of his back. It only slows when you tug him a little tighter, a reminder that you're not just there for Sarah anymore. Now, you're there for him, too.
And unlike the woman who broke his heart, the one who left him and the daughter they share, you won't leave. You won't abandon him or walk away. You won't disappear in the quiet of the night or let the shadow of your existence fade from his memory, because all you've ever known how to do is stay.
Saw a tweet that said this is Joel finding you in the nursery and I haven’t been okay since. Like he comes home from patrol and you’re upstairs painting little butterflies on the wall and some of Benji’s old onesies are in the laundry basket waiting to be folded.
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Pairing: Joel Miller x reader
Rating: We all need fluff right now and that's what this is.
Word Count: 1133
a/n: I hope everyone is surviving out there. In an attempt to halt my near-constant crying I wrote this. Note that there are two little references in here that will hopefully help everything feel a little bit better are also little spoilers for Part II, so if you want to avoid any and all spoilers, let that be known. It's pretty darn tiny though.
"Joel?"
Your voice is soft, but it still feels obtrusive as you sneak your way past the door to his office. It's actually pretty spacious, the space his brother has set up for him amidst the growing town of Jackson, but in the quiet of the night, even though you know you're not bothering him in the slightest, it still feels almost like you're intruding.
He's at the desk, though, right where you expected him to be. His glasses are perched low on the bridge of his nose and you can see the tension in his neck and shoulders, a sure sign that he's been focused on the plans in front of him for far too long.
"Hey," he breathes out, looking over at you with what seems to be relief. You knew from Maria that he's been bombarded all day with everything from questions to problems to Tommy's constant insistence that they have to work faster. You and Joel could both easily admit that there was an obvious need for additional homes, but you were also aware that construction takes time. One would think Tommy would understand that, especially considering his own background and the fact that none of this is what it was before, but you'd also known from the look in Maria's eyes and the lateness of the hour that Joel was the one putting it on himself to try and make it happen.
The door closes softly behind you as you move to his side, setting down a thermos on the desk next to the multitude of renovation plans. "Brought you some coffee. I thought it might help."
"Come to check on me is more like it," he jokes, but he's already taken off his glasses and is reaching to draw you into his lap. You don't argue, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you settle onto his thighs, a light kiss pressed to his forehead as he buries his face against your neck.
"Maria told me Tommy was on your case today," you explain simply, fingers running carefully through his curls.
Joel nods. "Maria and I met this morning about the houses on Clark Street, but then her idiot husband had to come in here and give me a debrief of everything we'd already covered because he missed the meeting. Wasted nearly a fucking hour of my day."
It makes you laugh, the way the rivalry between the Miller brothers seems to transcend all reason, even if at the heart of it you knew they love each other more than either would be willing to admit. "Is that why you're still here working when he's at home?"
There's no response from him, just quiet, and you know you've hit the nail on the head. This isn't the first time, and you knew it wouldn't be the last, that Joel took the needs of the town on his own shoulders. You needed houses and somehow he always made it happen, even if it meant stretching himself too thin.
"You know what? Come on," you continue suddenly, pressing another kiss to his hairline before standing. "Let's go home."
The protests begin immediately. "I really need to..."
"Joel," you return sternly, already grabbing his coat off the hook. "Home. Now."
There's a long sigh and then he stands, turning off the desk lamp and crossing to take his jacket from you. He shrugs it on and then his hand finds yours, fingers woven together as you lead him from the office and out into the cool night air.
Spring hasn't quite set in yet, but the harsh realities of winter are finally behind you. It's one of the reasons the council has been pushing for new houses, almost too aware of the fact that construction is easier with the warming weather and with new people showing up every day it's become a necessity to move as quickly as possible.
Not that Joel needs to be thinking about that right now.
"I made some chicken for dinner," you tell him, swinging your arms about just slightly in the way that makes you both feel like you're simply two lovers on an evening stroll. You do your best to find these kinds of moments, the ones that remind you of the good, because if you didn't you'd simply spend your whole existence dwelling on the opposite. On the constant weight of ensuring the survival of a community twenty-seven years after the end of the world. "I could heat it up for you when we get back."
"Sounds nice," he returns, his pace slowed to match yours as you make your way home. There are still a few people out and about, but not many, and it almost makes your town feel small again, in the way it had when you'd both first arrived. You're quiet, even as you pass to the edge of town and eventually find your way along the dirt path that will guide you home. The house you share sits in the distance, unassuming amidst fields that will soon blossom into a lush green landscape.
He doesn't let go of your hand until you're both through the door, only relinquishing his grasp after you kiss him quickly and head to the kitchen to find him some dinner. You hear him sit on the bench by the door, removing his boots with a huff, and then the unmistakable creek of the floorboards as he transitions to the living room.
You talk to him absentmindedly all the while, about your day, about watching JJ for Dina and Ellie, about what you're hoping to plant in the garden this summer, but it's only when the chicken is plated that you realize he hasn't said a word.
"Joel?" you question, making your way back to the living room. "Baby?" you ask again, crossing the threshold to find him sprawled out on the couch, sound asleep.
It's peaceful, really, the way he seems to soften in slumber, and it makes you relax, too. Your feet carry you to his side, abandoning the food on the counter as you grab the blanket from the back of the couch. You shift him slightly, just enough for you to wedge onto the sofa next to him and drape the afghan over both of your bodies. He wakes, ever so slightly, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you back against him, nose tucked into the back of your neck as he drifts off once more.
And the next day, when you wake to find him already gone, the blanket wrapped tightly around your body and a note on the coffee table that reminds you he loves you, all you can hope for is that the coffee in the thermos still on his desk isn't too cold.
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
Rating: E for a number of reasons. Unprotected p in v mostly with a tiny hint of a breeding kink and also mention of struggles with infertility and pregnancy.
Word Count: 2074
a/n: My partner in evil put this thought into my head and I nearly collapsed onto the floor when she told me, so here it is. Please note that this fic contains MAJOR spoilers for Part II of TLOU, so please read at your own risk. I also actually cried when I read this back for the first time so, I guess, read at your own risk with that in mind too.
Again, this fic contains MAJOR spoilers for Part II of TLOU under the cut.
The house smells of sawdust.
It often does, lately. Long days followed by equally long nights, ones where you see him only to refresh the stale coffee in his mug and breathe in the thick scent of the wood as the stars settle into their places above the earth. He's comfortable there, in the second bedroom you'd once dreamed of making a nursery, the room he'd noticed, too, on that first day when Tommy showed the pair of you the house that now sits behind a white fence and a mailbox with the name Miller painted onto the side. The small space on the wall opposite the bedroom you share, turned instead into a studio when the universe made it clear that it was never intended to be anything else.
It's where you know he is now, the warmth of your bed almost preventing you from rising to find him, but it's the empty feeling that lingers whenever he's not beside you that forces you from beneath the comforter. The cold air hits you with a brisk intensity, a shiver rippling across your skin as you follow the soft glow of the lamp before him.
"You comin' to bed?" you ask softly, slipping your hands beneath the white t-shirt he has on to run along the firm muscles of his back. You shift your grasp until your fingers land against the soft expanse of his stomach, easing him back into your embrace as you settle your chin on his shoulder.
"I'm almost finished," Joel insists, the same way he always does when you try to convince him to set down the tools. Examples of his work, the creations he's made to take his mind off of everything else, line the walls and the shelves are filled with carefully crafted trinkets and sculptures, the latest of which sits on the bench before him.
You tilt your head to press your lips against his neck, whispering against him, "it's late. Come on, come to bed," you continue, tightening your grip around his middle as you try your best to drag him from the stool he's perched on.
"I just want to finish this last bit."
Reluctantly, you pull yourself away from him, moving toward the door, your footsteps muffled by the thick socks on your feet, but he catches your hand. "Wait," he murmurs, drawing you back against him until he's settled you between his spread legs, warm in his embrace when he settles his head against your chest, his good ear pressed so he can hear your heart beating.
Weaving your fingers into his greying curls, you hold him against you, lips pressed down on the top of his head. "Hey," you whisper into his hair, "it's gonna be alright, you know. She'll come around."
Joel only tightens his grip, shutting out the world by burying himself in your embrace. There are tears you know he won't allow to fall, but you hold him tighter anyway, a silent acknowledgement that here, with you, he's safe. Behind these walls, in this room, there has only ever been love, and that's all there ever will be.
The events of the evening had shaken you both to your core, the sun disappearing below the horizon as your existence shifted drastically within a matter of hours. The truth, always lingering and always revealed, finally making an appearance after five long years. It's why you don't rush him, content to remain for as long as he needs you.
"Can I...I need..." he stumbles over his words when he finally pulls back to look up at you, but he doesn't even need to ask. You know.
So you nod.
"Come here," he says softly, guiding you to straddle his thigh. He pulls back once you're seated, just far enough to meet your gaze, silently contemplating you. There's a certain amount of gentleness about Joel that he's sometimes reluctant to show anyone outside the walls of your home, but it's evident here, in the way that he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, that he has no hesitation showing you.
"Joel," you breathe out like some kind of prayer.
He seals his lips against yours a moment later. You can feel the pressure of his hands on your hips and you're more than willing to let him guide you, the movements he initiates slow and deliberate, like he's at risk of breaking you should he grip too hard.
There's no doubt in your mind that you'd take Joel any way you could get him, and after five years the exhaustive list of ways you have is long, but this? This is perhaps your favorite version of the man you love. Lingering touches followed by the warmth of his tongue along your collarbone, pleasure sparking when his thumb trails between you to circle your clit. It's the soft ease of his encouragement, whispered against your skin like a promise, and the shudder that runs through your body when he tugs you impossibly closer, moving you so you're properly straddling his lap instead of just one leg. It's a movement that allows you to grind down against him, right where you belong.
"Hold onto me," he instructs eventually, when you're teetering on the edge wishing he would let you fall. Still, you do as he says, clinging to him by wrapping your legs around his waist until he has you placed atop his workbench, the wood rough beneath your bare thighs, parted for him to slot between just as he'd done for you earlier.
You glance briefly at the sculpture beside you, the one he'd been working on when you'd found him. The very piece he'd been crafting for weeks now. You hadn't asked him why he'd chosen a cowboy as the subject, but deep down you knew that too. After all, even he had been a child once, and you suspected that your nephew's recent obsession with them had spurred something in your husband's brain. It makes you long to reach out, to graze your fingers along the smooth surface of the horse's body, but then you're pulled back to the present by the sudden feeling of his cock against your center.
His motions are careful as he guides his length into your heat. It's always been a stretch, but at this angle it feels nearly like he's split you in two, even as he takes the time he knows you need to adjust. "Easy, sweetheart," Joel soothes when you involuntarily suck in a breath, your grip on his shoulders tightening as he finally bottoms out.
Your voice is a whimper when you ask him to move, parting your legs further to allow him easier access as he pulls back. He pauses for a moment, his gaze falling to where you're joined, and you follow suit, watching as he pulls back only to plunge forward again, back into your welcoming embrace. He's so close like this, effectively fucking you into his workbench when he changes the angle by encouraging you to fall back against its surface.
He runs his hand beneath the flannel that covers you, rough skin against the soft panes of your stomach. There's a hesitation, and you catch him staring down at where they rest beneath the fabric, his pace slowing for just a moment, as though he's imagining something. You feel it, too. The longing for what you are likely to never have.
Eventually, you inch closer, the need for him urging you on as you attempt to mold your body back into his, but he halts you, pressing firmly down to keep you in place as he begins to move again. The pace is brutal, needy, and your climax builds quickly until the feeling of him effortlessly sliding against your walls becomes enough to drive you over the edge.
It's only then, after your soul has returned to his studio, that he works on reaching his own climax. He lets you move, an opportunity you take eagerly as you surround his body with your own, like you'll never be close enough. Wiry hair brushes up against your clit as he rocks into you and suddenly you feel the spasms take over your body a second time without much warning. It takes him with you, his movements slowing until all you feel is the warmth of his release inside you.
Joel lets his head fall to the crux of your neck and shoulder, breathing deeply as he tries to calm his racing heart. You make fun of him for his age more often than not, but tonight your breathing is just as erratic, coming in deep gasps as you hold him.
He finally slips from you with a grunt, moving to tuck himself back into his jeans, and then you notice. You realize the destruction your coupling has caused, the sculpture that had once sat beside you on the workbench now cracked against the ground. Your legs are wobbly when you stand, the thick release of him sliding down your thigh as you carefully reach for the pieces.
"Fuck, Joel, I'm so sorry..." you start, immediately apologizing as you let your fingers run over the piece, now more blunt edges than smooth surfaces.
He takes it from you carefully, setting it back on the bench before enveloping your shaking hands in his own, thumbs rubbing over your inner wrists. "It's alright. I'll fix it."
You can't help but stare at the cowboy as you shake your head in disbelief. "How?" you ask, tears springing at the corners of your eyes, but he never lets them fall. Not when he tugs you back against his chest so you can press yourself against him.
"Easy," he breathes out, the deep timbre of his voice a soothing balm as he rubs your back in long, languid motions. "I learned from the best." He draws you away from him, thumb pressed against your chin as he encourages you to meet his gaze. "You fixed me, after all."
The room is silent then, the only lingering sound that of the howling winter wind outside, the first sign of an impending storm. "I love you, you know that, right?" you tell him just as you feel the soft press of his lips against your forehead. "No matter what the future holds, that's never going to change."
He simply nods, and then his hand ghosts down your arm to tangle his fingers with yours. "Come on," he whispers, tugging you out of the studio, "should probably head to bed. I've got an early patrol tomorrow."
You linger for a moment longer, focused on the cowboy until he switches off the lamp and allows darkness to consume the space, but the broken figure lingers heavy on your mind long into the night.
Morning comes all too soon. It always does, especially when as of late you feel as though there are mere minutes between when your head hits the pillow and the moment you rise again, following the routine so ingrained in you now that it's nearly painful. A life you never expected to live, where the early light wakes you before anything else, filtering through the firmly closed windows and past the soft fabric of the curtains you'd insisted Joel hang the first night in your home.
You tread the familiar path to the room next to yours, sock-covered feet dragging on the hardwood floors until you're surrounded by him. By the guitars on the walls and the shelves lined with his creations, your eyes landing on the cracked cowboy above a crib. He'd never fixed it, he never had the chance, but still it remained here, watching over your daughter as she sleeps soundly.
It's impossible to do anything but watch her, the miracle that brought purpose in a world where there wasn't any other reason left to remain. A child that would never know the gentle comfort of her father or the trace of his rough fingertips across her cheeks, catching the tears long before they could fall. The daughter that you would tell of the man who saved you, and the one who loved her mother more than anything in the world. The one who would've loved her too.
She shifts, her soft cry echoing in the room you'd always dreamed would be a nursery. The room that still smells of sawdust.
