AU Joel Miller [AU meaning: my real life JM hehe] x Reader (femme, afab with hair to grab)
Summary: A little late night hangout with your situationship.
My first (or second?) little drabble recounting last night with my situationship who reminds me SO much of JM. Last night required zero fluffing, I can't believe this is real life sometimes lol. I could write about this man forever. His lore runs deep and I am HOPELESSLY inlove with him. I know, shame. Can you blame me though? Anyways, would love your thoughts and if you have your own experiences with an older man situationship, I need a support group so hit a sad girl up. lmao.
I was out, grabbed a couple of drinks at the bar behind my apartment then had the idea to enjoy the cool breeze by taking a long time getting home.
Joel: Back home?
Just got in!
Joel: What's next?
Idk. what IS next?
Joel: Smoke reefer and put my cock in your mouth?
Mmmm... you read my mind perfectly sir.
Joel: Let me in bad girl.
Sometimes after not seeing each other for a week, he just shows up, eyes black and lust-filled. I let him in and we head to my room. He leans on the door-frame and watches me smile at him as I get comfortable on my bed. I know heâs been thinking of me all week. Occasionally sending me a text on how heâd like to use me.
If only he knew, he could use me whenever he wanted.
Itâs still a little warm from the mid-summer day heat, he takes his shirt off, lights a blunt and hands it to me. I roll on my stomach and take a couple hits. He grabs my ass and flips me over to unbutton my shorts and pull them off, Iâm left in a cropped band tee and a lavender thong. The way he goes right in to bite me on my right shoulder makes me whine, he mustâve liked that reaction because heâs gripping my thighs hard and tossing me back on my stomach. He rips down my panties and spanks my ass hard. I whine again and he growls in my ear, âass up, legs togetherâ I have no time to prepare after obeying before he plunges into me. âYouâre so wet fâme, Sweet Potato. Miss me that bad, huh?â. I nod and can only muster up an âmhmmâŚâ as I continue to get lost in the ecstasy. His hand wraps around the front of my face, likely to muffle my moans. (His way of being conscientious of my roommate who is dead asleep next door.) He continues to fuck me at a brutal pace, his hand releasing my mouth to slide to the side of my face while hooking two fingers inside my cheek.
I start bobbing my ass to the rhythm of his thrusts, I know that drives him crazy. He spanks me hard a couple more times before he gets off and now heâs laying down. He picks up the blunt we didnât finish and lights back up. I patiently waited for my turn by rubbing his body, letting my hands wander and squeezing parts I know would feel good. He passes the blunt, I take a few good hits and send it back to him. I look at him and smile, I know I looked fuck out already. My eyes wandered down to his cock, it needs attention.
My lips go right in to kiss him all over his shaft and tip. Itâs angry and red, in dire need of my attention. I can tell by his growls and moans, heâs already enjoying this. Heâs smoking his cigar sized blunt and watching me go to work. I take as much as I can of him in my mouth, slicking his member with my saliva. I let his tip enter my throat as I choke, he loves it when I gag. âMmmm⌠such. A. Good. Girl.â Iâve been waiting to hear those words in person for days. Iâve also been waiting to worship his cock for that long too, i can tell my enthusiasm has him ready to burst when he wraps his hand in my hair to lift my mouth off his cock. âWhere do you want me to cum, Sweet Potato? In your mouth, in your cunty or should we try that ass?â My mind reads blank when I heard him say ass⌠heâs never done that before. Before I think too hard or long on that one, I sit up and climb on top of this mountain of a man and slide my dripping pussy right down on him. That was my answer, I bounce on it slow at first, I want him to feel how needy I am for him. His moans are all I want to hear. It starts to feel too good for me and I ride him faster. His hand wraps around my throat and he squeezes as soon as my hands grip his forearm, he loves that. âFuck, baby, Iâm going to fill your pussy now.â That sends me over the edge and my pussy is convulsing around him, he lets out the most guttural growl and squeezes my body tight as he shoots his load into me.
As I my heart rate starts to come down, I'm still sitting on him with him in me. A part of me wanted to stay put for a while longer and I did. We started having a conversation about music. We both discovered that we both love old Italian jazz composers for old romance movies. We spent the next half an hour finishing the blunt and quietly flipping through our favorite songs and talking about films. A common occurrence and one of my favorite things about him. We always have good conversation. Our interests match, sometimes I wonder if I'm actually a 50 year old man on the inside. (I'm sure he wonders too lol) As much as he is an enigma to me, I have a feeling I am the same. I'm also pretty sure he has no idea why I even like him so much.
If only he knew.
He checks the time and sees that most bars are closed except for one we go to often. A dive bar known for being open late and serving decent fried chicken. We head there. It always takes a while to get our food so we watch the sports channel on the tv in front of us. He's a well of knowledge and I know just enough about almost everything to be able to keep the conversations going. We finished up eating around last call. He decides he wants a sweet treat. My apartment is on our way the the patisserie that has a fancy vending machine that serves pastries and sweets 24/7, another place we frequent. I can tell he's having a great time because he slips his hand into my hair and squeezes, I think its a way he like to show his affection. He rubs and pats my cheeks, pinching them lightly. Petting my hair, pulling lightly, and controlling the movement of my head, stretching my neck in a oddly comfortable way. We step out the car to pick up a few slices of tiramisu and head back to my place. We ate them together in his car, talking more about old movies and film scores. Once we finish, he leans in. He pulls my head to touch his and he kisses each of my eyelids. One of his favorite things to do. He leans back and looks at me. I feel bold and I think the drinks gave me a looser tongue tonight, I blurt out: "So will it be another week before I see you again?" He chuckles and smiles. "We'll see each other soon, Sweet Potato."
I look at him with a puppy dog look, "I just really like hanging out with you."
"Ditto, Sweet Potato."
I kiss him on the cheek and tell him to get home safe. He promises to text me when he does and I nod. I get out of his car and disappear into my apartment. I strip my clothes and get into bed to wait on the text that he made it home.
Joel: Home!
Sweet Dreams!
And then I drift off to sleep, only to dream about him.
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I just had a moment like this with a man and wow I am unwell. He saw a shadow on my face and thought I had a black eye and grabbed my face to double check. Oomph.
hmm just imagine how warm and strong joelâs hands feel on your skin. palms digging into your back as he presses some of his weight into you, the pressure perfect and the feel of his hands intoxicating. the small moans that leave your mouth has him growing hard in his sweat pants, the darkened room lending to the late hour and heightened senses
heâs grunting with the next smooth motion over your shoulders, the hardness of him jutting into the softness of your upturned ass. his thighs straddle the back of your own, immobilizing you beneath him. caught completely into the book fresh out of the shower. what started as a quick one more chapter in your towel turned into air drying with the towel completely beneath you
joel promptly joined you on the bed and his wandering hands now massage the tense muscles in your body. his nails lightly scrape down the center of your back as his attention moves down, down, down
his hands cup your hips and he tugs them up, grinding down and eliciting a heavy swoop of your stomach as you feel him flush against you
âfuck, sweetheart. you feel so good,â his forehead drops between your shoulder blades, the soft brush of his hair sending a shiver down your spine
Pairing: Boston QZ! Joel Miller x F! Reader ; brief mentions of Boston QZ! Joel Miller x Tess Servopoulos
Summary: What happens when the world ends in such a violent way that it robs you of your very humanity? Do you submit or raise your hackles and fight back? The answer is obvious to Joel Miller, known for being someone to not to cross even in the most dangerous corners of the Boston QZ. The answer is obvious to you, too, who transformed in his likeness.
Word Count: 52.2k - ongoing
Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, canon typical gore, outbreak fic, dark fic, dark joel miller, mean joel miller, joel miller is uptight, reader wants to change that, sub! joel miller, dom / sub dynamics, degrading language, violence, heated interactions, adult language, fighting, references to injuries, blood, sexual content, rough sex, p in v, smut, unprotected p in v (it's the end of the world, y'all), sexual propositions, oral (m and f receiving), more to be determined!
A/N: this is a little different than my typical fic style and characterization!! but it's been so fun to explore the meaner / take no shit counterpart of this reader character to olive in {by the grit of sandpaper}. they both mean so much to me and this particular one really came at me out of nowhere! âĄâĄ
-> ao3 link || navigation || joel miller masterlist || ko-fi
fic teaser || fic teaser no.2
chapter one || chapter two || chapter three || chapter four || chapter five
chapter six || chapter seven || chapter eight || chapter nine || chapter ten
summary: Joel doesn't know how much you love his body, let alone him. You try to show him, in the ways you know how.
warnings: body worship, the whole thing is smut but artful, vague smut, if that makes sense. references to oral sex and choking. reader and joel being poor communicators through words, the writing is very stylistic and again, vague, and may not be for everyone
a/n: please let me know what you think! thank you for reading!
âYouâre so beautiful,â you say to him. âDid you know that?âÂ
No. Of course not, no. And he doesnât believe it, either, not when you say it right then.Â
Tucked closer in his arms, a slow contraction of muscle; a quiet shush of breath, disbelieving, lips to your forehead.Â
His lips are soft on your skin.Â
Press, press, press. Gentleness, never admitted to.Â
You love his body.Â
The sacrifice he begged to make with it, that you sometimes indulged and sometimes did not.Â
The scars, infinite craters and half moons and lightning strikes to discover. Hand prints and bruises in the shape of fingerprints on golden, warm skin.
A touch of madness, when you look at him, consuming, biting need to take. To hoard, to corral.Â
Dragon with gold, wolf with sheep.Â
Yours.Â
Yours.Â
Teeth to skin, delicate, like the spill of something sweet down your wrists. If you dug your teeth in, he would let you, and heâd drip down your chin, sticky on your skin like fruit juice. Bitter like lime.Â
You love the way he feels inside you. Interconnected, threads of fate, heavy inside you, full. Warm. Too full. Perfect.Â
Everything is orbital with him, sun around moon, moon around sun.Â
You love how warm he is. The way he never complains about cold hands and fingers digging into, asking, against him. Palm pressed over yours to keep it there. There and there and there. Against a heart. Because he would cut open his chest to keep you warm. Stick your fingers inside his ribs.
Not just because of the chill in your hand. But because you like to touch, feel. Muscle and tendon and vein. Coarse hair on his chest and thighs, too hot skin beneath. The thickness of his forearm and bicep and the flex of dense muscle there. Veins that run purple and green, beg for your fingertips and lips. Â
Push and pull, drip of sweat at his throat. Shiny with it, shimmering. So pretty.Â
The pulse of his heartbeat like the wings of a living animal, a creature you could palm and nurture.Â
That you do sometimes, curled fingers pressed there, just to feel it, the shape of his breath and the throb of his heart against your thumb nestled into that little hollow, that little space.Â
Fits perfectly there, thumbprint against gleaming, glistening skin. Exertion. His body over yours. Consuming and consumed, heavy over you and thrusting deep, holding you steady.Â
Starbursts behind your eyes, rolling back. Grip and roll and push and give.Â
Sweet in the sunshine and the moonlight and standing in the doorway so angry because you didnât listen again. Arms over chest, clench and release of jaw beneath his beard.Â
Coarse dark hair on his chest and thighs and forearms and between his legs. All of it soft, something to drag your nails along and sigh.Â
Fingers curled through the peppered hair on his head, fine lines of sea salt threading through brown. Soft bristles of his beard when he kisses you, when he drowns himself in you, when he pulls at you until you move when he wants you, against his mouth, hands in his hair guiding him, soothing and praising.Â
Fine lines by his eyes and the wrinkle in his forehead and the creases in his throat. That fade when he relaxes and sleeps, that runnel deep with stress and laughter.Â
Signs of age, he would argue. Stress. Nothing to look at.Â
Signs of life, signs of living. Something to trace aside from the scars and cuts and the press of a finger into a bruise to watch him wince and swat you away.Â
So good.Â
Thereâs no sense in telling him, any of it, no sense in saying it. He would not believe you. Heâs beautiful, cut from hallowed cloth, stitched together with pearl white thread. Strong, wide shoulders, the roll of tender muscle and sinew, something to slice into with a scalpel and take apart. Narrow hips, raised bumps of vein at the wings of his hips, the softness of his stomach, the hard press of muscle beneath.Â
Itâs good to be wanted, nice to be needed.Â
By him.Â
By Joel.Â
Beneath you, hips rolling against his, curled over him. He always makes a sound you donât think he hears, unraveled and unspooled, ripped from the pit of his belly. A groan or a plea. And you love it.Â
You like his hands on your hips and thighs and breasts, the delicate pull of his tongue along your cunt.Â
The shape of his shoulders silhouetted in the window, the broad frame of him edged in light. The pull of his t-shirt or flannel tight across his body. The sound of his voice, the graveled, rough pull of it, somehow still soft. His hey and gâmorninâ. Pressed into your palm, into your open mouth, words swallowed down into your belly.Â
He isnât like you, wonât stand naked, wonât abide that, too embarrassed, too mannered and well raised for that. Thinks nothing of his body, the thing you love, the thing he uses to give. Itâs a tool and nothing more beyond itâs usefulness, certainly not pretty, certainly not to be admired.Â
A wish that he would let you look, stand naked in your doorway, hung over your head like a scythe, just to look and trace. Just to get your fill of him. Just so he understood, even if for only a minute.Â
Another thing, another love.Â
His voice.Â
He hums under his breath, sweet and soothing. He talks to himself, and you love to hear it.Â
No one else can hear that, the way he talks to himself and hums and mumbles and breathes. You like the way he breathes, you like to listen to him inhale slowly before he takes a sip of coffee, steaming between rough hands, and it makes you sick with something unsaid. Fold and crease of lungs and heart. Itâs a song, a kind he sings without knowing.Â
The same voice you feel against your hand when you press it to his throat, the voice you feel when his tongue is in your cunt.Â
It sounds best in the desperate way he moves above you, faster, frantic, desperate.Â
He likes that. Your hand on his throat, against his collarbone. Head laid at the gallows.Â
You like to do it. Like to watch the strain of tendons and vein, feel his breath shudder and the spiderweb of pulsing blood against your palm.Â
You love the taste of him, the heaviness of his cock on your tongue, swallowed hungrily down your throat. You love the crimson, the delicate pink that stains his cheeks and throat and chest, the prettiest, warmest flush of skin when he comes, when you tease him about something innocuous. The sounds he makes, grunts and curses, always quiet.Â
Rough pads of fingers ghosting over your cheeks and neck and jaw. Never pushing. Knows better than to push. Soft and feeling, here and there, the plush curve of your bottom lip.Â
You love the press of his fingers between yours. Curve and strength, clench and asking, seeking.Â
You love the blood on his hands, the bruised cut of his knuckles.
The way he stands, talks, smells.Â
God, help you, but you love the way he smells. Leather, the earthy loam of rotting places, sunshine, pine, gun oil, the tangy salt of blood and sweat. Itâs good somehow. Or maybe it isnât. You love it anyway.Â
You love the musk of him, the safe press of his body over yours. Strong strength that brushed against yours. Chest to chest, clawing desperate fingers at your thigh and knee, teeth at the edge of jaw, head tilted back, offering.Â
You love his nose, the divoted scar on the bridge of it. The part of his lips against yours, the fan of his breath in your mouth, fingers curled deep inside you, probing, searching, prodding, finding pleasure tucked into corners you didnât know existed.Â
So attentive. So attuned.Â
No one else, you think. Not another soul would ever search you like this one, would ever find parts of you just because he wanted to, likes to, needed to memorize the things he loved.Â
You love that. You love hiding away, being found anyway.Â
Broad hands and thick fingers, callused from everything, the world and work and music. He wants to hear you sing and you want the same, but you refuse and so does he. Lines in his palms, seams of the earth.Â
You love the way he holds a knife and a gun and the way he goes predator still when he knows, senses, something is wrong. His hand on hip pulling you back and away from the danger, blood on his palms for you, supplicating, asking, begging to be good, to do this for you. Knows you could do it yourself, spill blood, has seen it, has watched, but likes to do it for you anyway.Â
No sense in saying it again, wonât believe you again.Â
He doesnât have to prove it to you. He doesnât have to bleed, doesnât have to drag the corpse beneath the porchlight again and again as proof that he can keep the roll of your name safe beneath his tongue.Â
Joel does it anyway.Â
Tell me what you need.Â
And you get it, in rough hands and tender touch.Â
Heâs humming, now, the vibrations knocking against your temple. Tracing the hands you love over the curve of your hip and the down of hair on your thigh that he likes.Â
He likes the hair and your body and you know that in all the ways you can. He makes sure of it.Â
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â Story summary: You should have died that day. Instead, Joel Miller found you.
After the Millers saved your life, you became something of a miracle. Now youâve been given a second chance, and the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesnât need.
This basically translates to: Joel is a leading patrol man and he has to see you every day. <3
(Jackson!Joel x F!reader)
â Warnings: 18+ / MDNI / Big age gap (Joel is 60, reader is mid 30s â pick your age) / No Y/N use / story based on TLOU Part I and II, but with creative liberties taken ofc it's a fic let's have fun.
Part one: "When I close my eyes, it feels like home"
Part two: "In a lifeless memory, there you belong"
Part three: "You and me for evermore"
Part four: "I, the one who dimmed the Sun"
Part five: "And here lies the blade of my tongue"
Part six: "To bite this wayward tongue of mine"
Part seven: "Vanish in the morning's bloom, still follows you the faithful moon"
Part eight: "To the place I once belonged; silver moon, take me home"
I like to see you, but then again, that doesn't mean you mean that much to me. So if I call you, don't make a fuss. Don't tell your friends about the two of usâŚ
Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x younger fem!Reader
Plot: You hate him. Thatâs it. Thatâs allâŚ
Warnings: eventually mentions of violence, age gap (Joelâs in his 50âs, Readers in her early 30âs), this is a classic case of Enemies to Lovers! Slowburn!!
If thereâs anything you loathed more than the infected outside of the wallsâŚ
itâs working at the local greenhouse. God, how much you hate that thingâŚseparating and sorting seeds all day long, having to label literally everything and anything... the steady drops of sweat rolling down the back of your neck and down your spine.
AndâŚworking with him.
Joel fucking Miller.
The moment you two met you just somehow didnât get along. Perhaps it was the age difference, maybe he just sees you as some small kid whoâs unable to do anything even remotely correct. He does have this insufferable way of explaining everything in great detail, no matter how minor or irrelevant it is. Just the sheer thought of him believing that heâs better or smarter than you in any form makes your blood boil hotter than lava.
âYouâŚGod, Y/N, I swear to God!â, he shouted from near the door this morning. His Texan accent always got more pronounced whenever he became irritated (which was apparently 90% of the time he spoke to you):â How often do I have to explain to you how to properly replant vegetables?!â His tone made you want to toss the gardening scissors across the room. Straight at him.
You took a deep breath, something Maria had recommended youâd do whenever that donkey of a man made you want to do something extremely stupid... âIf you are talking about the tomatoes, theyâre not planted wrong, Joel. Theyâre-.â
âAll crooked! Iâm not blind! Iâm standing in front of them.â
Interrupting you, yeah. Another thing he does, that almost makes you rip your own skin off your face- in hopes of getting him out from underneath it. Heâs wriggling around there somewhere, youâre pretty sure of that.
âSo I assumed you killed him.â, Maria says, looking over the edge of her pink mug, eyeing how you lean back in your chair:â Well, did you bury him in the greenhouse or your own backyard?â âThis isnât funny, Maria!â, you reply, almost whiny- like a child that isnât taken seriously at the grown-up table. Your friend sighs and sets her coffee down:â You know, he does say the same things about you to Tommy, right?â
A silent scoff leaves your lips:â What? That Iâm annoying? Complicated to work with? Hard-headed?â
âSomething along the lines, yeah.â
Your eyes move down to your mug, glancing at the small bubbles in the foam. For a moment you watch how theyâre popping:â StupidâŚthis whole thing is ridiculous! And your fault, by the wayâŚwhat possessed you to put a man like that into a greenhouse? Miller knows how to build greenhouses, not how to take care of them! Giant difference.â
The woman in front of you chuckles tiredly, her hand moving to gently rub her growing baby bump:â My brother-in-law is a lot of things. Persistent and annoying? Yeah, sure. But heâs smart, Y/N. He knows what heâs doing, trust me. I wouldnât have put him in charge if I wasnât a hundred percent sure heâd be a useful replacement for me.â
She raises her eyebrows a few times:â PlusâŚheâs great at following your orders, Iâve seen him rebuild that one shelf like four times until you were satisfied with it.â
A scoff leaves your lips:â Because he messed it up three times in a row until he finally got it right!â
âThatâs not the point, Y/N⌠that man can put together an entire house in less than a week- probably even in his sleep. He made those mistakes on purpose, just to watch you boss him around. Trust me.â
All that leaves your lips at that is a tiny scoff, and a strange burning sensation in your cheeks.
Pairing: Joel Miller xf!reader, Reader POV and Joel POV
Summary: After three long years in Jackson, Joel still feels like an outcast. The people are different, he's old, grumpy, and no matter how hard he tries Joel can't quite seem to get into the swing of things. Sometimes he thinks that he'd be better off on his own, but following a chance meeting with a new face, Joel starts to think that maybe he was wrong and maybe he should give Jackson one more chance. (Reader is a teacher in Jackson and has a son)
Tropes: Mutual Pining, Fluff, Angst, Teacher AU, Soft Reader! Grumpy vs. Sunshine, Slow Burn (Because I Like To Torture Myself), Age-Gap, Self Deprecating!Joel, (I see the reader in her mid to late 30s, but really does not matter), Protective!Joel, Carpenter!Joel.
Warnings: Individual warnings will be in issued in each chapter, but here are just some generalized ones. Sexual References, Cursing, Abusive Husband (not Joel), Abusive Relationship (not Joel), Murder, Blood, Angst, ANGST, Fluff, Fall-Romcom But In The Apocalypse Vibes?, Manipulation, Death.
Note: The reader is not described any way, but is soft and has a dark, detailed backstory. Kinda a fix-it fic (a few years early), I'm going to diverge from canon events, because I believe Joel deserves better and that is the hill I will die on. Joel is a little OOC. Please be gentle this is the first time that I've ever written for him.
Main Masterlist
Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist
Chapter 1: A Hint of Sunshine (Coming Soon!)
Last Updated: 09/15/2025
(Photos in Moodboard from Pinterest)
If you'd like to be added to the taglist for Let The Light In, please let me know! :)
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summary: i do not know what it is about you that closes / and opens; only something in me understands / the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses
(or: one afternoon on patrol, your friendship with Joel tips into something else)
|| SMUT MDNI 18+ little angst, little fluff, its got it all, baby! please! read! all! tags! friends to lovers, joel is touch starved, jackson!joel, soft!!!!!!joel, joel is bad at feelings, im so fucking in love w him, anxious!joel, << ive loved discovering this part of him lately, lonely feelings and thoughts, existential thoughts, 1 mention of an age gap, joel feelin guilty whats new, reader feels inept, but reader is capable!, independent!reader, strong!reader, and there was only one bed sleeping bag!, kissing, intimacy, pinv, uhh slightly animalistic moments of smut, praise kink as always cw: animal death (very brief), some dialogue reflective of self destructive tendencies, reader feels very alone ||
a/n: title is from a poem / yr honor I literally love this man down bad ok? / originally named âjoel miller actually likes youâ in my docs if that gives you any idea of what this entails
wc: 8k
Joel Miller didnât really do friendship.
And it couldâve been a symptom of twenty years of the world turning neighbor against neighbor or perhaps heâd just always been wired that way. An introvert with a streak of cantankerousness that flared, especially on the wrong day. He knew the folks of Jackson liked him enough to call him over to fix their things, to offer coffee beans or a cold beer or a slice of pie in return for the work he did. He liked doing it. Afterall, he liked being useful. It gave him a quiet satisfaction of knowing he was part of a community, even if he didnât have what most people would call friends. He was aware that he was no ray of sunshine, and maybe a bit irritable. And when the job was done, people didnât usually ask him to stick around, but he didnât mind. He wasnât sure what heâd have to say, anyway.
But there was one exception.
One personâbesides Tommy and Ellieâwhose name he didnât mind hearing when patrol assignments went out. One he didnât meet with a groan or an eye-roll. The rare soul he could spend a long stretch of miles beside without feeling the itch to fill any silences.
You were different from most of the people that Joel had met in his fifty something years. Independent and tough skinned but kind to the bone. You didnât talk much, which suited him fine, but when you did, you were⌠hell, you were funny. You caught his awful dad jokes and lobbed better ones back when the mood allowed. You liked to learn, took pointers without bristlingâthough you rarely needed them. And when he offered a tip, whether it was coaxing a stubborn fire to life or stripping a rifle, he could tell you appreciated it. You could shoot straight, move quick, scavenge smart. You were steady in a panic and didnât fold in a fight.
It was strangeâ enjoying someoneâs company the way he did yours. Strange enough that Joel sometimes caught himself wondering if you felt the same.
This summer had been the nastiest so far in Jackson. The heat blazed during the day, pressing against the mountains until the nights split open with storms, leaving behind a heavy, lingering damp that clung to the air in a way the northwest rarely did. It turned the woods thick with biting insects, the trails slow and mud-ridden, and the nights long and restless.Â
You were moving slower than usual, trailing behind Joel as you rode toward an abandoned lookout the patrol log had marked to make usable again for training new members of the community. Both of you knew it would take the better part of the day, and youâd packed in case it took longer: a sleeping bag rolled tight behind your saddle, extra rations stowed away. The dark clouds that were stacking over the far mountain range promised a storm you didnât want to be caught in unawares.
He couldnât say exactly what it was, but something about you feltâŚoff that day. You were quiet, which wasnât anything new, but the air around you carried a kind of unease he couldnât place. For one, you hadnât laughed at his god awful joke twenty minutes ago.
How you like your eggs? âCause itâs hot enough I could damn near fry âem on my back right now.
Wasnât his best work by any means, but heâd only said it to crack a smile on your face, but nothing ever came of it. He was almost certain you hadnât even heard him, your mind a thousand acres away while your horse kept close behind his.
Joel slowed, reining in his steed until you drew up beside him. Ahead, the field opened into low brush, not tall enough to hide the cabin on its stilts. A weathered A-frame, the kind that had once been rented out for weeks at a time to families looking for mountain air in summer, or skiers in winter. Back when the world still turned like it should.
âWhat dâyou say we run a perimeter check? Iâll take south, you take north. Meet in the middle. Blow the whistle ifââ
But you were already nodding, turning your horse to the right and breaking off without a word.
Joelâs eyes stayed on you as you rode away, his stare heavy between your shoulder blades. Something about you was wrong today in a way he couldnât shrug off. You werenât just quiet. It was like you were somewhere else entirely, moving like the work in front of you barely registered. Normally, youâd meet his eye before splitting up, maybe toss him some dry comment to show youâd heard him, double check he had ammo in his gun or water in his canteen. Now there was nothing.
He didnât like not knowing what was going on in your head. Not out here.
Still, he turned his horse toward the south side of the ridge, keeping his rifle close, boots shifting against the stirrups as he started down the slope. The air felt thick enough to press against his skin, and every soundâor lack of oneâseemed louder for it. He kept his eyes moving, ears tuned to the treeline. For a while it stayed still and empty, the kind of quiet that made a man think that, just maybe, itâd be an easy sweep. He could picture the rest of the evening like this, eventually getting to the cabin and filling the log book with no sightings to report, working through a few repairs the rest of the day before splitting rations and building a low fire inside with you. It was almost enough to let himself breathe.
But then came the shrill of your whistle.
Cutting through the mountain air, all thoughts of finding you and splitting a strip of jerky over a well-earned cup of coffee went out of his head faster than a landslide. His horse, trained to react, lunged forward, ears pinned, muscles coiled and driving hard toward the sound. Joel leaned into the motion, tightening his grip on the reins as the world narrowed to a tunnel of wind and pounding hooves. His heart climbed high into his throat, his stomach dropping hollow beneath it, and still he forced the air steady through his lungs, urging the animal faster, faster, until the ground blurred beneath them.
North of the cabin now, his eyes raked the tree line, desperate for a glimpse of you. What he found instead made the blood in his veins turn heavyâyour horse, crumpled in the grass, flank torn, eyes blank and lifeless, a knot of runners hunched over it, feeding. They didnât look up, he was no use to them now.Â
Your scream cracked the air, and Joel yanked the reins hard, swinging the horse toward the sound. You came into view in a break between the trees, boots sliding in the mud, shotgun bucking in your hands as you fired into the group closing in on you. They were too many, shadows spilling from the undergrowth, and still you fought, the wild light of survival blazing in your eyes.
Joel fired his gun into the mass as he closed the distance, each shot punching a hole in the tide until he was on you. His arm shot out, grabbing you at the elbow, yanking you forward in one hard pull that hauled you up and across the saddle behind him.Â
He heard the breath knock out of you, but you managed to haul yourself up, seated behind him, your arms securely around his waist as the horse tore through the trees. Branches whipped past, the infected howls fading behind you but never enough to ease the knot in his chest. You were pressed tight against him, your breaths ragged and hot in the heavy summer air, and Joel kept his eyes on the path ahead, willing the trail to hold until they had four walls between you and the world.
When he finally made it to the safety of the A-frame, Joel didnât waste a second. He turned toward the oncoming hoard that followed, yanked the lighter from his pocket, and set the rag of his Molotov ablaze. In one smooth motion, he hurled it at the advancing infected. The bottle burst in a roar of fire, and the snarls and shrieks of the fungal creatures were swallowed by the crackle of burning flesh.
Finally inside, he let you down from his horse in the stale basement garage. The air was full of breath; the horseâs throaty heaves, Joelâs bullish breathing, and your short, panicked lungfuls. Sweat dripped from every pore in the room, dripping to the floor as Joel hefted himself down to the ground, staying by the horseâs saddle for his canteen. He threw it to you, and you caught it, unscrewing the cap and sipping slowly.Â
Your eyes stayed wide, fixed on nothing, like the last ten minutes were playing over and over in some loop you couldnât step out of.
âWhat happened?â he asked finally, voice low, his own breathing still heavy but beginning to steady. He worked at the tack while he waited, pulling the straps loose, setting the weight down in the corner.
âIâŚâ you shook your head, swallowing hard. âI thought it was fine. Jasper wasâhe knew something was there, and I didnât listen to him. Oh god, Jasperââ
The words broke apart and you sucked in air too fast, your mouth opening in a soundless, gaping cry before it collapsed into sobs. You folded in on yourself, shoulders drawn up, forehead bent toward your knees.
âHey, hey,â Joel murmured, stepping closer. âSâalright, you didnât know. I shouldnât have let you go alone, I shouldâve helpedââ
âi donât need your help, Joel.â The snap in your voice was sudden, sharp, cutting between you like a knife. Your teary face turned up to him, eyes narrowed, cheeks hot and wet with anger.
Joel felt the sting of it in his chest, his head drawing back as if youâd struck him. Youâd never spoken to him that way before. Never once had you been cruel to him, not even in jest.
âWhat the hellâs gotten into you today, girl?â His tone sharpened, though he hated himself for it, the old reflex of defense coming too easy. He could feel his temper straining at the leash, the collar of it cinched tight around his throat. Always there, always needing to be held short. With you, it usually heeled: quiet, watchful, content to sit at his side like a domesticated dog. And maybe your outburst had startled the beast, yanking the chain from his grip before he could close his fist around it.
âYou shouldâve left me out there, asshole. I had it.â
âSâthat why you blew the whistle then?â His voice climbed with the words, âSure didnât look like you had it.â
âIt wouldnât have mattered! No oneââ Your chest was rising too quick, too shallow, and he knew that sound, that pace, that look. Heâd worn it himself, alone in the dark, waking from dreams that clung like a second skin, haunted by the things he could never take back and the ones he knew were still coming, no matter how hard he fought.
âHeyââ He said again, leaning down toward you, hands reaching.
âDonât!â you cried, jerking back. âDonât you hear me? It wouldnât have fucking mattered. No one gives a shit, no one cares. No one even likes me. I have no one, Joel. If I didnât make it back, no oneân-noââ your words punched into sobs, your fingers pushing into your eyes as if to stop the tears from falling.
The words landed heavy, his jaw tightening against the ache. âThat ainât true, darlinâââ
âYouâre the onlyââ You cut yourself off, as if the words caught on your tongue, your mouth stitched closed for a heartbeat. Your breathing came hard and uneven, tumbling over itself. âYouâre my only friend. And you donât even trust me to handle my own shit. Iâm useless. Iâm useless.â
âYouâre notââ He stopped, his throat locking around the rest. God, he was so bad at this. Watching you split open in front of him was like watching his own reflection splinter, all those same cracks he carried, all the same thoughts heâd fought down for years. This independent, capable, stubborn personâsomeone who could hold their own in a fight, who people relied onâsitting here convinced she had nothing to offer. It was baffling. And it made sense in a way he hated, because heâd known that angry, digging feeling all the same.
And now here you were, the one person heâd trusted, the only person he had left, looking at yourself the way heâd looked at himself for years. It was breaking his fucking heart.
He wanted to tell you everything he saw in you: your grit, your quickness, the way you made his worst days bearable. But the words wouldnât come. All he could do was kneel there, feeling as useless as you swore you were, wishing he knew how to make you believe otherwise.
You hid your face in your hands and sobbed harder, the sound tearing through the quiet. Joel only knew one thing for sure, and that was to sit down beside you against the wall and wrap his arms around you. He pulled you in, and you let himâthank God. He wasnât sure heâd survive another lashing of rejection from you.Â
Your head found his chest, fingers clutched in his shirt. His hand settled over the crown of your head, stroking gently as you buried your face against him. You were still streaked with blood and mud, but he didnât give two shits. This, he could offer, and so he gave it.
Eventually, your sobs ebbed to uneven sniffles, to a cough, to steadier breaths. You looked up at him from the concrete floor of the stupid A-frameâs basement, and Joel felt things heâd told himself long ago heâd never feel again.Â
Because yes, you were his friend, he thoughtâthrough and through, the only person he could stand to be around outside of his family, both blood and chosen. But in moments like this, when the fight had gone out of you and you let yourself lean into him, there was something else stirring in him. He found himself looking at you longer than he should, noticing the curve of your cheek where it pressed into him, the way your lashes clung together in damp points. You, the sure-footed girl who maybe wasnât so sure of her place after all, and yet to him you had never seemed more certain, more unshakable. He felt it like a pull, the quiet realization that somewhere along the way, heâd stopped seeing you as just someone to watch his back. And now he wasnât sure what to do with that.
He smoothed your tear-stained wet hair back behind your ear, letting you sink deeper against him until your head rested in his lap, your body curled on the floor beside him. He kept his hand moving through your hair, eyes on your face.
âSomethinâ happened before we left, huh?â he asked quietly.Â
Your lip quivered, and you nodded.
âYou wanna talk about it?â
You shook your head quickly, then stopped, rubbing your eyes with a groan. âItâs so⌠so stupid.â
Joel stayed quiet, still combing his fingers through your hair.
âI was gonna watch a movie last night with Ellie and Dina, and⌠they never came to get me. This morning I heard them laughing about the actors. I guess theyâd watched it together. Didnât bother to tell me where they were meeting, didnât check inânothing. I donât know if they just didnât want me there, or if they forgot about me, andâŚI canât decide which feels worse.â
Joel couldnât help it, he chuckled.
âDonât be an asshole,â you snapped, âJust cause sheâs your kid doesnât meanââ
âNo, no, it ainât that,â he said, a laugh tugging at his voice as you swatted his chest. âThey like each other, darlinâ. I think it wasââ
âYeah, I like them too. I thought they likedââ
âNo, I mean⌠Baby, theyâre datinâ. I think it was a date.â
You froze mid-shove. So did he, though not for the same reason. He probably shouldnât have told you Ellieâs business at all, but heâd wanted that look off your face. The one youâd worn when you thought theyâd left you behind. But that thought barely got half formed before the other one shoved it asideâheâd called you baby. It had come too easy, too natural, like it had been waiting there for years, lodged behind his teeth. And now it was hanging in the air between you, and all he could think about was whether youâd noticed, whether youâd say something, whether he wanted you to.
âThey⌠oh,â you breathed, stuffing your fingers in your mouth as you stared up at the ceiling.
Mmhmm Joel hummed, the corner of his mouth twitching.
He let you turn it over for a while, watching as exhaustion softened the sharp edge in your eyes. The glossy look no longer from tears but from your mind going far away again.Â
Then, quietly, before he could stop himself, he said quieter than anything, âYouâre my only friend too, you know that?â
Your gaze found his. He pushed past the instinct to shut up. He had to tell you. Had to.
âOnly person I like beinâ around, really,â he admitted.
He watched your eyes search his, catching the way the dark light around you softened their edges and pulled out every shade. The only sound in the room came from the horse in the far corner, shifting its weight and tearing quietly at the weeds sprouting through the cracks in the foundation. Joelâs hand stilled in your hair, his palm resting warm against the back of your head as he watched your reaction.Â
âYouâre the only person I like being around too,â you whispered.Â
Joel felt something shift in him then, small but deep, like a weight sliding into place where it didnât belong but somehow fit too well. He didnât know what to do with thisâŚawareness of you that went beyond the easy camaraderie youâd built, beyond the trust earned on patrols and quiet rides. It wasnât even sudden or new to him. More like noticing a trail heâd been walking for a while without ever looking down at his feet. Heâd told himself you were his friend, his only friend, and that was true. But here you were, looking at him like you meant it when you said you liked being around him, and he felt⌠seen. In a way he didnât often let himself be.
It stirred things he wasnât sure he wanted stirredâthings he thought had no place in him anymore. Affection that ran warmer than he knew how to name. A pull toward you that was as much about the way you laughed at his worst jokes as it was about the way you were looking at him now, open and unguarded.
Your hand came up suddenly, fingers brushing through his beard. You shifted, propping yourself on your palm resting on the far side of his thigh as you looked up at him. There was something in your eyes that set his pulse knocking harder against his throat.
Your hand lingered in his beard, thumb brushing slow over his jaw, and Joel fought the old, bone-deep urge to pull away the way he would have with anyone else in the world. That instinct had been carved into him over twenty years. But he wanted to stay still for you, let you explore, let you rediscover him. He was human, after all, though the act of being touched for anything beyond survival felt so foreign it left him almost dizzy, a kind of nausea born from hunger gone on too long. The feeling of someone reaching for him, wanting to map out the planes of him, wanting to know him.Â
You moved again, only a fraction, leaning in just enough that he felt the change in the air between you. His breath caught, but he didnât moveâafraid to spook whatever moment was blooming here, afraid heâd shatter it by reaching back. You whispered something, your sweet breath feathering over his lips, curling under his nose until he found himself breathing it in, drawing in the warmth you exhaled.
He blinked when you pulled back the smallest inch, realizing you just asked him something. Hm? he murmured, his voice catching on the sound.
âYouâŚonly like meâŚâ you tilted your head, tongue dipping out to moisten your bottom lip and oh, you were teasing himâ âas your friend?â
His throat worked, and your hand trailed down his jaw, lingering along the scruffy line of it before sliding to the column of his throat. You let your fingers rest on the rise and fall of his adamâs apple, the shift beneath your touch as it moved down in one measured glide.
âWhat do you think?â he said, voice rough as if heâd been screaming.
Mmm you hummed, eyes downcast, lashes fluttering as they lowered. Your gaze settled on his mouth, fingertip rising again to trace lightly along the curve of his lips, brushing the place where they parted under your touch. His heart was hammering now, wild and unsteady, like he was sixteen again, green and made anew by you.Â
Then, his mind suddenly made of cotton and clouds, you leaned in and touched your lips to his. The faintest, most careful press, warm and tentative, as though you were asking him a question without words.Â
His hand lifted of its own accord, settling against the back of your head again, holding you there, keeping you. He kissed you back, just a little deeper, but he let you guide it, his heart pounding so hard he was certain you could feel it where your palm rested on his thigh.
Joel thought he mightâve been going insane. So many big, scary feelings colliding in his head, so many thoughts that made his chest feel tight, that heâd spent decades keeping at armâs length. What this meant, what you meant, what this would all be. It was terrifying to even look straight at, because if he did, he might see the whole truth laid out and thereâd be no taking it back. Heâd wanted this, wanted you. Longer than heâd let himself believe. And fuck, he was so scared. Scared of reaching for it. Scared of letting himself want it. Terrified that the wrong move would spook you, the one person he felt really knew him.
Then you moved, crawling into his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, fingers sliding into his hair as your mouth found his again and all rational thought slipped from him for the moment. This kiss was hotter, more urgent, your tongue gliding against his, and Joel couldnât hold back the rough, needy sounds that rose from his throat. He ate at your mouth, hungrier than heâd ever been in twenty years, all tongue and teeth and need. Spit slicked your lips, the sweet salt of it clinging to his tongue as your mouths met again and again, each kiss landing with wet, messy sounds that seemed to echo in the quiet room.
He tore back, gasping, eyes locked on your shining, kiss bitten mouth, fighting the near uncontrollable urge to devour you whole. âCâmon,â he rasped, trying to find reason in the fog. âLetâs get settled in, we need to do a sweep andââ
You were already pressing kisses into his beard, catching the corner of his mouth.
âBaby,â he said, voice straining as he tried to keep his head, âwe gotta make sure everythingâs safe. Then we can have some dinner, make a fire.â
Mmhmm, you agreed, catching his bottom lip between yours, sucking lightly, and it sent heat rushing down his spine. Joel groaned, his hands gripping your hips in the desperation to keep his head on straight.
He gathered you up in his arms and stood, lifting you easily, his knees protesting as he carried you through the dim room beneath the house. The stairs groaned under his boots as he ascended, sunlight spilling above through the cabinâs wide windows as he made his way up into the main area, setting you down on what had once been a kitchen counter. Then he stepped back, pointing a finger at you like you were a wild thing he couldnât trust toâ
ââStay,â he said.Â
You crossed your arms, kicking your legs idly.
âIâll be back,â he warned, turning away. Before heâd made it two steps, he spun back, cupping your face in both hands and kissing you deep, getting one last taste before facing his tasks.
âWeâre gonna eat,â he murmured between quick, greedy kisses. âWeâre gonna set up for the night,â another kiss, slower this time, âand then weâll finish this.â
âPromise?â you giggled.
His mouth curved, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. âI always keep my word.â
âI know,â you said softly, biting your finger as you looked at him.
And that made his heart thump hard enough he swore you could hear it in the space between you.
Eventually, Joel made his way back after sweeping the cabin and checking the exits, finding you in the kitchen, unpacked and bent over a fresh log book. His sleeping bag was already unrolled from the saddle, backpacks open with gear and food laid out in neat piles, a small fire in the old, dusty hearth with a covered pot above the embers. He stepped in behind you, leaning just enough to glance over your shoulder at the page.
Horse lost. Infected in woods around. Cabin swept and safe.
A soft, heavy sigh slipped from his chest before he could stop it. He pressed a kiss into your hair, the scent of smoke and summer still clinging to you. âMâsorry about Jasper.â
You nodded, gripping the pen a little tighter before turning toward him. His hands came up to your arms, thumbs stroking slow, the golden-pink sunset spilling through the windows and painting the room in a warm blush.
âI, uh⌠got the can of pork beans cooked. Apples arenât too bruised. Coffeeâs on.â
âMusic to my ears,â he grumbled, pulling you gently against him. âYou okay?â
You nodded again, but still didnât meet his eyes, and it made his heart constrict. He reached up, fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face until your gaze met his. And God, you were so damn pretty it almost knocked the thoughts from his headâthe way your skin still seemed to glow even after the tears, the way your eyes caught the last of the light, bright and alive.
âPeople do like you,â he murmured. âThey like you a lot.â
âPeople, or just you?â you teased, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, âBoth.â
You huffed a quiet laugh, sliding your arms up around his neck and curling your fingers into his hair.Â
âYou did a good job today,â he said, his eyes glued to yours so he knew for a fact you heard him. And when you tried to pull your chin away, your eyes moving across the room, he pulled you back. He leaned down and pressed a slow, tender kiss to your lips, breathing you in like heâd been holding it all day. You hummed softly at the feel of him, fingers curling into the hair at his nape and giving the slightest tug. When he drew back, your eyes stayed closed a moment longer, savoring the warmth he left behind.
âI promised weâd eat first,â he murmured.
âThen hurry up and eat, old man,â you teased, the smile in your voice tugging a matching one from him.
For the rest of the meal, he felt your eyes on him. Every bite he took, you watched, your fingertips sometimes drifting along his jaw while he chewed. He watched you back, the familiar lines of you somehow new againâreborn before him. A reflection of himself in so many ways, yet so different. Stronger. Able to keep going, to shoulder what felt impossible, and somehow still meet his gaze with that spark that made him wonder how you carried so much without breaking.
The sun eventually sank behind the ridgeline, leaving the cabin wrapped in shadow. The only glow came from the hearth, the fire low but steady, its light breathing over the walls in slow, uneven pulses. Outside, rain began to fall in a steady curtain, the sound filling the quiet between you. Every so often, lightning split the dark, a stark, silver flash that lit your face for an instant before the thunder rolled in, low and deep enough to stir the floorboards.
At some point, the meal had gone untouched, mugs cooling on the table. Whatever small tasks there had been to keep hands busy were left where they were, and you found yourselves simply⌠watching each other. The stillness between you felt heavy, charged.
Joel had your hand in his now, his thumb working slow circles into the back of your palm, as if feeling for something beneath the skin, and you let him. You were quiet, steady under his touch, letting him explore the rough ridges of your knuckles, the way they gave way to the delicate skin of your wrist. His fingers moved gently, almost reverently, and the longer he looked the more he realized how little of you heâd really touched before now.
It was odd. Part of him thought, yes, this was it. A natural progression of things between two people who respected each other, who knew each other better than anyone at the bottom of the mountains behind those big fences. Two people who trusted each other, who looked after each other for this long.Â
And yet, the other part of him recoiled at the thoughtâwho did he think he was, taking advantage of your trust like this? You were younger, thrown with him on a patrol by nothing more than chance long ago. You trusted him, and now he was thinking about how it would taste in his mouth.Â
It was as if you could hear the clanging of it all in his headâthe rusted gears grinding against one another after too many years without oil, a machine long unused and suddenly put to work again.
You took his hand in yours now, bringing it up to your mouth and kissing the pad of his thumb, your eyes steady on his. âWhatâs goinâ on in that big head, hm?â you asked, the words quiet, almost coaxing, before you pressed another kiss to the tip of his index finger.
He shook his head.
âYou trust me?â you asked.
âWith my life.â
It was the plain truth, he barely had to think on it.
âThen trust me to know what I wantâwho I wantâregardless of anything trying to tell you otherwise.â
âHow didââ
âI know you, Joel Miller,â you said, almost with a sigh. âSometimes I think I know you better than I know myself.â You kissed his palm, your mouth warm against the worn skin, and traced along the lines carved into him, your lips following the curves as though you were reading him. He wondered, briefly, what you might find there. If the notches in the lines gave away the years heâd spent half alive, hollowed from the inside, wearing the shape of the person heâd long lost hold of. He wondered if youâd notice where the course shifted, where the tide had turned. How much of him had been remade because of youâyour steadiness, your light. A friend, a truth teller. Someone who saw him as he was, and somehow, still wanted to look.Â
âYeah, I reckon you do,â he said, his voice low, almost hesitant, âIâŚI feel the same. About you.â
âThen you know Iâd never lie to you.â
He nodded, still trying to wrestle the thought down his throat. A long pause rented the room, only the cracks of embers and the rain on the roof filling it.Â
âThink itâs time for bed, donât you?â he said at last, his voice a touch rough, like he wasnât quite sure how to bridge the space between what had just passed and whatever came next.
Your eyes lifted to his, and for a heartbeat he was certain you saw more than heâd ever meant to let slip. More than heâd ever wanted anyone to seeâbut then again, you were the only person heâd want to see him like that. As he was.
âI think so.â you whispered back.Â
He moved around slowly, as if cautioned by some nervous creature in his midst, to the open sleeping bag youâd laid out in the hours before. You both seemed to hesitate as he knelt onto the plush padding above the floorboards, the wood creaking in complaint, not unlike his joints. Something about it felt like a thresholdâthis shared bed, this shared space. It was stepping into the unknown, a closeness neither of you had crossed before.Â
You followed him, equal in your nervousness but far more graceful, easing yourself down as the firelight painted your face in amber. Joel lowered himself beside you with the stiffness of a man too aware of the nearness, lying there in a strange stillness, eyes to the ceiling. Shadows fluttered in and out across the beams above, stirred by the dance of the fire.Â
âJoel,â you finally said quietly. The sound of it sent his heart pouncing into his throat.
Mm? He couldnât form words just yet, your arm much too close to his.
âWhat do you think happens when we die?â
His head turned toward you sharply, the swish of the sleeping bag loud in his ears as he found your profile, half outlined in pale moonlight and half blazing in the fire.
âWhy you askinâ that kinda thing?â
You turned your head to look at him, his mirror, your eyes as curious and forlorn as he felt. Like the dawn after a storm.
âI donât believe in heaven.â you began, just a whisper, âor hell.âÂ
Your teeth caught your bottom lip, testing the taste of a confession he knew was on the tip of your tongue. Joel wished, more than ever before, that he could read your mind now. That he could slip inside your thoughts, see the landscape of them for himself. To settle them, quiet their worrying.Â
âButâŚâ You gnawed your lip now, nerves and some quiet ache knitting themselves into your brow, and Joel turned onto his side to face you fully. His hand came up, thumb coaxing your lip free, brushing the line of your chin as though he might smooth the uncertainty from you.Â
Your fingers came up to his wrist, delicately holding him in place, tying him to you, âBut when Iâm with youâŚitâs the closest thing Iâve ever come to believing in something after all of this. A quiet, some sort of⌠of peace. And sometimes I wonderâŚâ You closed your eyes briefly, gathering yourself, before finding him again with a gaze soft enough to unmake him. âlike maybe I died a long time ago, and no one told me. And this is where I was sent. To be beside you.â
Something in his chest pulled so hard he thought it might tear him in two. He didnât trust his voice to survive the weight of what he wanted to say, so instead of saying anything at all, he crushed your lips to his. You responded with equal fervor, your eyes screwing shut, brows threading, the look he knew he mirrored in his own features.
You opened for him, mouth parting and tongue reaching, and he swallowed the gift of it. His hands framed your face, calloused palms spanning your cheeks as he tipped your chin higher, taking more of you, drawing you deeper into him. He was so hungryâGod, he was starvedâ for this, his gut rolling with the ache of it, all heat and reverence a tsunami in him now. Your soft, breathless sounds filled his ears and lodged somewhere in his chest, determined to pull more from you. He shifted enough to lay over you, and you cradled him between your legs, wrapping around him.
His mouth broke from yours only to map your skin with open, wet kisses at the hinge of your jaw, the warm slope beneath your ear, his tongue tasting the quick thrum of your pulse. You dragged your fingers into his hair, pulling hard enough to make him moan. Yes, yes, mark me. Make me yours.
His hands roamed with greed of something long denied, gripping your ribs and pressing your hips to his, squeezing the flesh that shown from your shirt riding up. He tugged it higher, then stripped it away entirely, throwing it aside before bending to take your breast in his mouth. Lips latched with a hunger that only that wanton creature in him knewânot with anger now, but hunger. He wasnât sure how much chain to give it, how much slack on the leash. It had been so long, so long since heâd let it feast like this. Years of pacing behind his ribs, gaunt and bone thin from neglect, now fed and watered in the sanctuary of you.
Your gasp sharpened into a moan when he moved across your chest, kissing and biting the soft valley between before taking your other breast, teasing the peaked bud with his teeth. Your fingers curled deeper in his hair, and his eyes, surely black with need, met yours.
âI love you,â you whispered suddenly, your jaw slack, eyes glazed in heat.
He paused, only for a moment, because yes, yes. It was all so clear. That was what it was, what it had always been, seeded quietly between you and now breaking open to bloom.
He kissed up your neck, nibbled your chin, and pressed his lips to yours gently before opening his mouth and letting the whole of him pour out as he said:
âI love you.â
You kissed him harder, the sound of lips and spit and moans filling his ears in ecstacy, your voice breaking between, âSay it again,â
He chuckled, all throaty and broken, hands smoothing down your body to grip the meat of you, pulling into him, âI love you,â he said, ââCourse I do,âÂ
âAgain,â you chanted, breath hitching when he grinded his throbbing lap against yours.Â
âI love you, baby,â he said, teeth and lips moving to your neck again, fumbling with his belt, your pants, his zipper.Â
Soon, the absence of clothing made everything heightened and so fucking needy. Every place his skin met yours felt electric, like sparks leaping from one body to the other. He was determined to open you, to split you around him, his cock now aching with the mere thought of you, thick and heavy between his thighs as he pulled your legs up the expanse of his body, feet dangling over his shoulders, hugging your knees to his chest while you lay back, breathless and heated.
You breathed in, hiccuping softly, hands traveling up the length of his arms, over the thickness of his fingers where he held you, finally reaching for his face. He leaned in, desperate for the touch, your delicate fingers tracing the slick, sweat damp skin there as if memorizing him in the dark. Every ridge of cheekbone, every rough line carved by years.
âPlease,â you whispered.
He nodded, kissing your limbs. His mouth lingered at the side of your knee, lips brushing over the tense muscle before moving higher. Up to your calf, the scrape of his stubble leaving a faint burn in its wake, then to your ankle, his mouth pressed warm against the delicate bone there.
When he reached the instep of your bare foot, he kissed it as though it were as sacred as your mouth, a quiet hum leaving him as he nipped gently. His hands slid down the front of your thighs, pulling you open wider. One stayed on you, hugging the tops of your legs to his body, the other moving to wrap around himself, sliding gently against your glossy folds. You were pooling with want, the shlick of arousal a symphony to his ears with your pleas and mewling below him. He breathed you in, hot and ragged, and throbbed against you, circling the head of his cock on your bundle of nerves before moving lower.Â
He looked up at you, the sharp gasp he pulled from your lungs was enough to make the beast in him strain harder against the leash.Â
âJust the tip for now, baby,â he murmured, voice low and coaxing. âJust to get you ready for me.â
You shook your head quickly, words tumbling out in broken breaths. âWan-want it all.â
âI know you do, sweet girl. Gotta take our time, donât wanna hurt you.â
You whined and thrashed a bit, needy and pettish, the wriggle of your hips almost enough to undo him then and there.
He tskâd softly, though the curve of his mouth betrayed him, and he pressed another kiss to the side of your leg before pushing just barely inside. Your hands gripped his forearm where it still clasped your knees to his chest, nails dragging over the coarse hair there. He eased another inch in, pulled back, then rocked forward againâgentle, testing, opening you up. He should have taken more time. Should have eaten you first, worked you open with his fingers until you were ready for him. But the want was too loud now, too deep in his marrow. He was half-man, half that chained beast in his mind, behind his ribsâ crazed by your need, by the tight pull of you already wrapping around him.
âPlease, Joel⌠Iâm ready,â you whispered, a moan slipping out as his hips rolled once more.
âYeah?â
âYes!â you squealed, talons sinking into the meat of his arm.
âOkay, okay,â he conceded.
He wrapped his arms tighter around your legs, locking you in place as his hips surged forward. The stretch tore a strangled sound from both of you, and he swore he could feel the mouth of your womb kiss the tip of his cock. Your walls hugged him, pulling him in deeper as he rested there. He dug his teeth gently into your calf as he watched your face, your features twisted with strain and bliss.
âSo fuckinâ pretty, baby,â he rasped, kissing your bitten flesh, unable to stop the words from pouring out of him, his mouth slack and brain gone to the fog of arousal. His syllables slurred past his mouth before he could catch them, âPrettiest thing Iâve ever seen, prettiest fuckinâ pussy too.â
âJ-Jooooel,â you mewled, hands scrambling for something to hold. He dropped one of his hands to catch them, threading his fingers through yours and bringing your joined hands to his lips as he leaned forward. He pushed down, bending you in half, knees to chest, kissing your fingers where they held his broad palm between them. He set an easy pace, enough to keep him tethered to reality for a bit longer. A gentle push and pull, your walls hugging him, demanding to keep him in deeper.
âHow you feelinâ sweetheart, hm? Howâs that feel?â
âSoâoh godddd,â you moaned, âso full, Joel,â
âI know, I know⌠doinâ so good for me. My good girl,â he cooed, watching your brow pinch, your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your eyes threatened to roll back.
âFocus. Right hereâeyes on me, baby.â
You forced them open, only for them to widen when he pushed in harder, deeper, a deliberate thrust that made you squeal and clutch at him: one hand still trapped in his grip, the other clawing at his arm, his neck, the rough of his beard.
âTell me how good of a girl you are," he demanded voice nothing more than a growl, âtell me,â
âIâmâŚIâmâŚâ
ââIâm a good girlâ,â he practiced, "ain't you, baby? Repeat it.â
âIâm your good girl.â
How could one fucking word completely undo him?
âThatâs right, honey. Thatâs it.â He continued a rhythm that had you keening, your legs tightening around his neck as your voice climbed. Yours, yours, yours, you breathed, eyes rolling, your heat fluttering around him. He pushed in harder, deeper, peppering kisses along your fingers and the round bones of your knuckles, his beard scratching just enough to make you shiver.
âLove you so much, sweet girl,â he murmured into your skin. âCome on, come for me now, be my good girl.â
You shook your head, a whine catching in your throat as your hips rolled to meet his, your fingers tightening in his grip.
âNo?â Joel questioned, a breathless laugh pushing out of his lungs.Â
âWannaââ you swallowed another moan as he drove into you, still pushing your knees tight against your chest. His mouth hovered so close to yours that he could have stolen the breath straight from you if he leaned in just a little further.
âWanna come with you,â you mewled, hands slipping from his to tangle in his hair, both of them dragging him down until his mouth hovered over yours. One lean, one slip of his tongue across your lower lip, and heâd have you. But then, your voice was soft, pleading, begging as your lips brushed his, moving around the words: âLet go for me, Joel⌠give me everything.â
And he knew, knew you saw every part of him, every piece he kept buriedâ and that you knew him better than anyone had ever known him. A mirror, a reflection. Like staring into still water and not just seeing himself, but the thing that heâd been missing all along. All this time, he thought he was the one with his fist around the chain of the dog that paced in his chest, but it was you. And you were unleashing him now, taking off the prong, the muzzle, setting him free.Â
He drove into you hard, letting your legs fall to hook around his hips, sinking into the cradle of you. His hands found your head, the back of your skull fitting into the breadth of his palms, it belonged there, and then he took you, giving you everything he had. Skin slapping skin, mouths colliding, teeth catching, breath tanglingâ he fucked you as your head tipped back, eyes gone white, cresting and crashing and falling apart around him, your voice a raw cry of his name. And he followed, spilling into you with the same sweet abandon youâd pulled from him, every last shred of restraint gone.
The room was steeped in breath and sweat, the air still trembling from the rampage of Joelâs heart against his ribs. Only, this time, the feeling that followed was a quiet, reverent solace, a sort of beauty in its newness. He lifted his head from where it had fallen in the crook of your shoulder, tracing a path of soft, long, wet kisses to your chin, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose. You hummed, the sound lush and frayed, your voice rasping with the aftermath of his name.
âYou are everything,â he whispered, soul bared now, holding the mirror to you. Look, look, see where we are the same.
Your eyes opened, only slivers of color, the light of the moon and dying embers catching in them and returning to him. You kissed him softly, your mouth finding the bristle of his beard, the ridge of his cheek. You drew his head lower, brushing your lips over the delicate flutter of his lashes, the slash across his nose.
âAnd youâŚâ your voice broke, reformed into something raw, âyouâve always been there, haven't you? Like calls to like.â You searched his face as if the truth might try to hide from you now. But he couldnât. You saw him now, and there was nothing left for him to hide. And, as if reading his mind, you said:
âWe are the same, arenât we, Joel?â
The rain answered first, slowing against the roof, the roll of thunder climbing further away and over the mountains. Somewhere outside, a branch scraped against the siding in the wind, a faint, rhythmic sound that kept time with the pounding in his chest.
âYes. Yes, I think so.â
listen idk what happened to me during this I feel like I was in another dimmension with all the shit I was throwing in here. hope you enjoyed :'')
thank you my loves @dixonsdarkelf & @dixons-sunshine for giving this a read before it was anywhere close to ready! love you!!!
summary: Joel Miller was the one thing she swore sheâd never fall for. But love has a way of slipping through the cracks, no matter how hard you try to shut it out.
heavily inspired by no i'm not in love by tate mcrae!
warnings: slow burn, angst, tension, mentions of alcohol, jealousy, emotional repression, inner conflict, intimacy avoidance, painful ache of almost love
Part 1: Not you. Never you.
Part 2: Itâs not like I think about her.
Part 3: Fine, I miss her.
Part 4: This would hurt less if I wasnât lying. (coming soon)
Part 5: Okay, I am.
Joel miller fucking you hard while ranting about his day and not realizing that you almost passed out from too much orgasms
ââââŰśŕ§ too many times
joel doesnât realise how many times heâs made you cum. not until you start slippin under.
warnings: smut, rough sex, overstimulation, joel ranting mid-fuck.
áá ⢠a/n: joel rantin while wreckin you???? pls keep feeding me this good shit. thank you for your servic
áŕźáŤ
joel doesnât mean to fuck you dumb. he really donât. he just comes home pissed, shoulders tight, boots stompin through the front door like the floor insulted him personally.
you ask him how his day was, sweet and soft like you always do, and he just grabs you by the hips like heâs starvin.
âfuckin useless,â he growls, breath hot on your neck as he hauls you onto the bed. âwhole crewâs full of dumb fucksâtryna carry steel like it weighs nothin. could feel my back givin out just watchin.â
his beltâs off, pants shoved down, cock already hard and angry red at the tip. youâre soaked just from the sound of his voice, that edge of southern grit makin your thighs press together. he slides in with no warning, thick and deep, and your body gives like it always doesâgreedy for him.
âainât even lunch,â he huffs, settlin his weight over you, slow-rollin his hips like heâs got all the time in the world. ânâ iâm already dealin with shit. got one guy droppin tools, another one disappearin to piss every five minutes. swear to godâjesus, baby, youâre tight.â
you canât answer. your mouthâs open, eyes flutterin, arms limp above your head. he grabs your wrists, pins âem down, starts fuckin you hardânot mean, but rough like he needs it. needs you. each stroke knocks the breath out your lungs, the head of his cock hittin deep enough to make your toes curl.
âyâainât even listenin, huh?â he chuckles, breathless, hand comin up to cradle your jaw. âtoo cockdrunk to care.â
you nod, or try to. donât even know if it happens. all you know is youâre clenchin again, cryin out as another orgasm tears through youâyour fifth? maybe sixth. your thighs tremble, your cunt flutterin round him, wet and swollen and overstimmed. he doesnât slow. just fucks you through it like heâs still ventin, brows furrowed, sweat drippin onto your chest.
âyou takin it so good, baby,â he mutters. âfuck. should come home angry more often.â
youâre barely consciousâfloatin somewhere between bliss and blackout, lips glossy, babblin his name. he finally looks at your face, sees your eyes rolled back, sees the tears on your cheeks.
âshit. baby? heyâhey, yâalright?â his voice cracks, rough but soft underneath. âlook at me. need you with me, darlin.â
your lips part, breath hitchin, and you manage one tiny, ruined moan: âkeep goinâŚâ
and fuck, does he.
áŕźáŤ
thank you for reading. reblogs & feedback appreciated.
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How about some joel x reader where reader has insomnia ? Like what would joel do?
Insomnia
PAIRING: Joel Miller x reader
WORD COUNT: 1007| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)
Pedro Pascal Masterlist
You lie awake again, staring at the cracked ceiling boards above your bed. Jackson is quiet at this houronly the low hum of generators and the distant bark of Amosâs dog breaking the calm. You shift under the thin blanket, mind racing with ghosts: past survivors, every narrow escape, and the constant weight of the world you live in now. Sleep feels impossible.
A soft scrape at your door makes you sit up. Joel appears in the doorway, his broad frame backlit by the hallway lamp. Heâs carrying two steaming mugs.
âCanât sleep,â you admit before he even speaks.
He nods, setting one mug on the bedside table. âFigured as much.â He clambers up onto the bed and settles against the headboard, tugging the blanket around his shoulders. âChamomile tea. Not my favorite, but itâll calm your nerves.â
You take the mug, hands wrapped around its warmth. âYou didnât have toâ
âDonât start that,â he interrupts, voice soft but firm. âBeen where you are. Hell of a way to spend the night.â He glances at your restless fingers drumming the blanket. âTalk to me.â
You sip slowly, letting the warmth spread through you. âI hate lying here, wide awake. Feels like every bad memoryâs got front-row seats.â
Joel breathes out, staring at the swirling steam. âYou ever think this worldâs gonna cut us some slack? Give us nights off?â He chuckles, bitter and low. âMe neither.â
You frown. âIâm sorry. For⌠dragging you into my mess.â
He shifts, tucking an arm behind you. âYouâre not a mess. Youâre justâ He hesitates, sighs. âYouâre dealing with shit no one should. But youâre not alone.â
His hand finds yours. His thumb grazes your knuckles in slow, steady circles. âWhatâs keepinâ you up tonight? The nightmares again?â
You swallow. âYeah. Them. I can almost hear the clickers⌠feel the walls closing in.â You pull your knees up. âThen I wake up here and⌠itâs safe. Most times. But my mind doesnât know that.â
Joelâs jaw tightens. He sinks lower, drawing you against his chest. âLetâs do something different.â He pats the bed beside him. âCome on.â
Curious, you follow him into the cramped living room. The lampâs glow throws long shadows across the chipped wood floor. Joel crosses to the old record player in the corner. He flips through a stack of dusty vinyl, choosing one with a cracked label. He places the needle gently, and the scratchy opening chords of an old folk song drift through the air.
You sink onto the threadbare couch; Joel squats in front of you, balancing the tea. âMusic helps sometimes,â he says. âTakes your mind off⌠other things.â
You settle back, sipping the tea. âWhat is this?â
âOld world folksomething about moonlight and trouble, fits the mood.â He sits next to you, one arm slung over the couch back. âYou want to talk while we listen? OrâŚI donât know, just... be quiet.â
The melody is soft, mournful. You close your eyes, letting each note push away a bit of the ache. âTell me a story,â you say. âNot about the outbreak. Something before all this.â
He quirks an eyebrow. âYou trust my memory that far back?â
You nudge him. âTry me.â
Joel takes a breath. âAlright. When I was a kid, my old man⌠he was a handyman. Kept this old guitar in the garagenever played it proper, just strummed around. One summer, I sneaked out at dawn, grabbed that guitar, and wandered over to this creek outside town. Spent hours just playing stupid chords.â He smiles, distant. âThought I was gonna be some big country star.â He laughs softly. âDidnât know a damn thing about music.â
You grin. âBet you sounded awful.â
He shrugs, mock offended. âMaybe. But it was peaceful. No fireflies, no clickers, no hunters chasing us. Just me and that damn creek.â
You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. âThat sounds⌠nice.â
Joelâs gaze flicks to you. âYou ever tried playing something? Even just air guitar?â
You laugh. âMy rhythmâs worse than yours probably.â
He pushes to his feet. âCome on.â Before you can protest, heâs dragging you up. âStand up, knucklehead.â
Breathless, you follow him to the little bookshelf. He pulls out a battered acoustic guitar. The strings are rusty, but the body still holds its shape.
âNow you,â he insists, shoving the guitar into your hands. âHold it like this.â His fingers wrap around yours, guiding them to the frets. âPress down here⌠strum here.â He strums a simple chord; it rings, a bit dull but full of promise.
You try, hitting a sour note. Joel winces theatrically. âOkay, not bad. Needs work though.â
You smack his shoulder. âHeyâ
He grins, setting your fingers on a second chord. âC major. Simple. Now together.â He strums again, and you follow. Two clumsy chords, but they echo softly in the room.
You laugh, the sound lighter than youâve felt in days. âI actually did it.â
Joel steps closer, brushing a stray hair from your face. âSee? You just needed a distraction.â He sweeps you into a hug, guitar forgotten. âAnd you know Iâll always be here to⌠teach you.â
You rest your head against his chest. âPromise youâll stay?â
He kisses the top of your head. âAlways.â His voice is low, fierce. âNothingâs getting you tonight.â
Silence falls, the only sound your tangled breath and the fading tail of the record. Joelâs arms are a fortress, and for the first time in weeks, you feel its walls hold fast.
Minutes drift into hours. You donât notice when the tea runs cold or the record skips back to the beginning. You donât care. All that matters is the warmth against your skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat, and the truth that in Jacksonafter everythingyou have someone to fight the darkness with.
When sleep finally finds you, itâs deep, untroubled, and Joel is right there beside youguitar at his feet, record spinning, and a promise wrapped around your soul: no matter the nightmares, youâll never face them alone.