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joelsdagger · 24 days ago

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KIT THANK YOU SO MUCH DARLING!! this is so sweet i’m emotional, i’m so happy you liked it, thank you for reading 🥹💗

homeland || one shot

joel miller x reader

special thanks to the lovely @5oh5 for providing me with plant resources many many many moons ago and to @phoeberidgers for lending me her eyes. ily both sm <33

pairing: jackson!joel x f!reader summary: joel gets you ready for a day of horseback riding. warnings: jackson era, joel being his typical acts of service type of man, pet names, implied age gap, established relationship, angst, glimpses of domesticity, sliver of reader having anxiety [see: angst], horses [i feel like they need their own warning yk?]. joel is a big ol’ teddy bear, brief mentions of grief, referenced character death, reader is described of having hair long enough to braid, smidgen of a size kink. no smut – only fluff, rated E for everyone! **should also be noted this takes place years into their shared life together and they’re very much in love. SUE. ME. word count: 2.3k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for notifs!!

“You doin’ your walk of shame, cowboy?” You half-shout from the porch when his tall form materializes down the street, the sun still rising on the horizon behind him. You know he’d headed out to the stables before first light, but you can’t deny you get a kick out of pulling his leg.

His head drops, a slight shake at the pavement, and when he meets your eye again, a soft smile sprouts on his lips. “Needed to check on Callus, make sure he’s good to go,” he says, striding up the porch stairs.

You turn to meet him, railing pressed to your stomach, coffee mug in one hand, the other reaches for his chest, and you press your lips to his warm cheek. “Let me grab my boots and I’ll be right out,” you say mindlessly as he settles himself on the rickety chair.

You crack open the front door, place the mug of coffee you’d been nursing all morning on the entry table, pick up your cowboy boots and Joel’s guitar leaning against the wall, and shut the door behind you. When you turn to face him, Joel pats his thigh, beckoning you over. You set aside the instrument and place yourself on his lap.

As you shuck off your slippers, his large hand comes up to brush your hair away from the nape of your neck, he lays a featherlight kiss there. “You got one of them hair ties on you, sweetheart?”

You giggle at the warmth of his breath fanning across your neck, “I do.” You drop your boots down beside your feet and reach into the pocket of your jeans, pulling out a finicky black elastic.

He gathers your hair into his hands, dividing it into three large sections. After a few light pulls of each section, you realize he’s braiding your hair. Warmth blooms in your chest at the feel of his thick fingers meticulously braiding one section over another with practiced ease. Like he’s done it a million times.

“Last time it was flappin’ around in your face. You can’t see where you’re headed like that,” he murmurs. You close your eyes and hum, lose yourself to the therapeutic pull of his fingers through your hair.

“Did you do her hair? Sarah’s?” you ask somewhat absentmindedly.

You don’t hesitate to bring her up in conversation. Joel has talked about her, shared pieces of his life with you, bit by bit. The first mention of her seemingly on accident, only a fleeting moment, but after the second time, you deduced he fully intended on letting you in, on his life before.

“Used to braid her hair for her games. Horse riding too,” he says faintly, tone seeped in affection.

You smile softly, prideful. It took him years to get here, but Joel slowly realized his grief was the unexpressed love he’d always have for his little girl — love that had nowhere else to go. He found that in the missing, he’d grown closer to her. He’s since filled an emptiness he once knew with little moments that honor her life.

Lost in the slow rhythmic movement of Joel’s fingers in your hair, in the comfort his touch instantly provides, your mind wanders; imagine Joel — many years younger, frantically getting his little girl ready. Threading that golden hair into an elastic, vibrantly colored and a charm dangling from the band, perfectly on trend for young girls in that era. You even picture little Sarah putting hair ties in her dad’s hair, if he ever grew it out as much as he does now. You smile to yourself, an ache in your chest flares; it’s not hard to picture, but it’s not easy to think about what could have been.

The deep bass of Joel’s voice pulls you from your reverie. “Took a few times, but Tommy n’ I figured it out,” he says simply, his words slipping into a light chuckle.

He holds out his hand, palm up, and you drop the hair tie in his hand. The elastic snaps as he ties off the braid. And when he’s finished, he presses a palm to your lower back, and mutters a low, turn around.

You oblige and twist to face him; the corners of his eyes crinkle as they dance across your face, and his fingers tug gently at the curved bowl of your ear. “Beautiful,” he marvels, his lips connecting with your forehead, laying a long kiss there as he inhales the berry scent of your hair.

“Almost forgot,” he mumbles and leans back in the porch chair as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket. Pinched between his fingers is a small flower, one with dazzling bubblegum pink petals and a splash of gold at the center — an aster flower.

You bite back a grin. “Where’d you get that?” you ask him pointedly.

He avoids your gaze, slips one finger through a loop of the hair tie, threads the dark green stem through with gentle care. “Uh,” Joel clears his throat, “plucked it on the way from Mrs. Doyle’s yard.”

Your mouth pops open, feigning surprise. He’s quick to defend himself, already sensing your disapproval. “What she don’t know, won’t kill her,” the right corner of his mouth twitches up in a smirk, and he releases your braid.

You mirror his smirk, and you scoot up his thighs. Firm hands find your hips, anchoring you in his lap, and you interlock your fingers behind the nape of his neck as you lean closer. “You know, Mrs. Doyle told me once that all plants have meanings,” you say against his mouth.

He hums. “She tell you what they mean?”

You peck just beneath the plush of his bottom lip, and his hands squeeze your waist, his eyes crease. “Mmm. Perhaps.” Your mouth drifts to the corner of his, the silver hairs on his mustache tickling your lips.

“What’s this one mean, sweet baby?” he asks softly, his fingers coming up to toy with the loose strands at the end of your braid, glowing adoration in his gaze as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes.

You know what it means. Mrs. Doyle, who ran an apothecary before the outbreak, practically gave you a rundown of what she likes to call A Beginner’s Guide to Floriography. She never fails to jabber your ear off every time she supplies you with herbs. In the beginning, for your period cramps, and then some odd years later, when you and Joel started messing around, in which she was the first to catch on, she supplied you periodically with plants for an herbal tea to avoid any unwelcome surprises.

You’re silently thankful for her. You know exactly what it means, and you certainly know that Joel knows what it means. The observant man that he is, his every move is intentional; he wouldn’t just pick a flower amongst the many simply for its beauty.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t mess with him a little. “If you had been patient instead of sneaking off while she wasn’t looking, maybe she would’ve told you,” you goad.

“Oh, I reckon she would, after she’d tell me her whole life story.”

“That’s cruel, baby.”

He tuts. “I’m cruel? I ain’t the one withholdin’ information.” With a light yank to the end of your braid, a smirk quirks his lips.

You shrug, feigning seriousness, “It’s gotta be one of those poisonous flowers used in witchcraft and hexes.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

You nod. “Something about calling upon evil spirits. Wishing ill upon me and everyone I’ve ever loved. That sorta thing.”

He snorts and shakes his head, murmurs something under his breath that you can’t quite make out; you think it’s something about giving him more grays.

You smirk and unhook your arms, twisting your body around in his lap to pull your boots on. And Joel runs the palm of his hand down your back, stopping at the base of your spine; his other hand reaches down and tugs the top of your cowboy boot, assessing the fit of them. “These the ones I brought back?” he asks, peering over your shoulder.

“Mhm. Finally get to break them in,” you start and pat your hands on your denim-clad thighs before standing up. “Alright, ready?”

He nods, groaning as he stands to grab his guitar, looping it over his shoulder, and walks in tandem beside you down the porch and onto the street, arm over your shoulder the whole way.

—

There’s a cool breeze in the air as you and Joel reach the stables. You stand idly at the gate while Joel steps in and walks Callus out of his stable, both of your backpacks already saddled on either side of him.

You turn, give two of the men manning the wall a firm nod, and they open the gate. You step out of the settlement and make your way down the trail; the east gate groans as the men on guard promptly close the barrier between the living and the dead.

Minutes pass, and you reach the clearing. Joel releases the reins and beckons you towards him with a flick of his head.

Joel strokes over Callus’ mane. “Figured you should be up front this time, get you used to it,” he says.

Panic settles in your stomach, Joel sees it threaten to spill across your face. He steps forward, squeezes your hand in his. “S’okay, you can do it, baby,” he says softly.

You hesitate, feel Callus nudge his muzzle into your palm, your eyes flitting between him and Joel. “Joel. I’ve never–”

“Hey,” he starts, taking your face in his calloused hands, his head dipping to meet your eye line, “you can. We all start somewhere.” You glance into his eyes, the flecks of amber swimming in his hazel irises, and somehow it brings you at ease. Slightly.

He pecks your lips twice in quick succession. “Better?” he asks. You nod numbly, tossing him a weak smile.

Joel bends, puts one hand over the other, and you place a wobbly foot up into his hands. With one hand gripping the horn of the saddle and the other on the seat, you throw your other leg over Callus. Joel grunts a low, there you go, as he boosts you up.

“Attagirl,” he praises, patting the small of your back before swiftly hoisting himself up behind you.

Your back is flush to his chest; he loops a hand around your front to settle on your stomach. You sense he can feel your uneasiness, your muscles tensing beneath his hand. “Remember what I said last time? He can sense your fear. Have faith in the fella.”

His words fall on deaf ears, and you let go of the reins, the leather already hot and damp in your sweaty palms. You wipe your hands on your denim-clad thighs, cursing yourself under your breath, knowing you’re burning daylight.

Your shoulders tense at the realization, expecting to hear a low huff of contempt or a quiet sigh of frustration from behind you.

But nothing comes of it.

Joel moves his hand up your stomach, follows the slats of your ribs, and whispers softly against the shell of your ear, “Close your eyes f’me.”

You obey, eyes fluttering shut. “Now deep breath in…hold it...” His hand steady as your diaphragm expands, your lungs filling with air. “Now breathe out. Slow. Slow.”

And you do, matching your breathing to his gentle instructions, feeling the anxiety wring itself out from within.

Until Callus moves slightly beneath you, strong hooves that thump in place. Your eyes tear open, a freakish whimper slips past your lips, your feet lock in the stirrups.

“Easy. Easy. I gotcha, baby. You’re alright, darlin. C’mon, one more time for me.”

His other hand squeezes your hip, a gentle command. “Stay with me. In and out, you got it, honey.”

Your stomach settles, and Joel tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear, careful fingers running down your braid. “Helps me sometimes,” he says simply.

You frown, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Joel stiffens behind you. “You don’t gotta do that.”

“I feel stupid. I’m sorry it’s taking me so long…to get used to it.”

You can feel Joel shaking his head. “Look at me,” he urges, his voice low and firm.

You peer behind you, meet the hues of concern in his eyes, the twists of his brows. “None of that, we’ve got time. I’ve got time.”

Your eyes flit to the collar of his shirt, suddenly interested in the faded neckline. He senses you’re not convinced. “Listen here, you say the word ‘n we quit. We head back ‘n forget it. S’your call, baby.”

Something pulls at you. Maybe it’s his unwavering patience and attentiveness. Maybe it’s the moment from earlier that loops back in your head. Joel’s expert fingers threading through your hair while talking about his daughter. The reminder of his and her shared love of horses. Maybe it’s the reminder that this moment, with you here, keeps her memory alive. Maybe it’s an urge to further crack his stony walls. That urge to know her and him through this. And you think it’s why he’s so adamant to see this through. You see it in the real joy it brings him every time he takes you beyond Jackson’s walls. See it when the sun sinks behind the hills, cotton candy weaving through the sky. My Sarah would’a loved this, he’d say fondly, with an adoring smile so big his eyes gleam. Teaching you not only lets you know this part of him, but it also allows him to strengthen his connection to her, to reach out to her, twenty years later.

It all melds together and it nudges you on. You manage to mutter a feeble, thank you.

He kisses the nape of your neck and readjusts your braid down the line of your back. “You got it, baby.”

Your head turns to face the horizon, the burst of persimmon that spills across the sky. You hesitate to click your tongue. And Joel’s hand retakes its place over your stomach. “S’okay. M’right here, darlin’. I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you.”

#comment reblog #fic: homeland

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