#Joel Miller angst

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc

I N T E R L U D E

warnings: mentions of suicide and rape, trauma, suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, childbirth, blood, post-natal depression. just heavy maternity topics altogether, but also soooo much fluff. a little bit before the next chapter 👀 also, yes, I'm fine, I'm just exploring what I can do :)

The following is a series of audio and video recordings belonging to one L.REED recovered from their residence.

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #1

(The static crackles. A breath. Then a sniff—quick, sharp, like she’s trying to get herself under control. The mic picks up the soft creak of wood, and the rustle of fabric as she shifts.)

“It’s… ten-thirty-two in the night. August third.” (A pause, her voice stiff like she’s reading from a script. Then, softer—like admitting it to herself as much as the recorder—) “And I think I...”

(Silence. Then another slow breath. Hesitant, unwilling.)

“I mean, I'm um, in my living room.” (A beat.) “And I have just found out I am pregnant.”

(The words sit there, utterly unwelcome. She sniffs, a wet sound, then lets out a short, uneven breath like a laugh she doesn’t feel.)

“I know how it happened. I know what my body is capable of, what the biology is, how it works, what I—what I couldn’t have stopped. But knowing doesn’t change anything.” (Another beat, like she’s swallowing down a jagged marble.) “I cannot fix this. Cannot stop it. I have no say in this. None.”

(Her voice shakes on the last word, and she inhales sharply like she’s trying to stop it from happening.)

“I just…” (A sniff, another breath, her voice almost inaudible—) “I just wish I knew what the hell to do now.”

(Silence. Not empty. Suffocating. She shifts again, restless, like she can’t stand the feeling of being in her body.)

“I’m so scared. And so... alone. But I can't have anyone near me, not with everything I am now.” (The smallest her voice has ever been.)

“I think I’m—four months in, maybe more. My stomach, it's…” (A soft exhale, like she’s looking down at it, touching it, struggling to accept it.) “It’s getting bigger every day. The baby is growing fast. I feel it when I sleep, when I roll over, when I move. It's in there. Real, alive. Something I didn’t ask for.”

(She stops, swallowing hard before forcing herself to go on.)

“My body—it doesn’t want this. It knows it doesn't belong to me anymore. I can feel it. It’s rejecting food, rejecting rest, rejecting reason. I—I am so tired, I can barely think, but my mind won’t shut off. I keep trying to get back onto research, to make sense of my life but I can’t focus, I can't sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t stop—” (Her voice catches, and she presses her lips together. A second passes before she forces the next words out.)

“I can’t forget. But I also can’t remember. Not all of it. Just—these pieces. Bits that crawl in when I least expect. And when it comes... I cannot move. Breathe. I am helpless to escape it.”

(She exhales sharply, frustrated, like she hates herself for saying it.)

“Maria, the leader of this new commune, brought a doctor home. She said the baby will be born around mid-January.” (A pause. Then, the tiniest scoff, that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so resentful.) “That’s five months. Five months until—” (She stops. Another breath.) “Until this is real. Until I have to face this.”

(And then her voice shifts—tightens, sharpens like she’s trying to force steel into it.)

“But it’s not mine.” (The words come fast, desperate, like if she says it enough, she’ll believe it.) “It’s not. I know it’s not.”

(She inhales too quickly, voice trembling as she goes on—rushed, frantic—like she’s trying to outrun a danger that’s catching up to her.)

“I can’t do this. I can’t. I'm going to stain the poor thing, I'm going to ruin it. I can’t be a mother. I can’t care for it, I can’t love it, I—I don’t want to. How could I?” (Her breath stutters, her voice turning quiet, broken—) “Not when every time I look at it, all I’ll see is them.”

(A silence. Her breathing is uneven now, rough around the edges. When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.)

“I still hear them.” (A lull, thick and trembling.) “At night, in the hallway. I think it's them. The shadows. Their footsteps, their laughter. I think I'm going crazy. I can't stop reliving it. I thought it was over the moment I burned that place. I thought I was safe. That they were gone.”

(She swallows, breath shaking.)

“I still smell them on me. It reeks.” (A horrible, suffocating admission. Then nothing.)

(Silence. The static hums, filling the empty space. And then, a sound—tearful, muffled. She’s crying. But she won’t let herself fall apart. She won’t.)

“I feel them everywhere.” (The words barely make it out. Like they weren’t meant to.)

(Then—one deep, rattling breath. Too big for her lungs, like she’s struggling to contain everything inside her.)

“It takes everything in me not to throw myself off that dam. Easy, isn't it? One jump, you fall, your bones break, you deserve every bit of the pain, and eventually you drown. Calm.” (Flat. Hollow. A simple truth.)

“Were it not for the tiny human depending on me...” (Her voice is small again. Furious. Tired. Fading.) “And until it’s out, I have to stay.”

(Silence. Long, awful silence.)

“I can’t love it.” (A raw confession. A wound.) “But I can’t kill it either.”

(Another silence. She sniffs hard, then inhales slowly, forcing the air into her lungs.)

“I have to stay alive.” (A breath. Then another.) “At least until this baby is out of me and safe.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #2

(The static clicks on. A breath, like she’s convincing herself she’s fine before she speaks.)

“It’s… ten-sixteen in the evening. September the eighth." (Her voice is steadier than the last recording. Detached, almost clinical, like she’s just logging facts.) “I’m in my living room.”

(A longer pause. A shift of fabric, like she’s adjusting, trying to get comfortable. Then—)

“I’m five months in now. More than halfway.” (The words land heavier than she expects. Another pause, like she’s thinking about it too much. Then—quieter—) “I’ve gotten used to the bump. It’s just… there. Part of me now. Stopping me, restricting me.”

(Another inhale, then a sigh, frustrated.)

“But the food—god. I just can’t eat.” (The words come out sharper, like she’s sick of repeating herself, sick of struggling.) “Nothing stays down except eggs. And I hate eggs now. But it’s the only thing I can stomach, so I eat them. Every damn day. Maria jokes that I've gone through most of Jackson's egg produce this month.”

(A quiet lull. A shift, and then, softer—like she’s speaking more to herself than the recorder—)

“Y'know, I hate that food is a necessity to the human physiology. That my body demands it even when I don’t want it.” (Another beat. Then, bitterly—) “Like I don’t have enough things forcing me to keep going.”

(Silence. Then, her voice drops lower, a heaviness creeping in.)

“My research has stalled. Not that it matters. I stared at the board for days now, and nothing.” (A sharp laugh.) “I’m a disappointment anyway. A waste of space. My parents left this world thinking they were handing their life’s work to someone capable. Someone who’d do something with it. Carry it forward.” (A swallow.) “Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Daddy. I blew it. I failed you.”

(Her voice stays even, but it's cracked at the edges, barely holding together.)

“I’ll be joining them soon enough. Incomplete, inadequate. Useless.”

(Silence stretches. Then, she exhales, long and controlled, like pushing that thought out of her lungs.)

“Now, Maria won’t leave me alone.” (Flat. Matter-of-fact.) “Neither will her husband, Tommy. He’s… alright. Nice, even. But they keep coming by. With food. With medicine. With advice I don’t want. They think they’re helping.” (A humourless snort.) “They won’t listen when I tell them to stop and leave me alone.”

(A pause. Then, quieter—reflective—) “Maybe that’s why they keep showing up. But I don't need their hope. I just need to stay alive, stay away and have this baby.”

(Another pause. A change in her tone—slightly lighter, curious.)

“Tommy told me today that the house across from mine isn’t empty after all. Says his brother has been living there for sometime now. Joel.” (She repeats the name, testing it in her mouth, unfamiliar.) “Said if I needed anything, I could go to him.” (A scoff.) “Like that's happening anytime soon. I don't need anything from anyone. I just need to... think.”

(Silence. Then, there's a difference in her voice—unsure, reluctant.)

“But… I’ve been watching him.” (A quiet, almost amused breath.) “Not in a way that's intrusive. He's doing it in plain sight. Wasting away, like me.” (A soft exhale, like she’s shaking her head at herself.) “He just—he has this routine. I haven't understood it yet.”

(She shifts again like she’s glancing toward the window as she speaks.)

“Every night, he sits on his porch with that guitar of his. He plays. Sometimes he sings.” (Another pause. Then, softer—) “It’s… nice. Simple.”

(The words linger, like she didn’t expect to admit them. Then, quieter—almost like a secret—)

“It helps. It calms me.”

(Another silence. The mic picks up a faint sound—her fingers rubbing against fabric, an absent movement, thoughtful.)

“I feel the baby kick when I listen.” (She exhales, almost like a laugh—small, tired, but real.) “Maria says that’s a good thing that the baby is kicking. That it means it’s healthy.” (Then, neutrally—) “I don’t care.”

(And yet, she doesn’t sound entirely convinced. Then, softer, quieter—like she hasn’t let herself think this before—)

“But I guess it’s nice to know it’s happy inside me. That I can still...”

(Another pause. Her next words are barely more than a whisper—like she isn’t even sure she wants to say them out loud—)

“That there’s something about me it likes. Even if I'm much worse than those Infected out there.”

(Silence. Then, the click of the recorder shutting off.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #3

(The static clicks on. A deep exhale, then a groan, voice laced with exhaustion.)

“My back has been killing me. I think it’s splintering apart every time I move. Which means my baby is getting bigger by the day. And happier, too, apparently.” (A tired laugh, warm despite itself.) “Kicks all through the night—doesn’t let up for even a second.”

(A beat. And then, quieter, softer—like she’s only just realizing it herself—)

“I really like it. I like thinking about it, rather than the nightmares. How it might feel to hold the baby. See it smile at me.”

(Silence, just for a second. Then—another small, breathy laugh, almost amused at herself.)

“I mean, yeah, I can’t sleep when I think of this, but… I stay up. Just listening. Feeling it move. And when I talk—like right now—ooh—oof, okay, I felt that one.” (A giggle, surprised, unguarded.) “Yeah, okay, I know you’re in there, baby. I'm listening. You having fun? Spacious enough for you?”

(Barely more than a whisper—like it’s a thought she isn’t meant to say out loud—)

“Why do you like me so much?”

(A beat. Her voice turns dry, self-deprecating—like she’s brushing it off before it can settle too deep.)

“Huh, guess you haven’t met me yet. You'll hate me just as soon.”

(Abruptly lighter—like she’s trying to reroute her own thoughts before they get too serious.)

“So, I’ve been eating more. Craving more, actually. Blueberries. Mashed potatoes, mostly. Which is good, carbohydrates are energy. Good for the baby. I've had so much of it, I swear I might give birth to a sack of potatoes instead.” (A small, wry chuckle.) “Baby doesn’t seem to mind, though. I've put on twelve pounds, easy. I feel so large.”

(Silence for a moment. And then, her voice shifts again—subtly different now. Thoughtful… curious.)

“Oh and, well. My neighbour’s made some progress. It's always nice to see.”

(A hint of amusement now, almost teasing.)

“Finally combed his hair. Patched up his shoes. Got himself a nice shirt. And—get this—he played my favourite song the other day. Handy Man.” (A small exhale, almost a sigh.) “I even sat out on the porch steps just to listen. He’s got a good voice. A real singer's voice. Maybe he was once upon a time.”

(A pause, and then—quieter, like she’s saying it more to herself—)

“Baby and I went wild for it. We hear him sing every night now, without fail.”

(Silence lingers this time. When she speaks again, her voice is different. Not playful anymore. Not light.)

“I didn't ask, but Tommy tells me Joel’s been through hell. That he's still going through it.”

(Silence lingers, stretching out like a thread pulled too tight. Then, a sharp inhale—one that shakes, just slightly, before she steadies herself.)

“Yeah. That’s something we’ve got in common in this awful world.”

(She exhales, but it’s not relief. It’s bitter, sitting on the back of her tongue.)

“I hate that we do. Some arbitrary, lonely, bitter man... and me.”

(A pause. Not empty—just full of things she doesn’t want to think about. Full of everything she’s been trying not to feel.)

But it's creeping in any way.

She’s spent so long trying not to really see him. Just some man with a permanent scowl and a slouch that almost looked like he was reverting the evolution chart back to ape. The kind of grief that takes the pressure out of a man’s steps, that hollows him out so bad you start to wonder if there’s anything left inside at all.

It was easy to ignore. To dismiss. Just another ghost of a person.

But then—then she started watching.

Not on purpose. Not at first. She’d catch glimpses—him sitting on his porch, fingers idly plucking at the strings of his guitar, eyes staring out at nothing, lost in some place she wasn’t sure he’d ever come back from. Sometimes that pretty little girl would stop by, sit with him, and talk to him. Joel barely ever spoke. But he listened to her, hanging onto her every word.

And then Leela started listening, too.

And the more she listened, the more she saw. How he still went on patrol, and still did what he had to. How, despite all that he carried on his shoulders, he never let it slow him down. How he walked around like a man who had no reason left to live—except he was still here. Still moving, existing, even when it looked like it hurt.

She saw herself in that, and she hated it.

Because he had already given up. And she hadn’t. Not fully.

So, the words slip out before she even realizes she’s saying them. They sound strange. Foreign. Like they don’t belong to her...

“I don’t want to die.”

(She swallows. The admittance has been buried under months of fear, exhaustion and numbness.)

“If that man can do it, just live for the sake of it, why can't I?”

(It's harsh. She means it.)

“So, not dying just yet. I'm going to have this baby and I'll make it work. That's what I do best. I am not a quitter.”

(A deep inhale. Exhale. Like she’s setting a task down. Or maybe picking that task up.)

“I have too much left to do in this house. I have to finish what they started. I'm not giving up.”

(A pause. Then, almost like an afterthought—)

“For my parents. For their legacy. For me. I will not die.”

(A soft clearing of her throat. Getting back to the facts now.)

“It's eight-twenty-two in the evening, November the second. I'm in my living room. Seven months in. Um, Leela signing off.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #5

(The static clicks on. A deep, shuddering breath. Then another. It’s slow, controlled—like she’s fighting to keep it together.)

“Uh, eight months now. Ow... Eleven pm, I think. Kitchen. December nineteenth, right? God, my D-day's in three weeks. I just get cramps more often now.”

(She exhales, sharp and strained.)

“It’s not bad. It’s just—” (a shifting sound like she’s trying to find a comfortable position) “—it’s like having my period. Constantly. I can't believe the shit women have to go through.”

(Another breath—this one shorter, hitching slightly at the end.)

“So, Maria’s sentenced me to bed rest now. Tommy comes by every day to check on me. I’m… I’m so grateful for them. But I really don't need anyone to...”

(A deep breath. Then, suddenly—)

“Ooh—” (A small, startled sound, not quite a groan, but close.) “Yeah, there it is. Comes and goes. I've got to start tracking that, too.”

(A long silence follows. Just static humming in the background. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter—faintly distracted, like her mind has wandered somewhere else.)

“But I’m doing okay. I think. I’m eating more. I’ve tried to move around a little, to cook for myself, but…” (a breath, then a tired huff of laughter) “…my garden is overgrown. Like, completely. It’s a jungle out there. And the house…” (she sighs, deeply, the weight of it pressing down on her words) “I keep seeing everything that needs to be fixed. Loose floorboards, dusty windows, and a leaky pipe in the kitchen. I’ve let it go to hell. Daddy would be furious.”

“I guess I’ve been too busy… I don’t know. Baking a baby? Surviving?”

(Another shift, a slight creak of whatever she’s sitting on.)

“I set up a nursery. Because the baby needs space to feel at home.” (Her tone is vague. Then, wryly—) “Heh, a nursery. If you can even call it that.”

“It’s just my old crib. In the nearest room.” (A beat.) “That’s it.”

“I wanted to do more. I really did. But it was hell just getting that stupid thing up the stairs. Had to drag it, inch by inch. Thought I was gonna throw up halfway through.” (She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but it fades quickly.)

“God, this baby’s gonna hate me so much.”

(Silence. Just for a second. Just long enough for that thought to settle.)

“And what’s even scarier than that? The actual birth.” (Her voice tightens. She doesn’t want to say this, but it’s been sitting in her head for too long, and now it’s coming out whether she wants it to or not.)

“I've been warned that it’s going to hurt a lot. That it's not just a simple push.” (A breath. A hand, maybe, pressed to her stomach—may be pressing against a cramp, maybe just needing to feel the realness.)

“Like bones breaking. That’s what they say.” (A quick inhale.) “That there's going to be a lot of blood and mush. That it could last hours. The 'labour pains'. A whole day. That when it happens, I’ll need to find someone, fast. Get myself to the clinic. That I’ll need help.”

“But what if I don’t?”

(Her voice is smaller now. Fragile. Like a crack she’s been trying to plaster over, finally starting to widen.)

“What if something happens? What if it starts in the middle of the night, and I can’t get to anyone in time? What if I… what if I die? What if I die without ever seeing my baby? What if I die without finishing my research?”

(A sharp, unsteady inhale. Then silence. Heavy, pressing down on everything.)

“There was this nice old woman who came over.” (Her voice is different now, like she’s remembering, and grounding herself.) “She told me that plenty of women have done it on their own. That it’s a matter of strength and love. That I have nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t know if I believe her. The thought of blood and guts is scaring me.” (A breath, then, like she’s forcing herself to say it—) “But I have to be ready. Just in case.”

(A long pause. Then, quietly—like she’s reminding herself, she’s willing it to be true—)

“I know I won’t be alone. There are people here around me now. Joel from across the street. The old couple next door. Maria. Tommy.” (A beat. A swallow.) “But… on the off chance?”

(Another pause. Then, softer—like a vow, like a promise, like she’s holding onto it with both hands.)

“I’m going to fight like hell.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #6

(Click. A beat of silence. Then, her voice—soft, thoughtful, almost hesitant, like she doesn’t know why she’s saying this out loud.)

“It's December the twenty-second. Nine-seventeen in the morning. Um... Joel came by my place.”

(A pause. Then, quieter—almost to herself—)

“I don’t know why I feel the need to log that. This is supposed to be about the baby, not…” (A sigh.) “Whatever. It's not like anyone's going to hear this.”

(Then, the faintest hint of a scoff—amused, self-aware—)

“He was only here for, what, two minutes? Less than that? Just long enough to hand me some food. Tommy couldn’t bring it over—something about the Christmas celebrations in town. So, I guess Joel got stuck with it. Poor guy.”

(A beat. A shift in her voice, like she’s turning the memory over in her mind, inspecting it.)

“It’s different, seeing him up close. I’ve been watching him from across the street for months—just glimpses, shadows, the sound of his guitar carrying over, entertaining us. But when someone’s right in front of you, you see things you didn’t before.”

(She exhales, thoughtful.)

“He’s taller than I thought. Very... big.” (A soft, almost breathless chuckle, like she’s realizing how ridiculous that sounds.) “I don’t know why that surprised me. He looked tiny from all the way here.”

(A pause. Then, slower, like she’s piecing it together as she speaks—)

“He’s got more silver in his hair than I realized. I'm guessing he's around fifty. And this scar, right on his temple—looks like a bullet just barely missed him. He smells like sweat and dirt and old clothes that’ve been worn too many days in a row. And his eyes…”

(She trails off for a second, then swallows, trying to find the words.)

“They’re thin. Sad. Not in an obvious way, but—” (She exhales, frustrated, like she’s mad at herself for not explaining it right.) “—they turn down at the edges. Could be from age the way Daddy was, or could be from grief. Maybe both. He's seen too much.”

(A quiet halt. Then, abruptly—)

“He’s handsome, right? For his age.” (A beat. Then, drier—) “Not that I’d know what the hell that means. The only men in my life are Daddy and Tommy.”

(A change. Something smaller now. More personal.)

“He didn’t even knock.” (Another breath, like she’s thinking back on it.) “Wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t seen him standing there and opened the door first.”

(A pause.)

“He asked about me. The baby, I mean.”

(She says it softly, like it means more to her than she wants it to.)

“It was… weird. Having him there, asking me. S'like watching something from a distance for so long and then suddenly finding yourself in the middle of it.”

(She inhales.)

“He nodded. And that was it. Just turned and left. Now I wished I'd talked a little more. I'd like to be his friend.”

(A beat. Then, softer, almost like a realization—)

“And this morning, the snow on my pavement was gone.” (A faint, barely-there smile in her voice—) “He did it for me.”

(Silence stretches for a moment like she’s sitting with everything she just said. And then, almost too soft to hear—)

“Sweet, sad man.”

(And then, barely above a whisper—)

“He saved my life without even knowing it.”

(The static runs for a while. Click.)

X

The first wave of labour pain came like a shockwave. Sharp, deep, untimely.

Leela sucked in a tight breath, stiffening, clutching the edge of the sink as a dull ache bloomed low in her belly, deep in her bones. Her nightgown stuck to the backs of her thighs, damp, and—

She looked down. A thin stream of fluid ran down the inside of her leg, spilling onto the marble floor. Clear. Warm.

No. Her heart lurched. Her mind reeled, scrambling for numbers, for weeks, for the dates that made sense—four weeks early.

“No,” she whispered, gripping the sink tighter.

She wasn’t ready. The baby wasn’t ready.

Another wave of pain slammed into her. Worse. Like the baby inside her was twisting, pushing, trying to force its way out between her legs. She gasped, curling forward, forehead pressed against the mirror. Her reflection blurred in the fog of her breath.

Was she dying? Was the baby dying? Had she done something wrong?

Breathe. Breathe, she repeated to herself. It was probably just another cramp. Although it felt worse than usual.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember Maria’s voice. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

She counted. She breathed. She thought through the haze, clutching the one that mattered.

Get help.

Joel.

The name came without hesitation. She didn’t question it.

Leela stumbled out of the bathroom, one hand gripping the swell of her belly, the other steadying herself on the walls as she made her way down the stairs. She barely felt the cold wooden steps beneath her feet—just the pulsing, unbearable reduction to her thighs. Another contraction hit before she reached the bottom, and she collapsed onto the last step, twisting her ankle with a strangled sound, curling into herself.

Too fast. Too fast. Slow down.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She wasn't prepared. Her baby was going to die, she was going to kill this baby—no.

She was saving this baby. The baby was going to live today.

She gritted her teeth, forced herself upright, and half-ran, half-fell toward the door. The night hit her like ice shards, the biting winds slashing through her thin clothes. Snow stung her bare feet, but she didn’t stop, didn’t think—just kept moving.

One house. Just one house. That was all she needed. And the baby will be safe.

She barely made it up the porch steps before the next contraction sent her crashing to her knees.

Leela gasped through the pain, body curling forward, forehead pressing against the frozen wood. She couldn’t—couldn’t—stay here. Couldn’t do this alone.

With the last of her strength, she reached up and knocked. A polite knock, at first. Stupid. She was past politeness now.

“Please help me.” Her breathless voice barely carried over the wind.

Nothing.

Inside, something crashed. A bottle? A chair? He was there. He just hadn't heard her.

So, she knocked again, harder this time. Her whole fist. Faster. Desperate.

“Joel. Please.” Her voice wavered, although louder. The next contraction was coming, she could feel it rolling over her, pulling her under—and then, from inside—something shattering onto the floor. A glass. A plate.

“I said fuck off!”

A thundering snarl, slurred and dangerous.

The force of the yell startled her back, her sore heel slipping on the icy porch, sending her stumbling into the railing. The world tilted, and then—pain.

She crumpled onto the cold wood, a ragged sob ripping from her throat as the contraction slammed into her.

She tried to breathe. Couldn’t. Tried to move. Couldn’t. Her body was locking up, shaking, curling in on itself against the cold. No one was coming. Completely alone.

She had to leave. She had to go. Joel wasn't coming.

But—she had no energy to make it to the next house.

The wind had already swallowed her footprints by the time she stumbled back through her front door. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed, the door swinging shut behind her with a dull thud. Cold. The floor was so cold. Or maybe that was her. She couldn't tell anymore.

Her eyes tracked up the daunting stairs that led right up to the washroom. Somewhere warm and clean.

She cried out. “No.”

She couldn't go up there. She couldn't move.

Her fingers dug into the floorboards as the next wave of pain tore through her, blinding, all-consuming, like her body was being ripped apart from the inside out. She gasped, legs curling in, a sob clawing its way up her throat.

She couldn’t do this.

She needed help.

But there was no one. Joel had sent her away, possibly passed out drunk. No one else was awake. No one knew. Of course—it was Christmas Eve. Everyone would be up at the square, raising their cups in celebration.

She pressed her forehead to the floor, breath shuddering against the wood. It hurt so much. It was too much.

And still, the baby kept coming.

The contractions came in surges, pulling her under, like dark waves on a cliff, and stealing the air from her lungs with every swell.

She lost track of time. Minutes. Hours. An epoch.

Her body wasn’t her own anymore. No, it was ravaged by the pangs and pangs of shooting pain. It was something else entirely—a force of nature, unstoppable, breaking her open, splitting her apart.

She couldn't stop trembling. Somewhere in the haze of pain, she thought of her mama. Her mama never got to do this; it was why she got her. She thought of the women who had done this before, utterly alone, on dirt floors, in darkened rooms. She thought of how she’d sworn she would never be one of them.

And yet—she was.

She whimpered, nails scraping weakly against the wood. “Please, baby. Please don't do this to me.”

She couldn’t do this. She had to do this.

The next contraction ripped through her, and she screamed. The sound barely made it past the walls. The winds outside devoured her cry for help.

She had to move.

Leela’s hands shook as she crawled across the floor, belly sagging, breath uneven. Her body felt alien, now it really didn’t belong to her anymore—just another one of her machines grinding itself down to dust, gears forcing, and bent on one purpose. Pushing this child out.

Her head swam. She was soaked in sweat. Every muscle in her body clenched and burned.

Get up, Leela.

She made it to the kitchen on sheer instinct, her knees bruising against the tile, ankle smarting, fingers scrambling at the counter.

Something soft. To sit on. To lie on. A towel.

Her hands closed around one. She fumbled to turn on the tap, let the water run warm, and then laid the cloth on the floor. The heat bloomed through the fabric as she slogged onto it, already improving the sensations.

Okay. Okay. Think.

She was alone. She was doing this alone. It was okay.

Her arms trembled as she lowered herself down, lying back, spine flat to the floor, trying to find some way to ease the vicious fire tearing her open.

She was gasping, sobbing, whispering half-broken things under her breath—prayers, curses, for her mother. Mostly her mother. She imagined her looming over her, holding her hand, stroking her hair, telling her she was so brave. It felt good, until it didn't.

“Please, please, please...” she begged no one.

Another contraction hit.

Her entire body seized. The pain was a wave—no, an earthquake, this time, tearing through the core of her. This may have broken a bone in her ribs, she was sure of it.

She clenched her jaw so hard she thought she might crack a tooth.

A sound ripped out of her. Somewhere between a wail and a growl. She didn't even know what made sense anymore. Breathing? Dying? Choking?

She was splitting apart. She knew it.

But it wasn’t stopping. She couldn’t stop it.

She pressed her head to the floor, chest heaving.

Think, Leela. Think. You know what to do. What?

She had to push.

Yes, push. She’d heard it before, the doctor had specific about that, she knew the basics, but now—now it was real. Now it was her body, her baby, her pain.

She adjusted her legs, her back arched off the floor. She sucked in a gasping breath, readying herself. She shook her head, and everything else out. She was saving this baby. She was saving her baby.

“Push,” she breathed.

Another shockwave of agony rolled through her.

Push. Push hard.

She nodded, “okay, okay,” and braced herself. Breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. Again, and again, until she felt like she was ready.

And she pushed.

A scream tore from her throat. The pain was unreal, as if her insides were tearing open. Pulverizing. This was torture.

“I can't, I can't,” she sobbed.

She let her head fall back against the floor. Panting. Sobbing. Wishing death upon everyone in this fucked-up world. Wishing death upon her drunk neighbour, Joel. Wishing death on Tommy and Maria for not being here. Wishing death upon everyone but her child.

Her body felt too weak, too small to hold so much pain, so much life.

Push, Leela. Save the baby.

But she kept going. Over and over, she pushed and pushed, between sobs, between minutes that stretched into eternities. Between the waves of contractions that seemed to shorten and shorten. Seconds. Cried for her mother so hard, she must've heard her from the heavens. Cried hard for anyone, someone to come help her.

And then—a movement deep inside. A twist. Another deep breath, and she pushed, another scream storming these empty hallways.

A ripping, a world-ending agony, a slip, and a sudden, unbearable release.

And then—a wail. Light. Reedy. Shuddering. Alive.

Leela groaned with the spasms. Her body was ruined, quivering from pain, from exhaustion, from the unthinkable, unbearable weight of what she had just done. She had done it.

She gasped, her head rolling back against the cold floor, her chest rising and falling in ragged, disbelieving breaths.

She had done it. She had done this all by herself.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, everything else vanished. The cold floor beneath the towel. The ache in her bones. The pulsing, raw wound inside her. All of it... gone. Just for a fleeting second. It was over. She was alive. Her baby...

Another cry—louder, stronger. Needy.

Her hands, trembling so violently she could barely feel them, fumbled downward, searching.

My baby. Where's my baby?

Then there it was. Warm. Tiny. Slick with blood and life. All hers.

She nearly collapsed over the baby as she gently lifted it to her chest, curling her body around it, sheltering, shielding, warming.

So small. So ridiculously, beautifully small.

A shuddering breath tore from within her. She pressed her forehead to the damp, wriggling heft in her arms, her baby. Her baby. Her whole life.

She wept, her body trembling with it, the last remnants of pain and terror and exhaustion spilling out of her in waves. It was over, she was okay now.

The storm outside raged on. Time was lost to her, meaning, too. The wind howled, the snow fell, and the world went on. But here, in the quiet, in the warmth of her own arms, her own home—she had survived.

Leela didn’t know how long she stayed like that—hunched over the tiny body in her arms, shaking, holding, not letting go.

It could've been more and more eternities. But finally, it was the cold that finally snapped her out of it. The wetness soaked through her clothes. The sweat cooled on her skin. The lingering ache clawed through every inch of her.

She blinked down at the baby's little feet, her breath hitching.

I should look at my baby.

The thought terrified her. For months, she’d been carrying this thing, this life, this... stranger.

She had felt it move, twist, push inside her. She had known it was real. But she had never seen it. It was hers, she knew that much. Her little baby.

Her arms loosened, just enough to shift the child. The tiny body squirmed, legs kicking weakly, the cry dwindling into a soft, hiccupping whimper.

Leela’s fingers, still trembling, moved on their own. Swept gently across damp, wrinkled skin at the soft, beating chest. Over the little fingers. A little clenched fist. And then—a face.

Oh.

Leela’s breath left her all at once.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered.

Her baby blinked up at her, squinting, face scrunched in the effort. Big, beautiful, brown eyes. Her arms curled tighter, drawing the tiny body closer, nudging the baby’s warm skin against her own. She ran her fingers through the wet wisps of dark hair and smoothed a shaking hand down the curve of a round, soft cheek.

Her baby made a sound—a tiny sigh, a noise so small, so utterly fragile that Leela broke.

“Hello.” A laugh—small, disbelieving, almost hysterical—escaped her lips. She made this. She had done this all by herself. The baby blinked at her, yawning, face still scrunched in that newborn way—like she was confused by the world.

Leela understood the feeling. She swallowed, throat raw from screaming, her fingers still tracing over delicate features. The button nose. The furrowed brow. The teeny tiny mouth. The soft fuzz around her cheeks.

She should be saying something. She should be feeling something. That spark of love. That spark of want, to protect, to keep.

Instead—there was nothing.

Her fingers barely twitched when they ran along the baby's arm again, the damp skin cooling now, sticky with blood.

She should cut the umbilical cord. She should clean it. She should wrap it up. She should keep it warm. She should—do something.

Her hands quivered as she shifted, trying to brace herself against the slick, cool tile. Her limbs were shaking, still too drained, but she forced them to move.

She knew where they were. The scissors. Leela let out a shuddering breath and half-crawled, half-dragged herself toward the stand, the floor sticky beneath her, her own blood and fluids trailing behind.

The baby let out a sound—a whimper, a breath against her. She shushed the baby, rocking it on instinct. “I'm still here. Ssh.”

Leela gasped through her teeth, reaching, reaching, finding. Her fingers fumbled against the metal. Grasped the handle. Slipped them into her grip.

Her breath came fast, too fast.

She pressed the scissors between the cord, hesitated.

It was so pale, twisted, true. This had been her lifeline. The little softness that had appended them together for months. Somehow, she didn't want to do it. Her vision blurred—would the baby even be hers anymore? Would it still know her?

She pressed the blades closed. A soft, wet snip.

A sharp pulse of pain tore through her stomach, a wetness slipped right out, and she sucked in a breath. Leela flinched, gasped, and held herself up. The baby gasped before it wailed another strident, shaking cry.

There. Done. Her baby was separate from her now. Their one unit, broken apart.

Leela swallowed hard, vision swimming in tears, limbs shaking. The scissors clattered to the floor.

Her chest ached as she held her child. Not from love. Not from relief. Just the echoing emptiness within her. She was just an empty vessel now, clinking around, making noise.

The baby sighed, its breath hot against her skin, and Leela blinked, staring down at it.

She had imagined this moment. Imagined some heaven-sent burst of happiness. Imagined weeping in relief, with gratitude. Imagined love so strong it would knock the breath from her lungs. Imagined kisses pressed to ten tiny fingers, imagined a warmth so bright and overwhelming it would banish all the dark things inside her. Imagined that something inside her would wake up, ignite, change. That she would feel like herself again.

All she felt was exhaustion. She was just so, so tired. And soon, the thought came and went too fast to hold onto.

I shouldn’t have done this.

Her breath caught. She squeezed her eyes shut.

No. No, don’t think that. You’re disgusting. You're evil.

But she could feel it, creeping in at the edges.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Just love it. Love your baby.

The featherlight weight in her arms was heavy. Too heavy. She had to hold on. Make sense of her commitment.

She swallowed thickly and tried to whisper, barely above a breath, “You’re real. And mine.”

The baby stirred, a soft, sleepy noise leaving it.

Leela waited again. Anytime now. The warmth, the love, the connection. That the sound would evoke whatever was dormant in her. She was sure of it.

It didn’t come. Not even a little.

Her poor baby deserved better. Better than an impaired, stained, sick, disgusting, unloving mother.

Her arms curled tighter around the baby, almost desperate, still apologetic.

“I'm sorry,” she cried softly. “I'm so sorry, baby.”

But some notion of sound registered in her ears. The dull thud of boots on her porch. The hesitant creak of a door opening. A pause.

And then—“Holy shit.”

Leela didn’t lift her head, but she heard him. Tommy.

His boots hit the floor hard, fast—tracking the smeared trail of blood, of fluids, of everything that had poured out of her, dragged behind her like a crime scene.

Tommy's breath caught. A beat passed, and suddenly, he was moving.

His voice was a sharp inhale, half a curse, half a prayer. “Jesus—Leela.”

She barely had the strength to lift her head, but when she did—just the smallest movement—relief broke in her chest. They weren't alone. They had someone here. Someone was here for them.

“Tommy!” she sobbed.

He was already dropping to his knees.

“Okay, alright, I gotcha—” His hands were warm, gripping her shoulders first, then moving—checking, searching. His voice and breath were frantic. “My god, just how long—? Never mind, never mind. You’re okay. You’re okay, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

His eyes landed on the baby. A sharp, shaken breath, like he didn't know if he was happy or devastated.

Leela felt her own body shake, from exhaustion, from shock, from everything. With careful fingers, Tommy pulled his jacket from his shoulders, bundling it in his hands before reaching out.

“Here, honey, let me—let me take the baby off you for a second.”

Leela hesitated. Just for a moment. Then, without even realizing she was doing it, she let him.

Her baby was pried away from her, leaving her cold.

Her breath shuddered out of her chest as she fell back, half-conscious, as Tommy cradled the tiny, fragile thing in his hands.

The silence stretched. What did he think? Was the baby healthy? Did anything look weird? Was it still breathing normally? Was it choking? Was it safe? Was it hungry?

“Christ,” Tommy whispered, his voice breaking. “Look at you, beautiful. You wanted to see your mama that quick, huh?”

The baby let out a soft, breathy noise. A laugh or a sigh? A sound too small, too new to understand. It made Leela break out a tired grin.

Tommy’s face softened. “Hi, girlie,” he murmured, breathless. “It’s your Uncle Tommy. Oh, she's perfect. And so strong."

“Girl?” she whispered. She hadn't even thought to check.

Tommy nodded, still half-dazed, his thumb stroking over the baby’s tiny, blood-slicked fingers.

“Yeah,” he breathed, and his hand found Leela’s hair, damp and clinging to her forehead. He swept it back, easing her for a moment. “You did real good, mama. And you did it all alone. Fuckin' superhero.”

Leela let out something between a laugh and a sob. Her body slumped back to the floor.

“I can't move,” she rasped, her voice breaking.

Tommy nodded once, sharp. “Right, here’s what I’m gonna do,” he murmured, devising. “I’m gonna quickly wash the baby, then I’m carrying you upstairs. Maria’s on her way and she's gonna clean you up. We’re gonna take care of you, alright?”

Leela just nodded. Because what else was there to do?

She had survived. Her baby girl had survived. She had brought this life into the world.

Now, she had to figure out how to keep going.

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #7

(Click. A beat of silence. Then a breath—shaky, slow. When she speaks, her voice is raw, worn thin, like she hasn’t used it in days.)

“I’ve shut them all out. Locked the door. No more Maria. No more Tommy. No more—anyone.”

(The quiet hum of static. Then, softer, almost to herself—)

“If they see it—if they see that I don’t love her the way I should, they’ll take her from me. And I’ll be alone. Alone with the pain. Alone with the shadows in the hallway.”

(A sharp inhale.) “I can’t let that happen. She’s mine.”

(A long pause, then a slow, exhaled breath.)

“Day nine. January fourth. Baby girl is... still healthy. Maria said she’s too small, but—she’s here. She's okay. She’s breathing. I’m nursing her, constantly. Every two hours. Sometimes less. She sleeps, she feeds, she excretes and repeats. I thought—”

(A wry, breathy laugh, humourless.)

“I don’t know what I thought. That she’d do more? That she’d be awake, that she’d—hold my hand? That she’d know me? Smile, laugh, something.”

(A beat. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, duller, more clinical. She's speaking facts now.)

“But no. She doesn’t know anything yet. I understand that her brain development will be slow. Her motor skills will take time to come in. She is gaining knowledge, and she's intelligent. She tracks the light, she knows crying is a catalyst for food. Now, everything she learns, she’ll learn from me.”

(A breath. Like that is just now sinking in.)

“And I—I am—”

(A beat. A breath chokes in her throat. Then, a whisper—raw, broken—)

“I am bled dry.”

(A sharp exhale. A sniff. She presses on, voice more distant, detached.)

“I eat when I can. Throw up more often than not. Try to sleep, try to think sometimes. I scratch twenty integers on the board and try to satisfy it as a functional equation. My brain and body—it’s still not mine. It’s just... a machine. My baby's machine. Warm flesh, arms to hold her, her nutrition source. She doesn’t love me. She only cries when I’m gone.”

(A sigh. A sound—barely there. Like she might be rubbing at her face, at her tired, sleepless eyes.)

“I want to love her. I want to… know her. But I look at myself, and I don’t—” (A sharp inhale like she’s swallowed a bitter pill.) “I don’t recognize the person anymore. My body, my face—it’s all... wrong. I'm fat, weak, and can barely hold myself up.”

(She moves around, fabric rustling, the sound of creaking, like she’s leaning against a wall, trying to hold herself up.)

“My stomach is soft now. Loose, almost. There are marks, these pale lines like something clawed me open from the inside. Because something... did. My breasts leak, my thighs scrape each other—so alien—and my down there—”

(Another pause, but this time it stretches—too long—before she speaks again. When she does, the words are hushed, like a secret she’s afraid to say out loud, even in the privacy of this recording.)

“I can’t imagine a man loving me now. Not that I ever could before, but now—” (Her breath wavers.) “Now it’s impossible. I am not a woman anymore. I'm a ruined mother.”

(Then, soft—barely audible—)

“I feel like a monster. A monster who can't love her own child.”

(A deep, shaky breath.)

“But... I will try. I have to. I can’t let her go. She’s—keeping me sane. Giving me a reason to wake up. A reason to exist that isn’t research. She needs me. And I—I need her.”

(A swallow. A deep, slow inhale.)

“It’s... symbiosis. We are symbiotes. Like the inside of the Infected—she’s this incredible, complex brain. I’m the infection.” (A beat.) “Yes, always the infection.”

(Another silence. Then, barely above a whisper—)

“But it will work. In some time, it has to.”

(So soft it almost disappears—like a prayer, like a plea—)

“Please, let this get better. Please.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED PREGNANCY TRACKER AUDIO LOG #8

(A long pause. The faintest sound of static, like she’s hesitating, maybe rubbing a finger over the mic. Then—soft, almost disbelieving—)

“This man… Joel. My neighbour. He’s here. In my home.”

(Another pause, like she can’t quite believe it herself. A rustle—maybe she’s moving, pressing the heel of her palm against her temple, thinking.)

“I thought—” (A breath, quick and shallow, like the memory unsettles her.) “I thought he was gonna put his boot through my ribs. The way he looked at me at the door that night—” (She exhales sharply.) “He hates me.”

(Quieter—like she’s marvelling at the absurdity of it all—)

“And now he’s upstairs. With… Maya.”

(A sound, soft and unexpected—giggle. The kind that sneaks up, breathless, like it doesn’t quite belong.)

“Maya. My baby’s name is Maya.” (She tries the name again, savouring it.) “My daughter. I’m her mama.”

(A slow exhale, tone shifting, tired but full of quiet wonder.)

“Maya. Such a pretty name. I think it was my mother’s. Or my sister’s? I can’t remember.” (A beat. Then, softer—wistful—) “But they were beautiful. Just like Maya.”

(Another silence, stretching. Then, a little lighter, like she’s almost smiling—like she’s trying to smile—)

“Joel said it rhymes with Leela. That Maya looks just like me.”

(There's fondness there, or confusion, or she hasn’t quite figured out what it is yet.)

“Every time he’s near me, I expect myself to bolt. Run the other way. But I don’t. I just—” (A breath, slow, searching.) “I just want him to stay.”

(She stops like she’s startled herself. Like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.)

“Not with me. Just… in the house. Breathing. Silent. A friend.”

(The last word is strange on her tongue. Like she’s testing it out, seeing if it fits. It doesn’t, not really. Not yet.)

“He’s a good man. A darling man, even.” (A half-snort, like she knows how ridiculous that sounds, but it's true.) “Nothing at all like the hotheaded ass he looks like. He isn't drunk anymore.”

(A sigh, long and slow, like she’s falling and doesn't want to admit it.)

“He's fixing that crib for her. He’s so good with Maya. So natural, like he’s been a father forever. He's bonded with her so easily. And I think—” (A swallow.) “I think my baby loves him.”

(Her voice tightens.)

“She smiled at him today.” (Then, lower—hurt, guilty, and in between—) “She’s never smiled at me. That's alright. At least she's feeling good. She has someone who loves her.”

(Silence. A stretch of it. Then, something fragile, almost apologetic—like she’s saying it to the air, to herself—)

“My daughter has the prettiest smile. Like a little blooming sunflower.”

(Another pause, something thick caught in her throat. A sniff. Then, shifting—pushing forward, changing course.)

“But Joel—” (A breath, bracing.) “Yeah, he does not like me.”

(A rustle. Maybe she’s pressing her hand to her face, rubbing at her temples, like saying it out loud makes it more real.)

“In fact—” (A quiet laugh, humourless.) “He called me a coward to my face. He's not wrong. I'm the coward who couldn't die. I'm the coward who can't love her baby. I am a coward for asking him to take my baby away. But I... I'm just so exhausted.”

(The words land heavy like they’ve been circling in her head for days, refusing to leave.)

“He watches me. Glaring. Every time I try to nurse Maya, every time she cries, every time I—” (She exhales, sharp, frustrated—at him? At herself?) “Like he’s waiting for me to mess up. To choke up. To drop her.”

(A pause. Then, bitter—resentful, defensive—soft.)

“And I get it. I do. Would anyone let a monster near a baby?”

(Silence. Thick, oppressive. Then—quieter, almost thoughtful—)

“But he doesn’t ask questions. Not like Maria. Not like Tommy. He doesn’t push. He just… is. He brings me food. He tells me to sleep. He has taught me to hold Maya.” (A breath, settling in tired and resigned.) “I’m grateful for that.”

(A long pause, like she’s trying to decide if she wants to say the next thing out loud.)

“I just hope he doesn’t leave soon.”

(It is creeping in at the edges. It's bitter, knowing.)

“Not for me. Not for anything to do with me.” (She exhales, sharp like she’s forcing the truth out before she can swallow it back down.) “It’s Maya. It’s always Maya.”

(Her voice tightens. Not angry, not quite. Just… something else. Aching, raw.)

“He doesn’t care about me. He barely looks at me. But he looks after my baby. Holds her like she's his own. That's all I want.”

(A breath. Then, a half-laugh—small, almost embarrassed, almost resigned, like she can’t believe she’s about to say this out loud.)

“He’s too useful around here.” (A beat. Then, even quieter—like a confession, like she shouldn’t want it but does—)

“I want to keep him with Maya always.”

(Silence. Then, a quiet click.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #1

(The screen wobbles, unfocused, a mess of pivoting shapes and the worn floorboards of the home. A voice, low and grumbling, cuts through the static—)

“Jesus. Is this thing on? Shit’s fucked.”

(Laughter—delicate, chiming—before another voice, lighter, teasing, cuts in—)

“Joel, just—” (a giggle, the sound of movement, a blur of fingers reaching for the camera) “Give it here. I'll do it.”

“No, no, no—go to her, darlin’. I got this.”

“You’re shaking it.”

“I ain't shakin’ it. It's the damn camera.” (A pause, more rustling, moving.) “Just go.”

(The camera swings wildly before settling, focusing—somewhat shakily—on Leela. She’s sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, in summer clothes, the warm glimmer of lamplights catching on the sharp edges of her face. She looks… younger. Softer. Happier. It's obvious, it's the love glow. There's a small smile playing at her lips, her eyes full of distinctive excitement as she glances toward Maya.)

“Okay.” (She starts, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, her voice turning sunnier, less factual.) “It’s September the eighth. Maya, aged nine months. Living room. The time is… seven-twenty-two in the evening. The temperature is—”

(A low chuckle from behind the camera—dry, amused—before Joel cuts in—)

“The hell are you doin’?”

(Leela frowns at the lens, scratching at her forehead, clearly exasperated.) “I’m… stating my controls.”

(Joel snorts.) “What, you sendin’ a rocket to the moon? It’s a goddamn home video. Just go to the kid.”

(Leela rolls her eyes, muttering—) “So unsystematic.”

(The camera tilts and refocuses—Maya’s in the frame now, sitting in the middle of the floor, a toy horse clutched in her tiny hands. She’s all soft curls and chubby cheeks, her dress a blur of little embroidered flowers. She blinks up at her mother, wide-eyed, then over at the camera, grinning when Joel snaps his fingers to get her attention.)

“Over here, baby girl. Here.” (His voice is softer now, coaxing.)

“Da-da, hi!” (Maya squeals, all four teeth and dimples, her tiny hands slapping at the carpet in excitement.)

“There's that winning smile. Hi.”

(Leela laughs, reaching out to smooth a hand over Maya’s curls.)

“Oh, you look so pretty. What is that you're wearing?”

(Maya clutches at her dress, scrunching it up in her little fists, bouncing where she sits.) “S’flowers. Dwess... flowers.”

“Wow. I don't have one like that.” (Leela coos, her face softening. She holds Maya's little hand between her index and thumb.) “Okay, okay—Maya, can you tell your da-da what you ate today?”

(Maya blinks, considering this. Then—)

“Mama.”

(Joel huffs out a quiet chuckle from behind the camera. Leela tries again, biting back a smile—)

“No, no, baby—what did you eat?”

(Maya grins, showing off all four tiny teeth.)

“Da-da.”

(Joel outright snorts this time, shifting the camera slightly as he zooms closer. Right on Maya and Leela's faces.)

“I've got bite marks to prove it.”

(Leela groans, nudging Maya's arm playfully.) “Maya, listen to Mama. What was it you ate, love? Was it… blue…? A berry?”

(Maya’s whole face lights up in recognition, and then—)

“Booooo-berries.”

(Leela bursts out with a giggle. Joel chuckles low in his throat.)

“Did you get that?” (Leela beams, glancing up at the camera, her elation clear.) “She said it!”

(A pause. Then—Joel curses under his breath, the camera jerking to the left.)

“Shit, I think I forgot to hit record.”

(Leela's head snaps up, eyes wide.) “Aw, Joel, c’mon.”

“I told you, darlin'—”

(Cut to black.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #2

(The camera hums to life, adjusting, focusing. A golden afternoon spills through the windows, warm light pooling over the wooden floors. The soft strum of a guitar filters through the room—enduring, unhurried—followed by a low, familiar voice.)

“Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you… Because you're mine, I walk the line…”

(The camera shakes and zooms in—Joel sits on the floor, legs stretched out, the guitar balanced against his knee. Maya sits between his legs, tiny fists tapping at the base of the instrument, her chubby fingers drumming against the wood in wild, uncoordinated beats. Every few seconds, she squeals, as if she’s part of the song, as if she knows she belongs in this moment.)

(Off-camera, a quiet laugh.)

“You’re a natural, baby girl.” (Leela teases, zooming in on the way Maya bounces in place, her curls bobbing, her wide, toothy grin bright enough to rival the sunlight.)

(Joel breaks off mid-chord, glancing up sharply. His brow furrows, like he’s just realized he’s being filmed.)

“Hey, get that thing outta my face.”

“But it’s your birthday video.”

“You're two days early.”

“I already turned on the camera, Joel. Go with it.”

(A sigh. He eventually sets the guitar aside, lifting Maya onto his lap, resting his chin lightly on top of her head. His fingers roll at her tiny palms.)

“Fine. Whaddya want?”

“Okay, first off—state your name, age, date, and time.”

(Joel gives the camera a flat look.) “I ain’t one of your science experiments.”

“Just do it.”

(Another sigh, this one profound. He rubs a hand down his face, muttering—)

“Can't believe this... alright. Joel Miller. Fifty-six. September the twenty-fourth. And it’s… I dunno, one in the afternoon. I am still waitin' on those greasy-ass cheeseburgers I was promised.” (Joel winks.)

(Leela muffles small giggles) “Patience is a virtue. Now, what’s your birthday wish this year?”

(He scrubs at his eyes, exhaling through his nose.) “Jesus, Leela.”

“Say it.”

(A hum. Joel shifts, adjusting Maya on his lap. When he finally answers, his voice is quieter, like he’s not sure he wants it caught on record—)

“Makin’ it to fifty-eight.”

(Leela hums.) “Okay, what... do you think about your birthday present?”

(Maya smacks at his cheeks before he can answer, her little hands patting at his stubble like she’s trying to figure out what it is. Joel huffs, catching her wrist before she can shove her fingers in his mouth.)

“My what?”

“Can’t believe you forgot. Think fast.”

(A set of keys flies through the air. They bounce off his chest, jangling, but his reflexes are still quick—he catches them before they can hit Maya.)

(The camera tilts and spins. Leela comes into the frame now, just her eyes, unfocused, wearing that playfully serious expression, her lips pursed like she’s pretending to take notes.)

“Signs of cognitive decline. Memory loss and poor motor functions.” (She shakes her head.) “I might have to look into that later.”

(The camera spins again and focuses back on Joel. He's glaring at her.)

“Cognitive... you big dork. You’re lucky I’m holdin’ the kid.” (He lifts the key, squinting at it, realization dawning.) “So, the Maranello is really all mine now?”

(Leela laughs, shifting the camera slightly, catching the way Joel’s eyebrows lift, just a fraction.)

“All yours. Surprise!”

(Joel exhales, rolling the key between his fingers. He looks back at her, a little sceptical.)

“And what, we’re supposed to ride out on the I-22 till the sun sets? You realize I can't drive the thing anywhere?”

“Sounds like a steady date.”

(Joel snorts, shaking his head, but there’s peace in his face—softer, fondness—that he doesn’t bother hiding this time. He glances at Leela, opening his mouth to say something, but...)

(The camera tilts again, zooming in on Maya. She’s sucking on her fist now, watching the two of them.)

“One more.” (Leela coaxes, voice gentle.) “One last present. Maya, look at Mama. Like we practised, okay? Happy…”

(Maya blinks, distracted, then grins at Joel. She curls and uncurls her fingers, rocking back and forth.)

“Da-da, comma, comma, comma.”

(Joel snickers, adjusting her in his arms. He points back at Leela, forcing her attention. He wants to hear this present right now.)

“Your mama’s talkin’ to you, baby girl.”

(Maya glances at Leela, her tiny hand lifting, fingers wiggling in a wave.) “Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, baby.” (Leela laughs.) “Okay, you have to say it now. Happy…”

“Happy!” (Maya chirps, delighted.)

“Birthday.”

“Bo-day!” (She claps, bouncing excitedly in Joel’s lap.)

“Da-da.”

“Daaaaa-da.”

“Yay.”

(Joel grins, wide and real, lifting Maya up in the air, to which she squeals. He presses one, two, three kisses to her cheeks. With a voice like molasses for his little girl—)

“Thank you, sweetheart.” (Then he glances at Leela behind the camera.) “You're gettin' big party favours.”

“Can't wait.”

(The screen lingers, blurring at the edges when it meets with the light, the sound of laughter filling the frame—soft, real, warm—before the camera finally cuts to black.)

X

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #241

(A burst of static. A faint click as the recorder whirs to life. Then—silence. Not complete, but close. The soft rhythm of breathing.)

“Okay.” (A pause. A sharp inhale, like she’s readying herself.) “Okay. This is—this is me. Leela. Age thirty. The time is eleven sixteen in the evening, on November twenty-third. Basement. And this is real, working, undeniable proof.”

(The rustle of paper. The scrape of a pen tapping against something solid. A controlled breath, like she’s holding back—excitement, disbelief, a feeling bigger than both.)

“I have solved it.” (A beat. Then, sharper, firmer—) “I solved the Riemann Hypothesis.”

(Silence. Then a small laugh—half-breathless, half-shaken, like she still doesn’t quite believe her own words.)

“I don’t even know who is gonna listen to this.” (Another laugh, quieter now.) “I guess I don’t care. I just—I need to say it. I need it to exist somewhere beyond my head, beyond these pages. I have just solved the goddamn Holy Grail of Mathematics.”

(More rustling. Paper shuffling. A faint scratch of pen against the margins, like she’s still working, still checking, still making sure.)

“I don’t even know what that means anymore. A hundred and fifty years ago, it would’ve changed everything. Even just twenty. It would’ve rewritten how we understand numbers, patterns in the universe, and how we predict and solidify prime distributions. Gene sequencing, theoretical physics, rebuilding our quantum computers, our shitty communication systems—it was the missing key. We suddenly have a roadmap to the structure of numbers. To the future.”

“And I-I think... I think, and I might be wildly mistaken, but if Cordyceps follows some sort of biological network or pattern with our neurons—in terms of protein folding or catabolism—I assume disease modelling relies on prime-based arithmatics. That would mean safer genetic research. That means a possible...” (Her voice falters slightly, like she’s thinking too fast, trying to hold onto a world that doesn’t exist anymore.)

“And now?” (A short, bitter laugh.) “Now it means nothing. The world ended anyway. Nature, unlike the infection, has run its course.”

(She exhales hard, like trying to steady herself. Then—softer, slower—she speaks again, like it’s fragile.)

“I don’t know if I should tell her. If she'll even understand. Of course not, she can't even speak.”

(A shift—fabric moving. A sound—small, barely there—someone breathing, a rustle of movement.)

“My Maya.” (Her voice is cautious now.) “She’s asleep. She’s got her hand curled up against my neck, and she does that thing—” (A breath of amusement, faint but warm.) “—where she scrunches up her nose when she dreams. She's my darling.” (A soft chuckle.)

“She doesn’t know the world used to mean things like this. Used to have things like this. A world where proving a theorem could change the future, where it could make you matter.”

(A lengthy pause. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, like it’s delicate and in her hands.)

“My parents spent their whole lives chasing something they could leave behind. Mama—Jesus, Mama—I think she loved this problem more than anything else in the world. She used to say it was poetry, that it was—” (a breath, remembering, then softens—) “that it was the closest thing to God she’d ever seen.”

(A swallow. Then—firmer, like she’s gripping something real.)

“They didn’t get to finish it. But I did.”

(A change in sound, the creak of an old chair, the faintest shuffle—someone moving in their sleep? The pattern of breathing remains the same, undisturbed.)

“And now what?” (A small, wry exhale.) “What the hell do I do with it? The world it belonged to is gone. The journals, the universities, the mathematicians who would’ve lost their minds over this—it’s all gone.”

(Silence stretches long enough that it almost feels like the recording has stopped. But then—softly—)

“But my parents aren’t.”

(The sound of fingers drumming against the table. Rhythmic. Thoughtful.)

“They lived for this. Died for this. And now it’s done. They deserve that. Their work deserves that. I deserve that. And if no one’s left to care—then I’ll care. I’ll make sure it exists. That it doesn’t just die here with me. This is their legacy. I have given too much, lost too much.”

(A long inhale. The softest stirring—fabric rustling again, the faint creak of old bedsprings, a body curling closer. A tiny sound—so small, so sleepy—Maya moaning in her sleep.)

(Leela’s breath hitches. Then, lower now—almost a whisper—)

“I have to tell Joel tonight. My pragmatist. He's the first person who has to know. It's always him. I just... I love him so much. He matters to me more than any proof in this world. More than any equation or legacy. I hope he loves me, too.” (A small laugh, tired but real.) “He’s not gonna understand a thing. Gonna tell me I’m crazy. And maybe I am. But I think—I think I have to do this. I have to get this out there, out of Jackson. Joel will know what to do; he always does.”

(A long pause. The sound of fabric shifting again. Then—faint, barely above a whisper—)

“This is far from over. Because I have not just solved any equation. I have proved that humanity is not done yet. We prevail.”

(Click.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #11

(The camera jolts to life, static crackling before the lens steadies. The frame is tight on Ellie’s face, her grin wide, her freckles vivid under the glow of the living room light. She holds the camera at arm’s length, angling it just right.)

“This is Captain Ellie Williams to ground control. It is officially time to… paaaaarty!”

(The camera pivots wildly, zooming in and out like at a chaotic rave, the frame cutting to Maya. The toddler bounces on her feet as the camera goes all over, hands flailing in pure excitement, her curls bouncing with her. She giggles, caught up in Ellie’s energy.)

“Yeah, baby’s got moves. Shake it, shake it—uh-huh, uh-huh. Yeah, go, Maya. Go, Maya.”

(Maya claps, delighted, then reaches for the camera with grabby little hands, eyes bright and pleading.)

“Pease, gimme, Evie!”

“You wanna see it?” (Ellie waggles the camera, teasing.)

(From off-screen, Joel’s voice cuts in, dry, unimpressed—)

“Ellie, do not give her the damn camera. She’s gonna break it.”

(The screen tilts, spins, refocuses. Now it captures the living room—the warm, homey clutter of it. Joel and Leela are curled up on one couch, Joel’s arm stretched lazily along the back, fingers just brushing Leela’s cheek and temple. Across from them, Tommy and Maria lounge on the other sofa, relaxed, a drink in Tommy’s hand.)

(The camera zooms dramatically in on Joel’s face, the frame locking onto his beard, then his nose, then back to one irritated eye. In an exaggerated deep voice—)

“Joel, the Contractoooor.”

(Joel exhales sharply, shooting her a look.)

“Shut that thing off. We’re talkin’ here.”

“You’re such an assh—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

(The footage stutters back to life—more static, a blur of movement as Ellie fumbles the camera, laughing.)

(Ellie in mock horror—) “Oh no, we lost transmission! Lieutenant down! Ground control, come in!”

(The screen whips around, a mess of limbs and floorboards before it lands back on Maya, who is now dramatically collapsed on the rug like a fallen soldier. She peeks up, eyes squinting, then throws herself fully onto her back, arms splayed out.)

(Maya giggles.) “Noooooo!”

“We have a casualty, people. The baby’s down! Baby lieutenant fought bravely, but it was just too much dance power!”

(Maya, caught up in the game, dramatically sticks out her tongue. The camera shakes as Ellie cackles, zooming in close on Maya’s sprawled-out body.)

(Ellie narrates solemnly.) “Gone too soon. Alas, she shook it too hard, too fast. We will remember the too-young Maya Miller. I will avenge—hey!”

(A hand suddenly snatches the camera from Ellie’s grip—Joel’s hand, big and firm, filling the frame as he yanks it away.)

(Joel grumbling) “Alright, that’s enough bullshit from the two of you.”

(The camera shakes as Joel turns it on Ellie, flipping the interrogation around. She blinks, caught mid-laugh, then scowls. Maya sets off into a whining, screechy cry which is silenced by Maria, who sweeps her up into her arms.)

“Da-da, no!”

“Give it back, Joel!”

“Yeah? How d’you like it?” (The camera zooms right into Ellie’s freckled face, awkwardly close.) “Feels real fun, don’t it?”

(Ellie shoves at him.) “Ugh, you suck.”

(The screen wobbles again, and suddenly, it shifts—click—now the camera is facing Joel, who does not know how to hold the camera properly. His thumb partially covers the lens, and he’s squinting at the screen like it personally offended him.)

“The hell is this shit? Didja break it?”

(Ellie, off-camera, laughing.) “Fucking move your thumb, man!”

“Ain’t my fault this thing’s built for tiny-ass hands—”

(Static. Black screen.)

—

(The footage stutters back to life, the lens slightly smudged, making the warm glow of the living room blur at the edges. The angle shifts as if someone’s adjusting the camera, propping it up on the table. Murmurs of conversation spill through the speakers—low laughter, the clink of glass, the distant, delighted squeals of Maya as Ellie entertains her.)

(Then, a new face fills the frame—Tommy. He squints into the lens, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans in, his voice a lazy drawl.)

“Damn thing even on?” (He taps the side of the camera like it’s an old radio, then glances to his left. The camera shifts as he picks it up and leans into Maria’s side, burrowing his face against her neck to press a slow kiss to her skin.)

(Maria laughs, tilting her head away as she swats at his chest.) “Save it for later, cowboy.”

“Ooh, slow your roll, partner. Gonna make me blush." (But his eyes drift past her, locking onto something else across the room. He snorts, suddenly grinning, and spins the camera in that direction.)

“Would you look at that? My favourite lovebirds.”

(The frame tightens on Joel and Leela, curled up on the couch. Leela is murmuring to him, her cheek pressed against Joel’s shoulder, her fingers idly stroking into his hair. She looks up at him as she speaks, soft and unguarded, and Joel is just gone. His eyes are half-lidded, his head tilted slightly in her direction, his arm lazily curled around her shoulders. Every so often, without even thinking, he leans forward, brushing a slow kiss to her ear. Like breathing. Like habit.)

(Tommy whistles low, off-camera.) “They’ve definitely done the deed.”

(Maria hums.) “I knew that weeks ago.”

(Joel’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing as he glares at them from across the room.)

“I heard that, fucker. The hell is wrong with you?”

(The camera zooms in, catching the way Leela immediately buries her face in her hands—and into Joel’s shoulder—while he groans, rubbing a hand down his face like he’s questioning every life choice.)

“Alright, alright, since we’re all cosy now—tell me somethin’.” (Tommy adjusts the camera, fixing the focus on them.) “What do y’all like about each other?”

(Leela peeks out from behind her hands, blinking at him.) “What?”

(Tommy’s voice comes from somewhere off-screen, laced with amusement.)

“Yeah, c’mon, indulge us.” (The lens adjusts, sharpening.) “Y’know, since some people in this house refuse to talk about their damn feelings.” (The camera shifts in Joel’s direction.)

(Joel just glares at it.) “What are you tryna pull? Turn that thing off.”

“Hey, don't be such a sourpuss.”

(Joel doesn’t meet it. He’s now staring at the ceiling, hands templed on his nose, like he’s willing divine intervention to strike Tommy down where he sits.)

(A soft hum of agreement from Maria, somewhere nearby.) “It’s a good question. I wanna hear it.”

(Leela glances sideways at Joel, hesitation flickering in the crease of her brow. But that set of her mouth—small, teasing—suggests she’s not entirely opposed to this game.)

(She tilts her head, the motion easy, natural.) “You go first, Joel.”

(The footage picks up the sound of Joel sighing. His shoulders roll back as he glances toward her out of the corner of his eye. One hand moves—rubs at his jaw, then drags down the back of his neck. The camera catches the exact moment he exhales, muttering—)

“Well, Leela’s... goddamn smart.”

(Off-screen, Tommy groans, the camera giving a small, jostled shake like he’s throwing up his hands.)

“C’mon, man. That’s what you’re goin’ with? Everyone and their mother knows that.”

(Joel shrugs, his mouth twitching like this whole conversation is exhausting him.) “Well, she is. Her brain is so big and weird. She even speaks in nerd real cute.”

(The lens catches the quick flicker of a smile as Leela nudges his knee with hers. The camera wobbles slightly as Tommy shifts again, leaning forward.)

“That’s it? Nothin’ else, just her big brain?”

(Joel exhales, shoulders stiffening. He really hates this. Then—without looking at her—his voice dips lower.)

“She’s got a good heart. She cooks like a mad scientist, and her food is downright sinful.” (A pause, a shift in his expression, reluctant—then, almost reflectively—) “And... she's beautiful.”

(The camera picks up the way Leela blinks at him. Joel rubs the back of his neck, gaze fixed somewhere near the floor.)

“She's really beautiful.” (A beat.) “Could watch her all day if I could. Just being. One smile and...” (He shakes his head with a small grin.)

(Silence hums through the speakers—just for a second before the camera lurches slightly. A blur of motion as Maria smacks Tommy’s arm, a flash of her grin as she hums the wedding march—)

“Dum-dum-da-dum, dum-dum-da-dum... there's really no saving him now.”

(The camera refocuses just in time to catch Leela still watching Joel, an unreadability in her eyes. Her lips part slightly like she wants to say something—but before she can, the lens wobbles again, a brief static crackling as Tommy clears his throat.)

“Alright, honey, your turn.” (The camera steadies on Leela.) “What do you like about big ol’ grumpy over here?”

(Leela, still looking at Joel, tilts her head. The footage picks up the flicker in her eyes—affectionate, thoughtful.)

“Hmm.” (She drags out the sound, considering.)

(The camera catches Joel shifting beside her, his hand twitching slightly against his knee. His voice—grumbled, almost embarrassed—murmurs—)

“Just say my face and get it over with. I'm tired.”

(Leela laughs—the sound clear through the speakers, genuine. The camera catches the way Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile and losing.)

“Well, I like when Joel plays his guitar.” (Her voice is softer now, the corners of her mouth still curled upward, loving gaze on him.) “I love that he's an artist at heart, the exact opposite of me.”

(The footage picks up the way Joel clears his throat, fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans.)

(Leela hums, quieter now, more thoughtful.)

“And... I love when he's with Maya.” (The camera zooms slightly, catches the shape of her smile, the certainty in it, the careful way she speaks—like she’s weighing every word.) “She loves him. And he loves her, too.”

(Joel swallows, gaze dropping to his entwined hands.)

(The footage shifts slightly as Tommy clears his throat, the camera adjusting with a jostled movement.)

“Alright, alright.” (His voice, still light, but gentler now.) “You heard it here first, folks. The mean man’s a big ol’ teddy bear.”

(The camera shakes slightly as Joel tips his head back against the couch, groaning.)

“Jesus Christ, Tommy—”

(The lens steadies, framing Leela as she laughs, reaching for his hand. The footage captures the way Joel naturally laces his fingers through hers. He lifts it to his lips—)

(The screen flickers. Cut to black.)

X

L.REED HOME VIDEO #14

(The footage wobbles before settling, the lens clouded with the faint smudge of tiny fingerprints. Maya’s face wedges the frame—round cheeks, big curious eyes, the softest scrunch of her nose as she pokes at the camera, inspecting. A chubby hand reaches, pressing directly against the lens, smearing a blur of warmth and colour across the screen.)

(Muffled giggles. The grainy recording shakes slightly as Maya shifts, little fingers gripping at the edges of the camera. The background is soft—white pillows, blankets, the low glow of a bedside lamp casting everything in golden hues.)

(A blur of dark hair enters the frame, then—Leela, tilting in, resting her cheek against Maya’s head, her voice sing-song and sweet—like she's sharing a secret.)

“What is baby Maya doing?” (The camera jostles as Maya shifts, little hands still gripping the device.) “Is she making a video? Is she Maya Spielberg? What are you looking at?”

(Maya’s mouth opens in a wide, toothy grin, giggles bubbling up from her throat. The camera shakes with her laughter, tiny hiccuping sounds breaking up the quiet.)

“Is that Maya’s smile?” (Leela’s fingers brush gently over her lips.) “Big, big smile? Look at her big girl teeth. And her cute little nose...”

(Maya throws her head back, her giggle turning into a full-blown squeal, arms flapping wildly in delight. The footage shakes, unfocused for a moment, before a low, familiar voice rumbles from somewhere off-camera—tired, amused—)

“Don’t work her up before bed, darlin’.” (The footage tilts slightly, catching a glimpse of Joel’s veined arm as he shifts somewhere out of sight.) “Can’t get her to sleep without pullin’ a muscle.”

“Oof, Daddy's in a mood again.”

(Joel sighs gruffly.) “Daddy has to wake up early but is distracted.”

(Leela laughs softly, shifting Maya onto her lap and pulling her close. The camera steadies just enough to capture the moment as she presses their cheeks together, her voice lilting—warm and full of affection.)

“C’mere, baby.” (She tilts her head, looking directly into the lens.) “Wow, Maya looks just like Mama. Mama's hair, Mama's skin, Mama's eyes.” (A gentle kiss to Maya’s temple, a soft murmur—) “Can you gimme a kiss?”

(Maya hesitates for only a second before turning, pressing a wet, tiny kiss against Leela’s cheek. The screen wobbles as Leela laughs, delighted.)

“Oh, that’s a big kiss.” (She nuzzles in closer, rocking slightly.) “Now, can you say ‘I love you, Mama’?”

(Maya makes a sound—soft and sweet, a garbled attempt, not quite words but close.)

(Leela gasps, grinning.) “Oh! Almost! That was so good!” (She brushes her fingers over Maya’s cheek, teasing—) “Do you love Mama more or your Da-da?”

(Before Maya can respond, a hand—large, rough—enters the frame, pinching at Leela’s cheek, pulling playfully. Joel’s voice rumbles, equal parts exasperation and affection—)

“Fair play.”

(Leela swats at his wrist, half-heartedly.) “Ah-ow.” (She rubs her cheek dramatically, throwing Maya a conspiratorial look.) “Did you see that? Big bad daddy.”

(Joel grumbles.) “Sure, I'm the bad guy.”

(Maya squeals, bouncing in place, eyes bright—) “Mama!”

(Leela stills slightly, looking down at her, like she can't really believe it.) “Me? You love me?”

(Maya beams, pressing a small, chubby hand to Leela’s cheek.) “Mama, Mama.”

(The camera shakes as Leela gathers her closer, pushing her lips to Maya’s forehead, eyes closing briefly as she whispers—soft, whole, like it’s the easiest, truest thing in the world—)

“I love you, too, Maya. Mama loves you so much.”

(The screen lingers for a moment longer—the softness of them, the quiet hum of contentment. Then, a small static pop—black.)

X

R. THESIS AUDIO FILE – L. REED - #242

(A soft click. The hum of the recorder comes alive, accompanied by the faintest rustle of fabric—Leela shifting, settling. A sigh, deep and measured, like she’s leaning back. Maybe the wall. Maybe Joel.)

“This is my final log for the R. hypothesis documentation.” (A breath.) “I’m not stating any benchmarks. No primes, no numbers. None of that matters anymore. Not tonight. I'm done.”

(A soft exhale—she’s smiling.)

“The night is sweet. My daughter, who will turn one this month, is sleeping. I am safe. My skin feels clean. I have…” (A small, almost sheepish laugh, barely more than a breath.) “Made love... to the most perfect, cynical, gentlest man on this planet, who apparently loves me, too.” (A muffled snicker—like she’s covering her mouth, shaking her head.) “That’s personal. Joel doesn't like to flaunt. So, off the record, okay?”

(She sighs again, slower this time. Something moves—her tone, her posture, her thoughts.)

“I keep thinking about how the last ten years of my life have been… numbers.” (A breath.) “A set of variables and primes. A world so little I could carry it between my palms, hold it in my mind.”

(A faint rustling—her fingers tracing, maybe the fabric of Joel’s shirt.)

“I stayed in Jackson. Cremated my parents. Lived. Died. Survived. Delivered a baby girl.” (A long, slow inhale. A quiet realization.) “Found a partner I love and trust.”

(There's no sadness. It's simply final.)

“And the thing is… I did it. I proved it. Every part of it. I took the step to live, and I finished what my parents started. I reached the end of the proof. And I thought—” (She exhales.) “I thought I’d feel… bigger. Massive. Like the sky should crack open, like humanity should turn its head and finally, finally listen.”

(She laughs—not bitter, not regretful, just… acknowledging it.)

“But it won’t. It never will. Because there’s nowhere to send it. No one left to care. No world left to change. I think this is it.”

(A beat. A quiet moment where she lets the truth sink into her. Then—a softer change. A lighter note.)

“And I’m okay with that. I accept it now.”

(The creak of the bed. A shifting weight—like she’s leaning back, closing her eyes.)

“I don’t need anyone to hear it. Because I did it. I solved it. And maybe it’ll never matter, maybe it dies here with me.” (A slow breath, controlled.) “But I know. I know what I achieved. And Joel does. My new, small family does. And Maya will someday.”

(A quiet hum. More static of the recorder. An anticipatory breath—like she’s structuring her thoughts before speaking.)

“It's strange... how do I put this? You know, a function is defined by its inputs and outputs. A system or machine is shaped by its limitations. A theorem is valid only if every variable holds true.”

(Leela’s voice is quieter, warmer now.) “For ten years, my variables were singular. A closed set—isolated, self-contained, unworkable. I measured my life in absolutes, limits and intersections. And then…”

(A long pause. Her voice softens.) “The equation changed.”

(An infinitesimal sound—the murmur from Joel, deep in sleep.)

“Dare I say more complicated? New inputs and outputs. New limitations. A system with unknowns. And somehow—against every probability—”

(Her voice quiets, like she’s reaching the final line of a proof, the last, inevitable step.)

“It balanced.”

(A slow inhale. A hand smoothing over fabric, maybe Joel’s arm.)

“One woman. One child. One man. The sum is still whole. My system works. The theorem is valid.” (A beat.) “That's a good enough proof for me.”

(An understanding silence. A breath. Certain. Absolute.)

“This is Leela, signing off. If you listen to this, know that I'm still trying despite this. I am going to fight like hell to put my findings out, even if it's a long shot. Please help me prove what I've left behind, in case I don't. Prove that we haven't lost yet.”

(Click.)

X

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

[meet-me-backstage]

𓃗

𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ꥟ Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ꥟ It had been years since you ran away from Joel Miller, a hunter, frightened for your life and of who he had become. Before the infected roamed he was the grumpy single father of a chirpy little girl who lived across the street from you and kept himself to himself… until he didn’t, not with you at least when you began watching over Sarah while he couldn’t. He became someone who you could talk to, a friend dare you say, a silly little crush and your lifeline at the beginning of the apocalypse.

Now you are residing in Jackson, a slice of heaven in a cruel world, the perfect distraction from your past and the hell you went through to get away from it. However, you realize that the past really does always come back to haunt you when all too familiar faces arrive at Jackson and you have no other choice but to face Joel again, who makes it his mission to fix your broken friendship.

Unable to fight your heart, feelings resurface and lines blur when it becomes clear that you are just as much Joel’s lifeline as he is yours.

𝑨 𝒔𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ꥟ Horror themes, not strictly following the first game/season + not at all following the second season/game so kinda au, reader can sing and play guitar, weapons, bad language, death, grief, angst, mentions of pregnancy and stillbirth, blood, mention of vomit, violence, nightmares, PTSD, a lil smidge of dark!Joel, Jackson!Joel, soft & protective with a bit of a dad bod!Joel, unrequited love until it isn’t, jealousy, mutual pining, age gap (reader is 36 and Joel is 56) and smUUUUT (‼️) so you must be 18+ to read❗️

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 ꥟ 11K

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 ꥟ a Platonic (with a capital ‘P’‼️) reader x Joel pre-apocalypse flashback / reader having a lil unrequited crush on Joel, mention of unrequited love, bad language, mention of parental neglect, grief, angst, weapons, violence, blood, PTSD symptoms, mention of death, mention of pregnancy and some mutual pining.

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲! 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! <𝟑

⇜ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

THEN

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐌𝐍, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟑

"It doesn't matter where you go or what you do - I wanna spend each moment of the day with you - well, look what has happe—"

You and Sarah are singing in unison, your voices harmonizing with each other while you strum away at your guitars... until Joel pushes Sarah's bedroom door open, making his presence known to the two of you.

Sarah crosses her arms over the body of her guitar and glares up at her dad, feigning adorable anger - you don't miss the twinkle in her eyes though, it was always there when he arrived back home from work as if she hadn't seen him for years, "dad, don't you ever knock?"

"Don't mind me, honey—" Joel peeks his head further past her door, which is covered in stickers that sum Sarah up in a nutshell; rainbows, roller skates, cartoon puppies, guitars, music notes, multi-color stars and flowers. "I was just seein' what all the noise was," a playful grin tugs on his lips as he lets himself into Sarah's room, closing the door behind him and crossing his arms - looking awfully proud of himself for successfully poking fun at the fourteen year old.

"Oh ha ha - very funny—" Sarah retorts with a deadpan expression, "you're just jealous I've got someone else to do duets with."

"You got me there," Joel admits, bringing his hand up to lightly slap his broad chest while admiring Sarah, who is now the one looking awfully proud of herself for successfully poking fun at the thirty-five year old.

Joel's eyes divert to you - you'd been silent, fondly observing the father and daughter joking around while cuddling what was your mom's guitar to your chest, resting your chin on the side of it’s body. You could feel the warmth of her that always gave you comfort, a similar warmth that you feel with Sarah and Joel. He shoots you a knowing look and there's a thankful glint in it too that takes you aback more than his sudden arrival back home.

You'd been fulfilling the unspoken promise between you a few weeks ago by bringing over your guitar, taking his spot as Sarah's duet partner while he tried to fix the mess of his business that his little brother made... you hadn't seen much of him since that night, mostly at the occasional dinners like before. He didn’t have the luxury of having the time to watch a movie with you and Sarah anymore, he just wanted to keep his head down and finish that paperwork Tommy didn’t do - it was an emergency and you had been more than happy to watch over Sarah for him.

She is your best friend after all.

"Hey, trouble."

"Hi, Joel," you greet him by his name without a stutter, smiling... You hadn't been in the best of moods since your dad left and you hadn’t exactly been discreet about it - there was no point in hiding it because of course Joel had noticed the empty space of your driveway, usually filled by your dad’s car, the same day that he left for his business trip.

Joel confronted you about it a few nights after, prompted by your quietness at the dinner table… even Sarah wasn’t able to get a single giggle out of you.

You just sat there fiddling with your food, aimlessly scraping your fork against your plate, miles away until Joel’s voice jolted you back into the room…

‘What’s goin’ on with you?’

‘Me?’ His eyes pierced into your soul - there was no mistake he was talking to you. ‘Nothing.’

‘Ain’t nothin’ - you been mopin’ for days.’

You shrugged - shrugged. There was nothing in this world that frustrated Joel more than a goddamn shrug.

He fought the urge to roll his eyes. ‘I see your dad ain’t been home - ‘s that what this is about?’ He dropped his knife on his plate to gesture at your deflated self.

Your face said it all, you didn’t need to say a word.

Joel muttered something like ‘what an asshole’ under his breath - you could barely hear it.

‘He’s away - working. ‘S not his fault.’

Joel did roll his eyes at that. ‘Like hell it ain’t.’

‘Dad—’ Sarah interjected. The sight of his daughter alone calmed his agitated state, then she leaned towards him, excitably whispering in his ear.

‘You free on Saturday?’ Joel asked you after Sarah pulled back and resumed tucking into her dinner.

‘Mhm.’

‘Then it’s settled—,’ you tilted your head in the manner of a curious puppy, ‘I’m takin’ you ‘n Sarah to the theatre - we’ll see that movie you both’ve been goin’ on about, the one with the werewolves—’

‘Dawn of the Wolf two?!’ You gasped.

‘Dawn of the Wolf two.’ Joel, satisfied with himself for reclaiming the ‘best dad ever’ status from Sarah and for cheering you up, watched you with a crooked smile as you happily ate your food.

He watches you now with that same crooked smile that sends your stomach spiralling. "You okay?" He subtly nods, a caring movement that you respond to with wide-eyes... maybe his exhaustion in consequence of ‘Miller Bros. Services’ being on its last legs had been the reason for his short temper with you. He had showed you that he didn't hate you like you originally thought he did, but you’re still accustoming to this compassionate side to him he only reserved for Sarah and Tommy.

Whatever had changed between the two of you.

It’s a good change.

Dare you say it could be a budding friendship - the beginning of what you have with Sarah; someone who you could confide in. Joel could be that someone too… someone who is kinda an asshole but you could confide in him from time to time.

"I’m okay," you hum... you are. It's not like you noticed any differences with your dad being gone because he never made time for you. Besides, you'd been spending most of your days with Sarah so it's not like you'd been forced to face the desolate space that was your home all that much... in fact, you feel less lonely than you ever did before you met Sarah and Joel, you’re practically living in a loving home vicariously through them. "Are you - okay?"

"Just fine.” It's exactly the vague answer you'd expected considering he wanted to keep Sarah out of the trouble he's got himself into, and judging by his defeated tone he hasn't miraculously been able to undo Tommy's mistakes yet. "Tired—" he adds like the worst case scenario hadn’t been the source of his nightmares lately. "Worked my ass—" he clears his throat, sheepishly glancing at Sarah - she’s holding in a snicker by biting her lips together, "butt off as always."

Your smile grows as you tilt your head.

"What are you doin' back so early anyway?" Sarah questions, scrunching her petite nose.

“The guy me 'n' Tommy are workin' for wasn't feelin' too good so we got dismissed for the day." Joel’s eyes drift back to his daughter suspiciously with a raise of an eyebrow, "why'd you ask?"

“No reason—" She looks down at the guitar Joel had gotten her on her ninth birthday, an acoustic one that she'd also decorated with stickers... Sarah told you all about that day, her 'most kickass birthday' as she called it, and how she hadn't let the instrument out of her sight since, "we just - no offence, daddy - but we got practicin' to do aaand we were gonna wrap your gifts for tomorrow—"

"Thought we agreed on one gift this year, sweetheart—"

"I don't remember agreein’ to that—"

"I do remember tellin' you—"

"Well I wasn't listenin' - sorry," Sarah's apology comes out as an unconvincing mumble, then her eyes light up in the fraction of a second at the same time she points in your direction, “she got you a gift too."

Your face boils when you become the subject of his stare again but you refuse to make him the subject of yours, choosing to profusely blink at Sarah instead. If you did have the words you’d say something like ‘thanks for throwing me under the bus’, but Sarah toothily grins your way and all is forgotten.

"You did?" Joel quirks an eyebrow up at you now, tilting his head to the side.

"Maybe," you mumble, embarrassed that you even thought of giving him a gift in the first place, just before Sarah states confidently; "She did."

You did... and for some reason you feel the need to explain yourself. You had wanted to show your gratitude for all the dinners, the movies and the company you wouldn't have had if he hadn't given into his grumpiness towards you over the summer, to show you are willing to let bygones be bygones and the harsh words he had flung your way didn't matter as long as you got to be in a place that feels more like home than your actual one.

He hums, "that's real kind o’ you, darlin’."

Your jaw drops. ‘Darlin’’… you could get used to that.

"It is—" Sarah agrees enthusiastically with her dad. If it were possible, a flashing lightbulb would be floating above her head right now as she appears to come up with an idea. Once it’s executed, she directs her attention onto you, “hey, instead of leavin’ the gift here tonight why don’t you bring it over tomorrow—” you shake your head quickly, but Sarah refuses it as an answer, “pleeeeease - you’ve gotta celebrate with us.”

You shake your head again… it’s not that you don’t want to - you just feel like you’ve encroached on enough of their father daughter time. Surely he’d appreciate having quality time with his daughter more after the stressful month he's had… you also can’t help but recall words he spat your way before you ran home crying months ago that further prove your point:

'Between you 'nd me, I'd really like to have this one day with my daughter - you think you could allow me th—'

You can.

You'll leave your gift for him here and go home.

You’ll wake up tomorrow.

You’ll leave Sarah and Joel alone.

You’ll break Sarah���s heart.

Sarah does what she always does when she has no clue what to do next, she turns to her dad for answers. She stares up at him with big eyes, desperately pleading for him to help her change your mind.

"What'd you want me to do?" Joel wonders how he'd gotten to a point in his life where his purpose is to do a teenager’s bidding.

Sarah's shoulders drop into a slouch, "duh, you ask." She side-eyes you, the exact same look that Joel would give you after talking about you as if you weren't right there the whole time.

She is truly the mirror image of her father.

“She already said she don’t wanna come.”

“No she didn’t - she shook her head.”

“Same damn thing.”

“No it isn’t.”

“She’s your friend—”

“It’s your birthday… and she’s your friend too.”

They’re as stubborn as each other.

Joel and Sarah stare at one another, contesting with each other, further confirming their alikeness. If he didn't have such a soft spot in his heart for the girl or he didn't know the headstrongness of her that she inherited from him he could’ve kept his eyes open until they burned red, itching for him to just blink… but he doesn’t, he caves because he knows she’s right.

You should celebrate with them tomorrow.

You are his friend.

He obliges Sarah’s command with a scratch at the back of his neck, “it ain’t gonna be much—” he sternly glances at Sarah, speaking as if he'd forgotten that you already knew what plans she had up her sleeve. "But you can come over - if you want," he confirms... “I’d like you to come.”

Your heart thuds, “you - would?” He nods but you need to hear another confirmation in case you hadn’t heard him right the first time, “I wouldn’t be - intruding?”

"You wouldn't be intrudin'."

“Really?”

He nods again - not hesitantly or resentfully, but assertively. "I’d also feel better knowin' you ain't alone."

You find the courage to return his eye contact and nervously purse your lips before popping them open, "okay, I’ll - I’ll think about it."

Sarah bounces on her bed, suddenly so full of energy that her guitar ricochets off of her lap and you almost fly off of her stripey duvet. She catches the instrument back into her small arms and her beaming gaze drifts up to Joel, "Thank you, daddy!”

You can't not accept the invitation now… not with those cute dimples she’d gotten from her dad on display.

"Hm—" Joel brings a hand to his chin, his fingers holding his jaw and ending his intense scrutiny of you with those pretty brown eyes, "alright, I'll get outta your hair... but first you two are gonna sing me a song."

You and Sarah glance at each other, your face flushing instantly; a common occurrence for you whenever Joel Miller is in the same room as you. Sarah’s eyes are glimmering, so much that they light up the room alongside the pink lamp on her side table that nudges her white-framed double bed.

An amused Joel wanders over to the large pale purple bean bag sat at the end of Sarah's bed. It’s sinking into the shaggy brown carpet underneath it and he brushes his hands down his work clothes before letting himself fall onto it with a quiet groan. He immediately relaxes, his body consumed by the softness of the seat under him and he spreads his arms out, his legs too - you're convinced it's the first time he's had the chance to sit down today, it certainly looks it judging by the way his eyelids flutter so elegantly.

You can't miss the small movement because you're eye level with him now. Your grip on the body of your guitar subconsciously gets tighter when you feel those butterflies… they practically live inside you, your stomach may as well charge them rent.

Joel notices your fingernails accidentally catching the D and B strings, creating a muted but melodic sound that doesn't sound quite right. Then he closely examines the decorative details of the guitar you're hugging.

Your mom's guitar is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen so you don't blame him for admiring it.

A grand auditorium acoustic guitar of cedar, spruce and rosewood... A pattern of intricately thin lines run along its body and a floral motif of dahlias and their leaves are carved on top of them. Simpler floral decoration is copied along the fretboard, soundhole, headstock and side... It’s nothing short of a masterpiece - your mom's guitar is a work of art, and it feels like an honor for it to have been passed on to you, for you to be the one holding something as wonderful and close to you as she had once been.

"Now that's the prettiest gee-tar I ever saw," Joel murmurs. His voice raspy and tired. His entranced stare is still on the guitar as if the smooth wooden structure had hypnotized him.

You subconsciously smile dreamily… turns out your guitar has the same effect on him as he has on you. He looks at you, knowing he'd complimented something that you hold so dear… but you don't think he knows exactly how much his words mean to you and how they seem to aim directly for your heart.

Joel taps at the bean bag with the palm-side of his hand. "C'mon now, gimme a song - I need some serenadin'," he leans back more as his calm voice serenades you, soothing your rapid heartbeat which had started pounding from the moment he'd asked you and Sarah to sing him a song - invited you over for his birthday… no, since he poked his head through Sarah’s door.

Sarah doesn't show any sign of nerves, having sung and played for him plenty of times.

You never have.

You never intended to either.

Sarah pinches your shoulder, grabbing your attention, "you ready?"

"Huh?" You blink, dragging your eyes away from Joel to look at the girl sat cross-legged next to you, who has positioned herself and her guitar - eager and ready to play, "oh - yeah - wait - what're we playing?" You whisper, flustered.

"Gee - I don't know - maybe the song you taught me that we've been practicing all day every day for aaaages," Sarah answers sarcastically with high-pitched giggles between words.

How could you forget?

Especially as it was a song your mom would sing you to sleep every night - you could never forget it. Whenever you heard Nancy Sinatra's 'I Only Want To Be With You' on the car radio you found yourself singing along like you always did with your first duet partner, your mom, when she’d drive you to school... Now you're singing the same slow, stripped back version of it with Sarah that your mom taught you and it's such a good feeling - the perfect fitting bandaid to heal your grief.

You hold the man sat across from you accountable for your brain turning to mush and giggle with Sarah, nodding in agreement as you utter a quiet 'right'.

"From top?" Sarah asks.

You nod meekly, "from top."

Your fingers trace over the smooth curves of your guitar, and briefly recall how your mom would tap away at the side of it before she sang to you.

It has become a habit of your own too.

Just as the two of you had practiced, you count Sarah in alongside a few rhythmic taps with the tips of your fingers to guide her into strumming G, C and D chords while you pick the melody in time with her playing. You focus on Sarah's concentrated expression, how her hair falls over her face as she studies her fingers, how her fingers barely wrap around the neck of her guitar and still manage to create a sound as smooth as velvet.

She's a natural virtuoso like her dad too… and although you haven't yet heard him play the guitar or sing, picturing him serenading you has been the source of all your daydreams recently.

You do your best to push that idyllic image of Joel to the back of your mind before you fuck a note up and miss your cue to start singing. You already feel your fingers trembling due to the combination of the buzz of the aluminium strings pressing against them, Sarah's obedient nods in your direction as she prepares for you to join her in playing the chord sequence perfectly in sync and lastly, being the centre of Joel's intent and undivided attention… so you certainly don't need another distraction.

You send a warm smile Sarah's way which she returns. Then you shut your eyes, steering your focus onto the short preparation of your singing voice.

You take a quick breath.

You quietly hum in tune with Sarah's chords.

You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.

"I don't know what it is that makes me love you so - I only know I never want to let you go—"

NOW

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

You wish you remembered more songs like the back of your hand instead of humming vague tunes you couldn’t quite remember.

If you had the chance to come face to face with your younger self, you’d scold her for having taken the accessibility of music for granted… Believe it or not, it didn’t come by so easy these days. To get a hold of some in the apocalypse was the equivalent of trading in an arm and a leg - a rarity that you couldn’t afford all that often even at the rate you work. The selection was limited for trades in Jackson anyway but you had found and reacquainted yourself with a few gems over the years in the form of cds.

If you also had the chance to go back to the life that you led before outbreak day, you'd spend an entire day listening to all the cassettes you once owned… The collection you have now doesn’t compare to the one you had back then.

If you could you'd have saved your mom's guitar too, taken it with you everywhere just as you did her framed photograph... Much to your heartbreak amidst the chaos, the beautiful instrument was one of many belongings you left behind on outbreak day.

Often you wonder if it’s still sitting there on it’s stand back at your old house in Austin, waiting for you to come back and pick it up… You long for that to be the case because it meant there was someplace in this fucked up world that had been left untouched - untainted. A time capsule that, if you ever saw it again it'd take you right back to just as you left it twenty years ago... and you could pretend that none of this shit ever happened, that Sarah was alive and Joel was your designated moody friend.

It’s a pretty dream, but in reality the guitar had probably been taken by survivors on a raid rampage or strong fungal vines had grown around it, strangled it’s neck and broken it... and you just have to move on and make do with the life you lead in Jackson.

It isn't all bad.

You're finally living a life you imagined for yourself on your long and disastrous journey from Boston to Colorado in search of Maria's group - a normal life... well, as normal a life could be in a post-apocalyptic world.

Your weekly schedule is the same:

You go to work bright and early every morning.

You cook yourself an edible meal most week nights.

You get a decent night's sleep every night.

You have dinner with Maria and Tommy at their home every Friday.

You sing at the Tipsy Bison every other Saturday night.

You do whatever you damn well please on Sunday evening.

Before you knew it months had gone by.

Four months.

Joel has been gone for four months.

For two weeks you waited for him to come back and try to make things right between you just so you could have the satisfaction of telling him that, despite his efforts, you hadn’t changed your mind about never wanting to see his face again… You'd already spent twenty years pining after him - being haunted by him… what was another measly fourteen days?

When Callus found his way back to Jackson and Maria sent several search parties out one after the other for Joel and Ellie only for all of them to find nothing, you concluded that Joel's return into your life had been a temporary glitch to give you a sense of finality to the long-lasting situation between you... a true ending that could spur you on to exist without a big bad presence named ‘Joel Miller’ clouding over you.

At long last you could forget about him.

Having someone else with you at night helped.

Rick, to be specific.

He could erase Joel’s voice - wipe that ruggedly handsome face from your memory.

Rick hadn't left your side since the first kiss he placed on your lips... not until today.

You woke up this morning expecting him to be laying sound asleep beside you. Your chiselled jawed - boyfriend? Boss? Sleeping buddy? Could someone be all three of them at the same time? - He’d stopped the nightmares about your past with Joel. For you that was enough... it had to be, you'd spent enough time fucking him to convince yourself that everything good you felt with Joel didn't matter until you believed it to be true...

That Rick was the perfect man for you.

That you could learn to love him one day.

You slid your hand along the fresh sheets of your double bed with closed eyes, hoping to make contact with Rick's naked body on your fingertip's journey towards the empty space next to you... he hadn't ever not been with you in the morning. After your fifth date and your major comeback at the Tipsy Bison… ever since the night he’d heard you sing he’d stayed.

Maybe it was the first dip of your toes into the unknown terrain that was being in love with Rick.

You missed him.

Maybe that was your first sign.

Maybe you're closer to loving him than you thought.

It'd been so long that you've forgotten what it’s like to fall in love, you’ve not even considered your capability of it anymore until now. All you’ve ever known was Joel, the all-consuming love you had for him that sucked you dry, convincing you that he’d ruined you for anybody else.

The worst part about it was he didn’t feel the same.

He wanted Tess.

He loved your baby.

He wanted you, he loved you… but not enough for you to stay…

Not for a man you didn’t recognize anymore.

It’s all in the past.

Joel isn’t coming back.

It's a mystery to you, to Rick, Maria, Tommy, Jean and all the patrollers who had gone out searching for clues to piece his and Ellie’s disappearance together... the lack of evidence led to a presumed conclusion:

Joel and Ellie are dead - either that or they don't want to be found... The latter doesn’t make a single bit of sense to you because Joel had been so adamant about coming back to Jackson, and if he and Ellie had been in trouble, surely he'd have taken care of what needed to be taken care of eventually and made it his mission to be here rather than settle elsewhere?

No... the thought of not returning wouldn't have even crossed his mind, and if you’re wrong? And Joel is still living out there? Good riddance to him.

It was what you originally wanted anyway, for him to leave you alone... and yet it nagged at you, that it's somehow easier for you to tell yourself that Joel had died rather than having gone back on his word. It's also difficult to deny how your heart would clutch at the most likely possibility too… you often felt it, causing you to lay your hand flat over the vital organ that always disobeyed you when it came to Joel Miller.

It’s all in the past.

Joel isn’t coming back.

You have Rick now.

You'd stumbled out of bed with a gleeful smile on your face, brushed your teeth, skipped into the shower, sang your heart out in preparation for tomorrow’s open mic, excitedly slipped your work clothes on, hopped out of your house and in the direction of the stable with one intention…

You want to kiss Rick.

The stable doors are wide open, beckoning you inside.

He must be here.

But your heart is doing that clutching thing again, stopping you from being able to proceed into the building. You shake your head as if the organ will listen and obey at the same time Rick sees you stood in between the large doorframe of the stable.

He'd just stepped out of Callus' stall and is in the midst of shutting the gate to it. He rests a hand on his hip, "there you are—"

Ignoring his words and the tone that he uses when he speaks to all his workers, you set out to do what you came here to do… aside from work of course. You stride forward with determination and your eyes set on your boyfriend - no, boss - whatever - Rick.

The stern, bossy expression on his face doesn't fade until you're close enough to him that you can slide your arm through the triangular space that his bent arm had created between his elbow and side. You don't wait for him to react to your effort to pull him into you before you plant a firm kiss to his lips.

You hardly register the absence of those sensations you felt when Joel would— no, really - you don't - you don't even think about him - how could you when Rick smiles against your lips like this?

It’s all in the past.

Joel isn’t coming back.

"You're - late," Rick murmurs between another firm kiss. You do your best to disregard the clutches at your heart, but they only get stronger by the second, making it difficult to concentrate on him.

You pull back and naturally his mouth follows yours to catch it with his until you retort sassily, "you could've woken me up."

"So it's my fault?" He raises his brows as his lips tug upward into a teasing smile.

“Mhm.”

You don't miss the way his eyes flicker to your lips at your hummed answer. "You're lucky I like havin' you around - I woulda fired you for that sorta misconduct," he reciprocates your hug, placing his hands at the small of your back.

“I've done wayyy worse and being late by what - five minutes is where you draw the line?"

Rick's smile grows into a fully fledged grin, exuding charm that knocks you off your feet - if he wasn't holding you you'd stumble into Callus' stall and make a total fool of yourself - traumatizing the horse more in the process. "No, I'm just thinkin' you might have to make it up to me later—"

"Shhh - you can't say stuff like that, not in front of the horses," you whisper with a playfully serious expression - a horrible attempt at flirting you know, but it’s funny in the moment.

You both chuckle in unison - clearly he doesn’t care much about the judging stares of the four-legged creatures surrounding you because he pulls your body flush against his, causing your breath to hitch.

He attempts to kiss you again, only for you to pull back again. "Why didn't you—" Rick tilts his head, looking as curious as you, "wake me?"

"I couldn't—" he avoids your eyes as if he'd silently reminded himself of something, which is unusual as you're typically the one doing that to him - doing everything to evade the truth of your past and what you felt for Joel, not wanting it to sabotage your new, content way of living and whatever it is between you and Rick. "Was the first time I've seen you dreamin'."

"How'd you know it was a good dream 'nd not a bad one?" You ask cluelessly.

"You weren't lashin' out on me for a start—" he forces a laugh and you look down at the way your dirty clothes tangle with his. You hadn't had a nightmare so bad that you retaliated in reality in a long long while - when you did Rick would trap your body with his by holding your back to his front and keep you from drowning in the pool of blood - seeing Joel at the surface— "you were mumblin'."

You timidly lift your head, "you - um - hear what I was mumblin'?"

Rick's grip on you loosens - he's still evading your questioning stare. "Nah - not a word, sounded like a bunch'o gibberish to me," he admits unsurely. Before you can interrogate him further about your sleeping habits he drops his arms to his sides, you do the same, "I'd better er - get back to work. The first lot of patrollers'll be here any minute."

"Oh - okay," you nod passively as he smiles reassuringly, but it doesn’t reach eyes - like the color of them, they are as cold as ice. He turns his back to you and heads to the patrol board, jotting down something or other and familiarizing himself with today's schedule.

He's acting kinda strange - however, it isn't out of Rick's character to stick to his own work rules.

You hear shaky, distressed whiny breaths to your left, coming from inside Callus' stall…

Ever since the stallion’s premature arrival back in Jackson he'd been kept at the stable - no longer a patrol horse.

Callus, as skittish as he was whenever he sensed any nearby infected, he was the most obedient and brave of the horses stabled at Jackson Ranch... so whatever happened to him, Joel and Ellie out there, it must've been horrific because it had changed the horse’s entire persona - and even with the extra care you and Rick had given him since the night he came galloping back, his distraught state seemed to be irreversible.

He must be angry at himself for failing to protect Joel and Ellie like he always did the patrollers… or the trio had run into a horde and he'd bucked Joel and Ellie off, now feeling a tremendous amount of guilt for leaving them behind… for their deaths.

He whines again, louder this time, and you hurriedly respond, taking one step so you're stood in front of his gate, where Rick had been standing, and peek over it.

Callus is laying down on his side on straw that Rick must've just laid out for him.

He appears to be having a dream - a bad one... again.

Maybe he’s reliving what happened.

The numerous possible events with the same ending, with Joel and Ellie laying lifelessly on the ground that played on your mind more than you’d admit.

You don't hesitate to unlatch the gate and carefully approach Callus - you of all people understand the power of a nightmare, how they chase you back into the real world and make you act without precaution... the last thing you want to do is scare him more.

Treading lightly and kneeling beside the back of his long neck, you position yourself so that, in the worst case scenario, he can’t kick or bite you in a moment of sheer panic.

Your hand reaches for his brown mane and you slowly rake your fingertips through the untangled hair in attempt to calmly coax him through his nightmare while keeping a steady eye on his reactions to your touch - one of the many things Rick did to you at night to soothe you, to remind you that he was there to be the solution to all your problems.

Callus blows quiet raspberries and his eyelids move around in his sleep, but his breathing pattern slows. You exhale, relieved as it's the first time you'd successfully guided him out of the terror enforced by his trauma. "What happened out there, boy?" You sigh out, twirling his mane around your index finger with wonder in your eyes.

He has the answer, you can see it in his doe eyes.

If only he could talk.

If only you could read his mind.

꥟ 𓃗 ꥟

You couldn’t leave Callus’ side.

For hours you've been glued at the hip.

Two scarred souls finding solace in one another.

You're not proud of yourself but you didn't intend on falling asleep - surprisingly, aside from the odd poke and itch, Callus' straw bed is much more comfortable than it looks.

You're lucky that Jean hadn't been expected to be on a patrol shift today, instead she took on your usual, every day duties, eager to help in any way that she could. She agreed to look after Pearl and Shimmer for the day, and to assist Rick with Old Beardy's maintenance - it kept him off your back at least, otherwise he'd have found you laying on the extra straw that was supposed to be for Callus’ benefit and told you that 'sleepin' on the job is sorta a misconduct too' as if you didn't already know it.

Like a hammer to the brain interrupting a hangover nap, you hear your name being called.

"Shit," you curse groggily under your breath, half-asleep. "Shit shit shit," you keep mumbling into Callus' mane while also trying not to catch a mouthful of it or disturb the horse's deep slumber.

Your name echoes throughout the stable yet again - it's Maria, you realize, and by the sound of her voice she wants to see you urgently.

"Shit," you mumble one last time before blowing Callus’ hair out of your face and carefully lifting yourself as silently as possible until you're on your knees with your arms holding you up… During moments like this you can’t help but question yourself - what are you doing with your life? "I'm here!"

“Where?!"

"Here!" You answer, shouting at the volume of a whisper.

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that!"

You sigh out, “I’m with Callus!”

Maria, looking as radiant as ever, pops her head over the fence of Callus’ stall, looking down at you quizzically, “what are you doing?”

“I was tendin’ to Callus—” she gives you a skeptical look as you drop your head between your arms, “fine, I might’ve shut my eyes for a bit but look - he’s actually sleepin’ peacefully for once.”

“I’m glad he’s making progress,” she acknowledges with an impressed nod, but it’s short-lived. “What’s a bit?”

Without waking Callus, you stand yourself up with a few small grunts, “I dunno - what time is it?”

“Just after four,” she tells you after rolling up the long sleeves of her shirt that she’d thrown over a stretchy white t-shirt and exposing her watch underneath it.

Shit.

That’s almost your entire work shift.

You fiddle with your fingers, now stood directly in front of Maria with the fence between you, “errr a few hours then I think—” it’s a major underestimation and Maria does not buy it. Your eyes widen, pleadingly staring into her’s, “please don’t tell Rick.”

“I don’t need to tell him anything—” Maria rests an elbow on top of the fence, using her hand to gesture to your entire body which is covered with several bits of straw that had interwoven themselves in your clothes, “you’re a mess.”

“Gee, thanks,” you giggle softly, unfazed by her honest humor because that’s just Maria and she only means well - still, something seems to be bugging her. You start to pick at the straw, plucking them out individually while eyeing her suspiciously.

“Sorry—” she looks over her shoulder, appearing to be staring into the natural bright light that’s beaming into the stable from it’s entrance to her left, “get outta there I - I need to tell you somethin’.”

You’ve never seen her so worried - so stressed…

She’s the leader of this entire community, what could possibly be more stressful than that?

Your mind instantly goes straight to the worst, thinking that something had gone wrong with her pregnancy, so you stop stupidly fumbling around with your clothes in an attempt to tidy up your disheveled appearance to show her that she is your main focus right now… that you’ll be there for her as long as she needs you to be.

Once the barrier of the fence is no longer between you, you notice an element of relief that flashes across her face, which alleviates the worry you feel for her…

Realization spreads across your facial features one by one.

Whatever it is that she needs to tell you, it’s not about her baby.

“Maria—” she only blinks in response, completely lost in her own train of thought, so you gently grasp her biceps and shake them, “Maria - what is it?”

Maria’s stare drifts back onto you with her eyes so wide that if she told you she’d seen a ghost, you’d have no choice but to believe her. She blinks a few times and furrows her brows, at a loss for knowing how to broach the subject of her shock and trying to work out how exactly she is going to break it to you… She decides that there’s no other way than to just come out with it - loud and clear, “he’s back.”

Every organ in your body feels like it drops. “W-what?” You whisper in disbelief.

“Joel’s back.”

You blink. Your lips are open after mouthing another 'what?' that Maria sees because she is observing you so closely, so cautiously.

"Joel - he's back with Ellie."

"I - I heard you - it's just—" the words fly out of your mouth weak, cracked and breathless. You shake your head frantically at the slim chance of him being alive after months of no sign of him coming true… It hadn’t even crossed your mind that he could still be out there, or perhaps you avoided the chance like your life depended on it… truth was, it did - does… You wouldn’t have done half the things you’ve done in the last four months if even an ounce of you thought he was alive - you’d have lived in an unshakeable state of procrastination for Joel’s impending return and his intention to fulfil his promise to you if you did. "Maria - it can't be h—"

"It's him," she states calmly, boldly, matter of factly.

You nod feverishly, but you can't accept it. The cogs in your brain struggle to process the unexpected news, spinning so uncontrollably fast and out of sync that they overheat and fall apart… you feel light-headed.

Your arms slap down to your sides, losing all feeling in your body. Your eyes close, mentally preparing yourself to fall, but before you do or your head collides with a wooden plank Maria grabs a hold of your arms and pulls you to her. Her baby bump which has popped in the last month presses to your stomach - she isn't going to let you faint because of Joel's arrival again, she regrets not having caught you the first time and perhaps having let Joel see you way too soon... Tommy was wrong for making that decision and she blamed herself for not having stepped in, for trusting Tommy's judgement.

Maria repeats your name over and over but the life in your eyes does not come back and your body is frozen, so frail that she makes sure to continue holding you steady. She tries to talk you into consciousness - she's probably answering questions you want answered…

What happened to Joel and Ellie out there?

What spooked Callus?

Why did it take them so long to come back?

Are they okay?

Where are they now?

Is Joel looking for you?

Is he staying?

But you can’t hear her - see her.

Your vision underneath your closed eyelids is red and your ears are blocked by thick fluid you presume to be blood - no no no - you feel it trailing from your tear ducts, your nostrils, the corners of your mouth and dripping from your earlobes - this can’t be happening - it starts to pour heavily down you, feeling it drench your outfit that disgustingly clings to your skin - you have to open your eyes - your hands fly up to your face, frantically rubbing away at something that is just not there… and suddenly you’ve repossessed your hearing, Maria is shouting your name again.

She shakes your arms much harsher than you had done to her minutes before, but you’re too busy digging your fingers into the dry corners of your eyes to notice the pain she is unintentionally inflicting upon you with her fingernails clawing into you so ferociously… so hell bent on dragging you back into the stable with her, back onto planet Earth; a world that had stopped spinning on it’s axis for you… a world that you thought you’d bid farewell to months ago, where your nightmares bled into your days.

Your eyelids flutter open, revealing nothing but a glowing Maria… and there’s not even a droplet of blood on your faded white t-shirt.

"Hey, look at me!" Maria croaks out after an exaggerated sigh and you do - you stare at her, horrified at the trick your mind had played on you but relieved at your safety, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “Are you okay?!” emphasis on the 'okay' with a squeeze of your arms. She shakes her head at herself, "stupid question, Maria."

"No - no, it's not—" you take a drawn out breath. "I'm - okay," you nod unconvincingly.

You don't know what else to say - you fear that anything you do say will make no sense or come out in jumbled one word sentences that you can't even decipher yourself… Maria’s eyes are searching your face for any indication that you’ll shatter into pieces in her grasp, left entirely unsatisfied with your vague, stuttered response to her witnessing what looked like your soul leaving your body in front of her very eyes.

“I’m okay—” you repeat, going to shiftily look at your boot-clad feet, but your view is blocked by Maria’s baby bump, making you think back on cherished memories of reaching the same stage in your pregnancy where you couldn’t tie your own shoe laces or even sleep comfortably due to the constriction of a larger bump… Joel would tie your laces for you and lay down behind you with a guarding hand on your belly all night. Those small moments were some of your favorites, you know how Maria loves it as much as you grew to given the circumstances… you don’t want to ruin her enjoyment of this time by distracting her with your problems, and so you do what you do best; you hide behind your armor, brushing aside your nightmarish visions with a smile, “I appreciate the warnin’ this time.”

Maria nods slowly, but she lingers with an open mouth - warning you of Joel’s return wasn’t the only reason why she came here. “Joel—” your breath hitches, the reaction causing Maria to stop talking, but you gesture for her to put you out of your misery and say it - whatever it is, “he wants to stay—” ‘course he does. “It’s obviously what Tommy wants too but I told them I’d find you and ask if it’s - okay - y’know, before making a final decision.”

That’s when it reappears.

The blood.

It’s spilling through the cracks in the stable’s structure behind Maria, in no time it’ll flood… you’ll be drowning in it, that thing at floor of the pool will grab your ankles and pull you down again.

You’ve got to find Rick.

You step away from Maria.

In a complete frenzy, your limbs carry themselves with nothing but the pure fuel of adrenaline, with its mission being to throw yourself at Rick so that your vision of red will go.

"Hold on - where're you going—" Maria tuts while following after you, hesitant to let you run away and shut her out like you always did when faced with anything falling under the topic of the Miller brothers, especially with how much progress you'd been making recently. You’d actually gathered the strength to sit with Tommy in his and Maria's house at their dining table and eat dinner with him, have a conversation with him - Tommy did most of the talking but it was something.

Your friend looms behind you, a creeping shadow similar to the monstrous one attached to Joel in your nightmares, gaining on you by the second.

The addition of fresh spring air carries you into the bright sunset like a guiding light to safety.

You're self-conscious, so exposed and unable to protect yourself - the real Joel could be right in front of you and you wouldn't know.

Once your eyes are adjusted after having been accustomed to the dingy light of the stable you make sure that he isn’t anywhere to be seen before resuming your search for Rick with squinted eyes - god, how you wish you were still sleeping in Callus' stall, straw prodding at your ass and all... you wish you hadn't made your presence known just so you could've hidden away in your dreams a little longer and avoided having such a huge spanner thrown into the works of your newfound zest for living your normal routine.

You should've known… your life had been running a little too smoothly recently.

The mixture of the blinding sun and Maria's distorted voice calling after you deter you from achieving your objective, but the blood is gushing from the stable doors like a waterfall, following you outside so you need to get to Rick and fast.

In your peripheral vision you spot him, he's talking to Nathan, the charming jester, famously known for his cheesy pick-up lines and smouldering winks aimed at every woman minding their own business at the Tipsy Bison - you've been on the receiving end of a few...

'I must be huntin' treasure.'

‘What?’

‘Cause I’m diggin’ you.’

He's kinda a dork under the muscle but it doesn't seem to stop him from leaving the bar with company for the night... although, due to spending more time with him in an effort to make friends with Rick's friends, you've found out some interesting stuff, like how Nathan has a whole segment of his mind dedicated to random facts about history that he'd remembered from university - famous pirates, to be specific - so he's actually pretty smart.

A relieved sigh escapes your mouth at the sight of the two men going about their day, probably talking about how Nathan's patrol had gone.

All patrol routes had become clearer than they had been during winter. With only a handful or two of infected to take down, you saw how the patrollers returned with skips in their steps... Nathan looks as though he's returned having not lifted a finger, but he's holding a rifle readily to his chest so he must've done some shooting.

You take one last look over your shoulder as you run, seeing Maria waddling and the red liquid turbulently flowing behind you both, the edge of it touching Maria’s heel. The absurdity of the image of your nightmare’s creation endangering your friend and how alarmingly real it appears to be, how it consumes her feet and pulls her into its strong current, it unlocks a whole new level of guilt and horror within you that you didn’t realize you inhabited.

They’re your nightmares to have, not Maria’s, not the horses, not the entirety of Jackson’s population.

They’re meant for you.

You’re the blood’s target.

It’s meant for you.

A single shot of determination and adrenaline all in one surges through your body, enough to last you for your final steps towards Rick - your savior and guaranteed safety net from all things nightmare related.

When you leap into the back of Rick’s unsuspecting frame, wrapping your arms around his front, you can feel it all sink away, the blood being sucked down by some imaginary drain just in time to save Maria. You tuck your scrunched up face in the space between his shoulder blades, your heaving chest flush against his back and allows you to recover from running as if you’d been in danger, as if Jackson had truly been under attack by an incomprehensible amount of deadly crimson fluid.

It’s silent around you, apart from the birds singing, children’s laughter, conversations being had and the horses contently neighing… noises regular to day to day life in Jackson, its music to your ears, but you have to see it for yourself. You slide your face to the left and along Rick’s back, taking a wary peek at the main road leading to the heart of the town and, sure enough, everything is as it should be.

Rick lifts his left arm, revealing your face to Nathan, who cocks his head with a bemused smile on his face, “well howdy there, songbird.”

You manage to keep your arms clung to him while Rick twists his upper half so that he can see you for himself, already expecting to see your face - there's only one resident songbird of Jackson and that's you... not one that's as treasured as you are anyway.

You’d gone from hermit to socialite.

From forgotten and ignored to recognized and praised…

People waved at you, stopped you on your way to work just to tell you how much they love your voice.

You're kinda like a celebrity here now.

“Hi,” you mumble into Rick’s shirt and momentarily let go of him to awkwardly wave at Nathan.

Your other arm latches onto Rick tighter in retaliation, squeezing him so hard that he groans. He reflects upon the other times you’d done that, a silent plead for him to save you from something he’d never seen. One thing that sprang to his head then was to lay his hand over yours, it seemed to work because your erratic mid-sleep stirring would stop after that… he does it now, you can’t see it but you can feel it. Warm and sturdy. His thumb rubs over yours as he clears his throat, glaring at a puzzled Nathan, telepathically telling him to give the two of you some space.

“Guess I’ll be seein’ you two lovebirds tomorrow night th—”

“Nate,” Rick stops him with raised brows.

Nathan lifts his spare hand up in surrender, “I get it I get it I’ll go—” he tips his cowboy hat at you and Rick before retreating.

Rick watches Nathan’s back as he walks away. It is not until the top dog patroller is at a considerable distance that his observant eyes trail along your arm. It’s about all he can see of you because you’re yet to unhide yourself. He mutters something unintelligible when he struggles to get a good look at your face, “hey—” he squeezes your hand, “what’s goin’ on?”

You stay silent, physically unable to describe your episode for not wanting to sound crazy… you also don’t want him to know why it started, how Joel still has an effect on you that you can’t control.

For a fraction of a second he lets go of your hand to turn himself so that he’s fully facing you, then he takes both your hands in his, “talk to me—”

You shake your head, feeling so foolish for not having the ability to switch your mind of piles upon piles of unresolved trauma off yourself. “Just hold me, please.”

Rick hesitantly indulges you, taking you into his arms properly like he did in your bed every night, aware of how it instantly lulled you into a deep sleep. He’d lay on his side examining your log-like state, making sure you were okay before focusing on getting himself to sleep. Often the sweet scent of your hair was enough to get him there… last night, however, it wasn’t, not after hearing your mid-sleep mumbles as clear as the view of the full moon through your bedroom window…

‘I wannnted - you to… but you - nev-er did.’ Those words had pricked his ears up, but it was what followed that kept him awake; small hitched breaths and a breathy moan of his name, not his, Joel’s… and by the sounds of it he wasn’t scaring you, no, he was doing something you… liked.

Questions had been circling Rick’s mind all day today, causing him to be more irritable than usual with the patrollers arriving to and from their shifts, at the realization that with the large amount of time he’d spent with you, he hardly knew you… The fact agitated him to the extent that he forgot to tick off the patroller’s names correctly on the register too, a mistake he’d never made.

Was it just a stupid dream?

Or were you reliving a real memory with Joel?

And if it was had you fucked him?

Was he the father of your baby?

Did you have feelings for him?

He has to ask… he has to hear it from you.

Your face is nuzzled so cutely into his chest, but he fights the warmness he feels inside because of you to speak, causing his stubble to catch the hair at the top of your head and the steady heartbeat you’d been listening to to beat sporadically.

“Did y—” Rick starts, but the question fades into a sighed ‘Maria’.

“Don’t you - ever - run away from me - like that - ever again,” Maria’s breathless voice bursts yours and Rick’s bubble of protection and uncertainty. You turn your head to face her and nod in understanding. “I mean it—” she adds as she strokes her hand over her baby bump. “Good evenin’, Rick.”

“Evenin’, Maria,” he responds more coldly than he intended, “you - good?”

“Yeah - it's getting tough though - putting one foot in front of the other—” She intentionally eyes you, “catching up to everybody these days is a trial, especially 'cause I'm expected to be everywhere when I - can only be at one place at a time... sorry - ramblings of a pregnant woman." She takes deep breaths and straightens her back, “I just need - an answer.”

“You never asked a question?”

“Not from you.”

“Oh.” She wants an answer from you as badly as he wants answers from you, he realizes.

Maria says your name - she pauses until she’s caught her breath, “can Joel stay?”

If Rick didn’t know about Joel’s return he definitely knows now… he probably knows it’s why you ran too.

Their eyes lock onto you, boring into the depths of your soul for any hint of an answer and yet you can’t feel them… all you can feel is the protection only Rick’s arms give you, making you optimistic about a future in Jackson with Joel in it at a distance as long as you have your safe person to retreat to; Rick.

“Y-yeah—” Rick tenses up at your decision, “he can.”

“You sure?” Rick butts in, hushed and Maria stays silent, allowing you the additional chance to send Joel away for good.

You nod, your mind made up, “it makes no difference to me, him bein’ here.” Rick untenses.

Blood rises at your feet.

꥟ 𓃗 ꥟

“‘Cause you’ve started something, oh, can’t you see? That ever since we met you’ve had a hold on me—”

Your eyes rake across the room as you sing. The fairy light chandelier that magically sets the tone, the bunting hanging neatly along the bar and lastly, your audience; a sweet old couple slow dancing, that one guy whose nine to five is drinking in the corner, Jean and Hannah chaotically singing with you, Arthur trying to talk to Nathan (who is on the hunt for his next ‘X’ marks the spot no doubt), Maria happily swaying with her back to Tommy’s front while his hands caress her belly, Seth actually smiling while serving drinks, people sat at tables watching you in awe and kids excitedly jumping along to each strum of the acoustic guitar you borrow from the Tipsy Bison’s storage whenever you took to the mic… it’s nowhere near as stunning as your old one but you can’t complain, it does the job well enough.

“No matter what you do - I only want to be with you.”

You can’t bring yourself to smile or sing Rick’s way, let alone gaze at him with that twinkle in your eye like you typically did when you performed… you can’t look at him the same way, not after the revelations you’d discovered yesterday.

Rick is not the solution… being held by him does not stop your nightmares, you couldn’t love him and you can’t have him in your bed anymore.

It made every bit of difference to you, Joel living in Jackson.

It made it so obvious, how Joel had ruined you for anybody else.

Like a moth to a flame, your gaze is drawn instead to those eyes that watched you and Sarah sing, the ones you knew in another life… Joel has that same soft look in them that had your fingers trembling as you plucked the strings, but nobody seems to notice and you hadn’t expected him to come here tonight - just as you hadn’t that afternoon he got back home from work early to find you and Sarah duetting.

“No matter what you do - I only want to be with you.”

Amongst the loud cheers and claps, you almost expect to hear Joel’s voice saying ‘you got a real pretty voice, darlin’’ like he did the first time he heard you sing… he doesn’t. Joel is motionless, glued at the back of the Tipsy Bison and gambling his agreement with Maria to stay away from you after hearing how you reacted to his return, how you jumped out of Rick’s embrace and ran home… he’s risking the house he and Ellie had just moved into for hope; a place well clear of infected that’s safe for Ellie to grow up in, a home to settle down and build a somewhat regular life for himself.

You’d taught Joel to hope, you always did out there even when nothing went to plan and supplies were low… a feeling so trivial, dangerous and downright stupid to him after having experienced a loss as big as the death of his daughter, but he did, he felt it. He’d never admit it to you but you could see that he did by the way he kept pushing and pushing forward for Boston, for you and his little brother… it went downhill when three became six, when you, Joel and Tommy met other survivors; Charlie, Harrison and Tess… you couldn’t see it anymore, Joel’s hope, not until you got pregnant and he stepped up to provide you with everything you needed at any cost… by doing shitty thing after shitty thing he wasn’t proud of. What was left of Joel’s hope was flung out the window when you vanished from his life like Tommy and Sarah, and just when the thought of living as a family with you and the baby at the Boston QZ was the only thing that got him to sleep at night and the only reason for him to wake up in the morning… He’d realized it too late and had no one to blame but himself for losing you. He hated himself, so much that the hope inside him soccumbed to his self-loathing. Then when he met Ellie and he saw you again his hope resurrected - it kept him alive through his mission to get Ellie to the Fireflies, that and the endless dumb jokes the teenager subjected him to on their way that he’s kinda warmed to… and now he’s doing it again, hoping you’ll let him try to make things right between you like he told you he would four months ago.

He’s aching with it, especially with how beautiful you look tonight. His heart had been lurching in his chest, threatening to burst out of his ribcage since he stepped into the busy bar and saw you in the flesh. The way you’re grinning at the crowd of faces you’d been focusing on while you sang, Joel longed to be one of them all evening until your eyes do land on his.

He notices the tiredness that dims the glimmer in them beneath the buzzing happiness of your outer shell being in it’s element… it only makes him more determined to try, he swears he’ll do anything to be the reason for the ignition of that light within you, and even if he isn’t and you swore he didn’t have a chance to be he’d understand, he doesn’t deserve it - you, yet he can’t help but yearn to see that glimmer someday anyhow…

That’s the danger of it.

The pain of relentless hoping despite the harsh truth being shoved in your face.

You know all about that.

You’re quick to step away from the microphone, hand the guitar back to Seth, slide your hands down your dress and head into the open space swarming with your audience, ignoring the wave of compliments being thrown at you and hugging Maria, Tommy, Jean and Hannah without a word.

You’re too busy ogling Joel, mindlessly heading his way.

You have no idea what you’re going to do once you get to him, whether you’ll shove your hands into his chest and push him away or ball your fists into his denim shirt and drag him towards you - maybe neither, maybe both - with each squeeze through the pit of sweaty limbs, smiling faces and a flurry of questions like ‘how did you get such a voice?’, your legs carry you faster… desperate to touch him and be sure he isn’t some figment of your imagination.

When you collide with someone’s front— “hey—” Rick’s front, and he places his hands on your hips before leaning forward to kiss your cheek, you take the opportunity to peek over his shoulder at Joel, whose sad eyes hadn’t left yours for a single second. They flicker down to his boots when Rick’s lips touch your skin, like it hurts to watch it, like he believes that you feel those toe-curling sensations you’ve never felt - not with Rick…

You don’t even register Rick’s touch when Joel leaves the Tipsy Bison with tears in his eyes.

“You want a drink to rest those pipes o’ yours?” The tip of his nose brushes your cheekbone.

You don’t feel it.

You’re making the same mistake as you did sixteen years ago.

“No I - I think ‘m gonna head home—” Rick goes to grab his jacket that’s draped over a barstool, “alone.”

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 ⇝

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 (𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆!!!!! 𝐈𝐭'𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 <𝟑

𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐬, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢’𝐦 𝐯𝐯 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 😁 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐥.

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐨𝐫 ‘𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ↯

𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒

@eaterof-concrete @exzidss @pedrosgrogu @whirlwindrider29 @ccmoonshine @wheatmaze @hayleynott @peelieblue @senoratess @sunnypeachdream @puddles221b @kirsteng42 @piercethevic03 @bardot49 @maybe-a-bi-witch @xwackk @mellymbee @aurelialou @hjzghi-blog @dendulinka6 @hhjhgdaiqoqoan @holmesblogger @areyoutheretoru @dailyobsession @youusunshineyoutemptress @deansgirlsworld @orcasoul @merz-8 @levislegislation @aliastrinity @buckys-endoftheline @nandan11 @keenducklandbear @peedrow @pedrosonlygirl @jadedlavendergemini @mystickittytaco @windsweptarmadillo @darknight3904 @missladym1981 @wencontre @liciafonseca @fefa-la-printcessa @lilac-boo @theoraekenslover @duckybird101 @youaggravatemysoul @avee102

𝐽𝑜𝑒𝑙 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟

𓃗

[worlds-we-write]

Shelter in the Storm I Chapter 2: Ash and Bone

pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x fem!reader

CH Summary: As whispers spread through Jackson, you're forced to confront the quiet reality growing inside you. With Joel’s steady presence and Ellie’s fiercely protective loyalty, the walls you’ve carefully built begin to crack—leaving you vulnerable, uncertain, and quietly hopeful for the first time.

Chapter WC: 5.5 K

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson era, slow burn, hurt/comfort, trauma recovery, emotional baggage, found family, protective Joel Miller, reader is a survivor, reader has PTSD, past hostage situation (implied), PREGNANCY reveal, soft moments in a harsh world, Joel cares in his own way™, gentle intimacy, angst with hopeful undertones, canon-typical violence (referenced), no smut (yet).

Chapter 1

The light was soft when she woke, barely filtering through the frost-covered window.

Her throat was dry. Her head heavy. The smell of woodsmoke lingered faintly in her hair, and her body ached in slow, pulsing waves—reminders of the collapse, of the fever, of whatever had dragged her under and spit her back out.

At first, she didn’t move.

Just stared up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, tracing their lines with unfocused eyes, waiting for the panic to catch up. It didn’t come—not like it used to. There was only the stillness. A thick, weighted kind of quiet that filled the room like fog.

Her blankets were bunched up around her, but beneath them she was still dressed from the day before—minus her coat.

Except—

She turned her head, slowly.

Joel’s jacket was there.

Draped over the back of the chair beside her bed, like someone had set it there with intention. It still smelled like him—faint leather, smoke, snow. Comfort. Safety.

She stared at it too long.

Her stomach turned.

The memory hit before she could stop it—Joel’s voice, low and steady beside her in the infirmary.

“You’re pregnant.”

She sat up too quickly.

The dizziness was instant—sharp and disorienting, forcing her to brace herself against the edge of the bed, teeth gritted. She breathed through her nose, trying not to vomit, willing the wave of nausea to pass.

It didn’t.

Her hand slid to her stomach.

Still flat. Still hers.

But not.

She dragged herself to the mirror and stared.

There was a girl there. Pale. Hair tangled. Eyes sunken and tired. Lips cracked from the cold. A scar above her eyebrow. Faint bruises on her neck that hadn’t faded yet.

She looked like someone who hadn’t chosen her own life in a while.

Like someone still trying to convince herself she deserved to have one.

You’re pregnant.

Her hands trembled.

“No,” she said aloud. Just to hear the word. Just to defy it.

It didn’t change anything.

She paced after that. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t lie back down.

She cleaned the table. Rearranged the firewood. Lit the stove, then put it out again. She didn’t even know what she was doing—only that if she stopped, the weight of it would crush her.

The silence inside the cabin was unbearable.

She half-wished Joel would knock.

She half-hoped he wouldn’t.

The memory of his hand on her cheek, the way he carried her like something precious—it scared her. Not because it was wrong.

But because it felt like care.

And care was dangerous.

Care meant someone could hurt you again.

Eventually, she sat by the window with a cup of water, watching the snow fall quietly over Jackson. The town moved like it always did. Chopping wood. Pulling sleds. Horses breathing steam into the cold air. Voices distant.

Life, happening anyway.

She felt a kick of anger in her chest.

Everything inside her was changing, twisting, breaking—and the world just… kept moving.

She was invisible again.

But Joel had seen her.

And now, he knew.

“You check on her?”

Tommy’s voice broke the morning stillness as he tossed a small log into the fire barrel outside the mess hall. He glanced sideways, knowing the answer before Joel could speak.

Joel didn’t look up. “She’s home. That’s all that matters.”

“She looked bad yesterday,” Tommy said, tone soft but honest. “Real bad.”

“She’s been through worse.”

Tommy nodded slowly. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean she should go through it alone.”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

He kept his eyes on the snow-covered path ahead, hands in his coat pockets, like if he focused hard enough on the horizon, he could avoid the way something in his chest had been twisting since yesterday.

Tommy finally sighed. “Y’know, it ain’t weakness to give a damn, Joel.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Joel muttered.

“No, but you’re walkin’ around like you gotta hide it.”

Joel turned then—just slightly.

“I ain’t tryin’ to fix her,” he said. “I just… don’t want her to think no one’s gonna show up.”

Tommy nodded again; this time slower. “Then go. Leave something. Say somethin’. You ain’t gotta be loud about it.”

Joel didn’t move.

Tommy threw another log onto the fire.

“I’ve seen you carry the weight of ghosts for twenty years, brother,” he said quietly. “Don’t let her become one of ‘em.”

Joel swallowed hard.

Didn’t answer.

Just turned and started down the snowy path toward her cabin.

Joel stood outside her cabin, hands deep in his coat pockets, pretending like he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t planning to knock. Hell, he hadn’t even meant to walk this far. He just… ended up here. Boots crunching softly on fresh snow. A thermos of hot coffee in one hand, the other wrapped too tightly around his wrist like it might keep him still.

There was light in her window.

That meant she was awake.

He watched her shadow move behind the curtain—slow, aimless pacing. Not frantic. Not panicked. Just the kind of movement someone made when they didn’t want to sit still with what was in their head.

He knew that feeling.

Too damn well.

He shifted his weight, debating.

He’d already stayed through the night. Sat by her bed until the nurses told him she’d be okay. He could’ve left it at that. Should’ve. She probably didn’t want him hovering. Probably didn’t want anything from him.

But the look on her face when she’d woken up—frightened, lost, trying not to let it show—it stuck with him.

Like a splinter under the skin.

He didn’t want her to feel alone in that.

Even if she told him to go to hell for it later.

He stared at the thermos in his hand.

He’d been bringing Ellie one just like it every morning since the cold rolled in. It was routine. A comfort. Something simple that didn’t ask for anything in return.

He stepped up to her porch. Slowly.

Set the thermos down on the top step.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t say a word.

Just turned and walked back through the snow, jaw clenched, hoping the smallest thing he could offer might be enough to get her through the morning.

The next morning, she got up before the sun.

The sky outside was still a dark shade of gray, the edges of it just starting to turn blue as she pulled on her boots with shaking hands. The fire in her stove had burned low overnight, and her cabin was cold—but that wasn’t what made her fingers numb.

She hadn’t slept much.

Every time she closed her eyes, she heard his voice again. Joel’s voice. You’re pregnant.

The words echoed, too loud for such a quiet truth.

But she couldn’t stay in bed. She couldn’t sit with it.

She needed something real. Something that didn’t care what was happening inside her.

The stables didn’t ask questions.

By the time she made it there, the town was just starting to wake.

The frost clung to the wooden fences. The horses’ breath puffed into the air in soft, cloudy bursts. A few of the morning shift workers were already there—Mason, Cara, one of the younger boys, Dillon. They glanced at her when she stepped inside, but no one said anything.

Not at first.

She didn’t expect a welcome, but the silence still pressed against her skin like judgment.

Everyone knew.

Or at least… they thought they did.

Word traveled fast in a place like Jackson. Someone passes out in the middle of the stables and doesn’t come back for a day? People ask questions. People assume.

She kept her head down.

Started brushing Dusty like she always did. The mare whuffed softly and leaned her head into her shoulder, same as usual. That alone nearly made her cry.

At least Dusty didn’t look at her differently.

Her body moved through the motions. Feed, hay, clean, check the buckets. But everything felt heavier today—her limbs, her breath, the weight in her belly that wasn’t even visible yet but felt like it was pressing down from the inside out.

By midday, the work caught up to her.

She’d been pushing harder than she should’ve—lifting feed buckets, hauling water, moving through the stalls like if she kept her muscles moving fast enough, her brain wouldn’t have time to catch up. Like if she pretended everything was fine, eventually her body would believe it.

But it didn’t.

She felt the shift as she bent to latch the bottom of one of the stalls.

A low, pulling ache in her lower belly—deep and slow, like something winding tight from the inside. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t dramatic. But it stopped her cold.

She froze, one hand braced against the gate, breath stuck in her throat.

Not pain exactly. Just… change.

Her body reminding her, in no uncertain terms: You’re not the same anymore.

You’re not alone anymore.

She pressed her hand just above her waistband. Nothing there. No bump. No movement.

But she felt it anyway.

And the feeling brought nausea with it. Not the usual queasy, morning kind. This was different. This was dread. Hot and bitter, curling up into her chest like smoke.

She stood too fast.

The world spun again.

And then—his voice.

"Hey."

Joel.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. But somehow, he always was, like he knew when she was about to fall apart without even looking at her.

She turned, already shaking her head. “I’m fine.”

His brow creased. “You’re pale.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She regretted the sharpness the second it left her mouth.

But Joel didn’t flinch.

He just looked at her—long, steady—and then stepped past her to unhook the latch she’d been fumbling with.

She watched his hands, rough and capable, move like he’d done this a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’m not broken,” she said, more quietly now. Not a declaration—more like a plea.

Joel paused.

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

And that was it.

No lecture. No pushback. No pity.

Just the acknowledgment that she didn’t want to be seen as fragile—but that maybe she was, in ways she couldn’t help yet.

They worked in silence for a while.

Joel stayed close—not hovering, not watching—but there. Steady. Like a second rhythm in the room. Like if she stumbled again, he’d already be moving before she hit the ground.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

“People are talking,” she said finally, her voice low.

Joel looked at her, unreadable. “Let ’em.”

“They think I’m—” She stopped. Couldn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t know how.

He didn’t push.

After a moment, she said, “I don’t need your help.”

“I know.”

“But you keep showing up anyway.”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

She didn’t know what to say to that.

So she turned back to Dusty, ran the brush through her coat again even though she didn’t need it, and tried to focus on the rhythm. The quiet.

But Joel didn’t leave.

He stayed. Just like always.

And somehow, that was the only thing in the world that made sense.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been standing there—knees locked, shoulders tense, fingers clutched too tightly around the brush—until her vision blurred again. Not like before. Not dizzy. Just… detached. Like her body was still here but the rest of her had wandered off somewhere else.

She blinked hard.

Her hand slipped.

The brush clattered to the ground, and she jolted at the sound, startled by her own fragility.

A second later, Joel was beside her.

She hadn’t even heard him move.

“Hey,” he said softly, hand reaching out—but not quite touching her.

She didn’t look at him.

Her breath hitched, chest tight. The stall spun just a little.

Joel took a step closer.

And then—his hand was on her arm. Warm. Steady. Just above the elbow. His fingers didn’t squeeze, didn’t urge. Just anchored.

“You’re alright,” he said quietly.

That was all.

Not a promise. Not an order.

Just a tether.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she didn’t pull away.

She just stood there, eyes closed, muscles slowly unclenching under his touch.

The moment stretched—longer than it should have.

Then, gently, Joel let go.

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for a year.

“Sit down a minute,” he said. “Ain’t no one gonna yell at you for takin’ a second.”

She nodded.

Didn’t argue.

He hadn’t meant to touch her.

Hell, most days he tried not to touch anyone if he could help it. Not since… not since long before Jackson. But when he saw the way her knees locked, the way her hand trembled around that damn brush, something in his gut kicked hard.

She was about to break.

And he couldn’t just stand there and let her.

So he moved. Quiet, careful. Reached out before he could talk himself out of it. Hand to her arm—just enough pressure to let her know she wasn’t drifting off alone again.

He expected her to pull away.

Hell, he braced for it.

But she didn’t.

She just stood there. Rigid. Breathing shallow. Eyes closed like she was trying to disappear—but not from him. Not this time.

It did something to him. More than he liked.

He held his touch for a second too long. Let it go before she could realize how much it mattered.

“Sit down a minute,” he said, like it was no big deal. Like his heart hadn’t started pounding in his chest when she leaned just slightly into his steadiness.

She nodded. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at him.

But she sat.

Joel turned away, slow and deliberate, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

He didn’t know what scared him more—the fact that she let him steady her…

Or the part of him that didn’t want to stop.

Joel was halfway back to his cabin, boots leaving a trail through fresh snow, when Ellie fell into step beside him like she hadn’t been lurking around the corner waiting for him to walk by.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just walked.

Then: “You were at the stables a long time.”

Joel grunted. “Feeding the horses. Helpin’ out.”

Ellie side-eyed him, dramatic. “Since when do you volunteer for things?”

He didn’t answer. Kept walking.

She squinted up at him. “Is this about her?”

Joel didn’t stop moving, but his shoulders stiffened just slightly.

Ellie smirked. She had him. “It is, isn’t it?”

“She collapsed yesterday,” he muttered. “Ain’t right to leave someone hangin’ after that.”

“I didn’t say it was wrong,” she said, tone softer than he expected.

They walked a few more steps.

“She okay?”

Joel hesitated. “No. But she’s tryin’. Showed up this morning like nothin’ happened.”

Ellie snorted. “Sounds familiar.”

He shot her a sideways glance.

She shrugged, grinning. “Takes one emotionally repressed weirdo to recognize another, I guess.”

Joel sighed. “Ellie…”

But she was already walking ahead, calling over her shoulder, “Just don’t be weird about it!”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked down at the snow where their tracks overlapped—and wondered when exactly he’d started hoping she’d show up again tomorrow, too.

The knock at the cabin door came late—after the sun dipped below the mountains and the last bits of light turned gold along the rooftops.

She thought about ignoring it.

Her body ached in places she couldn’t name, and she hadn’t stopped shaking since she left the stables. She didn’t have the energy for a conversation. She didn’t have the words for one, either.

But the knock came again. Not loud. Just… steady.

Insistent in a quiet way.

When she opened the door, Maria stood on the other side, arms crossed, her coat pulled tight around her frame.

“Evening,” she said.

You stepped back automatically, leaving the door open without saying anything.

Maria walked in like she belonged there—not uninvited, not imposing, just sure. She’d always had that kind of presence. Quiet authority. A steady kind of strength.

“I was on patrol when they found you, y’know,” she said, not looking at her right away. “The day you came in.”

You stayed silent.

Maria turned to face her, meeting her eyes. “I’ve seen a lot of people crawl out of worse. Not many stand up again.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her throat was too tight.

Maria didn’t wait for her to. She nodded toward the table. “You sitting? Or am I lecturing you standing up?”

You hesitated, then dropped slowly into the chair across from her.

Maria sat down too. Pulled off her gloves, laid them on the table, then looked her square in the eye.

“I know what’s going on,” she said softly. “Or at least enough of it to be worried.”

Your stomach twisted. “Joel told you.”

“No,” Maria said quickly. “He didn’t say a word. Man barely says anything unless someone’s bleeding out in front of him.”

That almost earned a smile. Almost.

“I’m not here to make you talk about what happened,” Maria continued. “That’s yours. No one’s entitled to it.”

She paused.

“But I am going to say this—you need help. Medical help. You’re not just exhausted. You’re pregnant. And if you don’t start letting someone take care of you, this place we worked so damn hard to build? It’s not gonna be enough to keep you alive.”

You looked down at her hands, fingers curled into tight fists in her lap.

“I’m fine.”

Maria shook her head. “No, you’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Silence.

A thick, heavy kind.

Then:

“Do you know how far along you are?”

She flinched. Couldn’t answer.

Maria softened her voice. “There’s a midwife here. Name’s Elise. Quiet, kind. No judgment. She’s helped women through worse than this. She won’t ask questions you’re not ready to answer.”

Still, you said nothing.

Maria leaned forward, voice firm but gentle. “Don’t punish yourself by pretending you don’t need help.”

That hit harder than it should have.

She swallowed hard, eyes stinging.

“I didn’t choose this.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Maria nodded. “You don’t have to. But now it’s here. And you don’t have to face it alone unless you want to.”

That was the second time she’d heard those words in two days.

She didn’t trust them. Not fully.

But something in Maria’s tone made her believe it might be true.

Maria stood, pulling her gloves back on.

“There’s food in the mess hall if you’re up for it. And if not… Joel said he’s bringing something later.”

Your eyes lifted, startled.

Maria smirked. “Like I said. He didn’t say much. But he didn’t have to.”

Then she walked out, leaving the cabin quiet again.

But not quite as cold.

She didn’t move after the door shut.

Didn’t stand. Didn’t speak.

Just stared at the table like Maria’s words were still hanging in the air, floating there like smoke, curling around her ribs and squeezing.

“You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

She pressed her hands flat to the wood.

Felt her fingers start to shake.

She’d been holding herself together with frayed thread and sheer willpower for days—maybe longer—and one conversation had unraveled it all. Joel’s steady voice in the infirmary. Maria’s eyes that saw too much. The way Dusty leaned into her that morning, like she knew.

Everyone was seeing her.

Everyone knew.

And she hated it.

Not because they judged her—but because they didn’t.

Because they cared.

And that was worse.

Caring made it real.

Her chest tightened.

Breath caught in her throat, hot and brittle.

She tried to breathe around it. Tried to blink away the sting in her eyes, the pressure building behind her ribs. She was stronger than this. She’d made it out. She was still here.

But her body didn’t care.

And the tears came anyway.

No sobbing. No gasping.

Just the quiet, terrible sound of someone finally breaking under everything they’d been holding in.

Her shoulders hunched. Her hands covered her face. And she cried like it wasn’t even her choice—like her body had decided for her.

Tears for the things she couldn’t say out loud.

For the things that had been done to her.

For the life growing inside her that didn’t feel like hers.

For the quiet that followed, and how heavy it felt.

She didn’t know how long she sat there.

Eventually, the tears slowed.

Her hands dropped into her lap.

Her face burned, her chest still aching. But the release—God, the release—left her hollow and heavy and a little more grounded than before.

Not better.

Not even close.

But… lighter.

Like maybe she could get through the next hour.

Maybe.

It was dark when the second knock came.

Softer than Maria’s.

Slower. Hesitant.

She was still sitting at the table, sleeves damp from wiping her face, eyes sore and unfocused. For a moment, she thought about ignoring it again. Pretending she was asleep. Pretending she wasn’t coming apart at the seams.

But something in her gut told her who it was.

And that not answering might feel worse than whatever came next.

She opened the door.

Joel stood there.

Snow on his shoulders. A beat-up Tupperware container in his hands. He didn’t meet her eyes at first—just shifted on his feet, jaw tight like he’d talked himself into this three separate times on the walk over.

“Ellie made too much,” he said gruffly. “Figured I’d bring some by.”

She blinked.

She didn’t believe him. Not for a second.

But she stepped back.

Didn’t say a word.

He took that as permission and walked inside.

The cabin was dim. Fire still low. She hadn’t moved since Maria left. The weight of that conversation, and the weight of the breakdown that followed, still clung to her skin like a second layer.

Joel set the container down on the table. Didn’t comment on her red eyes or pale face. Didn’t ask if she was okay.

Just opened the lid, revealed something that looked like rice and beans, and set down two mismatched spoons.

She almost laughed.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“I didn’t ask,” he replied.

Not unkind.

Just matter-of-fact.

Like hunger didn’t have to be real to eat. Like it wasn’t about food at all.

She sat.

He sat across from her, hands steady, spoon already halfway to his mouth before she’d even picked hers up. No small talk. No questions.

Just the quiet sound of eating. The soft crackle of firewood.

And for the first time in what felt like days, her stomach didn’t twist at the idea of food.

Halfway through the meal, she spoke.

“Did Maria tell you to come?”

Joel didn’t look up. “No.”

She studied him. “You just… decided to show up.”

He finally met her eyes. Steady. Serious.

“You looked like you needed somethin’ today.”

That was all he said.

But it landed hard.

She nodded slowly, throat tightening again—but in a different way now. Not from grief.

From the terrifying warmth of being seen and not judged.

They didn’t finish the food. Neither of them really tried.

But when she moved to stand, Joel stopped her with a quiet word.

“You got someone checkin’ on you regularly?”

She hesitated. “No.”

His voice didn’t change. Still calm. Still solid.

“You do now.”

She looked at him.

Really looked.

There was nothing performative about Joel Miller. No fluff. No empty promises. Just the man who had been there when she collapsed, who sat with her in silence, who didn’t flinch when things got hard—and didn’t ask her to be anything she wasn’t.

Something in her chest shifted.

Still aching. Still raw.

But steady.

Like maybe—just maybe—she could survive this with someone beside her.

And that was more terrifying than the silence had ever been.

Later that night, after Joel had gone, she sat alone in the stillness of the cabin.

The bowl of half-eaten rice and beans sat cold on the table. Joel’s jacket still hung on the back of the chair where he’d left it, smelling faintly of smoke and pine and something solid. Unshakable.

She hadn’t spoken another word after he said, You do now.

There hadn’t been anything else to say.

She lit a candle near the bed. It flickered unevenly, casting long shadows on the walls and soft light on the floorboards, and for the first time in days, the room didn’t feel like it was closing in.

She sat on the edge of the mattress.

Stared down at her hands in her lap. Palms open. Skin dry from cold.

Then slowly, tentatively, she let her hand drift down.

Fingertips settled over her lower stomach.

Still flat. Still quiet. Still… hers.

But not really.

Something lived there now.

Something that didn’t ask to be created. That didn’t belong to anyone. That existed anyway.

She hated it.

And she didn’t.

Both things lived in her chest, side by side, tangled and violent. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to hold on.

It was too much.

She sucked in a breath. Closed her eyes.

Tried to feel something—anything—other than panic.

What came instead was grief.

Not fear. Not pain. Grief.

For what had been taken. For what she couldn’t undo. For the fact that this thing growing inside her might survive when part of her didn’t want it to.

It wasn’t fair.

None of it was fair.

And the cruelest part was that her body didn’t care.

Her body moved forward without her.

Growing. Shifting. Creating.

Like it didn’t know she wasn’t ready.

She lay back on the bed, one arm curled under her head, the other still pressed lightly to her stomach.

Not protectively. Not lovingly.

Just… trying to understand it.

Trying to believe it was real.

Because for the first time, it felt real.

Not in pain. Not in sickness.

But in the quiet.

In the way the silence inside her body had changed. In the way it didn’t feel quite as empty anymore.

That emptiness had been her armor. And it was slipping.

She didn’t cry this time.

She just stared up at the ceiling, eyes open, heart beating too fast.

And whispered into the dark:

“I don’t want this.”

Not like this.

Not this way.

But the silence didn’t judge her.

It didn’t comfort her either.

It just sat with her, the way Joel had, like it understood.

And for now… that was enough.

(Joel POV)

Joel walked home in the dark, boots crunching in the snow, the cold nipping at his fingertips even through his gloves.

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t take the usual shortcuts.

Just moved slow, like the weight of the night hadn’t quite settled yet. Like if he walked long enough, maybe the questions in his chest would start answering themselves.

They didn’t.

Her cabin light was still on when he’d left.

She hadn’t said much while he was there.

Didn’t eat more than a few bites. Didn’t meet his eyes for most of the meal. But she’d let him in. Sat across from him. Let him stay.

That meant something.

And the way her hand hovered over her stomach when she thought he wasn’t looking?

That meant something too.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that.

But he knew what not to do.

He passed the corner of the mess hall and spotted Tommy leaning against the porch rail, smoking something rolled tight between his fingers. Joel gave a short nod as he passed.

“You doin’ alright?” Tommy asked, voice low.

Joel didn’t answer right away.

Then: “She’s keepin’ it together.”

Tommy exhaled, slow. “Yeah. So were you, once.”

Joel paused mid-step.

Didn’t turn around.

He just nodded and kept walking.

Back in his own cabin, Joel lit the fire, stripped off his coat, and stood near the hearth without moving for a long time.

The warmth didn’t reach him.

Not really.

He rubbed his hands together, then stared down at them — calloused, lined, rough with years of trying and failing to protect the people who mattered.

He didn’t want to make promises. Not to her. Not to anyone.

But something had shifted the moment he saw her on that stable floor.

Something in him had cracked open and refused to close again.

She didn’t need saving.

She didn’t want fixing.

But she needed someone to stay.

To be there in the in-between. The quiet. The bad days and the worse nights. The ones where silence felt heavier than gunfire.

He could do that.

He’d done harder things.

He pulled out the Tupperware container from earlier, rinsed it out slowly, hands moving on autopilot.

Tomorrow he’d make something better. Something with real protein. Eggs, maybe. Cheese, if he could trade for it. A thermos of hot tea. Something easy on the stomach.

She’d say she didn’t want it.

He’d bring it anyway.

Because when everything else fell apart, showing up was the only thing that ever really mattered.

He didn’t write a note.

Didn’t need to.

She’d know where it came from.

And if she left it untouched on the porch for the wolves to sniff at, so be it.

But he’d keep bringing it.

Every day.

Until she told him to stop.

And maybe even after that.

She woke early.

The kind of early where the sky was still gray and soft, like the sun hadn’t fully decided if it wanted to rise. Her breath curled into the cold air inside the cabin, the fire having gone out sometime in the night.

She sat up slowly.

Her body felt… strange.

Not painful, but different. Like everything inside her had moved half an inch to the left. Like her bones and skin were still adjusting to the reality she hadn’t wanted to face the night before.

But she’d made it through the night.

That had to count for something.

She stood, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and walked to the front door without really thinking. Her boots were cold as she stepped outside, but the air was still. Quiet. A fresh layer of snow blanketed the porch.

And sitting on the top step—

A thermos.

And a small bundle of cloth.

She stared at it.

Didn’t touch it right away.

The bundle was neat, tied with a strip of frayed fabric. Inside: two boiled eggs, a slice of bread, and a piece of hard cheese wrapped in wax paper. Balanced, intentional. The kind of breakfast someone made with care, even if they’d never say it out loud.

She knew who it was from.

Of course she did.

No note. No name.

Just Joel, written in the way he moved, the way he showed up without asking, the way he let her take space but never left it empty.

She held the thermos in her hands for a long time.

It was warm.

That alone nearly broke her again.

She didn’t eat right away.

She didn’t cry, either.

She just sat on the top step, the snow melting beneath her, and watched the morning wake up around her.

People started moving through the streets. Smoke rose from chimneys. Horses shifted in the distance. The sound of life continued, soft and persistent.

And she breathed.

Not easily. Not freely.

But steadily.

She took a bite of the bread.

That was something.

One step.

Later, when she made her way to the stables, her limbs were stiff and slow, but she walked with purpose. Dusty greeted her with a soft snort. She smiled for the first time in days—small, quick, gone before it could be caught.

Joel wasn’t there when she arrived.

But she knew he would be.

Eventually.

He always was.

But that night, the dreams came back.

The ones she couldn’t shake.

Hands on her wrists. Firelight flickering. The metallic tang of blood and breath and fear. The no that never made it past her lips.

She woke up gasping.

Sweat cold on her neck. Hand on her stomach like she could shield it from the memory.

And just like that—

The ground she’d gained crumbled beneath her.

She sat awake for hours, knees pulled to her chest, eyes fixed on the window.

She didn’t feel strong.

She didn’t feel brave.

But when the morning came, and the knock echoed softly against her door, she opened it.

She didn’t speak.

Just stepped aside and let him in.

She was still ash and bone, raw and unfinished—but somewhere beneath it all, something was still trying to live.

Thank you so much for reading and sharing in the emotional journey of this chapter. I know we explored some difficult feelings here, and I deeply appreciate your patience and care with these characters. Remember, healing isn’t linear, and it’s okay to take things slowly. Your support truly means the world—please feel free to share your thoughts, or simply take a quiet moment to breathe. Take care of yourselves, always.

[rockwoodchevy]

Somethin' in Common

Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

summary: Joel comes across someone at the bar who has something in common with him. Something he wouldn't wish on anyone.

word count: 1.9k

warnings: child loss, some swear words

a/n: OMG!!! I cannot believe the feedback I got on 'Cold'! I'm SO glad you guys loved it! Here is another little writing I thought of today. Not sure how I am feeling about this one but let me know if y'all like it!

___________________________________________

Joel seldom treats himself to a night out at the Tipsy Bison but after days like today, where it seemed that everyone and everything was out to get him, he thinks he might just deserve it.

As he sits towards the end of the bar area, he watches as the world continues on without him. Couples, families, and loners like himself go about their lives, seemingly forgetting that all of them are still living in end times. Joel scoffs to himself, returning to the drink he had been nursing. It was his third one, about to be his fourth. The bartender, whose name he didn’t even bother to listen to, sauntered over to him with the bottle of whiskey. He gave Joel a look, almost of pity or disgust he wasn’t sure. 

“Another?” He asked, already starting to pour the poison into his glass.

“Keep ‘em coming until I say so.” Joel grunts out to the man, pulling the glass back to him before the bartender even finishes pouring it. A small amount of the liquor spilled onto the bar in front of Joel but he didn’t flinch as he raised the glass back to his lips. The bartender rolled his eyes as he wiped the counter down, walking away from him back to the other patrons sitting towards the end of the bar. 

Joel continues to sip on his drink, watching as people come in and out of the bar. He doesn’t think twice about the woman who comes in, hood up over her head like she is trying to hide from someone. She sits down on a stool 3 seats down to his right and removes the hood from her head. She’s a pretty girl, Joel thinks to himself. His head snaps to his left when he hears the bartender say a name, walking over to the woman with a big smile on his face. She smiles shyly at him. Joel repeats the name in his head. Pretty name, fits her perfectly. 

“Hi, Mathieu.” Her voice resonates through the bar, though it might just be through Joel’s head from all the whiskey he's had. So Mathieu was his name. 

“Want your usual?” He asked her, already beginning to make a drink. She nods.

He makes something with a couple of liquors that he isn’t sure of before plopping it in front of her. She practically slams it in one go, Mathieu smiling as he starts to make her another.

“I have a surprise for you.” He says, turning to walk towards a back area. She follows his movements, eyes wandering to her left. She makes eye contact with Joel for a moment, smiling at him. He gives a small grin back before they both look away from each other back to their respective drinks. 

A few moments pass before Mathieu comes back from wherever he was with a smile white box in his hands. He placed it in front of the girl, stepping back from the bar. She gave him a confused look, opening the box in front of her. Her face froze and Joel couldn’t quite place the emotion on it. Reaching in the box, she took out what seemed to be… 

A small cupcake?

Joel was a little shocked. He hadn’t seen a cupcake in quite a while. It wasn’t huge or anything too flashy, just a regular sized vanilla cupcake with a bit of frosting on top. She placed it in front of herself, leaving her forearms resting on either side of it. She was rubbing her thumb and pointer finger together on both hands before lifting one of them to her face. Joel followed her movements, watching as she wiped at her eyes. Mathieu placed a comforting hand on the arm that remained on the bar and ran his thumb over her skin. 

“Thank you.” She let out, voice a little louder than whisper. 

“Don’t thank me yet.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small pack of matches. He struck one, the flame burning huge and bright for a moment before settling into a small light. He stuck the match in the cupcake, motioning for her to blow it out. She let out a watery laugh but blew out the flame no less. Mathieu clapped and spun in a little circle, making her laugh a little harder. 

Joel scoffed a little at the sight. There really wasn’t anything special to him about birthdays, especially after everything that happened on his all those years ago. He shook his head, taking another swig from his glass. Until another one of their conversations caught his attention.

“If you don’t mind me asking… how old would he have been today?” Mathieu asked her, leaning on the bar towards her. 

“Ten.” She said, voice low. “He would have been ten.” 

“Wow. Double digits, huh?” Mathieu tried to lighten the conversation.

“Yep.” She looked at the cupcake, picking it up and turning it in her hands. “He hated vanilla.”

Mathieu stood up in his spot, looking at her wide-eyed. She looked at him, a small smirk on her face. Lifting the cupcake to her mouth, she took a big bite out of it. “But I don’t.”

He laughed at her, shaking his head. “I have to keep doing my job, but I’ll be back.” He walked off to the other group of people at the bar and engaged in conversation with them. 

Joel was intrigued at the conversation that just occurred in front of him. Who were they talking about? He looked back at his glass, moving it around and watching the ice and liquor move around before he spoke. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but-”

“No worries. You aren’t the first person to ask about it.” She looked up at him. She reached a hand out to him, offering him her name. He obliged in her offering, meeting her hand in the middle of them and giving it a shake while telling her his name. When she let go of his hand, she turned in her seat to face him.

“Today is my son’s birthday. He would have been ten years old today.” She told him, not breaking eye contact. “He passed away 6 years ago. Infected got him. I didn’t have the heart to… to kill him. You know, afterwards.I couldn’t have imagined my son dying, let alone at my hand.” She looked down at her hands, ringing one around her wrist. 

Joel looked at her with shock on his face. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting but it wasn’t that. He wasn’t quite sure what to say back to her but he knew what not to say. Because he was tired of hearing it too. He turned his body towards her and took a deep breath before he began.

“I lost my daughter. At the beginning of everything. So I understand the pain you’re going through.” He grunted out to her.

She looked up at him, the shocked look mirroring his from earlier. She hadn’t met another parent who lost their child and it felt somewhat comforting to know that she had someone who understood her. She smiled at him. And he smiled back. They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, randomly sipping their drinks when Mathieu came back over to them.

“How are you guys doing?” He asked.

“I think I am gonna head out, Mathieu.” She said to him. He nodded at her and let her know that she was good to go. She thanked him before turning to Joel and giving him a nod. He hesitated for a moment and watched as she walked towards the exit. Fuck it, he decided. He called her name, standing from his seat. Turning to look back at him, she gave him another smile.

“Can I walk you home?” Joel asked her. 

She beamed at him, making his heart hammer in his chest. “I would like that.”

He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair he was on and rushed over to her as he was throwing it on. They walked out of the bar together, walking side by side in a peaceful silence, only the sound of the town and the few people around could be heard. They reached her home about 10 minutes later, just a couple of minutes from Joel’s place. He walked her to her door and watched her stop before she opened her door. She spun and looked at him.

“Do uh… Do you wanna come in? I’m not sure if you like it or not but I got some coffee grounds in a trade recently and have been dying to try it.”

He smiled at her, nodding as he stepped forward towards the house. She welcomed him in, pointing towards the living area as she stepped into the kitchen to make the coffee. He explored around the living room, looking at the small trinkets lined along the fireplace she had. There was a polaroid of her and a small child who he assumed was her son. The boy looked quite a bit like her, same nose and small smile. He grinned at it as memories of Sarah at that age ran through his mind. He heard someone clear their throat and he turned to see her standing in the doorway with two mugs. 

“That’s my boy. He was little there.” 

“I assumed it was. Handsome fella, he was.” Joel said, walking to the couch she was now sat on. He sat next to her, graciously accepting the mug from her. They both sipped on it and hummed at the delightful taste. She giggled at the sound of their hums harmonizing together and he laughed in return. They sat in silence for a moment before he spoke. 

“Thanks for the coffee. It’s difficult to get some nowadays.”

“It is. I don’t wanna tell you what it took to get it. I’m glad I did though. It’s actually really delicious.” She examined the mug before placing it on the table in front of them. She leaned back on her couch and looked at him. “So… tell me about yourself, Joel.”

He looked a little taken aback. “Ain’t nothing special about me. Nothin’ anybody would really wanna know.”

“Try me.”

So, they spoke for a bit. About their hometowns, their respective kids, their travels, how they both ended up in Jackson. But also about themselves. Their likes, dislikes, what they wished they could have done if the world hasn’t ended. Before they knew it, the sun was starting to rise. They had spent all night enjoying each other’s presence and neither of them were too upset about it. 

“I should probably get home. Ellie is probably wonderin’ where the hell I am.” Joel said, standing from his comfortable position on the couch. She stood behind him and walked him to the door.

“It was really nice talking to you, Joel. It’s nice being able to have someone who understands, you know?”

He nodded at her. “It is. I appreciate the coffee and company.”

“I appreciated your company too.” She said, beaming at him. 

They both stood by the door when Joel suddenly turned to her. 

“Can I see you again?” He asked shyly. She immediately nodded. 

“Whenever you want. You do know where I live, so.”

“Okay.” Was all Joel could say. 

As he was turning to leave, she leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He was taken aback for a second but couldn’t help it when his grin grew bigger. 

“Can I see you tonight?” He asked, a hand coming up to rest on her cheek.

“Name the time and place and I’ll be there.” 

[goinggr3en]

Look, I don't write fan-fiction, but I have been a consumer for years. What I am seeing from this specific account in the pedro fandom is so ignorant and obtuse that I felt the need to say something. To make a post accusing multiple writers of being complicit in pedophilia for LIKING a Dark fan fiction (that included zero pedophilia and was tagged correctly) is Insane.

This creator Marlee has spent the last hour throwing bricks of lies and then hiding her hands. Multiple people have called her out saying "Hey this information is false" and "Stop taking word from anons who have no proof" and yet she chooses not to listen and continue further spreading hate.

We are all adults, we all understand that the content we consume is our choice. No can force you to read something. Upon reading Marlee's posts its clear she misunderstands this (which leads to the greater issue of her having poor reading comprehension)

Multiple creators have explained either they liked the fic to save for later without checking which we all have done, or didn't do it at all and these anons are lying. (Which they shouldn't even have to explain because the Fic contained nothing illegal)

Marlee claims she doesn't care about the incest and only care about the pedophilia

Its been proven the fan fiction involved no pedophilia and the characters are both consenting adults

The fanfic was tagged properly and the creator used mdni (which Marlee agrees is enough to deter children from reading as she has also used this method)

If she doesn't care about the incest and the fanfic didn't involve pedophilia why is this discourse continuing

I urge everyone to do their research and end this witch hunt so we can return to focusing on real issues like the disgusting comments in POC creators inbox and amplifying actual Rape and SA victims voices.

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

Sweet Past - Ch.7

Summary: Planning your new home is not as easy as you though, when there's Joel Miller involved. Oh, and that little akward dream you had.

Warning: a little bit of SMUT (so under 18 bye bye), fluff, Joel being Joel, weird feelings shit

Word count: 4 860

Series Masterlist Main Masterlist

“Such a good girl.”

Joel’s voice was rough, edged with something primal, something possessive. The sound of it made your back arch, your body responding instinctively to the way his fingers worked you closer to the edge. His lips traced fire along your neck, the scrape of his beard only adding to the heat coiling low in your stomach.

Your hands clutched at his broad shoulders, gripping onto him like an anchor as his pace quickened, his touch both merciless and precise. The tension built, sharp and overwhelming, the pleasure nearly unbearable.

“That’s right, baby,” he groaned into your ear, the deep rasp of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “I can feel you.”

He nipped at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin. You let out a choked moan, too far gone to be embarrassed by the way your body betrayed you. Joel only chuckled at that, his amusement thick with desire.

“Those noises you make, sweetheart... you’ll be the end of me.”

His mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking, biting—harder this time—while his hand worked you with devastating precision. The contrast of pain and pleasure made you whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails digging into the nape of his neck.

Then—

He curled his fingers just right, hitting that spot. The one that had you crying out, thighs trembling, pleasure tearing through you like a live wire.

“There it is,” he murmured, smug, satisfied, his voice thick with approval. “Go on, pretty girl. Let go for me.”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. He pushed you over the edge, his voice commanding—

“Now.”

And that did it.

A sharp, shattered cry ripped from your throat as your body tightened, then broke apart entirely. White-hot pleasure crashed through you, unstoppable, relentless—

And then—

You woke up.

Gasping. Shaking.

Your body was still tight with the ghost of it, your thighs pressed together, the damp heat between them making your stomach plummet.

Oh, fuck.

You shot upright, pressing the heels of your palms into your face, as if you could somehow will the dream away, erase it from your memory.

It was bad enough that you’d had a wet dream, but about him?

Joel fucking Miller.

Your stomach churned with a mixture of horror, embarrassment, and something you really, really didn’t want to name.

This wasn’t happening.

It was a dream.

It didn’t mean anything.

Right?

---

The sharp scent of sawdust and metal filled the air as you stood in the middle of the hardware store, trying to keep your focus on renovations and not on the fact that you were standing way too close to the man who had just wrecked your subconscious this morning.

Joel, blissfully unaware, was scanning the aisles with that serious, calculating look he always had when he was working. You, on the other hand, were desperately trying not to think about how his fingers had—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You needed a distraction. Now.

“Do you have this in pink?” you asked, turning to Mark, the store owner, while eyeing a power drill.

The reaction was immediate.

Both Mark and Joel turned to you, wearing identical expressions of disgust and horror.

You burst out laughing. “Oh God, you should see your faces.”

Mark muttered something under his breath, shaking his head as he grabbed a nearby clipboard. Joel, however, crossed his arms over his chest and gave you a long, unimpressed stare.

“You know what, Mark?” Joel mused, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. “Find her a pink one.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“Bet it’ll match your childish personality just fine,” he continued, turning to you with an infuriatingly smug expression.

You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “How dare you?”

Joel just grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

“You keep it up,” he warned, “I will make sure everything you own is pink.”

Your stomach twisted—not in annoyance, but in something dangerously close to fondness.

The teasing. The attention.

God, you needed to get a grip.

“Fine,” you huffed, shoving his arm playfully. “Party pooper. I apologize.”

Joel gave you a slow, approving nod, reaching out to pat you on the head condescendingly.

“See? You can act like an adult,” he drawled. “Good girl.”

And just like that—

Every single thought you’d been trying not to have that morning came rushing back.

Your body betrayed you.

Your breath hitched. Heat shot up your spine.

Joel noticed.

His hand stilled. His brow furrowed slightly, gaze flickering over your face. “You okay, kiddo?”

“Yep!” you blurted out, stepping back so fast you nearly tripped over a bucket of paint. “All good! So, uh—what’s next on the list?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he let it slide, rolling his shoulders before turning back to Mark.

You exhaled slowly, willing your heartbeat to calm down.

It was fine.

You were fine.

You just had to get through this shopping trip without combusting.

Or worse—without Joel realizing that somewhere between the teasing, the familiarity, and that damn dream—

You’d started looking at him differently.

And you had no idea what to do about it. All you had to do was focus.

That was it. Just focus on your new project. The house. The renovations. The long list of things that needed to be done.

Not on him.

Not on the way his voice still rasped in your head from that dream. Not on the heat that still lingered in your skin, phantom touches that hadn’t even been real.

This morning? It didn’t mean anything.

You were just pent up. It had been a while since you’d been with someone, and you weren’t exactly the type for one-night stands. That was all it was—basic, stupid biology. Your body reacting to a man who just so happened to be Joel Miller.

Joel, who was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, glaring down at Mark like he was actually considering knocking him out right in the middle of the hardware store.

You frowned, stepping closer as their voices became clearer.

“I’m telling you, Miller, this is the best brand you’re gonna get.”

“That’s not the best,” Joel scoffed. “That’s just what you’re pushin’ ‘cause you got extra stock.”

Mark groaned, throwing his hands up. “Jesus, again with this? You always think I’m tryin’ to scam you.”

“‘Cause you are tryin’ to scam me.”

“Joel, come on, man.”

“Nope.” Joel shook his head. “I ain’t buyin’ that piece of shit.”

You sighed, stepping into the middle of them. “What exactly is the problem?”

Mark let out a dramatic breath. “Your friend here—”

“Boss,” Joel corrected, completely deadpan.

You blinked, a laugh nearly escaping. “Excuse me?”

Joel shrugged, finally looking at you. “I’m the expert. He’s just tryin’ to sell you overpriced junk. So, technically, I’m in charge.”

Mark shot him a glare. “Technically, you’re an ass.”

Joel smirked. “That too.”

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Okay. Before you two kill each other, can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Joel turned to you, arms still crossed, jaw tight. “Mark wants to sell you this garbage-ass brand of drywall that’ll probably crumble if you so much as look at it wrong.”

“Oh, come on,” Mark huffed. “That is not true.”

Joel ignored him. “You want somethin’ that lasts, we’re goin’ with the other brand.”

Mark gestured toward the stack of drywall. “Okay, first of all, the one I suggested is perfectly fine—”

“Bullshit.”

You sighed again. “And the difference in price is…?”

Mark hesitated.

Joel smirked. “Oh, look at that. He ain’t answering.”

Mark groaned. “Fine. Yes, the better brand is slightly more expensive—”

“‘Slightly’ my ass,” Joel muttered.

“—but it’s not necessary.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “See, now he’s just insultin’ you. Tellin’ you to settle for somethin’ half-assed like you don’t deserve better.”

You looked between them, watching Mark glare while Joel looked downright smug.

It shouldn’t have been funny.

But it was.

You bit back a grin, rubbing a hand down your face before looking at Joel. “So what do you say, kiddo? It’s your project. Your decision.”

Joel’s eyes glinted. “Damn right it is.”

Mark groaned again. “Oh, my God—”

“I’ll take the better brand,” you interrupted before they could start up again.

Joel smirked, satisfied, while Mark looked personally offended.

“Unbelievable,” Mark muttered, shaking his head.

You just smiled sweetly. “I trust my boss, after all.”

Joel huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Smart girl.”

You turned away before he could see how that made your stomach flip, pretending to focus on your shopping list instead.

Just focus.

That was all you had to do.

---

You had been in this damn hardware store for two hours.

Two long hours.

And in that time, you’d witnessed four separate arguments between Joel and Mark—each one somehow more ridiculous than the last.

Argument #1:

“This is the best caulking gun you’re gonna find,” Mark said, holding it up like it was a damn trophy.

Joel scoffed. “That cheap piece of plastic? You’re jokin’, right?”

“It works, Miller.”

Joel crossed his arms. “Yeah, until it doesn’t.”

“It’s literally fine.”

“You wanna bet?”

Mark groaned. “Are you seriously tellin’ me you can tell how shitty a caulking gun is just by lookin’ at it?”

Joel shrugged. “I know a shitty tool when I see one.”

You stepped between them before Joel could start a damn field test in the middle of the store.

Argument #2:

“You don’t need a heavy-duty drill for simple wall fixtures,” Mark argued.

“You don’t need that much gel in your hair, but here we are,” Joel shot back, completely deadpan.

Mark blinked. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

Joel smirked. “Just sayin’.”

Mark turned to you in exasperation. “Are you seriously listening to this guy?”

Joel grinned like he’d already won.

Argument #3:

“Just get the damn standard screws,” Mark said, rubbing his temples.

“The hell I will,” Joel grumbled. “We’re not half-assing this.”

“They’re screws, Miller!”

“They’re shit,” Joel corrected.

Mark gestured wildly. “They are literally the same as the ones you want but cheaper!”

“Exactly.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Argument #4:

“This specific tile pattern is really popular right now,” Mark said, holding up a sample.

Joel looked at it like it personally offended him. “That’s ugly as hell.”

Mark exhaled through his nose. “It’s modern.”

“It’s horrendous.”

“It’s sleek.”

“It looks like a damn hospital bathroom.”

That time, you had agreed with Joel.

But once. Just once you’d agreed with Mark, and Joel had been pouting like a damn child ever since.

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you trudged toward him, feet aching from standing for so long.

“Joel,” you said sweetly, smiling as you stepped up to him.

His eyes narrowed instantly.

He knew that smile.

“What is it, traitor?” he muttered, arms still crossed, clearly still not over it.

You let out a dramatic whine, resting your forehead against his back. He chuckled, the deep rumble of it vibrating against you before he turned, his expression mostly playful, though you could tell he was still holding a grudge.

“So,” you started, tilting your head, “when are we gonna make some actual decisions?”

Joel frowned. “What do you mean? We already made important decisions.”

He started ticking off points on his fingers.

“One—we picked the best drywall so your walls don’t crumble like that cheap crap Mark was tryin’ to sell you.”

Mark grumbled something under his breath a few aisles away.

Joel ignored him.

“Two—we settled on proper screws instead of that garbage that woulda left your shelves on the damn floor.”

You rolled your eyes, but he kept going.

“Three—we made sure you ain’t usin’ a drill that’ll quit on you after a month.”

You sighed dramatically. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

“Four—”

“Oh my God.”

He smirked. “Don’t get pissy just ‘cause you ain’t got the patience to do this properly.”

You groaned, throwing your head back. “Joel, I’m hungry and my feet hurt, and we haven’t even chosen colors yet.”

Joel blinked, his expression softening almost instantly.

That should not have made your stomach flip.

His eyes lingered on you for a beat, taking in the slight exhaustion in your face. Then, without a word, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek.

You froze.

His touch was so gentle, so easy, like it was something he did all the time.

And when he smiled, slow and knowing, your brain completely short-circuited.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Might’ve gone a little overboard.”

The pet name hit you like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Your mind immediately betrayed you—flashing back to the dream, to the way he had growled it against your skin, to the way his voice had rasped just like that—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

You shoved the thought away violently.

Joel didn’t notice your internal breakdown. “How about this—we pay for this stuff now, grab some lunch, and talk colors over food?”

Relief washed over you.

“Thank you,” you breathed, taking his hand in both of yours and squeezing.

His brows lifted slightly at the touch, but instead of pulling away, his thumb brushed over the back of your hand, the movement so small you almost thought you imagined it.

“And just so we’re clear,” you added quickly, ignoring the way your pulse spiked at the contact, “I’m paying for this.”

Joel sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

You narrowed yours. “Joel.”

He smirked.

That smug bastard.

“Fine,” he said, amused. “But I’m only lettin’ you ‘cause I know I’ll win next time.”

You groaned, tugging his hand toward the register. “Just take the damn win, Miller.”

Mark watched you both pass with a look of pure exhaustion. “Finally,” he muttered. “I was about to start charging extra just to get you out of here.”

Joel just grinned. “Oh, shut up.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

Maybe this was why you hadn’t really minded spending two hours here.

Maybe this was why Joel Miller—despite being the most infuriating man on the planet—was also the one person you’d willingly suffer through four unnecessary arguments for.

---

“Can we get burgers?”

The second you dropped into the passenger seat, you let your head fall back against the headrest, completely drained. Getting all the materials loaded into the truck had been a whole other battle—one that took nearly thirty minutes and involved more cursing than actual problem-solving. And don’t even get started on the moment Mark told you the final price. If not for the so-called “family discount,” you might’ve passed out right there in the middle of the store.

Joel huffed as he settled into the driver’s seat, adjusting his rearview mirror. “We can get whatever you want,” he said, throwing the truck into reverse. “You survived over two hours in there. You earned it.”

You grinned, clapping your hands happily before fastening your seatbelt.

Joel glanced at you, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. “You’re such a damn kid.”

You stuck your tongue out at him in response.

He arched a brow, completely unimpressed. “My point proven.”

You just laughed, watching the buildings blur past as he pulled onto the road. Your stomach growled, already anticipating the food. “Is Javier’s still there?”

Joel nodded, already making the turn. “Yeah, yeah. Where the hell else would we go?”

“I dunno,” you shrugged. “I was afraid you’d take me to Burger King or something.”

The truck slowed to a stop.

You turned your head to find Joel staring at you. Hard.

Then—

“Get out.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Get out of my truck.”

Laughter bubbled up from your chest, but Joel kept his face perfectly straight, shaking his head in pure disappointment.

“No Burger King will be spoken here,” he muttered, shifting the truck back into drive. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You gasped in mock horror. “Joel Miller, what is that language?”

He flicked his eyes toward you, unamused.

“You raised Sarah and Ellie with that mouth?”

“First of all,” he started, voice dripping with sarcasm, “there ain’t a single thing I could say that Ellie don’t already know.”

You snorted at that, because yeah—that was absolutely true.

Joel continued, shaking his head. “And Sarah? Well, she’s heard enough from your smartass over the years to worry about what I say.”

Your jaw dropped. “I am offended by that accusation.”

Joel smirked. “You’ll live.”

“I am a delight.”

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, pulling the truck into a parking spot outside Javier’s.

He threw it into park and turned off the engine before glancing at you. His lips quirked as he reached for the door handle.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s put some food in you before you turn into a damn brat.”

“Hey!”

Joel just chuckled, shaking his head as he climbed out of the truck, and you followed, rolling your eyes with a grin.

Maybe you were acting a little bratty.

But something about this—being with him, like this—just made it too easy to slip into.

---

The second you took a bite, you moaned.

Loud. Shameless.

This was what you missed.

Sure, the wings from the other night were still the best damn thing you’d ever eaten, but this? This greasy, juicy, perfectly messy burger? This was pure heaven, especially after the hellish marathon of hardware shopping you’d just endured.

Across from you, Joel let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he took a bite of his own. “Jesus,” he muttered, amusement clear in his voice. “Behave yourself. People are staring.”

You barely spared a glance at the crowded diner, shrugging as you took another slow, obnoxiously satisfied bite, moaning again—louder this time—just to mess with him.

Joel’s chewing slowed. His eyes flicked up to yours, narrowing slightly as you smiled at him sweetly.

“This,” you said, gesturing to your burger, “is a fucking foodgasm.”

Joel choked on his Coke.

You had to press your lips together to keep from bursting into laughter as he coughed, setting his drink down and swiping a napkin across his mouth. “What the fuck?”

You grinned, leaning forward slightly. “Foodgasm, Joel. You know, when the food’s so good, it’s like—”

“I get what it sounds like,” he cut in, glaring at you while his ears burned red.

“Then why’d you ask?”

Joel sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face like he was already regretting this conversation. “Jesus Christ… That’s a thing?”

“Of course,” you said matter-of-factly, taking another bite. “Wasn’t my cooking worthy of a foodgasm?”

You watched with delight as his jaw clenched, his grip tightening around his cup before he took a slow sip, trying to act unaffected.

“It was good,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes.

You gasped, dramatically pressing a hand to your chest. “Just good?”

Joel let out another sigh, shaking his head. “You really want me to say it?”

“Yep,” you said, popping the ‘p’ with a wide grin.

He exhaled, shaking his head like this was physically painful for him. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he muttered—

“Fine. Your food was… worthy of a foodgasm.”

You froze.

You hadn’t expected him to actually say it.

Heat crept into your face, something shifting in the air between you. Your mind betrayed you immediately, dragging you right back to that damn dream from this morning—the rasp of his voice, the way he had groaned good girl against your skin—

Nope.

You bit your lip, forcing down the memory, trying not to focus on the way his voice had dipped just then, or how good your name sounded when he said it.

Instead, you dropped your gaze, suddenly shy.

“Thanks, Joel,” you murmured, poking at your fries. “Means a lot coming from you.”

Joel stared at you for a moment, eyes flickering over your face like he was trying to read something there.

“You’ve become a hell of a woman, haven’t you?”

Joel said it so casually, like it was just an offhand remark. But the second the words left his mouth, your eyes went wide, a bite of burger still halfway to your lips.

He chuckled at your reaction, shaking his head as he took a sip of his drink. “Relax. I’m just happy, that's all.”

You swallowed, setting your burger down and narrowing your eyes at him. “Don’t get all emotional on me now, old man.”

Joel let out a slow exhale, setting his drink down with a thud before turning to you with an unimpressed glare.

“Old man?” he repeated, voice dry as hell. “I’m only ten years older than you, may I remind you?”

You grinned, reaching for another fry. “That’s a whole damn decade, Joel.” You popped the fry into your mouth, chewing dramatically. “Basically half of a new generation.”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Okay, you know what? Never mind. You’re still a brat.”

You laughed, loud and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that made your shoulders shake.

And Joel—he just watched.

Because damn, that laugh suited you.

It was good to see you like this—unburdened, relaxed, light in a way you hadn’t been in a long time.

Didn’t mean the guilt had disappeared, though.

He still carried it. Still bore the weight of knowing he hadn’t done enough back then. He should’ve fought harder. Should’ve called your father out for the bastard he was instead of standing to the side, pretending he didn’t see what was happening.

But he had seen.

And he let you go anyway.

The regret still sat heavy in his chest, even now.

But then—

Your hand brushed over his.

The touch was soft, featherlight, but enough to pull him back—away from the past, away from all the shit he couldn’t fix, and right into the present.

“Hey,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, voice teasing but warm. “You good? Did I hurt your feelings?”

Joel blinked, momentarily thrown off by the concern in your voice. You always did that—worried about everyone but yourself.

Well, that was gonna change.

He let out a dramatic sigh, leaning back in the booth. “Yeah, my pride’s officially ruined,” he muttered. “Might never recover.”

You rolled your eyes and pulled your hand back.

And for some reason, Joel missed the warmth of it more than he should’ve.

“Don’t worry,” you said, finishing off your burger with a smug little grin. “For an old man, you’re not doing so bad.”

Joel arched his brow. “Oh, really?”

You wiped your fingers on your napkin, nodding. “Yep.” Then, as casual as anything, you added, “You’re still really handsome.”

Joel froze.

His hand tightened around his drink.

You just threw it out there, no hesitation, no teasing lilt—just an honest statement, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

His brain short-circuited for a second.

And then—

He narrowed his eyes.

“… What are you up to?”

You grinned, reaching across the table to steal one of his fries. “Oh, come on, don’t give me those bullshit eyes.” You popped the fry in your mouth, smirking. “You know half the girls in my school had a massive crush on you.”

Joel let out a long, suffering groan, dragging a hand down his face.

“Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Don’t remind me.”

You giggled, watching the memory physically pain him.

“God, it was hilarious,” you went on. “You’d walk in to pick up Sarah, and I swear to God, every girl would go silent—like you were some kind of rock star.”

Joel groaned again, scrubbing a hand over his beard. “It was awkward as hell.”

“Awkward for you, maybe,” you teased. “But for me? Hilarious.”

Joel shot you a look, lips twitching. “That was more than a decade ago.”

“So?” You shrugged. “Some say men age like fine wine.”

Joel snorted. “Yeah? And what do you say?”

You smirked, reaching across the table again—this time deliberately stealing another fry, eyes locked on him the whole time.

“I say,” you murmured, popping the fry into your mouth, “you try.”

Joel narrowed his eyes, slow and calculating.

Then—

“You do that again, I’ll cut your damn finger off.”

You laughed, tipping your head back. “Oh my God, you’re so dramatic.”

Joel just huffed, shaking his head. But there was a hint of something else there—something behind his eyes, something he wasn’t saying.

And you saw it.

You saw the way he lingered on your face. Saw the way his fingers flexed slightly against the table. Saw the moment of hesitation before he exhaled through his nose and looked away.

And suddenly, you weren’t just playing anymore.

Because for once, it wasn’t just you feeling all kinds of things.

Joel felt them too.

And damn, wasn’t that an interesting little discovery.

---

Joel leaned back in the booth, one arm draped over the backrest, watching you with that familiar mix of amusement and mild impatience. "So, the colors?" he asked, voice low and gravelly, cutting through the quiet hum of the diner.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly self-conscious. "I have some actual ideas on how I’d like the rooms to look," you admitted, fumbling for your phone.

He arched a brow. "Let me guess… Pinterest?" You shot him a surprised look. "One more age joke, and I’m out."

You exhaled a short chuckle. "I’m just surprised you know what Pinterest is." You smirked, flipping through your saved boards. 

"I do have two daughters, y’know."

Something in your stomach twisted at the way he said it. Matter-of-fact, but weighty. You chewed your lip before adding, "These are just ideas, you know… nothing set in stone. If something won’t work or it’s a bad idea, I trust you. Just—don’t laugh."

Joel held out his hand, palm up. "Show me the damn pictures."

You placed your phone in his hand, trying to ignore the way your fingers brushed against his. The warmth of his skin sent a tiny jolt up your arm. You took a quick sip of your drink as the waitress slid a fresh basket of fries onto the table.

"It’s not bad," he muttered, scrolling through your selections. "Some things might be tricky or just not worth the trouble."

Without warning, he shifted, standing briefly before settling beside you in the booth. Your breath hitched, your entire body hyper-aware of his proximity. The scent of sawdust and worn leather clung to him, something distinctly Joel.

And just like that, the memory of your morning dream came rushing in, unbidden and all-consuming.

"See here? This kind of kitchen would need the window moved. But—" he pointed at another image, his voice a near-growl against your ear, "if we shift the sink here instead, we could get a similar look without tearing the whole wall down."

You nodded quickly, forcing yourself to focus on his words rather than the heat radiating from his body.

"I like the colors, though," he admitted. "Would need to see the whole space to say for sure. Show me more."

You fumbled to take the phone back, your fingers shaking slightly. "I have catalogs, too."

"Of course you do." His smirk was almost smug, but there was something fond in his tone. You rolled your eyes, handing the phone back.

You watched as he scrolled through the images, the crease in his brow deepening in concentration. The longer he studied them, the more anxious you felt—like a kid waiting for a grade on an important test. But it wasn’t just about validation.

It was his validation.

"Most of this… yeah, it’s doable," he murmured, before leaning in again. His shoulder pressed against yours, his body warm, solid. "But that color in the kitchen? You’ll hate yourself trying to keep it clean. And this—" he tapped at another picture "—we can swap this top with the one from this other kitchen. Same style, better finish."

You glanced at the screen, then at him, before a soft laugh escaped you.

Joel frowned. "What?"

You shook your head, smiling warmly. "Nothing. It’s just… I spent whole week obsessing over these pictures, trying to figure out what works, what doesn’t. And you? You take one minute to go through them and already know better."

His smirk returned, laced with something undeniably smug. "I do this for a livin’, sweetheart. Kinda obvious I’d know more."

"I know." You rolled your eyes, laughing as he suddenly jabbed his fingers into your ribs. A surprised yelp left your lips, and you swatted at his hand.

But then the moment shifted. The playfulness gave way to something quieter, something deeper. Your smile softened, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I really appreciate you, Joel. I hope you know that."

He stilled. For a fraction of a second, he looked almost caught off guard. Then, slowly, a faint blush crept up his neck. His hand, rough and calloused, lifted to your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin in a touch so gentle it nearly stole your breath.

"I know, sweetheart. I know."

And just like that, it felt natural—the two of you, sitting in a quiet diner, talking about wall colors and countertops. It should’ve felt strange. It should’ve felt too close, too comfortable.

But it didn’t.

It felt good.

It felt right.

[lilyinmysoul]

Sleepwalkin’ I

Note: This is a Joel slow burn that I’ve had in my drafts for a while. Tags are at the bottom—though, there aren’t many for this one. This chapter isn’t long, it’s kind of like a little preface. Let me know if this is a concept you like, tell me what you think!

Series masterlist (+ summary)

——————————————————

There is low chatter around you, small strings of words and hums that ring softly in the air. The booth in which you sit in the corner of the Tipsy Bison is as nestled away from the others as you can get, and it earns the spot as your favorite table due to the old—but still functioning—record player that rests on the surface.

You come to the Bison for two reasons: drinking beer and listening to music. The best part is that for whatever reason, the people of Jackson don’t properly appreciate a good song. Therefore, there is no scramble for the seat with the turntable, so it is yours nearly every time you come.

There are many positives to living in Jackson; a guarded and safe community. One with sustenance and food, adequate water. But of them all, you would accredit most of your joy to the music selection. Records had been found sitting in homes when the town was first cleared, or dug out from collapsing buildings while scavenging, eventually making their ways to the shelves of the town’s only bar. You were free to pick through them as you pleased, play whichever records you saw fit. You recognized quite a few of them from your limited years before the outbreak, either by their covers or the first few notes of their songs. You’d listen to new albums, from artists unknown and times long before yours. There was something so magical about their melodies, and their abilities to either invigorate you or fill you with sorrow.

Aside from your official job as an assistant at the greenhouse, you found some sort of responsibility in curating the sound of the bar when you were there. On a cold, drizzly morning, you might come in to drink a coffee. You may also play a slower record, something soft, jazzy. On a night like tonight, when the bar is half-packed and you’re on your third beer, you would rifle through the albums on the table for something peppier, rockier, heavier.

The Doors spins on the turntable, the staticky sound of ‘60s bass rings through the room, partnering with the homely lighting to make you feel warm inside. Warm, yet still empty; a little less so when you hear the songs’ notes. You contemplate putting on something else, but you leave it for now. You feel as though it encapsulates the spirit of the tavern—a handful of men drinking, a couple dancing, a few lone drinkers settled at the bar.

Tomorrow will be a bleak day, you presume. You don’t have work, so you can stay here longer, sit in this booth as the night eventually bleeds into the early morning. It’s particularly pathetic, you think; budgeting your time to spend as much of it at the bar as possible. And while it’s true—you drink too much—you aren’t here for the alcohol. The only thing that comforts you as of late is the sound of music—shit, that’s another movie you’d kill to see again. There are many things you’d kill to see again.

Your hand grips the brown bottle, dripping with condensation and dampening your fingers. You don’t pull away, instead bringing the glass rim to your lips and taking a drink of the bitter liquid. It doesn’t taste particularly good; you aren’t sure why you drink it. Compared to other drinks, it doesn’t numb your mind particularly well. It feels more like a harmless pastime, but it’s safe to assume that your liver does not agree. You’re not oblivious to the fact—you just don’t care.

Jim Morrison’s rich voice croons over the keys of a piano and you thank the forces of the universe for the preservation of this record player. Your bottle is half-empty, and rather than succumbing to drunkenness, your mind has taken to scrutinizing itself. You contemplate the general direction of your life.

-

Across the bar, Joel sits on a stool, whiskey glass in hand. Scratch that—he wasn’t sure what type of alcohol it was, only that he would need a refill soon. It was a wonder that he hadn’t been banned from the establishment by now, for all of the drinking he did here. He didn’t know why the town’s supply of alcohol seemed so endless, but his only choice was to be incredibly thankful.

For Joel, patrols could be either a blessing or a curse. On one hand, each shift seemed to account for hours lost—days, even. He felt as though he was losing time, rapidly. Sometimes, a sense of despair would creep over him, and he couldn’t help but feel as though his life was slipping through the fingers of a figurative set of hands, and being lost to in infinite well of darkness. It wasn’t a pleasing thought, but it was an unavoidable one—especially in times like these.

On another, Joel suspected that it might be nice to waste his time. Policing the premises of town in an often silent excursion alongside a fellow resident might be a grueling experience, but it effectively distracted his mind from other pressing matters. Ones less physical and far less significant; like the numbness of his mind or his sudden bouts of sadness.

It was almost pitiful to him; how could he complain about his spells of anguish when there was no terror around him? He once lived day-to-day, faced with the mangled atrocities that are infected, and the cold truths of the world. He didn’t seem to be affected at all, then—only haunted by an occasional and fleeting dream of his blue eyed girl. There was none of that now; only an empty house and a bustling town, and there was no barbarity in the streets, or in his heart. It was completely irrational.

In his numbness, Joel came to the Bison. To drink away his sorrows wasn’t the plan—it was to wait them out. But in his gloom, he would sit up in his house and pass time. He would carve—intricate figures of wood and polish—he would play guitar—old songs from times before, or original series of strings that were rarely any good—or, in fact, he would build his own. The guitars themselves took hours; a long damn time, but wasn’t that the point? He needed to cut the faces perfectly, hollow out the sound-hole, and glue it all together with precision because filling his hours with whatever he may was what he did most. The tunes in the bar were nice, but he had a player in his house. It was the only thing that drowned out the sounds of his mind.

Joel hadn’t spoken to Ellie—not a single word, not even one muttered greeting—in almost a year. He believed he had exchanged a few nods of acknowledgement in passing over the last few months, and hopefully it wasn’t in his head; but, that was it. That was all, because, like most people he had come to love, she had passed along too, like a memory. However, she wasn’t one. She was alive, real, and wanting nothing to do with him. That crushed him, he thought, more than anything.

It was often that Joel found nothing to think about, the buzzing thought of his mind giving way to something like numbness or serenity—he wasn’t sure which. Joel hadn’t been a fan of large crowds since that last father-daughter dance before the outbreak, and loud chatter always seemed to bother him. Regardless, in the warmth of this bar, under the low humming of a record as its creator sings without a care, he doesn’t mind the noise at all.

Joel downs the rest of his drink, setting the chipping shot glass down on the table. It reads, ‘That’s Wyoming!’ on the front, and he wonders what kind of guy would ever buy such a mundane cup. Maybe he would’ve, back in the day, if it instead read something about Austin. Or maybe Sarah would’ve bought it for him for Fathers’ Day at the corner store with her allowance, reading: ‘Don’t mess with Texas!’ No, don’t… he pushes the thought away.

That’s enough, he thinks, standing up from the old bar stool as it creaks with the pressure, putting an end to a night of utter futility. He gives a preoccupied wave of thanks to the bartender, unsure of whether it landed or not. His boots step against the old floor, the sound a little softer than wood ought to be, on account of its age. As he pushes open the double-door, the final notes of ‘The End’ play and Jim’s voice comes to a halt. Perfect timing—Joel always loved that song—and he walks out onto the rainy street, the laughter and gossip of the bar vanishing from his earshot. He tells himself he won’t, but he will most certainly be back tomorrow.

-

It must be a self-fulfilling prophecy; the way he doubts his willpower. It leads him right back to the Tipsy Bison, the very next day. It’s an early evening and the sun looks golden as it reflects on the sidewalk, and when he pushes open the bar’s door, he is met with silence. There is next to no one inside, and a glance at the record player confirms that there is in fact no music playing. It is a peaceful moment, one in which he can relish a cold beer and think. Contrary to his usual decision to occupy one of the barstools up close to the taps, he seats himself in the booth, the far corner table on which the sacred turntable is resided.

It is unoccupied, which is certainly unusual, but Joel won’t pass up the chance to spin his own record for once. Playing the music reminded him of an old throwback diner he’d go to as a kid, a big clunky jukebox in the corner. Other than that, he’d never seen one—he had been a bit too young.

The vinyl sleeves are scattered on the table’s surface and Joel fishes through them, scanning each cover for an image or title that he recognizes.

Beside the booth, there are shelves storing even more music, and he’d consider donating some of his own found albums had he been a bit more generous. For now, he fans out a few and puts on a record—an old rock album he used to keep in his truck—and lets it start to spin. Watching it is mesmerizing, and he figures that the longer he loses himself in the turning black disk and the sound of electric guitar, the longer he will put himself off from ordering alcohol—a distraction seems to be what he needs.

-

You slip your arms into your jacket and hug yourself as you leave your house. Even this—your second thickest coat—did not prepare you for the cold air outside. You grew up far from here, nowhere near Wyoming, and the cold got to you a little more than you’d like to admit; physically, of course, you weren’t used to it—but mentally, as well. Gloomy weather makes you sad.

Your feet set a steady pace, and the tired urge to walk in a stroll mixes with your restless need to feel Stevie Nicks’ preserved and feathery voice in your ear. Maybe you’ll play Belladonna, or put on some Fleetwood—possibly Kiln House. You tell yourself to focus; all of this thought is slowing your step. You wonder what you’ve come to; how your only fantasy regards what album you’ll hear next. This either frames your life as impossibly peaceful, or impossibly sad. It seems, to you, like a mix of the two.

The closer you get to the heart of town, the nicer the sidewalk gets. There are less potholes in the road and not as many weeds overgrowing the asphalt, a pointless detail you can’t help but pick up. The evening light is golden, families and children beginning to retreat into their homes, concluding their days’ activities—yours are just beginning. In fact, your trip to the bar is often a highlight of your day. God, that does sound pathetic—but, it really isn’t what it looks like.

You pass stores, some empty and others occupied as you trek toward your destination. From the looks of it, the Bison isn’t too full, your heart almost speeding up with anticipation, and you sometimes wonder if your ears have minds of their own, urging you constantly and distracting your focus from tasks at hand. If you had many friends, they’d probably joke that you were addicted. To music, to that damn record player, to the Tipsy Bison. However, you don’t, but you really do wonder if you have some type of unhealthy dependance. You don’t think much of it, though—most things you do are quite destructive, more so than a couple of hours at the bar.

You’re welcomed by the warmth of the room, pushing open the doors as your cold cheeks thank you for coming inside, sparing them from the (surely freezing) weather. The relief doesn’t last long as you turn your head to the booth—your booth—and find it occupied.

You knew vaguely of Joel Miller, seeing him around town occasionally and lounging at the bar as he nursed a glass of gin—or whatever else he drank. You often noticed people, catching their names and registering their faces, but you paid little mind. It seemed like a waste of time to decide whether you liked them or not, but, although illogical, you weren’t too pleased with Joel now.

Taking a deep breath, you calm yourself as you glance around the bar. Most of the other seats are empty, and you could settle there for now, waiting for him to leave. But looking around, there is nothing appealing about it. You no longer feel the warmth and invitation that you usually do as you stroll into the Bison, and Levon Helm is singing to you, but you wanted Stevie. You feel disappointed, irritated. A bit territorial. You inhale again before turning and pushing open the door, stepping back out into the cold. Maybe tomorrow.

-

It’s an entire week before you work up the strength to return to the bar. The weather is especially excruciating as its temperatures dip further and further down, dustings of snow beginning to fall.

Icy or powdery, snow is beautiful. You love to watch it fall, coating tree branches and falling poetically atop roofs. But as mesmerizing as you find it, you cannot bring yourself to love it. Trudging out into the white expanse, boots crunching on chunks of slippery ice has not ever been preferable. So, naturally, you haven’t been to work in a week. You have not left your house in a week. You have lost out on an entire week of social interaction, of sunlight (what little there is) and of music. You haven’t felt the weight of rigid and smooth vinyl in your hands, you haven’t spun a record… you have hardly gotten out of bed.

Although you haven’t done it, you’ve thought about it. At many intervals, you nearly slipped on your boots and stepped into the wintry air. You had assumed that the rigid wind would whip against your face, dry your eyes, stiffen your joints… hopefully one day you would become accustomed to such weather. Now, your brain saw it as nothing short of torture.

It was the seventh day, and you decided to stick it out. You would walk six minutes to the Tipsy Bison, and you were gonna like it. You would march right in, take your seat, and play your songs. You had been fantasizing about Fleetwood Mac for an entire week, and today was the day that you would hear the opening notes of Songbird—hopefully. Assuming that Joel hadn’t made a habit of stealing your booth.

Your walk is determined—you’ve mustered the energy for it, you’ll make the best of it. It’s a Saturday, so people are outside. Despite the snow, the sun is out and it reflects across the ground’s dusted surface. You watch kids play, kicking up cold white powder and attempting to pack it together into snowballs that quickly fall apart. There isn’t much on the ground, but it’s a sight.

The streets are a little louder today. The fun thing about Jackson is that nobody drives—there’s no need—so, people walk in the middle of streets. There are families and children, couples holding hands as they stroll. In summer, you might feel lonely at the sight, but the winter months make you enjoy the isolation. They often made you feel like you’d never spoken to anybody and you’d never need to again.

You’d pushed the bar door open by only a few inches when you see Joel’s form sitting at your table—again. There is no registry that endows you ownership of the table, but it pisses you off that somebody else wants it.

What’s worse than someone else in your seat—that you’d waited a week for—is the fact that he’s playing Billy Joel and there’s nothing you can do about it. You want to hear Lindsey Buckingham play guitar, damn it, but this time you don’t turn and leave; it wouldn’t make a difference anyway. You decide that you need a beer, and since you’re here, it won’t hurt. As you approach the bar, you contemplate taking the bottle for the road, drinking it down as you walk home, but you take a seat anyway.

You wave down Seth and when you get your bottle, you pop it open and take a sip. Your eyes flit around the room, glancing at framed photos and drunken guests. Winter seems to be the town’s preferred drinking season, even though booze is year-round. You wonder if the rain hits everyone else as hard as it hits you.

Your eyes land on Joel’s messy head as his chin rests on his hand. He’s got an empty plate in front of him—no drink, and he’s tapping his fingers on the table. You never liked Billy Joel, but he does, and you wish he’d do it somewhere else.

You contemplate asking him to switch it—that would be pettish. You remember being asked once to turn off your Iron Maiden—you had said no. In fact, you’d spun the record again just to piss them off. Because, just like it was your turntable then, it’s Joel’s turntable now, but despite your logical mind’s reasoning, you slip off of your stool and step towards Joel’s booth. Your booth—your booth that Joel happens to be sitting in—and you stop just a few steps short of him.

His gaze rests on the floor, but when your worn hiking boots enter his view, he looks up and his eyes meet yours. Your hair is only the slightest bit disheveled, but you flatten it nonetheless, your sweater pulled tightly against you as your arms rest crossed over your chest.

You put your hands in your pockets and say, “I’d like you to play Rumors, please.”

He doesn’t argue or comment, only looking at you for a few more moments, one hand moving toward the needle. “Alright.”

Billy’s voice cuts off abruptly, and is moments later replaced with Stevie’s.

Tags: Many music references (anticipate many more), again, extremely depressed MCs, Sarah is referred to as ‘blue eyed girl’, I chose to picture game Sarah so as not to confuse her with Ellie who also has brown eyes, you could argue that both reader and Joel are alcoholics, reader is a tad bit entitled but don’t give up on her yet, proofread a little but not fully, lmk if there are errors.

[cavillscurls]

wherever you stray, i’ll follow

alpha!joel miller x omega f!reader

Joel resents the choice to allow an unmated omega into Jackson—until he’s the only one who can help her feel at home.

warnings/tags: MDNI. Jackson era. Joel’s POV. Alternate universe: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics. Implied Soulmates. Alpha!Joel. Omega!Reader. SoftDom!Joel. Sub!Reader. Enemies-ish to lovers. Grumpy x Sunshine. Joel is emotionally constipated. Unspecified age gap. Stereotypical gender roles. Fluff. Angst. Self-flagellation. Poor coping & communication skills. Explicit smut. Dub-con elements due to the nature of heats, but everything is explicitly consented to. Size kink/size difference—Joel is huge in this, like 6’5, thick, broad, and burly. Reader has pubic hair. Pet names. Dirty talk. Scenting/scent marking. Man-handling. Fingering. Squirting. Drinking bodily fluids. Oral (f receiving). Multiple orgasms, somewhat uncontrolled. Unprotected PIV. Tummy buldge. Knotting. Breeding kink. Pregnancy implications. Adult Alpha!Ellie, Beta!Tommy, & Alpha!Maria make an appearance. Ambiguous-ish ending. wc: 10.7k

➻ a/n: this fic has been a long time coming & means so, so much to me. this won’t be for everyone, & that’s ok. i pictures game!joel for majority of this, but he is left to your imagination as always. thank you to @kiwisbell for beta reading and supporting me during the writing process. any feedback is so appreciated enjoy. x

playlist | fic inspo tag | read it on ao3 | art by @kiwisbell

Tommy Miller had always been the foolish brother, but even Joel found his particular lack of cautiousness that night out of the ordinary. 

There were three members. What was left of a pack, likely separated or raided. They had entered the walls of Jackson that fateful evening—the walls Joel and his brother happened to be manning—dirty and famished, overly emotional and outwardly grateful for the sanctuary. The first two, an elderly woman and a teenage boy, betas. He could tell just by the way they walked, the monotonous way they carried themselves, crossing the threshold of their haven with Maria at the helm of the herd. 

“The boy’ll be a good addition to routes, whenever he’s old enough,” Tommy had remarked. Ever the optimist, too keen on seeing the good in people to even acknowledge the risk that was posed every time another body came through those gates. 

And a risk it was. 

Joel Miller had experienced a fair share of fear in his life. Real, unadulterated fear, enough to bring a grown man to his knees despite his efforts to rise above it. A fear contrived by something entirely out of his control, forces working against the walls he’d built around himself, the rough exterior that fought, and bled, and killed, and protected. But the fear he felt that ghastly night remained unlike any other. It was entirely from within, something deeply embedded in himself. Fear, once harnessed as a means of survival, reduced to a shackle, left entirely at its disposal. It rose from his toes into his head where his ears rang and his face burned. 

Time stalled. His senses were numb to everything but this walking force of nature that, at first glance, was an indiscernible canvas of shivering limbs. But as it drew closer, the details were impossible to avoid. The shape of lips and sad eyes. The foreboding sound of a beating heart. Oxygen was no longer a necessity of survival, but vanilla and lilac and something so distinctly, uniquely sweet became the vice in his lungs. 

And it happened so fast, the way fear turned to panic and panic into anger—angry that he had no control or say over how the thing inside of him responded to the thing emerging before him. Powerless. He watched at a standstill as each body lining the wall stiffened upon your entrance. Even his brother, whose composure hardly faltered, could be heard inhaling a sharp breath of disbelief.

Omega. 

She isn’t stopping. Why isn’t she stopping? 

Joel’s eyes shot toward Maria, her indomitable gaze remaining forward on the parting doors. He had to fight the sudden urge to jump the gate over how seemingly unfazed she looked. His sister-in-law was a lot of things, but foolish wasn’t one of them. How could she be so foolish? 

A question left unspoken, unanswered, because his body was not his own. The sound of pounding rattled in his chest, blaring in his ears. A flame ignited. A switch flipped. The world as he knew it became mute to the battling voice that rang inside his head. 

Why isn’t she stopping? What is she doing here? It’s not real. There’s no more. There’s not supposed to be any more. It’s cold. It’s too cold, she’s not wearing a proper jacket. Where’s her jacket? She can’t be here. She’s not allowed to be here. How could she survive this long? Alone? She’s alone. No Alpha. Alone—

He vaguely recalled the sound of his brother shouting his name; a growl settled low in his chest and the heels of his hands pressed against his temples as he tore himself away from the perimeter and stormed through town. 

He needed to get away. Put as much distance between him and that thing that poked and prodded at what was to remain untouched. That stirred him, that set him quick to anger as those of his kind were notorious for. What he worked hard to not be. 

He wasn’t sure how long he paced. How many glasses of whiskey he downed, or the number of curses he threw at his walls, but later that evening, when he had subdued himself to some sort of composure, Joel sought after his brother and his wife, making it a point to address the issue head-on. He burst through their door without knocking: 

“Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” 

“Joel—!” snapped the younger Miller, bouncing to his feet from the couch where he sat beside Maria, already engaged in conversation over what Joel could assume was the reckless decision at hand. 

“It’s fine, Tommy,” Maria interjected, extending a cautionary hand toward her husband. Her focused eyes took a once over of the fuming man in front of her. “Joel, I’m not turning away perfectly capable people. They pose no threat to us; we’ll find each of them a place here.” 

People. Them. Joel knew his sister-in-law wasn’t so naive as to think he was distressed over a couple of betas. The patronizing calm of her voice stirred him on, and he flashed his teeth at her when he spoke, low and gritty. A fight for dominance. 

“She’s an omega. Unmated.”

“And we’ll be sure to make accommodations for that.” Maria nodded slowly, carefully. She was all too familiar with the taming of beasts. 

Joel shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “There are twelve goddamn unmated alphas in these walls, Maria.” 

“Yeah, you included,” she clipped, and that shut him up good. “And with the way things are progressing, soon enough, Ellie.” 

That made him nauseous. 

Ever since her eighteenth birthday, she had been showing all the tell-tale signs of an emerging alpha. Joel knew—despite his unpreparedness and objections to the thing called nature—there was nothing he could do to stop it. The only other option was to prepare. And up until that point, Joel had thought his adopted daughter's presentation was the worst of his worries. 

He wasn’t prepared to reevaluate his own self-control. 

He hadn’t dealt with a rut since Boston; it was only the start of FEDRA’s reign, before the suppressants had been sufficiently pumped into the population, and fiery instinct was reduced to a dull nuisance. And while his access to the aid was now nonexistent, he still hadn’t considered it possible anymore before you showed up. Upon his and Ellie's arrival, the measly two other omegas in his vicinity had already inhabited Jackson. Both mated. 

Joel assumed the next time he encountered the type, it would be when one in the community presented. And by that point, he hoped he’d be far too old for the monster inside his head to have any more biological control. 

The solution had been to set you up in the cottage furthest from the center of town. It was a decent little space that had been used for storage until late, having cleared the fireplace last fall for ample central heating and restoring some of the rotten infrastructure. As deliriously naive as he saw it, the belief appeared to be that the distance of your dwelling from the rest of Jackson would prevent any complications if they arose. When they did. Joel couldn’t decipher what genius course of action his sister-in-law had for when the time came, but his protests were silenced by the majority. And by morning, you had claimed your corner of sanctuary. 

That was six months ago. 

And while the winds of winter kept the newcomers isolated with adjustment, the summer's heat brings livelihood—and much more of you. 

Your voice, your laughter, your scent. It permeates Jackson’s walls like a disease, saturating Joel’s life despite his efforts to avoid your very existence. 

You contribute your share at the daycare, of all places, often seen with a young pup clinging to your neck. Sometimes, the little ones chase after you in the center of town—running towards you with excited, grubby hands and beaming smiles. You always grace them with an embrace. It’s in your nature, the ability to comfort, to nurture. 

You’re gentle. Kind. Considerate. A smile brighter than a thousand stars. Perfection didn’t appear to have a name until the universe made you, and there is no denying the intrinsic effect you have on those around you. 

Because the rest of the town fucking adores you. 

There is no escaping you. As hard as he tries, you linger at every turn, in every breath of the wind that creeps down his back and stands the hair up on his skin. Most are in awe, admiring the creature that glides before them, whose presence adds to balance the very nature they all endure. A missing piece of a puzzle, something delightful and pure. 

Rare. 

Not diamonds, or rubies, or gold can compare. But in tandem comes those who feed on things that shine, and he knows that some—a very specific some—leer with less adoration and increased selfishness. Some who believe they are owed for the mark you bear, whose pride and lust drive their ambition, whose power is unmatched in the face of something so helpless. 

He’s aware, by the principle of semantics, that he falls into this greedy some. Though he could not identify further from it. And while the monster may heave and thrash within the dwindling confines of his chest, lured to all that is so rare, Joel had decided the moment you walked through those gates he would have none of it. He would not reduce himself to the thing he worked tirelessly to tame, nor would he entertain the force of nature that drove someone like you to something like him. 

You’re aware of his distaste for you. That much is obvious in how you blatantly evade him in town, skirting around when you are forced to share the vicinity, a terrified thing, so easily spooked. 

Once, a few months prior, he had been asked to repair some of the leaky ceiling panels in the schoolhouse. Unbeknownst to him—and you, he assumed, judging by the way your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull at the sight of him and how the honeyed stench of the room turned sour—they were all located in the daycare room. 

What followed could only be described as two hours of slow, burning torture. He tried his very best to stay on task, he really did. But he was hindered by the discernible discomfort you exhibited and all it did to the thing inside of him. You tripped over your words to the fellow attendants in the room, couldn’t seem to locate anything you were looking for, and at one point, had to excuse yourself for what turned into a twenty-minute-long disappearance. And where he stood, high up on the ladder, trying to balance his body and his mind, Joel hated how worried your absence made him. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t hear you, couldn’t smell you for those agonizing twenty minutes, and that anger he felt the first day he laid eyes on you returned. Because he was not a man that gave up control. 

And you, for whatever reason, wielded a great deal of it over him. 

The first day of summer promises a bonfire. Dusk, in the open plain beyond the stables, the laughter of children and the strum of music are bringing the community to life. These are cherished moments amongst the whole of Jackson, and Joel isn’t the kind of man to be so self-absorbed that he can’t understand why. He had, up until six months ago, once enjoyed the camaraderie. It was the first time in decades he felt a semblance of impulse to let go. No more running, fighting, grieving. 

He can hardly remember that feeling now. In its place returns caution, unpredictability. Six months and the work of years lost. He feels insane—the lurking monster that haunts his own shadow. And as hard as he tries to shake it, he fails every time. The feeling is embedded, brought to life by its complimentary fragment that, much to his dismay, walks the very same walls. Lurks in the same shadows. 

He used to feel stable, steady. Not any longer. 

Your hair is tied half up today, out of your eyes—he’s watching you. Not watching, observing. This is the trade-off, the compromise to keep the beast satiated. Always from afar, and never with the intent of action, he observes you and all you are. It’s a part of his routine, studying the way you move, the way you exist in this space you’re both forced to inhabit. Constantly drawn to one another, even in distance, even without trying. Magnetic. 

Frustrating. 

You’re smiling at something. And then laughter, like the sweetest song rattles his eardrums. You sit on a blanket across the mountainous flames, your legs tucked under you, beside two other girls he couldn’t care to remember the names of. Briefly, he wonders what it is that you find so amusing. 

A misfortune at the hand of another? 

No, he cannot imagine you to be so cruel. 

An anecdote from the daycare? 

Seems far more likely. The type to find joy in what you do, in all that is around you. 

He’s envious of this, maybe. The effortless way of being attracted to what is deemed good. He tries to remember a time when he knew another person like that; all that ever follows are brief memories full of sorrow. The hazy outline of something, someone, so perfect in a way no one should be. He always dismisses the thought. He would never know what it means to be that way, after all. 

“Nice night.” 

He damn near jumps out of his boots. Tommy’s sudden materialization beside him diminishes any spirals of imagination, a blessing in disguise. 

Still, Joel is bothered by the disturbance. His little haven of borderline-stalker tendencies crushed under his brother's obnoxious foot. He merely grunts in response. 

“Glad we finally got this event together,” Tommy continues nonetheless, a hand on his hip, sipping his beer bottle and glancing similarly across the flames. Joel’s eyes have already left you, his arms folding taut across his chest while he casts his gaze anywhere else, if only for the sake of avoiding his brother's inevitable chastising. “Good to get the kids out… good to get everyone out, really. Nice chance to mingle.” 

Subtle. Real subtle. 

“Out with it, Tommy.” He doesn’t feel like playing this game tonight. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the sake of appeasing his brother, or rather, his brother's wife. “Whatever it is you wanna say to me… out with it.” 

Tommy shrugs. “Nothin’ to come out with, Joel. Just that y’all have been here two years already and still seems like you have a tough time with these things.” 

He doesn’t miss the chosen emphasis. And it’s true, to an extent. While precarious in her initial adjustment, Ellie has been far more social than he. He talks to people. He just doesn’t trust them. Not those outside his immediate circle. And why should he? Joel does his work. He lends a hand to the community where he can. He’s polite. Punctual. Reliable. But he’s still living in the end of the fucking world, a world he has seen more brutality and injustice in than he ever would have cared to. So what if he doesn’t want to roast marshmallows and sing campfire songs? 

“What is it that you want from me, Tommy? I’m here, ain’t I?” 

“Don’t want nothin’ from you, brother,” Tommy says with a shake of his head, and Joel still can’t pinpoint just when his little brother finally grew the fuck up. Twenty years of lost time will do that to a person. “Just wanna be sure you’re livin’ this second chance to the fullest.”     

A second chance. 

He can pinpoint a time where he would have killed for one of those. 

And perhaps he did just that, and the real fault lies in being unable to embrace the outcome. Or maybe, the misery he lives in is the price he pays for the choices that led him here. Second chance shrouded in self-loathing. 

His brother persists: “Take advantage of how lucky ya are to be here, how lucky we all are to be here, to have…options.”  

Has he ever been good at weighing those? Twenty years ago, he would have had a different answer. Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have known the debilitating options of life or death. This isn’t the first time Tommy has presented the topic of conversation, and he’s certain it won’t be the last. He wonders when he’ll find a response that appeases him, if ever. 

“Just try to enjoy yourself a little tonight, alright?” 

He doesn’t answer. He lacks the discipline to say something of substance. Instead, he turns his head forward and strains his arms against his chest, silent and brooding, until his brother sighs, pats him on the shoulder, and slips away. 

This is enjoyable enough; left to his own devices, keen to observe the joy around him, a silent hope that some of it may permeate, keep an eye on—

He’d been too preoccupied with Tommy’s noise to notice you’d disappeared from his line of sight. His brows furrow and he scans the perimeter of the bonfire. Your friends have moved to the beverage stand, but the spot you had occupied beside them is vacant. 

He cocks his head left, then right, scanning for signs; the cadence of your voice, the shape of you, your scent. And he’s frustrated. Because how could he let you vanish so fast? Where? Why? 

It’s something instinctive that compels him to act at the first sign of trouble. It’s the faintest thing, a subtle waft in the wind he’s certain no one would catch unless they were searching for it. Sour and burnt, his nose wrinkles. 

He does a one-eighty and panic seizes his chest.

Your silhouette may be foreign to the common eye, but he’s learned it well. It tramples and scrambles through the foliage, distressed; a good two, three hundred yards away from the crowd and headed in the direction of your dwelling. 

He’s honed in. A nerve fires inside his chest. His heart ticks to a beat that suffocates his eardrums, and there’s a churning in his gut that threatens to yank him forward. 

He turns back toward the flames, only once, before his footsteps fall in stride with you. 

He wonders just how long he’s been blind. How many days had passed since the tell-tale signs began to emerge. When you knew, if you knew, or if this very moment, here and now, is the one mother nature decided to take you by the hand and guide you down the imminent path. 

Joel always watches you. Observes. How could he have let this slip under his radar? 

He’s imagined this exact scenario numerous times before. Though in his head, havoc rained, blood was shed, and carnage laid bare across the whole of town. A wreckage for all to witness, to acknowledge the barbarous creatures that walk amongst them. Twelve starved, selfish alphas seeking a single, undeserved prize. 

In theory, his expectations aren’t all that far-fetched. In a time before, they may have been a reality. When there was no order. When creatures with perceived power could take and take, and others would be remiss to challenge them. 

But here, in the haven he occupies, those expectations are mere theatrics. 

Here, the air is frighteningly quiet, save for the joyous voices in the distance, the whistle of the breeze. He’s aware of the sound of his boots crunching against the ground, how the weight of them seems to melt into the earth with each daunting step. They follow after lighter, fluttering tip-toes; a scared, scampering thing on the run from all that could harm her. Alone.

Vulnerable. 

The closer he follows, the clearer your labored huffs reach his ears. The aroma in the air loses its earthy notes and adopts the sweetness you shed. A trail of seeds yet to sprout, bathed in moonlight, beckoning him closer. A single lantern is left lit on the cottage steps, a beacon. You clamber up them two at a time, and in tandem, his careless foot snaps a twig beneath his boot. 

Your head whips around, sharp eyes pinning daggers to his chest.

“I ain’t here to hurt you.” 

He puts his hands up in careful defense, leaving the vast space of the porch steps between you. Your chest is heaving and your temples are already damp. Your eyes have glossed over, a crazed look, and he knows the fever has taken the reins. 

But there is no urge to pounce. No incessant need to satisfy a selfish craving. It’s there, it lives, but it does not drive him the way he always suspected it would. It’s evicted from the home of fears that feed on his consciousness, and in its place, emerges something just as innate. As plain and clear as all other parts of him he once tried to diminish. 

“What do you need?” he asks softly, carefully. Unprotected prey are easily spooked. 

Your eyes dart every which way, searching for the complimentary predators. They glisten with tears under the porch lights, sweat reflecting off your forehead the more you lose yourself, and he knows that you’re afraid. He can feel it. 

“Omega,” Joel commands, and your wide eyes snap right back to him. Drawn to him and all that he is. If his instincts weren’t so hellbent on curbing your fears, he would’ve scolded himself for abusing such a power. “What do you need?” he repeats, a bit more pointedly. 

He watches the way your throat constricts when you swallow, brows twitching together in study of him. Searching for some ulterior motive, no doubt, but the trepidation is brief. Your nostrils flare in deep inhalation, and he wonders what remedy he must exude to ease you so effortlessly. 

You trust him. 

A terrifyingly naive mistake. 

And yet, there is no denying the way his chest swells with pride and how the monster inside of him roars to life. 

“Keep the rest of them away,” you say finally, and it’s all he needs to hear. The rest is second nature. 

He nods dutifully, lingering at the bottom of the steps. He waits until you blink the haze out of your darkening eyes, giving him a final once over, and scramble the door open and shut, before he climbs to the top of the steps. He turns his back to the door, his arms crossed over his chest like they had been while he watched you through the fire, his eyes forward—focused. An unmatched mode of protection activates. He hears the deadbolt lock, and he’s grateful for your diligence. Though he knows it’s useless. Every alpha in a ten-mile radius would smell you within minutes. 

And that smell. 

It’s only now that he notices its potency. It grows and swells the longer you’re hidden inside; waves of vanilla and citrus that are almost too sweet. They burn his nose. Coat the back of his throat in thick tar, making it impossible for him to swallow without a taste of you. 

The beast grows, a second skin now. It occupies him further as each moment passes by. His fingers twitch, his own brow dampens, and an unrelenting ache settles low in his stomach. 

He gruffs out a breath, shaking his head rapidly. He needs to keep it together. He needs to move. 

He’s stalking the perimeter in a craze, eyes and ears on high alert. He leaves his mark behind wherever he can, brushing up against trees, allowing the dense pheromones that seep out of his skin to pollute the air. It isn’t foolproof, but it’s enough to dampen the sweet nectar radiating off your walls, at least for a time. 

He starts to panic when he finally hears the first little moan slip through the walls. A soft, restless thing, and the ache in his gut flourishes, threatening to send him to his knees. He seeks purchase on the rail of the porch, having made his way back to the door. He squeezes his eyes shut. This cannot be happening. 

Clarity becomes overshadowed by instinct, and the ache expands into his chest, his fingertips, his toes. It’s been years, and the onset is no less overwhelming. He’ll do what he can to prolong it, ensure that he is of his right mind when the height of the fever takes you. He can’t imagine what he’ll do, otherwise. 

But his patience is tested. The soft scratch beyond the front door makes sure of it. 

His ears perk up and his nostrils flare. He can make out a faint creak, weight shifting. Palms to the panes, a body pressing against the wood. Warmth seeps through the cracks. 

“Joel?” 

There you are. 

His body carries him up the steps–he doesn’t have to think about moving. His muscles and joints, his very soul seem to be linked to your command. He stands with his toes pressed to the bottom of the door, and it’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to discern what’s right in front of him. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“I’m here.” 

Your breath wavers, a sigh of relief. He zeros in on what he can make of you through the barrier, the last shred of sanity. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally croak, and his eyes shoot open, brows laced in confusion. 

“You have nothin’ to be apologizing for–”

“No, I do,” you press, and the words come with great difficulty. Heavy and strained, as if it is critical you say them now. 

Perhaps it is. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows it’s only a matter of time before you’re not entirely yourself. Before he won't be able to get a coherent answer out of you, when every action you take relies solely on relief. 

He’ll take the opportunity to listen to what you have to say while you still can. You seem to realize it too as your words start to pour out, staggered and rushed:

“I know I’ve done something… something to upset you for all this time, and—and I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sorry, and I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it, Joel. I promise. Just please—”

“Stop that.” 

He can't even begin to believe what he’s hearing. Can’t possibly fathom the damage he’s caused, all he’s insinuated with his behavior, his choices. 

Him. He is to blame. 

Yet, you’re the one near tears. You’re the one who begs for forgiveness, where no plea nor apologies need be. You’ve convinced yourself, or rather, he’s indoctrinated you into believing you are the one to blame. 

That you are the monster. 

And oh, does it make his blood boil with well-acquainted self-loathing. 

“You don’t—you haven’t—”

Now he’s the one sputtering. Where does one find the words to right infinite wrongs? 

You’ve reached an impasse, and this is surely the desperation speaking. He’ll have to be the level headed one, steer you in the right direction. A chance to redeem himself, as great a feat it’s proving to be. He musters up the courage, sets his pride aside. 

“You ain’t done nothin’ wrong, you hear me?” His lips are near pressed against the wood, seething through them, desperate for you to latch on to each painful word. “You needa know that, all right? You… you ain’t the one to blame here.” 

The admission is ash on his tongue. Speaking it aloud, bringing it to life. His ears strain for any sign of you, fallen silent. Something inside possesses the urge to break clean through the wood. 

“Help me.” 

Forgiveness. Guilt welded to his chest now shattered and set free by the capabilities of kindness. You hardly know one another, and yet, there is mutual understanding. An agreement that surpasses time, bonded to what you’re made of. 

“Alpha,” you call, and Joel has to brace himself against the frame to keep from falling. His chest beams, his belly stirs, and the sting of desire plagues him. “Please.” 

He had read about the process once, long before. Disorientation. Excruciating aches that make it nearly impossible to stand upright. A tingling sensation so intense, that it replicates that of burning on the skin. 

Pain. 

You’re in pain, and he knows he can stop it. 

And soon enough knowing turns to needing, and he can feel a fraction of the pain you’re enduring. It’s enough to shatter his resolve. 

A heavy hand rests on the doorknob. A beat. And then, as if on cue, he hears the deafening sound of the deadbolt unlatching. 

He hesitates, opportunity served on a golden platter. Sifts through the repercussions of what could follow. But when the door opens and shuts again, he’s on the other side of it. The lock latches, this time, under his own hand. 

You’ve shuffled your way back from the door. Standing, though by the looks of it, with great difficulty. You’re no longer in your pretty summer dress, but a t-shirt large enough to swallow you and little shorts so short he can smell right through them. 

Even from a distance, his height climbs above you in the way only predators leverage prey. But he knows you’re unafraid. He can sense your fascination with him just by observing you; it’s as plain as the air he breathes, something intrinsic and right as hard as he’s worked to deem it wrong. It’s in the way that you stiffen, your body having no other choice than to respond to him. Wide eyes appraise every inch of him, and you trouble your bottom lip with your teeth in a spot he would very well like to taste. 

The aroma is suffocating; it seeps into his pores and wraps its eager hands around his throat. He won’t be able to rid himself of you for days, even if he tries. 

He’s grown pompous, it seems. For the thought of those he passes enduring a whiff of you on his skin stirs his cock in his jeans. The idea that awakens him, the prospect of becoming his. 

“I’m scared,” you hiccup, and he suddenly remembers he has greater things to tend to. 

He has a million questions, torn between action and rationale. 

When was the last time this happened? Do you have enough supplies prepared? How long is it expected to last? 

But none of that matters right now. She matters. And she needs you. 

“I know, baby.” He’s terrified, and the words spill out. “But you’re gonna get through it, ya hear me?” He takes another step closer. “We’re gonna get through it.” 

And there is a glimmer in your eyes, that of hope, and he knows that he is powerless in this battle he’s fought against himself for so long. He’s only prolonging the inevitable. 

“You’ll help me?” It's all pleas and hope and teetering near the symphony of begging, but he can’t hear you beg. He can’t bear the sound nor the implication, as he’s certain it will ruin him. But: “Please,” you whimper, plucking his kryptonite out of thin air and wielding it against him. And it’s only then that he notices the way your thighs tremble together, desperately searching for some sort of friction. “It hurts.” 

And he loses, loses the fight. He is lost to you. He always has been. 

“Turn around,” he beckons, and you obey him because you’re good. You’ll be so good for him. 

Because you know exactly what she needs. 

The floorboards creek beneath his feet, and when he reaches you, fingers drag the bulk of your hair over one shoulder. He watches the muscles flex below his touch, the way your hands ball into tight fists at your sides. He’s hit with the overwhelming scent of your exposed gland, and his mouth waters. 

Focus, the thing inside him chastises. You’ll have plenty of time to taste. 

He takes a final step, flushing the front of his chest with your backside. Greedy hands latch on to your waist, followed by the slump of your body into him. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, and your lips part in a sigh—a pretty little sound, though he’s determined to alleviate the burden it stems from.

He reaches for one of your fists, taking you by the wrist. Your fingers unfurl upon his touch, and he uses it as an opportunity to fold his own overtop your knuckles. He guides your joint hands, settling them low over your belly. 

“Show me,” he murmurs, dipping his head to the crook of your neck. His lips dance over the skin, and your legs begin to tremble. He keeps the hand at your hip firm, an anchor. “Show me where it hurts.” 

Your breath catches and your eyelids flutter, half-open. Your fingers squeeze around his, and without hesitation, he squeezes back. He’s here. He’s got you. He won't let you go. 

And with that reassurance, hands descend, following your lead. You claw away the t-shirt hem, idling above the waistband of your shorts before sinking underneath. A low growl rumbles in his chest at his findings, muffled into your hair. You comb his fingers through soft curls, the flesh below hot and throbbing. Together, you cup the little seam of your cunt, and Joel has to fight the urge to fall to his knees, pry you open here and now. 

You’re dripping. Warm slick pools in his hand, sticky against your thighs. He feels a pulse of it spill out of you when his fingertips prod at your hole, your back arching off his chest, another devastating gasp of air choking you. 

He’s already dizzy, high on the fumes of you. He shuts his eyes when his vision begins to blur. And he’s hard. So achingly stiff against your back, if he thinks about it for too long, he's sure to lose control. You’ll send him into a full blown rut, he’s certain of it. Likely, you already have, teetering at the edge. And as these minutes tick, the less time he has to prepare you. To warm you up and slather you in pleasure before brute nature runs its course. 

“Joel,” you whine. His eyes flash back open, pupils doubled in size.

“Bedroom. Now.” 

He releases you, but only after giving a handful of your ass a terse squeeze. You squeal, nearly leaping out of his touch. You flash him your eyes only once before tiptoeing forward, and he’s hot on your heels, stalking after you. Patience drowned deep, mangled by desire. 

Your room is to be expected, cozy and warm, entirely you. Under any other circumstance, he’d have more appreciation for the homemade candles and delicate tapestries, the various posters displaying your interests and the native plants you’ve taken the care to pot and house. 

But he’s immediately drawn to your mattress, the piles of pillows and blankets strewn about in a fashion only you are to understand. You’ve been busy since you left him on the porch. 

You stop a few feet shy of the bed, glancing over your shoulder at him, uncertain. There’s a shift in your aura, suddenly grown timid. There’s a guilty sort of gleam in your eyes, but he recognizes it for what it really is—shame. That you cannot control your erratic breathing, or the heat that creeps over your brow. That your body faces the impulse of preparation for something beyond your control, and now, you’re forced to lay it bare for him to witness. 

He holds no judgment, only empathy. There is beauty in this vulnerability, and for the first time, he understands the gravity of your trust in him. Something in the shape of fulfillment blooms. 

“Here?” he asks, nudging his chin toward the heap. 

You nod once, and he shrugs the flannel off his shoulders. An offering, and you accept it wordlessly, eagerly. You eye it in your hands, then him, back again, hesitant. You’re shy now that he’s indulged you.  

That’s alright. She just needs you to take your time with her. 

Finally, you slowly bring the wad of it up to your nose and inhale. Your eyes droop shut, lashes kissing the apples of your cheeks, and his chest beams with pride at the notable fall of your shoulders. Tension evades you, replaced with the comfort of his scent. His. 

“Go on,” he instructs gently, once he has your eyes again. He wishes he could peer inside your head, decipher the wary thoughts that live so plainly on your face. 

Nonetheless, you shuffle your way to the mattress, carefully crawling on top of it. It’s painfully adorable, the way you gnaw at your bottom lip and analyze the space, his flannel still clutched in your fist. 

He also recalls reading about this, how it’s imperative that your space be designed to your exact liking. The assistance of a trusted alpha’s scent is a surefire way to heighten comfort. 

So when you drape his flannel over the pillow you lay your head upon at night, and tuck it in tight around the edges, he’s overcome with a mighty wave of emotion. He is strengthened, his affliction no longer a weakness, but a gift. A means of sustaining your well-being. He almost feels unworthy. Almost. But when you sit up on your knees at the edge and give him those expectant eyes, he imagines what it would be like to rid the town of the eleven other hungry beasts who could have ended up outside your door. So that they may never get a breath of you. 

That they may never touch what’s his. 

He approaches with caution—slowly, toeing off his boots in the process, fighting every urge to pounce. Droplets begin to roll down your temples, and he thinks you’re the most beautiful like this; wild eyes, a little frenzied. Awaiting some treat like a starved puppy who's already forgotten how to chew, how to swallow. He will remedy this. He’ll feed you, satiate you. 

You’re an antsy little thing now, nearly bouncing up and down, toes curling and uncurling beneath you. And as soon as his shins meet the bed frame, you’re rising on your knees, nearly his height now. You study one another and the heat between you, the uneven breath and the palpable compulsion to touch. His brows rise on his forehead, surprise, when you reach out first. Shaky, dainty hands coming to rest upon his shoulders that glow under your willing gesture. 

He can’t help himself; his hands splay over your ribcage, curving around your lungs, and yanking your chest against his. You yelp out, but the tiny grin that follows on your lips and the way you wind your arms around his neck flash a million green lights. He can hardly keep up, and he realizes now he’s the one panting; his fingers bruise into your skin, and his tongue seems to swell three sizes with need, starvation.  

And he hesitates, because if he proceeds, he’ll finally know the sensation of kissing you. He’ll have a taste of you. He’ll understand what it means to have your body pressed against his, and how the scent of him will change, saturated by pieces of you. 

But it’s you and your willingness to be so kind, so undeniably what you are, that breaks him from the mold he’s cast. You scratch him gently just below his ear to get his attention, and his worried eyes find yours—a pure contradiction, only certainty and peace to be found. 

It’s alright. She’s ready for you. 

This voice is different, warped. A mixture of two. He’s not sure if he hears it from him, or you. 

He doesn’t care. 

His lean into the kiss is measured, but it’s not long before it descends into madness. You’re wound and fiery against him, clawing at the nape of his neck, baring tongue and teeth. He’s willing, eager to keep up, bending you at the small of the back and crowding over you. Licking you open and shoving his tongue between your lips, until the sharp sounds of saliva echo through the room and his palate is coated in sweetness. 

He loses himself a bit, winding a hand up your back until it’s latching around tendrils of hair and pulling taut. You gasp, arching into him, and he growls at the opportunity of more of you, to taste all of you. 

His lips clamber down your throat, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses in their wake. You’re mumbling something, indescribable under the mask of your flourishing heat, but the pliancy of your body is all he needs to make way for instinct. 

When he reaches the base, the tip of his nose traces your clavicle, sniffing like a mad dog. He continues up the curve of your neck until he finds the rough little patch behind your ear. Here, he inhales deep, audibly; your scent is most potent here and it clouds his judgment. His tongue juts out from his lips, salivating, searing across the gland and sealing his invasion with a gentle kiss, and oh, you like that. He hears the strangled sound that rips through your throat, feels your sharp nails dig deeper into his skin and the weight of your body shuddering against him. 

He yanks at the hem of your t-shirt. “Arms up.” 

You heed his command, and he pulls the fabric over you, tossing it into oblivion. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled amongst the nest of your things and his, in no time. He sinks to his knees, huffing at the stiffness of them. He bullies himself between your shaking thighs and drags his paws across your torso. He cups both of your tits in an unforgiving grasp, heaving himself forward and suctioning his lips around one. You howl and pant, pain and pleasure, weaving fingers through his locks of hair and tugging just as hard as he sucks. He switches to the other, leaving welts behind, memories of his ardor. 

He wants them to linger. Knowing that he can’t mark you—won’t, not while you’re like this—in the way he longs to. A greedy act of ownership he hopes will ward off the others until he can map out this newfound territory. 

Your thighs suffocate his hips, radiating warmth. He feels the little gyrations of your hips, seeking friction, and he can’t find it in himself to deny you any longer. He licks a trail down your sternum, the tangy taste of fever, peppering kisses over your belly. His fingers curl over the waistband of your shorts, taking two fistfuls, and he rips them in two. Joel doesn’t think you’ve even noticed the destruction, already pawing needy hands across his shoulders to guide him where you need him most. 

Your legs part instantly, willingly, and his mouth drops open at the sight. He’s suddenly reminded of his own struggle, his cock seeming to swell another size in his jeans at the sight of your bare, swollen cunt. Creamy liquid coats your wet skin, pearly clit swollen and wanting. He rests a cheek upon your inner thigh, latches his hands around the outer to keep you steady, and admires. Lets his eyes fall shut and leans in, burying his nose in the soft curls on your mound. He inhales long and groans; the earthy musk, the inviting sweetness. 

“God, look at this pretty fuckin’ hole.” He starts blathering aloud, but you smolder under his praise. Bucking your hips and grabbing at all the bits of him you can find. “This all for me, Omega?” 

Yes, yes, yes, you pant, speaking with your body and your mouth, nodding so frantically. He enjoys the way your cunt flutters around nothing, each little pulse oozing another drop of sweet slick, coaxing him in. 

He wets his lips, takes another whiff of you. He’s certain he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t taste you, so he does. Flattens his tongue against your impatient pussy, and watches as you all but combust when he suckles up the nectar seeping out, all for him. 

It’s more heavenly, more euphoric than he could’ve imagined. The stain of you against his tongue, ambrosia, a remedy for all ailments. He laps into you, dehydrated and desperate for every drop, smearing his tongue all over your cunt, your mound, your thighs. A feast for the taking. 

You wail above him when his lips latch onto your clit, and heavy hands force your thighs back against the mattress—he needs you spread, and still. Needs you to understand the severity of this famine he’s experienced for so long; maybe, as long as he’s existed. You yank at his hair and your heels dig into his back, pushing and pulling all at once, and when he finally comes up for air, he’s feeding you his fingers. Catches your eyes and the way they grow when he sinks two, thick digits inside of you, groaning at the squeeze of your plush walls, ripe and ready for him. 

“Gonna open you up for me, darlin’,” he rasps, lips and cheeks and chin gleaming with you. You hastily prop yourself up on your elbows, getting a view of the way he learns you. Moonlight glows across sheen skin, angelic. 

“B-but Joel—” you whine, but he silences you with a thrust of his fingers, curving them up, up, up, and beaming when your legs jerk and your eyes roll back. He taps his fingertips against the spongy little spot he’s discovered.

“Hush, now,” he bites, but his taunting fingers promise a better outcome than his tone. Your head has already fallen back into the pillows, hands mindlessly grabbing and twisting the sheets around you. “M’gonna open you up, get you nice and ready to take me.” He starts his steady pace then, gradually pulling his fingers back and rocking them forward, maintaining the hook, searching for the sweet little spot that makes you cry out every time he bumps it. “You’re gonna be patient, let me make it all better, yeah?” 

“Yes, Alpha. Yes, yes.” 

He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy this descent into submission. How the further you slip away from him, the further he is from himself. Two parts of a whole lost to what nature made them, somehow, finding one another to latch onto. 

He leans into it. Embraces it. He needs to make this last. Take advantage of all that it is, fearing it may be the first and only time he’ll be lucky enough to have it. 

A heavy hand, his free one, presses against your lower belly. He can feel the drag of his fingers inside of you, just below his palm, sending his blood to a boil. Sweat graces his own brow; these are shared symptoms, that of your fever and his rut. Cosmic, burning from the inside out, like stars. Everything he is, created for you. 

He can feel the wave, the buildup of pressure in your gut that makes his own ache. Feels the wet tip of his cock in his jeans when you start to pant his name, when a flimsy hand reaches for the flannel you tucked away so neatly, and yanks it toward your face. Smothering yourself with it, shoving your nose to his scent. 

“Alpha—nghh!” 

“C’mon, baby. C’mon,” he chants; a mantra. Presses harder onto your burning belly, extends his thumb to circle over your throbbing clit in time with his flexing wrist. 

Your body seizes, soft, full breasts rising and falling as you desperately gulp the air. Your poor legs tremble so hard, you can’t keep them upright anymore without his help, so they drape over his shoulders. Squeeze them tight, claws nearly drawing blood against his scalp, and your pussy sucks him into the knuckle. Grips on like a vice before the wave crashes, and you’re gushing around his fingers. Crying out ecstasy, soaking his chin, his chest, your limp legs. 

“Fuuuck,” he’s growling, in awe of the little spurts of cum that keep flowing out of you with each measured jingle of his digits. He wants to see how much he can drain you before he removes them, how much pretty, perfect, omega slick you’ll make for him, every drop an homage to your yearning for what he’s preparing to give you. The thing that swells, and aches, and burns at the base of his cock, and he can’t help but rub it up against the side of the mattress, desperately seeking some of his own relief. 

You’ve lost yourself entirely now, he knows this. The orgasm he’s granted you sets your full heat into motion, and you’ll require more. Can sense it in the haze of your eyes, the delirious babbling of his name mingled with Alpha, Alpha, please. Tears coating your cheeks, an emptiness in the pit of you only he can fill. 

But one taste isn’t enough, and he’s greedy. Greedy, greedy alpha of a man, who needs more. Can’t help it as he watches the liquid pour from around his fingers, so he unsheathes them, quickly replacing them with his open mouth again to drink the goodness right out of you. A fountain of excellence he’s certain he’ll never tire of. 

He must be lost in this, the incessant need to quench his thirst, for some time. Because you start to whine and thrash below him, strings of pleas and sorrow alike. Pulling at his t-shirt, trying to tear it from him at this awkward angle. Telling him over and over that it hurts, Alpha, it hurts—and that just won’t do. 

He quickly replaces your wandering fingers, tugging his shirt up and off of him and retreating to his feet to battle with his belt buckle. You jolt up at this, suddenly alert, perching at the edge of the mattress, wet hair sticking to your face, eyes taking a curious path down bare skin. 

There’s a momentary wave of self-consciousness; he can’t remember the last time a woman saw him naked, let alone after the safety and comfort that Jackson provided. 

He’s aged. Gained a few pounds in his belly, muscles bulky and lined with fat instead of the lean mass they once were. But then, you place your palms on his chest. Flutter your eyes up at him as you glide your hands slowly over his torso, and make sure he’s watching when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss to his sternum. His eyes go dark, his insecurity silenced. 

“Wanna taste it, Alpha,” you demand, voice breaking at the edges. Sounding simultaneously foreign and never more like yourself. Shaky fingers reach down, cupping him through his boxers, making his dick jump, and he sucks the air through his teeth. “Can I taste it, please?” 

He grins down at you, because yeah, you’re good. So good. So polite. Just like he knew you would be. Good, kind, generous little omega, too much so for her own good. You rake at his bare chest, start to palm him slowly, batting dangerous eyes up at him. So tempting. He reaches down, takes your chin between his fingers, and pets your bottom lip with his thumb. Hoping to soothe away disappointment. Because as much as he wants to be selfish, he needs to be inside of you. 

“No time for that now, sweet baby. Not this time. Wanna give it to you somewhere else.” He drops his hand, splaying his fingers low over your abdomen. “Right in here, huh? Isn’t that what you want?”

Oh, yes. Yes, it is. You nod up at him, frantic, mouth hung open and drool spilling out the sides. Ravenous thing you are, just as hungry as he. 

“C’mere. Let me help you.” 

He’s got you by the hips, lowering you properly back against the pillows. He shuffles out of his boxers, and you watch him, dazed; your fingers in your mouth, chewing on them. Knees up to your chest, thighs rubbing back and forth, slipping so easily with all the pretty slick he’s pulled out of you. 

Vulnerable little creature you are, you welcome him into your nest. Pull your fingers out from your teeth and extend them towards him, and spread your legs for him to settle his mass between. And when he does, there’s a shared sounding of pleasure. He sits back on his heels, guiding the weight of his heavy cock over your cunt, and fuck, if you aren’t just perfect like this. 

Your body burns, a fire he must extinguish. He leans forward, exasperating you a bit when he drapes his weight over you, caging you in with elbows on either side of your head. His knees still cradle your ass, and he uses the mounted leverage to grind his cock against you. He huffs, his knot blazing, painful and stiff, and his gut is on fire. You’re so warm, so wet, and he slips so easily between you. He can’t help but growl out when you begin to meet his thirst with needy rocks of your own. 

Your eyes droop shut, hands seeking purchase on his shoulders, and he uses his to cradle each side of your scalp. He presses his forehead to yours, captures your parted lips in a searing kiss. 

“You’re gonna give me another one,” he mumbles, drawing back from you, reaching for his stiff cock and gripping it tight. His eyes drop to where you’re nearly connected, so close. You glisten along his shaft, and he uses it to rub the angry tip of him back and forth over your folds, parted petals that threaten to suck him in each time he catches on the opening. He taps it on your tender clit; you quiver and clench, wailing out frustration. 

“N-no please—please,” you beg, eyes brimming with tears again. You slide your hands underneath his arms, digging your nails under his shoulder blades. “Please put it inside me, Alpha. Please, please.” 

“You can do it, baby.” 

“I can’t, please. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” 

And you do. You chase the high vigorously. The jerks of your hips follow him, taking great precision in the way he slides his shaft up and down your swollen little seam, paying special attention to your clit. He can feel the way it jumps and throbs, all the juices flowing out of you dowsing over him, dripping down onto his knot. 

He can’t look away, an obscenely beautiful sight. And the next time you quiver, clench around nothing, and call out his name, he just can’t help himself. 

He slips inside of you with one, tenacious thrust. Met with no resistance, only warmth and fullness. Your entire body goes rigid, eyes bulged and lips hung open in surprise, before relaxing entirely. You melt into him, the fury of your need thawing with his gift, and you sigh a beautiful sound of reprieve. Vanilla melds with leather, interwoven, and he knows he’s ruined you for any others. 

And he. He’s sweating, and panting, and the shudder won’t leave his spine. He’s never felt anything quite like it, the flutter of a fertile omega’s cunt around his cock. He was dreaming before, and now he’s awake. Startled by all that is perfectly right. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.” He rolls his hips once, the tip of him bruising your cervix, and you sigh his name. “Promised I’d make it all better, yeah?”

You use the leverage of his shoulders to crane your neck up, pressing your forehead to his. Your thighs straddle his ribcage, clinging to him, needy little pet that you are. 

“S-so full, Alpha. It’s so big.” 

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos. “But look.” He parts with a fleeting kiss to your chin, sitting back on his heels and dropping his gaze to where you’re connected. A thick ring of cream sits above his knot, and it pulses at the sight. “Look how well she’s taking me.” 

You shakily bring yourself to your elbows, peering with drunken eyes and O-shaped lips. Your brows knit at the center of your forehead, and the precious, fucked-out look you cast up is enough to send him into motion. 

He grunts, wrapping his hands around your hips and yanking your bum up and onto his thighs. His pace is slow but deep, focused on kissing your womb with every thrust. Now that he’s inside of you, he can focus on nothing but the result. How imperative it’s become that he fills you. Satiate the ache by pumping you with his seed. He bares his teeth, images of his spend dripping out of you flashing before his eyes. He needs it. Chases it with fury, a conquest. But he won’t let it go to waste. No, he needs to knot you. Be certain that every drop of it touches your womb. How it would feel to have you latched to him, the prospect of its ramifications—a swollen belly, a piece of you carrying a part of him—sounding nothing but appealing.  

“JoelJoelJoel.” You’re repeating his name like a prayer, looking at him with such devotion. 

He’s picked up his pace, instinctive. Hard enough now that your flimsy mattress springs squeak, and the headboard thumps against the wall. You’ve fallen back into your pillows, your hands coming up to knead and pull at your breasts, and fuck, if it doesn’t gratify him to see you lean into the pleasure. 

He knows you're close when the tears at your waterline begin to stream down your cheeks. He scoots you further up his thighs, places a heavy hand back on your belly, and sure enough, on his next thrust, he can feel the bulbous tip of his cock through the skin. He grits his teeth, and he knows you must feel it too because you gasp as if he’s committed some sort of crime, shock and disbelief. 

“Feel you—haa—in-in my stomach, Alpha.”

“That’s right, baby,” he grunts. “In your fuckin’ guts. Just where you needed me.” 

His thumb drops to your clit, circles it with the rhythm of his thrusts, and makes you sing. There isn’t, and he’s sure there never will be, anything like the way you feverishly clench around him. Actively trying to suck him in, the steady flow of tears and cum, your incoherent babbles, beyond your control. He needs you closer, he needs to saturate you with every part of him. 

He rolls onto his back, scooping you into his chest and dragging you along with him. Gets you good and propped on his bent legs before he drives up into you. You collapse onto his chest, desperate hands clinging to his pecs. You burrow your nose into his neck, and he nearly bursts at the seams when you tease your teeth across his beating gland. 

“One more,” he seethes, bouncing you up and down with a great force; you needn’t even help him. He takes palm-fulls of your ass, secures the reins. Your hips will bruise by morning, but he doesn’t care. It’s worth the desperation in the way you cling to him, call to him. “Give me one more, Omega, and I promise I’ll give you what you need.” 

You wail out, half protest, half pledge, and you’re actively clamping down on him. Working your tight cunt over his shaft, milking him closer and close to the shining edge, and he feels his belly begin to boil. His head pounds and his gland aches, and as soon as you release again, unable to curb yourself from the pleasure he vows, the voice worms its way back into his ear. Chanting now, now, now. 

He spills into you with a mighty roar, stuffing his knot up inside of you as soon as it expands. He digs his teeth into your shoulder, pushes your hips further, and further down, nowhere else to go, but he has to be sure he’s filled you tight. That he can keep you here, locked onto him for as long as it takes to eradicate the delirium, as many times as you need him to fill your fertile little womb. 

And you come again, all from just this. Tight, soft, and bruised, you clamp around his knot as if you’re worried you’ll lose it. And he squeezes his eyes shut at the overstimulation, bites on his tongue to curb the pain, and lets it flourish in glorious pleasure. His cock releases another string of cum, and Joel groans. 

You’re hardly lucid on his chest, trembling, breathing heavily. One of your hands wraps around his sticky shoulder, clutching into his skin, trying to steady yourself. He works carefully to soothe you, to nurture the heavy come down, and avoid a dangerous drop. He scoots himself up the mattress, taking you with him until you’re both comfortably propped against the headboard; there’s no telling how long you’ll be united like this, but he has no intention of rushing it. He drags his large palms over the length of your spine, litters kisses along your hairline, and you both share a whining sound each time he stiffens and spurts inside of you. He allows his eyes to shut, focusing on steadying his breath, the sound of your beating heart. 

Eventually, your body settles. You start to breathe evenly again, grow limp, purring little sounds of contentment. He lifts a hand to push away the hair that sticks to your cheeks, and you reach for it, latching your bony fingers around his wrist. You nuzzle your nose into his palm and wrap your lips around two of his fingers. He lets you suck on them like this for a while, humming, the salty taste of him seeming to quiet your nervous system and ease you back into a state of equilibrium. 

There will be consequences for what’s transpired here. The post-euphoric clarity lays his transgressions bare and forces him to examine them. He feels, quite regrettably, the return of war. That between himself and his nature, though here and now, they are far more intertwined than they’ve ever been. 

He has a decision to make, one that months, days, hours ago seemed so clear. That he will not give way for the monstrosity he harbors, if only to save you from a lifetime of horror and regret. 

But the hours, minutes, seconds have passed, and they dwindle to this moment where he realizes, almost jarringly, how wrong he may have been. That the great fight against what nature bestowed him retreats within your stronghold. The worry is silenced, the weight lifted, the burden removed. He isn’t a soldier, but a man. 

Only a man. So simple, and so freeing. 

“Stay with me?” you mumble as if you can read his mind, letting his fingers slip from your lips, and already drifting to a place somewhere deep between sleep and wake. It’s a single question worth a million, holding the weight of your existence, the entire world. 

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that if he stays, no amount of self-control will prevent him from indulging your needs over and over again. He knows how brittle his distaste is—was, a façade—and how quickly he will devote himself to you. 

You’re all he would require to live and breathe. 

Most terrifying, he knows the primal urge will only continue to spread. And for some purpose far beyond him, while he’s coated in your scent and slick and the haven of your arms, he won’t be able to find a reason to stop himself from sinking his teeth into that sweet spot upon your neck. 

He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness, your kindness, you. You’re a chance at redemption, something he is certain he relinquished decades ago. You’re an opportunity, an outlet to release his grief, his anger, his hatred for this world and his place in it, and turn it into devotion, protection. 

He doesn’t deserve it. 

But the way you look at him now, head nuzzled against his chest, pupil-blown eyes the picture of vulnerability, it satisfies the beast. Sets every nerve ending on fire. Tugs him forward frighteningly taut, unable to recoil. 

You look at him like you need him. 

And he needs to be needed. It’s all he’s ever wanted. 

“Alright,” he whispers. “I’ll stay.” 

[talaok]

Giving up

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Coaxing your neighbor into having sex with you although he's unsure since he's much, much older than you

Warnings: big ass unspecified age-gap, Jackson!Joel is a softie Smut| unprotected piv, crempie, insicure!joel, sub!joel, also my man has trouble lasting cause he's not done this in a very long time.

a/n:i needed to write some cheesy romantic stuff, and maybe it doesn't really make all that sense in this story and maybe i cried while writing this cause no one is ever gonna love me like this but so what bitch leave me alone (i also am i lil tipsy as i proofread this, so ignore any mistakes pls)

Part 1

"did you do something to your hair?"

Tommy was standing on Joel's doorstep, looking at him as if he were an alien.

"I washed 'em" he grumbled, "what do you want?"

His brother couldn't help but huff out a laugh

"someone's in a good mood today"

"I've gotta be somewhere, just tell me what you want"

Tommy's interest was only piqued more.

there stood his brother, his clothes perfectly clean- maybe even ironed- his hair... styled, his beard trimmed...

something was definitely going on.

"Where are you going?"

Joel rolled his eyes now, shooting his little brother a death glare

"none of your business"

Oh he knew what was going on...

"Who is she?"

"Tommy-"

"Is it Jessica? I bet 's Jessica, she's always flirting with you you ol' dog-"

Joel swore he was gonna punch him- he was already running late because of how long he took to pick his clothes- finding a flannel that wasn't completely worn out turned out to be real fucking hard.

He felt stupid for how much effort he'd put into getting ready, he felt stupid for how anxious he was, but most of all... he wanted his brother to go away.

"There ain't no one, Tommy- now, if there ain't anything you need, please go-"

But just then- just when he was finally going to get rid of him, your sweet, soft voice made its way to his ears.

"Hi Joel! Hi Tommy!" You smiled from your porch, waving your hand at him and his brother "You didn't forget about today, did you Joel?"

What in the actual fuck?

Tommy did a double-check, looking between you and his brother, and when he finally confirmed that it was actually him you were talking to, you whom he'd gotten all dolled up for, he couldn't do anything but let out a slow, long breath.

"No I didn't- I'll be there in a minute, darlin'!" Joel was answering you as his brother regained his ability to speak

"well... Fuck. Me" he was in awe, his voice barely a murmur

"it ain't like that" Joel was quick to intervene "'m just fix-"

"'m sure it ain't" Tommy let out a chuckle, his hand going to pat his brother's back "You fucking lucky bastard"

"Tommy I know she's young bu-"

"shut up man" he laughed "Just go have fun, you asshole"

__ __

"Sorry 'm late, Tommy was just-"

You smiled at his words, shaking your head

"It's ok, Joel" you cooed as you let him in,

He gave you a soft little smile, and you felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

Joel Miller didn't smile just at anyone.

"water?" you asked, leading him to the kitchen.

"Uhm- sure"

His heart was damn near beating out of his chest already- for no fucking reason at all.

Well except the obvious one... you'd sucked his dick and he'd eaten you out three days ago- and you'd made it clear you wanted more.

Jesus Christ, he felt like a fourteen-year-old with his first crush.

You watched him as he sipped on the glass.

"So?" a soft smirk was caged between your teeth "Did you think about it?"

He damn near choked.

Which didn't make any sense, he was expecting this, he already knew you'd ask.

He cleared his throat, diverting his eyes from you "I-I have"

"And?"

You'd gotten closer, your expectant eyes studying every inch of his face

pleasepleasepleaseplease say yes

"Did- didn't you have something that needed fixing?"

Oh for fuck's sake

"joel" you called for him in what almost sounded like a plead.

"darlin' just... lemme fix your cabinet first"

This man was gonna be the goddamn death of you.

"ok"

__ __ __

As it turns out, in many different ways.

Who knew watching him fix something would turn out to be so fucking hot?

He'd rolled his shirt up so that his strong forearms and a glimpse of his beautiful bite-worthy biceps were showing, his hands moved so very expertly that they couldn't help but bring back memories of what those same fingers had done to you just a few days ago, and his face... he looked so hot when he was all in his head, concentrated only on the task before him-

or so you thought.

"You're gonna stare at me the whole time?"

A soft laugh escaped your lips

"don't mind me- just enjoying the view"

He huffed out a laugh as he went back to work, but you couldn't help but notice the fact he pushed his sleeves ever further up his arms, giving you more of a view of his delectable skin.

What a tease

__ __ __

"there we go" he said after some time, opening and closing the cabinet one final time to make sure "all done"

For the record, this time you hadn't even done it on purpose, the cabinet had actually broken. It was like fate was sending you a message.

You awakened from your daydreams as he stood up to his full height, and hopped off the stool you were sitting on to walk closer to him, noticing some dampness in your panties while doing so...

It wasn't your fault... he was the one looking way too hot doing such a simple task.

"thank you" You smiled up at him, your hands going to his chest,

He held his breath for a moment

"'s nothing babygirl"

"yeah? then... you think you could check my bedroom too?" you were biting your lip in a way that made your question take on a whole different meaning "to make sure nothing needs fixing y'know?"

"In your... bedroom?"

"yes, Joel- please" you added, with your best innocent doe eyes.

Which of course made him fold in a matter of seconds.

You'd taken on a different tactic. It was obvious at this point that the man was too shy and too unsure to give you an answer (or the one you wanted to hear anyway), which is why you needed to present him with the actual possibility right in front of him.

And yeah maybe it was manipulative, but fuck it if you didn't wanna feel the man inside of you.

The flashbacks of what he did to you on that bed filled his mind the moment he stepped into the room.

He needed to get a grip or he wouldn't be able to hide his growing bulge in a minute.

"Everything seems right"

"yeah? 'm not sure about the bed" you hummed, desperately hoping he would just go along with it "it makes a weird sound when I get on it"

He turned to you then, his eyes locking with yours for an infinite second.

"try" you said finally, nodding to the bed.

He watched you for a moment longer before, surprising you, he did it- he sat on the bed.

The mattress creaked underneath his weight, and you made quick work of strolling closer to him as he pressed his palms on the bed, checking for the inexistent "weird sound"

"it don't look like there's anythin' wron-" he looked up the moment your hands found his shoulders "Whatcha doin'? sweethear-"

You were sat on his lap before he could even finish the sentence.

"Joel" you spoke his name softly, as if it were a caress, your hands slowly moving up and down from his shoulders to his pecs, as you finally scooted closer to him so your core was right against the hardness in his jeans-

He inhaled sharply, his fingers curling on the bed.

"would you like to have sex with me or not?"

You accentuated your words with a slow roll of your hips, grinding onto him and making a soft groan build inside his throat

"this- this ain't really fair sugar"

A smirk pulled at your lips as you lowered your head to whisper in his ear "I never said I didn't play dirty, Mr. Miller"

Your right hand trailed lower, moving down his belly so slowly that Joel thought he might just lose his mind.

"You're y-young baby-"

Your hand had found his crotch, the outline of his dick fitting in your hand oh so perfectly.

"we've gone over this already Joel, I'm old enough" you purred, your lips leaving a peck just below his ear "old enough to do many many things"

He cursed under his breath

"I just... I don't understand"

A breathy laugh escaped you

"there's not much to understand really" you murmured "You're hot, and I like you, and I wanna get in your pants"

That earned you a chuckle

"and you're sure you won't regret this?" he asked, "you sure this is what you really want- that- that you don't want to give a boy your age a chance instead of me?"

You smiled as you looked up at him,

you'd never met a man so sweet

"Joel, I promise you I'm sure" you whispered "I promise you this is what I want, you are what I want"

Fucking damn it

How could he ever say no after that?

With those gentle eyes of yours looking at him, with your hand right over his cock...

"So?"

He was gonna think about the consequences tomorrow. Now- now there was only you.

"yes"

That single word sounded better than any song you'd ever heard.

yes

Your lips were on his before he could even think of changing his mind- and god did they feel like a dream.

His soft stubble grazed against your cheeks and upper lip, as you deepened the kiss, as he opened up to you, closing his eyes only after he'd taken you in, only after he could admire all that was happening to him for some godforsaken reason.

A growl rumbled from his chest when your core found his dick again, grinding onto it in a way, that combined with the way your tongue was tasting every inch of him, was making him see stars.

He didn't think he'd kissed like this in 30 years,

making out seemed like such a distant thing from him, he was much too old to do something like this, and yet... everything about you made him feel like a teenager all over again, so perhaps it was fitting-

and god he had forgotten how amazing it felt.

You started undoing his flannen, not even dreaming of breaking the kiss, and once you opened his shirt up, once his big strong chest was right there before you, you just had to look at it.

You leaned away, his lips chasing yours making you smile as your gaze lowered.

Jesus, he was the hottest man you'd ever seen.

Some hair and freckles adorned his pecs, his little belly was ever so cutely fighting against his jeans- his skin was soft beneath your palms as they explored every inch they could reach.

He was looking at you, watching your blow-out eyes, wondering what potion you'd drank to be this mesmerized by what he had to offer.

You smiled once you caught him, leaning closer to leave a quick kiss on his lips.

"take off your clothes"

You got off of him, and once he saw you get rid of your shirt, your boobs pushed together by a simple black bra that somehow, at the moment, seemed like the sexiest thing in the world, he rushed to follow suit, nearly tripping getting off his pants.

The moment he looked at you again, the world- the universe, it all went quiet.

You stood naked before him, a soft, perfect little thing, looking like a damn dream.

"babygirl" he could only breathe as you reached him again.

"What?" you laughed

"I-I don't even know"

You shook your head, grinning from ear to ear as he pressed his mouth on yours again.

He was already addicted.

In a haze, you found yourself on the bed, your body caged beneath his, his tongue fighting with yours, his hands all over- You almost had the urge to laugh at how desperate he seemed, how frantically he was touching every inch of you, exploring every piece of skin-

His hands were on your tits, fingers gently playing with your nipples, then on your belly, your waist, your ass, your thighs, until finally, he found your core, but before he had the time to fully reach it you'd switched up with him, straddling his lap as he laid flat on his back... only he couldn't keep away for even a second and he immediately sat up, grabbing your waist.

He couldn't even begin to complain that you'd already grabbed his cock, positioning it at your entrance.

You couldn't wait anymore- you needed him now.

"Wait-" he murmured, his breathing labored already "you sure you're... y'know ready?"

Oh my god, you swore you were gonna fall for him if he kept this shit up.

"Joel" you smiled, looking into his big brown eyes "I've been wet since you fixed the cabinet"

"I-" he blushed "You-you sure?"

You didn't answer him, you simply took one of his hands in yours and guided him to feel just how much you were telling the truth.

"Fuck"

"yeah" you smirked "that's just what you do to me, Mr. Miller"

Jesus fuck

Joel didn't think his cock had ever been so hard.

You didn't give him time to do or say anything- he'd gathered that's how you did things by now- as you slowly, oh so very slowly, started sinking onto him.

He was big, the kind of big you'd be feeling tomorrow morning. The stretch hurt just right, so overwhelmed by the unadulterated pleasure that it was barely there.

Soft little moaned gasps spilled from your lips with every inch added, your eyes were closed, only focusing on the extraordinary feeling as your nails clawed at Joel's chest.

Until, finally- you'd done it. You were fully sat on his cock, and while your eyelids fluttered open, you regained your ability to hear- to hear the curses leaving Joel's mouth between ragged breaths

"Jesus Christ- Jesus fucking Christ- Goddamnit"

His grip on your waist was so tight you were sure it was gonna leave a bruise... not that you were complaining.

"you ok?"

His eyes were shut close and creases of effort filled his forehead, while his chest went up and down as he desperately tried to breathe.

"Joel?"

He swallowed tightly, now breathing in through his nose before exhaling from his mouth.

"d-don't move"

You smiled as you promised "I won't"

God this was fucking embarrassing.

He'd spent three days training.

And yes he wasn't sure he would have said yes, but still, better safe than sorry- except for the fact it clearly hadn't worked.

He had spent three days fucking his own fist and trying to last as much as possible and he did do progress... but this... this was fucking nothing like what he'd felt in the last twenty years.

He was so fucked

"I-I'm sorry" he gritted out, sounding almost defeated "I- I haven't done this in a long time darlin'"

"And you... you feel so fuckin' good- fuck"

Your walls had inadvertently squeezed around him at his words, making a groan rumble in his chest.

"You have nothing to apologize for Joel"

he would have told you that your voice was making everything worse if he weren't so preoccupied with trying to calm his dick down.

"take all the time you need"

And so he did, his eyes remained closed as he breathed through the initial shock, until finally, after what felt like an eternity, he was back.

He had to stifle a moan once he opened his eyes back up.

There you were, your beautiful eyes trained on his with such gentleness and care that it made where his gaze fell to feel even more sinful.

Your boobs were barely touching his chest, and yet they could have been in his face for the effect they had on him- his hands were on your waist, holding onto your soft flesh, your thighs were straddling his lap, giving him no choice but to finally look between your bodies, where you two connected.

"Darlin'" he murmured, hypnotized

You smiled, watching him admiring you in silence

"You look..."

Every word that came to mind wasn't enough, you were otherwordly, you were perfection... so he just settled on the simplest, and perhaps truest of them all.

"you're beautiful"

Your cheeks burned with heat as his gaze came back to yours.

"so are you, Joel"

And that was that.

His lips found yours again, and you couldn't stop your hips as they started moving, rocking back and forth and bringing little waves of ecstasy to your core.

A desperate moan spilled from yours to Joel's mouth as he grabbed the back of your head, forcing you into an even deeper kiss as he started following your movements.

Your hands went to the back of his neck, grabbing at the hair at the nape of it as you finally started bouncing on his dick, and god- god it was even better than you could have ever imagined

The loudest growl sounded from his throat as you worked yourself up and down on his shaft.

He was in another universe, his actions were only reflexes as the hand not tangled in your hair found your tits and then your ass, grabbing at it with tenderness and need.

"Oh Joel" you cried, his dick filling you up better than anything ever before.

You could quite literally feel him in your stomach, every little vein and ridge of skin creating a permanent dent inside of you that only he was ever gonna be able to fill.

"sweetheart- fuck" he groaned on his own, your breaths mixing as you ghosted each other's mouths, his eyes raking over your body and face, while yours couldn't help but roll to the back of your head as his manhood hit a particularly good spot.

"You feel so- good Joel" you whimpered mindlessly, now quickening your pace, desperation taking over you completely.

the sound of him entering your drenched core mixed with the bed creaking underneath you as you drove yourself closer and closer to heaven.

The sound of his name falling from your lips was something that filled Joel's chest with an indescribable feeling, he felt on top of the word, and at the same time... at the same time he wished it had never left your mouth because it was now forever imprinted in his brain, and he knew nothing was ever gonna compare to it.

Oh and also- also it was making his little lasting problem real fucking hard to control.

But he was nothing if not a gentleman,

You were gonna come, he wasn't gonna have it any other way.

His hand lowered down your belly as you kept chasing your release, looking like a damn glimpse of paradise, until his thumb found your clit.

"Oh fuck" you moaned, your eyes snapping open to look at him- a dark glaze of lust shading your iris.

Joel realized too late that he hadn't taken into account how fucking tight you'd get, and was now really paying the consequences.

Plus when you looked at him like that... maybe just this one time he could not be a gentleman- I mean it's not like he had much choice, he was trying his hardest but- shit

"darlin'" he mumbled, his thumb circling your bud "w-where do ya- where do ya want it?"

You moaned louder just at the thought of him coming

"Inside"

It wasn't even a question

"N-no sweetheart I-I shouldn-"

"Joel" you interrupted him, your lips grazing his as you talked, your grip on his hair tightening "I want you to fill me up until I can feel you leaking out of me for days"

Good Christ and heaven

"Fuck me" he cursed, all his strength going on not coming right there and then "Darlin' please- tell me you're close"

You were already seeing stars as he spoke

"I'm close, baby- oh fuck" you cried "Joel!"

A tsunami of lust-filled pleasure coursed through your veins as your orgasm hit like a damn truck.

You couldn't even remember your name as you screamed his own into the thick air, as you moaned and cried and spasmed around him, feeling him do exactly what you'd asked- filling you up to the very brim.

He'd started coming the moment you did- he couldn't do anything about it, it was just unadulterated perfection-

His head fell between your neck and shoulders as groaned like a man possessed,

until finally, after a good three minutes, you were both back to the land of the living.

He looked twenty years younger when he looked at you again, and you- you looked like the most beautiful woman on earth.

A soft smile pulled at your lips, and you couldn't help but ask "How long before we can do it again?"

And fuck him, but his age didn't matter, with those eyes of yours, it might very well be minutes.

@kluvspedro @bluebiyou @casssiopeia @bean-is-reading @millerispunk @i-cant-stfu

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Me, You, and Baby, Too

Summary: You and Joel have always wanted kids, but didn't want to rush into having them until you both were ready. After a surprise at his job, Joel realizes there's nothing more he wants to do than put a baby in you as soon as he gets home.

Pairing: Husband!Joel Miller x Wife!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.1K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), unprotected p in v sex (it's baby making time, so hush), oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, big ole fat and nasty breeding kink (.... don't look at me it's bad), creampie, cum play, talks of starting a family, calling Joel "Daddy" (in the sense you want to have his babies, but also 🤷🏼‍♀️), Sweet soft Joel who loves his wife and would give her the universe if he could, honestly with just the way Joel is talking about makin' babies, I think I'm pregnant

A/N: It's that time of the month where Madeline ovulates and writes feral breeding kink smut!!! 🤪 Okay I am so nervous to post this because I have never written for Joel before and I'm worried it's trash with a capital T, but after re-watching TLOU, I need 2003 Joel Miller carnally, so here we are. This is also inspired by @mrsmando post about 2003 Joel Miller constantly keeping you barefoot and pregnant because it made me unwell, and no lies were told. (thanks for ruining my life mimi) 🤠 ANYWHO I hope you guys like it, and if not, I'll shut up and go back to writing Javi and Frankie and pretend like this didn't happen

There were a lot of stereotypical answers that you expected from your husband when you asked him how his day at work had been:  

“Good.” 

“Fine.” 

“Long.” 

“My knees are killin’ me.” 

“Tommy did somethin’ fuckin’ stupid again.” 

“Better now that I’m home with you.” 

So when Joel arrived home today after a new job he had started with Tommy on a bathroom renovation, there were few things that could have prepared you for the response your husband had when you asked him how his day had gone. 

“Hey, honey. How was your day today?” You smiled, watching Joel stroll in through your front door, kicking off his work boots at the entryway, beginning to put away his things before strolling into the kitchen to greet you. 

“Pretty good." He paused, leaning in for a quick kiss before making his way over to the closet before speaking again. "Saw a real cute baby today.” 

You could practically feel your heart skip a beat as you looked up from the vegetables you had been cutting up for dinner, tightening the grip you had around your knife to make sure you didn’t drop it in shock. 

Out of all the things for Joel to bring up on the first day at a new job, a cute baby had been at the top of the list.

Not floor plans. 

Not timelines for the project.

Not something stupid that Tommy did. 

Not even what he had done today on the job. 

The top news that Joel Miller had to report back to you about his day was the sighting of a cute baby. 

You and Joel had always agreed that you’d wanted kids, and your husband had been not only adamant, but genuinely excited at the prospect of becoming a dad. But only being a little less than a year into your marriage, the two of you had decided you didn’t want to rush into anything, and when the time felt right, you’d both know it. 

But one by one, as your friends began to announce their pregnancies, baby showers, and pictures of their adorable newborns, you couldn’t help but deny the baby fever starting to burn hotter and hotter inside you with every passing day. 

You’d brought it up in passing a few times with Joel, talking about your friends who had kids, or a cute mom and her children you saw walking around in your neighborhood, and while he had always had a positive response to what you had to say, you just had a feeling that now just wasn’t the time for the two of you yet, and that was okay.  

But here you were, standing in your kitchen, jaw practically scraping the ground at the notion that your husband had dropped just about the least subtle hint ever that babies weren’t just at the forefront of your mind- they were on his, too. 

“Awh, really?” You asked, shaking your head to snap out of your shocked state, returning back to dice the onion you had been working on before Joel could turn around to see you after finishing hanging up his things in the closet, trying to subtly coax more information out of him. 

“Yeah.” He smiled, joining you in the kitchen, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer to his chest for a soft kiss to greet you, “The family we’re startin’ the bathroom reno for just moved in. Had their first baby a few months ago and just hadn’t had time to work on fixin’ things.” 

“So they’re already putting the baby to work with you and Tommy?” You teased, raising an eyebrow at Joel playfully, giving him a quick peck back on the lips as he laughed at your sass. 

“Cheap labor.” Joel shrugged back, playing into the joke, “Nah, she woke up from her nap while Tommy and I were runnin’ through some measurements so her mom brought her out for the last lil bit we were there. She was damn cute, too. Just smilin’ and laughin’ at everything.” 

You were glad Joel’s arm was still wrapped around your hip, because you were convinced if it wasn’t, you were about to melt to the floor into a puddle, watching how soft and sweet Joel was talking about a cute, smiling baby. 

“Well a cute baby definitely sounds like a very nice perk of being on the job.” You smirked, trying to play it cool enough to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. 

“Yeah.” Joel replied softly, quietly pausing for a moment, watching the gears turning in his brain, carefully calculating his words before he spoke. 

“You okay?” You asked, looking up at Joel, knowing your husband well enough that he had something on his mind he was trying to work up the confidence to spit out. 

Joel looked back down at you, big brown eyes locking with yours as his grip around your waist tightened ever so slightly, tongue swiping against his plush bottom lip as he took a long, deep breath in and slow exhale out.  

“Honey, what is it?” You asked again, now slightly concerned with how nervous your husband looked in his stoic silence, reaching up to gently wrap your fingers around his arm, thumb stroking his skin. 

“I want one.” 

You froze, worried that your heart may have actually stopped as you looked at Joel, making sure that you had really just heard what he had said. 

“W-what?” 

“I want one. A baby. I- I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked about it, but I’ve been thinkin’ about it a lot, and seein’ that baby today, it just- shit, I just couldn’t stop picturin’ what it would be like to have one of our own I guess.” 

If you weren’t a puddle before, you sure as fuck were now.  

An overwhelming sensation of nerves and excitement began thrumming through your veins, your heart beat pounding in your ears as your face grew warm and a smile started to spread between your cheeks. You were almost certain you had to be dreaming, asking again to make sure that someone needed to come and wake you up and send you back to reality. 

“Joel… Really?” 

“Yeah, really. Nothin’ I want more. I know I ain’t gonna even be close to the perfect dad, but I know you’ll be sucha good mom, and I’ll be damned if I don’t want some tiny lil versions of us runnin’ around. Couldn’t think of anything that would make me happier than that. Like I said, I know that we ain’t talked about in a while, and if ya aren’t ready yet that’s okay but I-” 

Before Joel could even finish the rest of his thought, you were pressing up to plant your lips to his with passionate intensity, hands roaming up his chest before cupping his jaw and the scratchy stubble of his cheeks while your stomach flipped with arousal and want, already feeling a damp patch beginning to pool in the cotton of your underwear. 

You pulled away, kisses traveling along his jawline and up his neck until you were nipping at his ear, the hot breath of your words whispering against his skin. 

“You wanna make a baby, Joel Miller?” 

“Fuck-” Joel groaned, reaching his other arm around you grab at your ass, pulling you in tight enough to feel the bulge beginning to grow under the denim of his worn jeans, pressing against your thigh.

“‘Cause there’s nothing that I want more than to make you a daddy.” You smirked, looking up to watch Joel’s eyes darken with lust, jaw going slack as a low groan rumbled in his chest, his once half hard cock now fully erect and straining against his zipper, trying to keep from giggling watching your husband try to string together any sort of thoughts to speak. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ-” He moaned, running his hand over his face to try and regain his composure to keep from busting right then and there. “You- fuck, you sure, baby?” 

“Mhmmmm. Don’t think I’ve ever been so sure of anything in my whole life. So sure,” you paused, softly pressing your lips to his between words, “that I think we should go make one right now.” 

Your adamant confirmation was all it took to set off something almost animalistic in Joel, crashing his lips back into yours in a messy clash of tongues and teeth, gripping his hands under your thighs to hoist you up around his hips and lock your legs behind the small of his back. Without ever letting your mouths part, Joel was already halfway to the bedroom before you had even realized it, playfully giggling at how frantically he was carrying you down the hallway, your bodies bumping against the walls and door frames, too focused on desperate and needy kisses for any sort of spatial awareness. 

Finally reaching your bed, Joel carefully laid you down, letting your back fall into the mattress, leaving your lower half to hang off the edge before your husband was on his knees, settling himself between your parted thighs. 

You sat up on your elbows, watching as Joel tightened his grip around the meat of your legs, peppering kisses up the inside of each across your soft skin before coming face to face with your core, planting another soft kiss there before letting his fingers ghost over your heat, still covered by your jeans. 

He rapidly worked at the button of your pants, shuffling them down off your hips to reveal your underwear, now absolutely soaked with arousal from the prospect alone of Joel knocking you up and carrying his baby. 

“Jesus Christ, baby girl, look at ‘cha.” Joel tutted, admiring how the cotton of your underwear clung to the outline of your cunt, sticking to the puffy and swollen lips of your pussy from how wet you were. “Haven’t even touched ya yet. This all for me, darlin’?” 

Just as you began to try and answer, Joel took one of his fingers, barely dragging it over the damp fabric before beginning to rub soft circles over your covered clit, eliciting a pathetic whimper from you at the electric sensation.  

“F-fuck- It’s all for you, b-baby.” You stammered, moaning even louder as a second finger joined the first, pressing more pressure into you sensitive nub as he nudged each of your legs to drape over his shoulders, his free hand tugging at the waistband of your underwear, making you instinctually lift your hips as he yanked them off your legs to crumple in a messy pile with your pants. 

“Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.” Joel mewled, running his fingers up and down through the weeping seams of your folds, toying with your entrance while draping his arm across your hips to hold your squirming lower half in place. “Wants me to fuck her full of me and fill her up so bad, huh?” 

“P-please, Joel. Want you to fill me up so badly.” You whimpered, staring down at your husband, a devilish grin spread across his face, licking his lips as his eyes darted back and forth between your blissed out face and the glistening mess between your thighs. 

“I will sweetheart, promise. Gotta taste you first though, baby. Gotta make sure you’re nice n’ready for me. ‘Cause once we start, I ain’t lettin’ you outta this bed ‘till I knock you up.” 

With that, Joel was diving between your legs, lapping you up in long and firm strokes, pressing against your clit in the way he knew would make you fall apart under his tongue. While he would have loved to have spend hours just like this, making you writhe under his touch, drinking up your arousal like a wandering man parched in the heat of the desert, Joel had one thing on his mind, and one thing only- 

To get you pregnant.   

Joel began to intensify the pace of his tongue, swirling and sucking around your clit as two of his thick fingers pushed into your heat, sliding in and out of your entrance with ease from how wet and worked up you were. Curling his fingers ever so slightly, you cried out as Joel bumped against your g-spot, pushing against the soft, spongy spot as his tongue worked its magic. 

You could feel the arousal shooting through your veins, heat beginning to bloom in your stomach as Joel fucked you with his fingers and mouth, shooting your hand down to grab fistfulls of his thick, brown hair to brace yourself for your impending orgasm. 

“J-Joel, oh fuck- Fuck, baby, I’m c-close. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.” You whined, pussy beginning to flutter around Joel’s fingers, the tightening only egging him on further to get you to cross the finish line. 

With just a little more pressure of his tongue, Joel could feel your cunt clamping down around his digits, watching the pleasure shoot through your body as you came, your orgasm crashing through you like a tsunami. 

As you reached your high, Joel drank up your arousal, not faltering in his pace, too focused on your pretty cries of his name being chanted like a prayer to do anything but keep going and making you feel good. 

Truth be told, Joel had gotten so lost between your thighs, the only thing stopping him was the tensing feeling between his, so pussy drunk and determined to fuck you full of him that he was worried he was about to cum too if he didn’t stop. 

Pulling off you, Joel frantically stood up, racing to undo his belt and jeans, yanking them down his legs in tandem with his boxers as his cock slapped against his stomach, precum already pearling from his tip, desperate to be inside of you. His shirt quickly followed his pants, ripping it over his head as his broad body caged yours under him, helping you to scoot back on the bed until your head hit the pillows, trailing kisses up and down your body the whole way. 

As Joel kissed and nipped at your skin, you quickly shuffled off your top and bra, leaving you bare beneath him, moaning as his tongue flicked against each of your newly exposed pebbled nipples, grouping your breast and kneading the soft flesh in his palms. 

Even though you had just came, you could already feel your cunt starting to clench around nothing, desperate to feel Joel inside of you, to stretch you out with his thick cock and fuck you until you couldn’t think straight. But with the way your chest was heaving and breath shaking from your orgasm, you could barely muster out the words you wanted. 

“J-Joel, p-please, baby. P-please.” 

You snaked your hand between your bodies to reach for Joel’s cock, wrapping your fingers around his length and swiping your thumb over his leaking tip, a low groan rumbling in his chest as you stroked him, trying to guide him to slide between your legs and ease your ache. 

Lowering his hips, you moved your hand and let his replace it, Joel pumping himself a few times before guiding his tip between your folds, collecting your slick to coat his cock, using every last ounce of self-control he had as his eyes locked with yours, wanting to see your face as he pushed inside you. 

“Please, what, darlin’?” Joel teased, knowing damn well what you were begging for. 

“Need to feel you, Joel. Need you to put a baby in me.” You moaned, reaching up to grab his face, your palm rubbing against his stubble as your fingers tugged on the curls at the nape of his neck. 

With one more pump, Joel lined himself up with your entrance, sliding into your heat, the sweet stretch and sting of his length making the breath hitch in the back of your throat, filling you up inch by inch until he bottomed out inside you with his tip just kissing your cervix. 

Joel couldn’t help but smirk as he watched your mouth fall open, parted lips letting a soft moan escape while your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head at the newfound sensation, giving you another moment to adjust before he began to slowly roll his hips, dragging his cock in and out of your core. 

“Christ, baby girl, so wet and tight. Like this pussy was made just for me. Made for me to fuck ya full of me until it’s got no choice but to fuckin’ take.” Joel groaned, reaching down to grab your thighs, pinning your knees to your chest, stretching you open to take Joel even deeper, practically feeling him in your stomach with the position he had you in. 

“Joel, oh my god- fuck, you feel so good. Fuck, baby. Want you to fill me up so bad.” You whimpered, Joel now beginning to pick up his pace as he thrust in and out of you, continually punching in that perfect spot over and over again, leaving your brain bordering on short circuiting. 

Joel’s fingertips dug deeper into the flesh of your thighs, pushing your legs down just far enough to be chest to chest with you, the sweat dampened curls of his forehead brushing against yours as your mouths met in an electric kiss, catching each other’s muffled moans with each snap of Joel’s hips. 

“Yeah, sweetheart? Want me to fill you up? Fuck a baby into you? Let everyone see what a pretty momma you are, carryin’ our kid?” Joel grunted, picturing you, months from now, belly round and tits swollen, pregnant with your baby, wondering how many you’d let him give you, because fuck, he’d keep knocking you up until he had nothing left to give. 

Each push and pull of your bodies against each other felt more and more electric, an undeniable coil tightening in your stomach with the way Joel was pounding into you and the hairs at the base of his cock were brushing against your clit, already feeling yourself beginning to teeter on the brink of pleasure once again. 

“Yes, fuck, fuck- yes, Joel. I wanna have your baby. Want you to knock me up so I can make you a daddy. Please, baby, please.” You were all but sobbing at this point, your fingers digging into the tan and sweat sheened skin of Joel’s broad shoulders, overwhelmed by the lewd combinations of Joel’s heavy pants in your ear and wet squelching of your pussy as his pelvis flushed against yours repeatedly. 

Joel could feel you beginning to tighten around him, pussy sucking him in with its warmth and wetness, ready to clamp around his cock and milk him for all he was worth. 

“That’s it, darlin’, I know you’re close. Gotta cum for me first though, baby girl. Gotta feel ya soak me before I stuff ya so full of me, I swear t’god, you’ll be drippin’ outta me for days. So fuckin’ full that I’ll get you pregnant right now.” Joel groaned through gritted teeth, leaning back to reach and grab your leg, wrapping it around the small of his back before you lifted your other to join it, locking your ankles to keep him as close to you as possible. 

“Joel, oh my god, fuck baby, fuck, I’m gonna- fuckfuckfuck-” 

Suddenly, your orgasm was rushing through every inch of you, crying out as the pleasure hit you like a freight train, choking Joel’s cock with your pussy, unable to do anything but relish in the white hot bliss that had you nearly floating out of your own body. 

While Joel would have kept fucking you until the sun went down, the truth was he was relieved to feel you cum, spending every second since your agreement in the kitchen trying to keep from finishing until he was balls deep inside you and you were soaking his cock as you reached your high. The realization that now was his chance to make good on his promise, to fill you up and fuck a baby into you, ignited something primal, feral, in him, pounding into you at a punishing pace as he could feel himself teetering on the brink of collapse right with you. 

“That’s my girl. That’s it, cum all over my cock, baby. Shit, I’m gonna cum too, fuck- gonna fill this tight lil pussy up so goddamn much, give you a baby, make you a momma, oh fuck!” 

With one final stutter of his hips, Joel let out a strangled moan, flushing his hips against yours as he milked himself of every last drop, painting your warm, wet walls with hot ropes of his spend, making sure nothing went to waste. 

He couldn’t help but but press even further into you, plugging you with his length and fucking his cum as deep as he could into your cunt to make sure it took, collapsing on top of you with his cock still buried in your heat, letting your chests heave together in sync as you both caught your breath. 

Joel was convinced he had never cum so much in his entire life, afraid that if he pulled out, that somehow he’d have more left to give, and sure as fuck wasn’t going to risk letting anything coming out of him end up not inside of you. 

Well, not until your muffled grunt rumbled beneath him. 

 “Joel, baby, I love you but you’re kinda squishing me.” You huffed, giggling to yourself as you watched your husband come-to in real time out of his post-orgasmic state, immediately offering a half muttered apology as he rolled off you, sitting back on his knees to admire the shiny and slick mess between your legs. 

“Fuck me…” Joel murmured to himself, eyes wide as he stared at your pussy- wet, puffy and soaking with your arousal, bringing his fingers to your spent hole as he watched a dribble of his cum begin to leak out. Gently scooping it up, he collected everything he could, pressing it back into your cunt before pulling his hand out. Crawling up the bed to lay next to you, Joel wrapped you up in his arms as the little spoon, peppering ticklish kisses over your back and shoulders, making you burst into laughter. 

“Joel, stop! That tickles!” You squealed, squirming in his grasp, trying to defend yourself from his unrelenting attack of soft, plush lips and scratchy beard dancing across your skin. 

“Don’t laugh so damn hard, or all my hard work’s ‘bout to come out!” Joel teased, giving you a playful nudge, pulling you in even closer. 

“Stop making me laugh, then! Plus, I think you came enough to put quadruplets inside of me, so I think we’ll be okay.” You snorted, Joel joining in on the laughter. 

“Baby, I don’t think I’ve ever came that hard in my whole goddamn life.” Joel sighed, shrugging as you rolled your head up to look at him and that stupid goofy grin he got whenever he couldn’t contain his excitement about something. “God, I love you.” 

“I love you too, Joel.” 

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, Joel slowly bringing his arm to rest across your stomach, thumb slowly tracing careful circles on your skin. 

“You’re gonna make such a good mom. I’m the luckiest man alive that you wanna have a family with me. Still not really sure what I ever did to deserve it.” 

“Joel! You’re gonna make me cry! And this is before pregnancy hormones, ya jerk.” You tried to laugh, choking back the tears welling in your eyes. 

“Yeah, what a jerk, your husband tellin’ you how much he loves you.” He teased back, planting a long kiss on your temple, before pressing another one to your lips. Another wave of soft silence followed, watching Joel’s face scrunch in a calculated concentration. “How big of a crib you think I gotta make? I don’t know ‘bout a rockin’ chair, but a crib can’t be that hard. I gotta measure the guest room tomorrow.” 

“Honey, I don’t even know if I’m pregnant yet, you don’t need to have a crib built tomorrow.” You teased, laughing at Joel, despite the fact his mind was already thinking about a baby room and accessories had you melting. 

“Sweetheart, what did I say earlier? I ain’t lettin’ you outta this bed ‘till we know there’s a baby in there.” He smirked, nodding at his hand still splayed across your stomach, “So you better get comfortable, ‘cause if it’s up to me, there ain’t a chance in hell we’re gettin’ anything but a positive pregnancy test at the end of this month, and we'll sure need that crib nine months from now. Never hurts to get a head start."

Tag List: (Sorry if I tagged you and you don't wanna be tagged, just let me know!!)

@chaotic-iguana @rhoorl @bbiophiliaa @pertinentpostmortem @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

@pedrobaby @fatima-marisa @beboldbebravethings @poodlebae @kittenlittle24

@3sriracha @jungchloee @perennialdoll247 @prettyinpunk85

@partyofone3413 @harriedandharassed @pedrohoe04 @theorganasolo

@endlessthxxghts @beware-my-thorns @missladym1981 @milly-louise

@jay-zzle @the-one-with-the-grey-color @persephone-girl @bitchesuntitled

@pedropascallvr @millennial-teenybopper r @nastiasnow @vee-bees-blog

@hopplessilse @mxtokko @its-nebuleuse @mandoisapunk @msmorningstaarr

@amyispxnk @honeyedmiller @mountainsandmayhem @picketniffler @burningnerdchild

@copperhalfcent @theoraekenslover @bloodyinspirationaldemon @vee-bees-blog

@samgirl4life @pigeonmama @survivingandenduring @itsokbbygrl @javierpena-inatacvestnotifs

[oldsoul007]

Dirty Cash

rich!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: After a reckless hookup leaves you buying a pregnancy test in a pharmacy, the last person you expect to run into is your father’s wealthy but quietly tortured friend, Joel Miller—sparking a forbidden, dangerously irresistible affair where passion, power, and vulnerability collide.

available to read

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part i)

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: this is soft daddy Joel like you've never seen before. angst, angst, angst. just heart-wrenching, gut-clenching, bucket-full-of-tears kind of flow. but I promise, I swear to you, it's going to get good!

Joel had spent the past week trying to ignore it.

The sound was distant, muffled through the walls, but it was there—constant, sharp infant's cries cutting through the night like something wounded, something helpless. The baby never laughed, cooed, or made small, gurgling noises that kids were supposed to make. Just crying. Night after night, the same pitiful wails, like it was fighting sleep and didn’t know how to be comforted.

And the mother?

Leela. That was her name. Tommy and Maria had told him her family had been here before them, before all of this, that she’d grown up in Jackson, that the big house across from his had always been hers. He instantly believed it—her place didn’t look like the others. It was well-kept in a way that wasn’t just for show. The wood was aged but polished, the porch steps sturdy, and the windows wiped clean even in the dead of winter. A home, not just a shelter.

But it wasn’t warm.

Not with that sound in the night. Not when he never saw anyone else go inside.

No one knew who the kid’s father was, and Leela never said. She wouldn’t even let people help her—not Maria, not the older women in town who had tried, not even the ones who had kids of their own and knew what to do. And now, at the end of another long day, that fucking baby was crying again.

Joel had tried to let it be. Had forced himself to breathe calmly, stay in his house, shut the curtains, turn over in bed and pull the blanket over his head like some stubborn old bastard trying to pretend it wasn’t his problem.

But it was.

Because he could hear it. Because it sounded fucking miserable. Because he’d had enough.

When the cries began to get worse into the night, that was his last straw. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked on his jacket, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stepped out into the cold, the door crashing shut behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the road, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared. The wind was sharp, biting at his skin, and when he reached her porch, he had half a mind to just bang on the damn door until she answered.

But then—he hesitated.

There was still a kid in there. The devilkin, probably. A baby nevertheless. And it's struggling mother.

He exhaled through his nose, loosened his fingers, and reached for the old metal knocker instead. Three firm, steady raps.

A pause. A paddle of footsteps down the staircase inside, light and hesitant. A sniffle. A sigh.

The curtains fluttered from nearby—just a fraction, just enough for him to catch the glint of an eye in the darkness, shedding a blade of light onto the frozen lawn. And then the door creaked open.

The poor mother looked like hell.

Her eyes—pretty, brown, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded—held the kind of exhaustion that settled deep, beyond sleep, beyond fixing. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips chapped to brown, her hair falling loose from whatever attempt she’d made to pull it back.

And the baby—the cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were worse now. Closer. Desperate. The sound reached him in waves, piercing and thin, rattling against the walls of the house and clawing at something deep in his chest. A familiarity.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, barely holding together. “I just…”

She trailed off as if the words had run out, or maybe she didn’t have the strength to find them. Then the baby shrieked, and she flinched. A full-body recoil, like something had struck her. She turned away, pressing her wrist to her nose, shoulders curling inward, folding into herself as though she could disappear into the space she took up.

And Joel—well, he had been ready to lay into her. To tell her to do something, to figure it out, to stop letting that kid cry itself raw night after night. But looking at her now, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking from something that wasn’t just the cold…

He couldn’t do it.

Instead, against every instinct, every frustration, he surprised himself by saying—

“Let me try.”

X

Joel didn’t exactly wait for an answer.

Didn’t stop to think if he had the right. Didn’t question if she would let him in, because the noise was still there, splitting the air, working its way under his skin like a thorn that wouldn’t come out. His jaw tightened, his hands curled into fists, and the next thing he knew, he was pushing past her and her doorstep.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Well, he had been, just not anymore.

It was desperation. A need to stop that noise. That noise had been giving him sleepless nights for a week now. And with it, came the memories he’d spent years burying. He couldn't afford to let them resurface by the likes of this strange, terrible mother.

The house smelled faintly of old wood, dust, and something softer underneath—like linen, like the lingering scent of a person who lived there and never left. It was dark, too, save for the single glow spilling from a room upstairs. His boots were heavy against the worn floorboards, his breath tight in his chest as he took the stairs two at a time. Three doors on the second floor, but only one was open.

He stepped inside.

The first thing he saw was the cradle, right in the centre of the empty room, as if placed there on purpose, a little crib mobile fashioned into wooden horses, dangling mid-air.

Old. Hinges barely holding together. The wood had worn smooth from time, its edges dulled, like something that had been used for generations. The mattress inside was thin, its fabric stained with age, but the sheets were neatly tucked. Arranged properly. Everything was in its place.

This wasn’t neglect.

This was someone trying—someone failing.

And then the baby. No older than a month, wriggling in its white nappy, legs kicking in frantic little bursts, tiny fists curled so tight they trembled. Tears slicked its cheeks, its face blotchy and red, its mouth stretched wide in a scream so raw, so piercing, that it stole the breath straight from the lungs. It was exhausted. Starving.

But goddamn, if that wasn't one beautiful fucking baby.

Biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, glassy with exhaustion, wet and searching. A head full of thick, dark hair, damp and curling at the ends. But it wasn’t chubby the way babies should be. Not soft enough. Too small, skin drawn tight, movements restless but weak. Malnourished.

His jaw clenched. He barely registered the sharp footsteps rushing up behind him until her voice cut through the noise.

“Hey, ‘scuse me, I didn’t let—”

He cut off her protest with an abrupt, “Boy or girl?”

She stopped short. Lips parting. Swallowing down whatever she’d been about to say.

“Girl.”

Joel’s gaze flicked back to the baby. He noticed the slight bloating around her belly, the way she arched and curled, restless, like she couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt. That explained the shrieking. Colic, for sure.

“You fed her anything?”

There was a thoughtful pause, and then, quietly—

“I—I’ve been having trouble with…” She gestured vaguely to her chest, gaze dropping, almost ashamed. “I tried water... um... I don't know.”

Jesus Christ. Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. Too late at night or too early in the morning—he didn’t know which, and at this point, it didn’t matter. His head ached. His body ached. And this kid—this poor, starving little thing—had been too hapless to be born to this fucking clueless, stubborn mother.

“Need to call Maria,” he said under his breath.

Her eyes went wide. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I'm fine.”

He let out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You don't. Your girl sure does. And try saying that when this crib empties in the next week.”

She flinched, shoulders jerking.

He barely registered it. He was already moving, already slipping into old instinct, the one he thought had died a long time ago.

Stepping closer, Joel reached into the cradle, hands slipping beneath the baby’s small, rigid body. Carefully, he eased her onto her stomach, a shush falling from his lips, settling her against his forearm, palm spanning nearly the length of her body. Christ, she was so fucking small. Too small. Probably premature. A frail little thing, light as air, fists still curled, breath coming out in tiny, shuddering gasps between cries.

Leela stood stiff beside him, her breath uneven, arms wrapped around herself like she wasn’t sure if she should step forward or pull away.

Joel didn’t look at her. His focus stayed on the baby. The way her tiny limbs jerked, how her cries wavered like she couldn’t decide if she had the energy to keep going.

He started rubbing slow, steady circles against her back, the calloused warmth of his palm pressing gently but firmly over her fragile bones. Something old stirred in him—something buried deep, something that twisted like a knife. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself. Just kept rubbing. Kept murmuring something low, quiet, something he wasn’t even aware of.

“Thatta, girl. There you go.”

“'Sokay, ssh. Ssh.”

“I got you.”

The wails started to waver, breaking apart in the middle, turning into stuttering hiccups, then snivels, a laughable baby burp that even had him breaking into a small smile. Then—

Silence. Oh, sweet, splendid silence.

Joel exhaled, keeping his touch steady as she shuddered against him, her tiny fingers twitching against the sleeve of his jacket.

“See?” His voice was rough. “Just needed a little push.”

Leela didn’t respond. She was staring. Not at him, exactly, but at his hands, at the way he held the baby. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Observing him, learning.

When he glanced down, she was blinking up at him, half-lidded, her breath slowing, her little body going limp with exhaustion. She made a wet, little noise, almost a soft coo.

“She got a name?”

When the silence lingered, he lifted his head, caught Leela’s stare, and cocked a brow when she didn’t answer. Then, she silently shook her head.

Joel frowned. “You didn’t name your kid?”

And just like that, something clicked into place. The way she stood there, arms locked tight around herself. The way she hadn’t called the baby anything. The way she hadn't moved a step close to protect her baby from this stranger. The hesitation in her voice, the way she held herself together like she was bracing for something.

“She ain’t yours?”

Her gaze flickered. “She is.”

Soft. Firm. After a beat, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the crisscross of stretch marks across her stomach, just above the line of her pants.

Joel sighed through his nose. His fingers ghosted over the baby’s small back before he finally let go, letting her rest in her mother's arms. It felt wrong—leaving the baby there like that—but he slipped his hand away, albeit unwillingly, and stroked her fine, dark hair once. Twice. Then forced himself to stop.

He exhaled sharply, standing upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His patience was hanging by a thread. His chest ached with something raw, something angry. He had no business being here, no reason to care, but—

"Look," he muttered, voice tight, "you shouldn't have had a kid if you were just gonna sit around and do nothing. Jesus, at least get yourself some help."

Leela cringed. It was barely noticeable, just a flicker of movement, but he caught it. She turned her face away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, and bit at what little was left of her nail, worrying it between her teeth.

The sight of it—it wasn’t what he expected. He had been bracing for an argument, for defensiveness, for anger. But there was nothing like that. Just the quiet gnawing of her thumbnail, the restless shifting of her fingers.

Something settled uneasily in his chest.

He exhaled sharply. "Maria’s coming in tomorrow," he said, firm. Like he was setting it in stone. "Whether you like it or not. She'll know what to do."

That made her glance up. And for the first time, he really saw her.

Not just the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, or the way she curled in on herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—but the fear. That deep, paralyzing kind of fear that settled into a person’s bones, made a home there.

Then his eyes flicked downward, back to the baby. She had her mother’s eyes. Big, dark, and brimming with something wild, something untamed. Something fragile, caught on the verge of bolting. And in that moment, they both looked the same.

Wet. Trembling. Exhausted. Confused. Helpless.

Leela swallowed thickly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. But when she did, her voice barely made it past her throat. “Take her.”

Joel blinked. For a second, he thought he must’ve misheard.

But she was looking at him—really looking at him now, eyes wide and wet, breath uneven like she’d just sprinted a mile. And the way she was standing, trembling, fists curled into the fabric of her sleeves—She meant it. She was serious.

"You're right," she whispered, voice barely there. "I might kill her. Just take her away, please."

A slow, sinking dread pooled in his stomach. His fingers curled at his sides, restless, itching for something to hold onto.

The baby stirred weakly against Leela’s chest, small fingers twitching up to her mother's neck, dark lashes fluttering against flushed skin. She had gone quiet, her body still in that way newborns only got when they were too damn exhausted to keep crying.

His hands twitched at his sides. He knew what he should do. He should take the kid. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? He should lift her into his arms, swaddle her in a blanket, turn on his heel, and walk out the door. Hand her off to Maria, and let someone who actually knew what they were doing step in. Hell, she’d been talking about trying to set up a proper nursery in town, get the kids what they needed—she’d figure it out.

But Joel didn't move; couldn't move.

Because now that he was looking at her, really looking, he saw it—saw the fear clinging to her like a second skin. Not fear of him. Not fear of what people might say. Fear of herself. Conviction was a luxury.

She stood there, arms wrapped tight around herself, her body drawn inward like she was trying to make herself small as if shrinking could somehow erase the truth. The baby rested against her chest, quiet now, as if sensing the shift in the air. Her fingers barely touched her child, hesitant, light, the way someone might hold a delicate piece of glass they weren’t sure they could be trusted with.

Joel’s stomach turned.

“I—I'm not—I can’t do this.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, frayed at the edges, raw like an old wound that had never properly healed.

He felt something sharp and hot twist inside him, something he didn’t want to name.

“You ain’t givin’ her up.” His voice came out rough, low, unwavering.

Leela let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I have a choice here?”

“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unrelenting. “I do.”

She sniffled, shaking her head again, but her fingers twitched against her sleeve, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

And Joel—Joel had seen this before. Had known people like this. People who stood at the edge of something dark, looking down, unable to turn back. He’d been one of them once. It made something ugly rise in his chest. Made him angry in a way that didn’t make sense, and didn’t sit right.

Because this mother—this stupid, foolish, ignorant girl—had no business being like that. She didn't even know what kind of luck she'd struck with that baby girl. He would've killed to be where she was, even if it was for a moment.

"You're a fucking coward if you're thinking about giving your daughter up.” The words left him, sharp as a blade, before he could stop them. “You got plenty of choices, but you're too goddamn pigheaded to make the right one."

She flinched. Not just in surprise, but something deeper—like he’d struck her with all his might, like he’d confirmed every awful thing she’d ever thought about herself.

Joel’s jaw locked. It was too late to take it back.

He should’ve stopped. He should’ve taken a breath, let the words settle and left it at that. But something about her, the way she stood there like she was waiting to be knocked down, made his patience snap clean in half.

“Pull yourself together,” he bit out.

Then he turned and walked out the door.

The air outside was colder than before, or maybe it felt that way. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he stepped onto the road, his breath coming sharp, ragged in the quiet of the night. His fingers ached, curled into tight fists, his pulse still hammering.

He was halfway across the street when something in him shifted.

His anger thinned, the heat of it fading just enough for everything else to creep in—her voice, her hands trembling, the way her arms had tightened around that kid like she was afraid of herself more than anything else.

He slowed, stopping in his tracks. The house loomed behind him, dark except for that single upstairs window.

Joel looked up at the home.

The cries had started again. Thin, reedy wails carried through the cold, through the walls.

He stood there, staring at the lights flickering against the frost-covered glass.

This time, jaw tight, he turned away.

X

That being said, Joel hadn’t slept well.

Not that he ever did, but last night was worse than usual.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was the baby’s cries again. He saw Leela’s face, dark and hollow, eyes too big for her sunken frame. He heard her voice, raw and trembling, telling him to take the kid—like it was the only way. Like she didn’t trust herself to keep her alive, already grieving her.

Even now, as he tugged on his gloves and prepared for patrol, he kept seeing the way she had watched him with her baby. He remembered the way she desperately looked at him, waiting for him to take the baby from her, as if letting go was the only mercy she had left to offer.

Maria was there now. She had let herself in, just like that. Hadn’t knocked, hadn’t hesitated. And Leela had not met her at the door, hadn’t locked it after Joel had walked out last night.

He adjusted the rifle on his back and exhaled sharply.

Not his problem. He shouldn't be bothered with it. He’d done his part. More than his part. He had brought help in, and gotten someone else to deal with it—someone better suited for this kind of thing. Maria would figure it out. She always did.

Still, as he swung himself onto his horse and rode out for patrol, that damn house stayed in the back of his mind. The way it stood there, quiet and still, while something inside was coming apart at the seams. The way Leela had stood in that dim room, shoulders curled inward, looking more like a ghost than a person.

He shook it off and went through the motions. Focus on the day ahead.

Patrol was long, tedious, and more of the same—checking the perimeter, clearing out old trouble spots down his trail, making sure everything was as it should be, and scouring supplies. A welcome distraction. When he stopped by Ellie’s as usual, she narrowed her eyes at him from behind her sketchbook, muttering something about how he looked like shit.

“Didn’t sleep,” was all he said. And she didn’t bother to press. Ellie was another long, welcome, more pesky distraction.

By the time evening rolled around, he’d fallen back into his routine. Routine. That was what mattered. He groomed his horse, rubbing his hands along its mane just to keep them busy. He cleaned his rifle, making sure the gears weren't easy to jam and stopped to pick up some new gear at the store. He grabbed a whiskey—alone—just to take the edge off, slowing down for a bit.

He finished the evening like always, grabbing a boxed dinner from the mess hall, not bothering to make small talk. No one asked anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. A night like any other. Something he repeated to himself, just to ground himself to reality besides the weight of his breaking boots.

Then he saw her. Maria was still at that house, waiting by the porch swing, face tense. She spotted him almost instantly and strode straight toward him.

Joel nodded at her in greeting, shifting the box under his arm. "You good?"

Maria didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sure. Got a second?”

He tipped his chin toward Leela’s door. "All set over there?"

“Far from it.” Her voice was tight, laced with something he didn’t like. “I need your help.”

Joel scoffed. “What’s the punchline?”

But Maria didn’t laugh. Didn’t even crack a smirk. Instead, she followed him inside his house.

Joel's 'home' was nothing special—functional, practical. Just a space to exist in. A couch pushed against one wall which he used more than the bed upstairs, a table he used out of necessity, a kitchen stocked with the bare minimum. Not much to look at, or even stay for long. It wasn't home, but it was enough. Certainly nothing like Leela’s home, where history bled through the worn floorboards, through the walls, a place that had been lived in.

Joel didn’t let himself think about it too much. He dropped the box of food onto the table, turning to Maria with his arms crossed.

“Well?”

Maria sighed, staring out the window toward Leela’s house. The porch light flickered weakly, and the house itself looked darker than it had last night. Like it had collapsed in on itself a little more.

“She’s not okay, Joel.”

Joel huffed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, pretending not to hear the implication behind those words. “Figured.”

“No,” Maria said, sharper this time. “I mean it.”

She turned back to him, her eyes shadowed with something heavier than just concern. She looked tired—worn—in a way that wasn’t just about the town or the thousand responsibilities on her shoulders. It was personal.

Joel exhaled through his nose, already feeling the walls closing in on this conversation.

Maria rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s disturbed. I don’t think she’s had a proper meal in days. She’s having trouble breastfeeding, let alone keeping herself together enough to care for that baby.” She shook her head. “I can’t be there all the time. I’ve got the whole town to run, a hundred things to look after. Tommy’s drowning in work. We're stretched thin as it is.” Her eyes met his, steady and pointed. “You’re my last resort.”

Joel frowned, jaw ticking. “And do what, exactly? Pretend like I've done this dance before?”

“Just be there,” Maria said so positively, like it wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the world. “Make sure she doesn’t slip up with the baby. Help where you can. Just a few days—until Tommy and I can step in.”

Joel dragged a hand down his beard, exhaling slowly. “You have got to be shitting me. You want me to play babysitter.”

Everything in him wanted to refuse. He’d done his part here. Hell, more than his part. He didn’t owe that woman anything. She had a nice home. Pretty face. She had her newborn. And if she didn’t know how to handle it, that was on her. He wasn’t looking to take on another burden. Christ, wasn’t he supposed to be done with this kind of thing? Wasn’t he past the point of taking in lost causes?

But Maria didn’t look like she was giving him a choice. Her voice softened, dropping to something quieter, edged with meaning. “I don’t think she had this baby with someone she knew, Joel.”

Joel stiffened. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but there was something unspoken there, something heavy, something that didn’t need to be stated outright. Still, it landed in his gut like a stone.

She let the silence stretch, let him fill in the gaps. And he did.

“I hope you understand what I'm getting at,” she continued. “I don’t think she wanted this at all.”

Joel clenched his jaw, staring at the floor, pretending like he didn’t hear them. He didn't ask how she knew, didn’t even ask what she’d seen in that house today that had led her to that conclusion.

Because he already knew. He’d seen it, too.

The way Leela couldn’t bring herself to name the baby. The way she looked at the child was like she was something fragile, something unfamiliar, something that didn’t belong to her. The way she had looked at him—not with resentment, not with anger, but with resignation.

Like she was handing over the baby because she genuinely believed it was the only way to save her. A fist of darkness curled in his stomach.

He knew what it was like to lose a child. He knew what it did to a person, how it tore through you, how it hollowed them out from the inside. But whatever this was, it wasn’t grief. This was something worse. He prayed he would never have to deal with this.

This was a woman standing on the edge of the deep and the dark, staring down into it, wondering how much further she could fall before there was no coming back. And there was a baby—a fucking baby—at her feet. Yet, she was ready to take that fall.

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, rubbing the back of his neck.

But the truth was, he’d already stepped in. Already gotten himself involved. Whether out of desperation or some obstinate, buried need to fix things that were beyond saving, he wasn’t sure. And now, if he walked away, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with the consequences.

Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls a little tighter. A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, reluctantly, he sighed. “This is a big fucking mistake, Maria. I'm the last person who should be over there with her.”

Maria nodded, hearing what she needed to hear, relief flickering across her face. “You'll figure it out. I'll be around if you need anything. Thank you.”

Joel didn’t answer. He didn't know what the hell he’d just agreed to, but something in his gut told him it was going to end real bad.

X

Morning light washed over his neighbour's house, soft and cold, as Joel made his way up the steps. It must’ve been the perfect little home once, back when the world was still whole—white clapboard, modest porch with a swingset, somewhere that had been waiting too long for someone to come back home. A place built to last. And maybe, before seasons and silence collapsed, it had.

But time had sunk its teeth in. The paint had started peeling in the corners, the wood of the steps groaned under his boots, and though the windows were clean, there was something hollow about the way they sat in their frames as if no one had looked out of them in a long time. It didn’t have the neglect of a broken-down house, but rather the hush of a place that had lost something vital.

And the front door was open again.

Joel clenched his jaw.

Maria had been right—that girl really didn’t have a single clue.

He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, careful, slow, not wanting to seem intrusive but unable to stop himself from taking in the room. It wasn’t what he expected.

Her home wasn’t cluttered, wasn’t in disarray, but there was something about it that felt… off. A mind too busy to bother with the details of living. Against one wall stood two large blackboards hung haphazardly over shelves, filled with complex math equations, numbers and symbols scrawled out in clean, sharp lines. A few pieces of chalk lay scattered at the base, alongside crumpled papers and a wastebasket that never quite caught them. Shelves held solved Rubik’s cubes, closed notebooks, and empty pens stuck upright in a pen stand. On the table, a coffee mug sat with dried stains at the bottom, an imprint of hands that had used it over and over, mindlessly, then set it aside without a thought.

Joel frowned, taking it all in.

A fucking scientist. That was the last thing he’d ever have guessed about her. Dr Leela last-name-something, the resident nerd mom.

He didn’t know what he expected when he climbed the stairs, only that something about the house still put him on edge. It wasn’t just the oddity of it—the blackboards filled with numbers, the pages of equations scattered like fallen leaves—it was the fact that none of it felt lived in. Clinical. Like the house had been built to serve a purpose, but never for a person.

He reached the top step just as he heard the baby girl’s soft fussing from down the hall. The sound made him hesitate. It wasn’t the sharp, desperate cries from the night before. This was softer, almost a coo, the kind of sound that made something in his chest tighten before he could push it down.

Carefully, he stepped forward, peering into the nursery.

Leela stood by the cradle, one hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the baby’s tiny stomach. It was almost an imitation of what he’d done the night before, but the difference was clear—where his movements had been firm, knowing, hers were unsure, like she was following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand.

She looked different in the daylight. Dressed neatly in a long, thin nightgown that fell to her ankles, her black hair was left loose, unbrushed, hanging past her hips in uneven waves, obviously never seen the business end of a scissor. The exhaustion was still there—was part of her, woven into how she held herself—but her face was smoother, her shoulders less rigid, like she had settled into something.

The floorboard groaned beneath his boot. Leela looked up. She even tried for a small smile. A little, ghostly quirk of her lips.

“Hello, Joel.”

He didn’t respond. Something about how she looked at him, or maybe how she looked past him, unsettled him. He didn’t like feeling that way—not in someone else’s home, not when he was meant to be in control of the situation. Instead of answering, he stepped toward the cradle, glancing down at the baby.

The baby girl let out a high-pitched whine, stretching, her fingers curling and uncurling before she kicked her little legs. Then, as if noticing him, her mouth widened into a gummy, toothless grin, her round face alight, untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Joel couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched, just slightly, before he shook his head.

“Managed to—?” He gestured vaguely toward her chest before pulling his hand back, curling it into an embarrassed fist against the cradle.

Leela caught on. Her fingers twitched at the pearly buttons of her nightgown. Just a small, involuntary movement.

“Oh… Maria told me to hold her close to stimulate… you know.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I fed her one of the bottles she gave me, too.”

Joel nodded. “And?”

Leela looked down at the baby. “She stopped crying.”

He frowned. “That’s it?”

Leela’s fingers tightened against her arms. “I… don’t know how to hold her without making her cry.”

The words made something dark flicker through him, he didn’t have the energy to name it. It wasn’t quite anger, but it was close. Frustration. Exasperation. A sharp-edged bitterness he couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

Joel scoffed. “You can’t hold your own baby?”

Leela looked away, her heart breaking in her eyes before she managed to mask it.

Joel exhaled, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “It’s not all math,” he muttered.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he reached into the cradle, slipping a hand beneath the baby’s head, cradling her against his arm, careful, practised. He eased her up, letting her body settle against his forearm, her head resting in the crook of his elbow.

The second she was in his arms, something inside him cracked.

She was tiny. So fucking tiny. Tinier than Sarah had been.

Joel swallowed thickly, feeling the light weight of her against his chest. He hadn’t held something this fragile in years—hadn’t let himself. But muscle memory took over before he could stop it before he could remind himself that this wasn’t the same. It was already clawing its way back to him. He rubbed a slow, steady hand over her back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She was warm and soft, her tiny fingers twitching against his shirt.

For a second—a half a second—he let himself sink into it.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered.

The scent of her, like the faded remnants of old cotton, the delicate press of her body against his. A ghost of something long lost. A time when his arms had been full like this when his days had been nothing but cradling Sarah against him, balancing a baby bag on his shoulder, and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, filled with groceries, with the Texas sun overhead.

A different life. A different world. One he had no business remembering.

Joel forced himself to blink out of it. He cleared his throat, shifting, pressing the feeling down before it could take hold.

“And that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t that hard.”

Leela was watching him. Not like she was waiting for him to say something—not like she even expected him to. She was watching the way he held the baby, the way she settled so easily against him. Studying him, the way she studied numbers and equations, looking for a formula, an answer.

He breathed out. “Here,” he muttered, shifting the baby carefully toward her. “You try.”

Leela didn’t reach for her baby immediately.

Her hands hovered, hesitant, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure how to move them. Joel could see it—the tension coiling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. Her breathing shallowed, her chest barely rising, as if even that movement might disturb the delicate balance between her and the tiny life in front of her.

But finally, she forced herself to move.

Her hands, unsteady, cupped beneath the baby’s body as if she were handling something breakable, something foreign. It was careful, but too careful—unnatural in a way that the baby could sense. And sure enough, the second Leela pulled her in, her arms locked tight, too rigid, too unsure, and the child stirred. A tiny whimper. Then a sharp, warning cry.

Leela stiffened, her grip faltering. The sound made her flinch, her breath catching, as though she’d been struck.

She barely lasted five seconds before her resolve cracked. She was already shifting forward, already pushing the baby back toward Joel, who took her without hesitation.

The crying stopped almost instantly.

Joel settled the baby against his chest, bouncing her gently, a practised movement. He didn’t have to think about it—his body just did what it knew, routine kicking in where hers faltered. The baby let out a soft, sighing coo, her tiny body relaxing, as if she knew she was back in capable hands.

Leela, however, looked shaken. Not in a dramatic way—she wasn’t crying, wasn’t breaking down—but her hands curled into fists, pressing against her stomach like she needed to hold herself together.

Then, she winced.

Joel’s attention snapped back to her, his gaze dropping to the way she clutched at her lower back, her body tilting forward ever so slightly like the pain had taken her by surprise.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “You wanna sit down?”

She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin.

Joel glanced around. There wasn’t much in the nursery. Just the crib, a long wooden bureau, and a mattress on the floor pushed against the far wall. No chair, nothing to lower herself onto easily.

With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his hold on the baby and stepped closer, offering an arm. “C’mon.”

Leela hesitated. Not out of pride—he could tell—but maybe out of uncertainty like she wasn’t used to being helped. But when she tried to move on her own, another sharp grimace crossed her face, and that was enough.

She let him guide her.

Joel was careful, supporting her weight without making a big deal of it. The baby stayed nestled in the crook of his other arm, still resting peacefully, unaffected by the movement. It wasn’t easy—manoeuvring both of them at once—but it was instinctual.

He helped her lower onto the mattress, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch before finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion. Leela eased back against the wall and settled into the thin cushion. A long, quiet sigh left her lips, her posture unwinding slightly like she’d been holding herself taut for hours—maybe longer. But even then, she still didn’t entirely relax.

Joel watched as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing back loose strands of hair, her fingers pressing briefly into her temples.

"I'm sorry, Joel."

He frowned. “For what?”

She inhaled deeply. “It’s only been three... four weeks since I delivered. I’ve just been feeling out of it ever since.”

There was no shame in her tone, no self-pity. Just a quiet fatigue. A statement of fact.

Joel pressed his lips together.

Four weeks. Jesus. That explained a lot. The exhaustion, the stiffness in her movements, the way her body still seemed like it hadn’t recovered from what it had been through. Hell, no wonder she looked like a ghost of herself. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back that fast—not without help. And from what he’d seen so far, she wasn’t the type to ask for it.

“She came too soon,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Leela shifted, tilting her head slightly toward him. "Eight months," she said, voice softer now. "That’s not normal, is it? It’s why she’s so tiny."

Joel didn’t answer immediately. Leela waited, like she wanted him to say more. When he didn’t, she tucked her knees up onto the couch, resting her chin against them.

She rubbed a tired hand into her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

There it was. Not frustration. Not helplessness. Just quiet, resigned truth.

Joel glanced down at the sleeping baby, still curled against his chest, her breathing soft and even. One tiny hand had fisted itself into his shirt, gripping instinctively—like she knew, on some level, that she had to hold on to something, someone, to stay safe. His grip on her tightened slightly.

Leela’s words sat heavy in his chest. I don’t know how to hold her without making her cry. And now this—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He’d heard new parents say those words before. Hell, he’d felt it himself, back then. But something about the way she said it—flat, detached, like she wasn’t even fighting it anymore—made something inside him go stiff.

Joel breathed out, shifting his arms so the baby settled more comfortably against him, and she felt so heavy all of a sudden.

Too much quiet, too many things unsaid pressing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to sit in it—didn’t want to acknowledge what it stirred in him. So, he broke the silence the only way he knew how.

"You could start by giving her a name," he said, glancing at Leela. "Not that 'baby girl' is a terrible name."

Leela blinked, then looked down at her daughter, studying her as if she were just now realizing that, yes, she still had to name the kid.

After a thoughtful moment, she lifted her gaze back to him. "Do you want to pick one for her?"

Joel snorted. "Me?"

She nodded, entirely serious.

He shook his head. "I think I'm gonna stick with 'baby girl.'"

Leela let out a small breath of laughter, barely there, but it softened something in her face. She bit her lip, thinking of a name, then murmured, "I always liked the name Maya."

"Maya?" He tested the name on his lips. "I like that. Maya. It’s pretty. Rhymes, too. Leela, Maya."

Leela’s lips twitched at that, and she shifted forward, moving closer without thinking, drawn in by something unspoken. She leaned down, head dipping toward the baby still curled up against Joel’s chest.

And for the first time since he stepped into this house, Joel saw it.

That fondness. It was small, but it was there—the quiet, aching kind of love that didn’t need words. The kind that made itself known in the way her fingers smoothed over the baby’s forehead, tracing delicate lines across her tiny features. In the way her body curled just slightly, instinctively, around her daughter, like even in her exhaustion, she was drawn to protect.

"Maya, Maya, Maya," she whispered, barely a sound, breathing the name into her daughter's ear as if speaking it into existence.

Joel watched her for a long moment, an unfamiliar phantom kick in his ribs. It was too much. Too close to something he didn’t want to touch, something that felt like the past reaching for him with cold fingers.

He should leave. He knew he should. Should’ve gotten up, handed the baby back, given some half-hearted promise to Maria that he’d check in, and then walked out that door.

But he didn’t. Instead, he settled in a little more, stretching his legs out, arms still loosely cradling the child.

He finally broke the silence with, “So, you’re some kind of scientist?”

Leela glanced up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m more towards math.”

Joel frowned. Math. In a world like this?

People didn’t survive with numbers. They survived with bullets and knives, knowing when to run and when to pull the trigger. You either killed or died. You either protected or raided. You didn’t see too many folks walking around trying to save themselves with goddamned math equations—unless they were Fireflies with delusions of rebuilding the world. That was the kind of thinking that got you shot.

His gaze flickered back to the crib. What the hell kind of life was she leading before all this?

He leaned back against the wall. “And just how long have you been here alone?”

“A long time.” She didn’t elaborate. Just glanced down at the baby, adjusting the folds of the swaddle with careful fingers. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought—“Not anymore.”

Joel didn’t know what to make of that.

His gaze flicked toward the stacks of books on the baby’s bureau, thick with dust on the edges but well-thumbed through. He hummed. “And you do… math?” He made it sound ridiculous because it was.

She only nodded, unbothered. “Analytic geometry and a bit of mechanics. My parents used to work at NASA. I took up their research once I was old enough to understand. They loved to teach me all about it.”

Joel blinked. NASA? Ellie would lose her little mind if she were here.

He studied her again, reassessing. She didn’t look like someone who used to be involved in something that big. Not now, anyway. Dressed in an old nightgown, her hair hanging in dark, tangled waves, bruised-looking eyes that made her seem older than she was.

He hesitated before asking, “And just how old are you?”

“I’m turning thirty soon.” She didn’t sound glad about it. Then again, no one ever did.

But there was something about that number that made his stomach turn. Maybe because of all her intelligence, all her sharp, clinical detachment, she looked young under the weight of everything she was carrying. Or maybe because twenty-nine didn’t seem old enough to have gone through the kind of hell that made a mother flinch at her own baby.

Joel wanted to press further. Wanted to ask why she was alone, how the hell she had made it this long without the baby’s father, how a girl who could do math for NASA ended up here—malnourished, exhausted, hunched over on a mattress like she was carrying the whole world on her back.

But before he could, Maya stirred.

A small, sleepy movement. Tiny fingers wriggled their way free from the swaddle, barely curled, stretching toward the air. The whimpering started softly, then built, that newborn cry that was both fragile and urgent all at once.

Leela straightened instinctively, her hands twitching toward her daughter. But this time, when she lifted Maya from Joel’s arms, she didn’t hesitate. She held her with a little more certainty, a little more care, cradling her close to her chest as if she were nestling something precious rather than foreign.

Joel let out a slow breath. Good. Progress.

Then, before he could so much as glance back up, Leela started unbuttoning her nightgown, the lapel falling open.

His eyes snapped away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. “Christ.”

“Oh, god—! I’m so sorry, Maria said to try—”

“’Sall good,” he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at her. “Just, uh—go for it.”

“I’ll cover up. Sorry.”

Joel nodded stiffly, still keeping his head turned. But in the silence that followed, his body didn’t quite relax.

He listened. Not just to her, but to everything. The rustle of fabric, the faint, uncertain exhale as she adjusted her hold, the wet, rhythmic sound of the baby nursing, the occasional tiny sigh. A noise so small it barely existed, but it filled the quiet all the same.

Joel let out a breath through his nose, sinking into himself, gaze flickering absently around the room. He took in the details he hadn’t paid much attention to before.

The crib—old, but sturdy. The mess of books stacked against the walls, as if she had been trying to build some kind of fortress out of paper and ink. The curtains were drawn too tight, like she didn’t want the outside world bleeding in. And the emptiness—the distinct lack of anything that made this place a nursery. No toys. No clutter. No warmth.

He knew that kind of space. Knew what it meant when a room felt temporary, even when someone had been in it for years.

“I’m decent now.” Her voice was quiet but certain.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. A blanket was draped over one of Leela’s shoulders, concealing both her and the baby beneath it. His eyes traced over her face, the way she was staring down at Maya—not with the ease of a mother who had done this a hundred times, but with the focus of someone trying to get it right. Like she was handling some delicate equation she couldn’t afford to miscalculate.

The baby suckled noisily, and Joel saw the way Leela’s fingers curled against the fabric, white-knuckled.

"Do you have many children, Joel?" she asked suddenly.

He stilled. The question—simple, almost offhanded—landed like a hammer.

His fingers curled against his knee, tightening. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time he’d asked himself that. But coming from her—a woman he barely knew, holding a baby that wasn’t much more than a handful of weeks old—it hit differently.

Did he have many children? No.

But he had one. Had. That word sat on his tongue, sour and heavy, pressing against the backs of his teeth. He could say it. Could let it out, let it breathe. But if he did, it would only linger, thick and unwelcome, in the air between them.

He grunted out, “Not your concern.”

Leela nodded once, quiet and accepting. She didn’t pry, didn’t press—just dropped her gaze back to Maya, adjusting the blanket with slow, careful fingers.

“I understand,” she murmured.

Joel wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. Maybe it was the way she said it—flat, unbothered. Not some empty reassurance, not some half-hearted attempt at sympathy. Just a statement. Honest. And somehow, that made it worse.

Silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable.

Joel let out a slow breath and glanced toward the window, toward the faint light filtering through the edges of the curtain. The town was waking up. People were starting their day, going about their lives. Normal. Simple. This? Sitting here in this too-empty house with a woman he didn’t know and a baby who had seen too much of the world already? This wasn’t simple.

Then, her voice—quiet, hesitant.

"Did your baby ever feel like a stranger?"

He turned to look at her, watching as she nursed the baby beneath the blanket. Her head was slightly bowed, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against the tiny foot poking free. It was such a small, natural gesture—one he’d seen a thousand times from mothers who loved their children without thought, without hesitation. And yet, coming from her, it felt… disconnected. As if she was mimicking something she wasn’t sure she believed in.

The question settled deep in his chest, pressing against something sore.

"Never." The answer came without thinking. Without doubt.

Sarah had never been a stranger. From the second she was in his arms, slick and tiny and furious at the world, she was his. He hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, but love—love had been instant, bone-deep. A gut punch. A freefall. A terrifying, irreversible thing. It had been impossible not to love his daughter.

That’s how it should feel. But Leela—she looked like she was still waiting to wake up from a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

Leela exhaled softly, barely a sound, but Joel caught it. It hit him harder than it should have.

"I wish I felt that way," she muttered.

That did something to him.

It wasn’t pity, exactly—Leela didn’t seem like the kind of woman who wanted pity. No, it was a knowing. A recognition of something lost, something stolen before it ever had a chance to be hers. Joel had lost things, too. He understood that kind of grief, even if this one wasn’t his to carry.

Leela had slipped back into that blank, distant sadness, like she was stuck in it, unable to claw her way out. And Joel wasn’t the kind of man who offered words where they wouldn’t make a difference, but Maria had asked him to help, and he’d told her he would. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. He never had been. Words were never easy for him. Feelings even less so. But he knew how to read people, how to see what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

So, he did what he could.

"She looks like you," Joel mused, almost without thinking.

Leela hesitated, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. "You really think so?"

He smirked, nodding toward Maya. "Look at that. The eyes, the nose, the hair. That’s all a mama’s girl."

She glanced down at the baby in her arms, her fingers stilling against Maya’s tiny foot. For a second, something in her expression wavered—like she was trying to see what he saw, trying to find herself in this child. "Mama’s girl," she murmured, testing the words on her tongue as if they didn’t quite belong to her yet.

Joel felt something shift in his chest, just a little.

It was something.

Still, his eyes drifted over the room, taking in the stark walls, the empty corners. The air in here was cold—not from the weather, but from the lack of anything. There was no sign of her in this space. No warmth, no comfort, no life. It felt temporary, like she hadn’t put down roots. Like she was waiting for something.

Or maybe like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay.

He exhaled, tipping his chin toward the crib. "Though, she’s gonna be real disappointed when she sees the state her mama’s kept her room in."

Leela’s brows knit together as she looked around as if really seeing it for the first time. "I tried my best. Is it that bad?"

Joel huffed, shaking his head. "It could use a little more work." He gestured toward the crib. "Fix another one of those." Then to the bare space near the window. "Somewhere to sit. Some shelves there." His gaze travelled to the walls. "Fresh coat of paint. Some new lights."

Leela studied him carefully, her lips pressing together. "I don’t want to impose."

He shrugged, leaning back on his palms. "You won't. I like to keep busy."

Leela gave him a look—one of those assessing, sceptical looks he was starting to recognize from her. The one that suggested she wasn’t sure if she could trust him yet. "Are you sure?"

Joel let out a short, dry chuckle. "I was a contractor before the world went to shit, sweetheart. This is a cushy job." Then he cocked a brow. "And I’m fifty-six, not dead."

Leela bit her lip to hide a teasing smile. "Could’ve fooled me."

Joel levelled her with a look, but there was no real heat behind it. "You want me to take that crib back down?"

That did it. She laughed—an actual laugh. Not the polite kind. Not the uncertain kind. A real, full sound, one that cracked through the quietness of the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

The motion jostled Maya, making her let out a startled cry of protest.

Leela immediately sobered, her expression softening as she adjusted the nursing baby under her blanket, tucking her closer. She began to coo under her breath, "Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Mama’s here."

Joel caught it. That shift again. That slight change in her voice when she said Mama. Like she wasn’t quite sure of it yet. But it wasn’t just an obligation or just guilt, or uncertainty.

This time, it sounded like she meant it.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just sat back and watched, letting her find her way.

X

Fifteen days.

That was how long he’d been here. How long he'd been wedging himself into a life that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a mother and child that weren’t his to take care of.

And yet, every night, when the baby cried, he found himself plodding up the stairs like it was instinct. He’d lean in the doorway, watching as Leela sleepily nursed Maya, her heavy arms curled around the tiny, wriggling body. Some nights, she fed her from the bottle, but as the days passed, that sipper gathered dust.

It was slow. Subtle. She was feeding her baby more.

And Joel—he was still fucking here. He didn’t think much about the why of it because he figured if he did, it would only lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he knew was that it felt natural, falling into this quiet rhythm with them. Like it had always been this way.

The couch downstairs became his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it didn’t matter much. As long as he didn't throw his back out. It was easier than going back to an empty house. Leela, for her part, never asked him to stay, but she never told him to leave, either. Maybe that was her way of saying she wanted him around. Or maybe she just needed him to be.

"You don’t have to—" she had started one night, catching him setting up his makeshift bed.

"I know," he cut off before she could finish.

He kept his hands busy, too. That helped a lot.

The crib came first. A slow project, one he didn’t rush, because what else did he have to do? He sanded the edges and smoothed them down so there’d be no risk of splinters. He reinforced the frame, extended the width, and even managed to track down some pink paint to liven it up.

It was a stupid thing, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Like he was helping in a way that made sense.

Leela had caught him painting one afternoon, crouched over the crib with careful, measured strokes.

"Pink?" she’d said, standing in the doorway, one brow raised.

Joel had glanced up, brush still in hand. "What? You don’t like it?"

Leela had hummed, considering. Then, softer, "I think Maya will like it."

Something about the way she said it—like she was finally thinking about that, about what her daughter would like—made him grin to himself. He continued the long stroke of paint down the crib.

Then there was Leela. It had been easier, at first, to pretend he was only here for the kid. That his concern for her was secondary. But after the first week, it became clear—that wasn’t true.

She was unraveling.

Joel noticed it even when she thought he hadn’t. The unbearable insomnia. The way she startled awake like she was being wrenched from nightmares. The way her eyes stayed shadowed, dark-rimmed and tired, and how she never seemed to eat a full meal.

Just because he tried not to bother, didn’t mean he didn’t notice. She had once fallen asleep at the kitchen table, arms folded beneath her head. Joel had set a bowl of soup down in front of her, the sound making her jolt awake, eyes wide, gasping and panicked.

She blinked at him, disoriented, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. "I—I wasn’t sleeping."

"Alright," he said, pushing the plate closer. "Eat."

Leela wavered, nose scrunching. "I’m not—"

Joel shot her a look. "Eat."

She sighed. But she picked up the spoon.

He didn’t bother to push or pry any further. He stopped himself there. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t the kind of person people confided in. It was better off this way.

So he willfully ignored it. Turned the other way when she wiped her eyes too hard when her shoulders shook just a little when those deep, muffled sobs filtered through the walls at night. Every part of him told him to cross that invisible line—to do something—but instead, he stepped outside, leaned against the stoop, stared at nothing.

One night, he heard it—soft at first, then breaking, like something deep inside her had finally snapped. Anyone reasonable would've gone up to comfort her. Fuck, it was already turning him inside out.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long moment, jaw tight, staring up at the dark landing.

Then he turned around, walked outside, and sat on the porch steps, letting the cold bite into him. Good. He huffed out a wispy breath, quietly waiting for the sounds to pass. This wasn’t his problem.

One unlucky day, the second he stepped into the stables, Ellie gave him a knowing, annoying look. "Jesus, what's worse than shit? Because that's what you look like."

Joel huffed, adjusting his grip on the saddle he was carrying. "Thanks, kid."

Ellie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. "Seriously, you look like hell. Where the fuck have you been?"

Joel grunted, busying himself with the straps, not looking at her. "Been around."

Ellie scoffed. "Been around? What the hell does that mean? You've been busy playing house with the lady at the big house?"

His jaw flexed and fingers tightened on the cords. And Ellie caught it. Her smirk sharpened.

"Oh my God. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, huh?"

Joel shot her a look. "No."

"Yes," Ellie drawled, crossing her arms. "Dude. I knew something was up. You’ve been MIA. I thought maybe you finally croaked in your sleep, but nope—turns out, you’re off fixing pipes and babysitting."

"I ain’t babysitting," Joel muttered, too quick.

Ellie smirked harder and drawled out, "Riiiight."

Joel let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, shaking his head. "She needed help. That’s all."

Ellie clicked her tongue, rocking back on her heels. "Hmm. Right. Just help. No attachment, no paternal instincts kicking in. Oh, definitely not. Not Joel Hardass Miller. He’s just the neighbourhood handyman now."

He cut her a sharp look. "Ellie."

She grinned, enjoying this way too much. "What? Just saying. It’s kind of adorable. Old man Joel, all domesticated. It's nice."

Joel muttered something under his breath and turned away, ignoring her. Oh, but she was far from done.

"So, uh…" she cleared her throat. "How’s the baby?"

He hesitated.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d started watching that kid. Listening to her. He knew Maya’s different cries now—hungry, fussy, lonely. He knew the way she liked to be held, the way she calmed when he rubbed her tiny back. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would hear her tonight, whether he was there or not.

"She’s uh, good," he said finally. Kept his voice level, unaffected. "Stronger. Sleeps better."

Ellie studied him. "Bet she likes you."

Joel shrugged, trying to play it off. "Babies like warm bodies, Ellie. Ain’t that deep."

Ellie snorted. "Sure. And you're a warm bundle of joy." And then, just when he thought she was about to let it go—"You’re gonna miss her, huh?"

Joel's hands dropped to his sides. Ellie wasn’t teasing anymore. Her voice had gone softer, something knowing creeping in.

And he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t about to start thinking about that. About leaving. About hearing those cries and knowing he wasn’t supposed to be the one answering them anymore.

Joel slowly adjusted the saddle and grunted. "You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help me get this horse ready?"

Ellie sighed, shaking her head, but didn’t push. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad."

"Ellie."

But she was already cackling her goddamned head off. "This is rich. Daddy Joel."

Still, Joel stayed in that big house. Just a few more days. And the more he stayed, the harder it became to keep his distance.

It had started small—fixing things around the house, making little adjustments to help Leela care for the baby, and bringing her food. He fashioned a sling for her out of an old scarf and showed her how to wear it. At first, she’d been rigid, reluctant. But Maya—baby girl took to it immediately, curling into her mother’s chest, small fingers grasping at the fabric.

Joel wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but something about that moment had stuck with him.

Because for the first time, he saw Leela hold her. Not just carry her.

And then there was Maya herself. The little ray of sunshine was growing, filling out. No longer that fragile, underfed thing he’d first seen in the cradle. Her limbs weren’t so thin anymore, her eyes brighter, more alert. She’d started watching things with intent—fixating on his hands when he worked, tracking his movement around the room, making little fists and clumsily bringing them to her mouth.

She smiled more, too. And it did something to him. It shouldn’t have.

He shouldn’t have felt that warm pull in his chest every time her tiny mouth curled into something resembling a grin. Shouldn’t have liked the way her whole body wriggled when she was excited. Shouldn’t have let himself get used to the small weight of her when Leela, in her exhaustion, wordlessly passed her to him, and he found himself rocking her without thinking.

But it had happened, slowly and without permission. And now, when he held her, it felt natural.

Maya knew him. Trusted him.

That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

And then, on what must’ve been the third week, Tommy and Maria showed up at the door. Joel knew it the second he opened it—that this was an extraction.

Tommy stood there with that damn smirk, the same one he used to wear when Joel got him out of trouble—except this time, it wasn't his brother who had been looking for a way out.

"You're officially relieved of duty, big brother."

Joel grunted, letting his brother pull him into a quick hug. He clapped him on the back, but his grip was just a little too firm. A little too final. "Didn’t know I was on duty."

Maria stepped in next, squeezing his shoulder, her eyes warm with something Joel didn’t want to name. "Thank you, Joel."

He didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t say anything at all. Just gave a small nod, because that was easier than acknowledging the importance of what he’d done. No need to attach importance to what he was walking away from.

He felt Leela before he saw her.

She stood behind them by the front door, her arms loose at her sides, watching but not interfering. She was dressed in a warm sweater and pants this time, although he liked seeing her in that long nightdress of hers, the one with the pearl buttons.

She didn’t say anything. And neither did he. Because there was no point in goodbyes.

Instead, he gave her a nod—brief, almost impersonal—and then he turned, stepping off the porch, his boots heavier than they should’ve been.

Maria’s voice, quiet but clear, carried behind him as she spoke to Leela like she was approaching a wounded deer. "You feeling okay, baby? Come on, let’s talk."

Joel kept on walking. Crossed the street.

And for the first time in fifteen days, he realized—he didn’t want to go home. Because home meant silence. Home meant absence.

Home meant walking into a house where there was no tiny, fussy cry in the middle of the night. No bleary-eyed woman fumbling with a bottle, no soft, small weight curled against his chest when exhaustion finally won out.

For fifteen days, he had fallen into something. A rhythm. A purpose. A role. And now, as he stepped through his own front door, into the empty space that used to feel normal, Joel realized he’d done something reckless. Something he never should’ve allowed.

He’d let himself care.

X

read on: masterlist

[I really like this one, so much! I love how sweet it turned out, how JOEL of him it is, and how Leela is just that sweet, confused mother. I think I'm going to really love building on this one! ]

[ taglist : @cuntstiel , @bubblegumpeeeach , @evispunk ]

[majestyeverlasting]

can you write something angst like joel miller and reader having bad argument and joel lost his cool and feels bad and trying to fix it, something like that

your fics are amazing btw❤️❤️

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

pairing joel miller x female reader summary after a tough patrol, joel grapples to accept the one thing he craves but fears the most—love [angst, happy ending, 2k] a/n you're more amazing, anon ♡

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

Today’s patrol doesn’t follow Joel home. It fastens itself to his shoulders, forcing him to carry it. Each labored step is a reminder of the long hours spent postured on horseback, rifle slung over his shoulder. If he was twenty years younger, he reckons his body wouldn’t protest against him as often as it does. Unfortunately, there’s no way to chase those years back down. They belong to the past alone, loaned only through memories. 

How he feels at the end of a patrol is a wildcard these days, but he fares better on the mornings he remembers to stretch and when he's man enough to take adequate breaks throughout the shift. 

On days like this, when Joel was paired with fresher, younger guys like Caleb, so many of those wellness practices were disregarded. Being as sharp as possible ensured there were no slower moments that could be taken for weakness. All it took was one second of a lowered guard to be blindsighted. 

Even if Joel wanted to summon a fraction of his youth, he wouldn’t be able to after today. Shouting orders had reduced his voice to a graveled rumble. 

A little past five-o-clock, he and Caleb spotted a group of infected lingering near a fallen body in the distance—a nameless, faceless man sheeted from the most recent snowfall. There was no more breath in his lungs, but it appeared as if he were merely lying there asleep. His puffy blue coat was a pop of color amidst stark white and rogue twigs. 

Caleb insisted on burning the body so the poor man wouldn’t resurrect as the undead. But Joel had witnessed his fair share of courtesies gone wrong. If he didn’t do anything else today, he refused to add the boy to the list of casualties in his consciousness. So he demanded they leave it be. All that mattered was two of them making it back to the commune alive. The man was a stranger after all. And there was no such thing as helping the dead. Not really. 

Even as the Clickers picked up on the trodding of their horses’ hooves, Caleb’s gaze stayed on Joel like he was the monster.

“So we’re just gonna leave him?” Caleb asked. 

Joel dismounted his horse and wrestled his rifle into position. In a quick series of echoing shots, he took down all six infected, their bodies thudding to the snow. A couple ravens fluttered from the treetops, jet black against the pale sky.

“One match, man. It’ll only take a second.” 

“No!” Joel asserted. “We gotta get out of here. Probably just attracted more.” 

So they left him there, face down in the snow. 

By the time Joel crawls up the creaky steps of his front porch, he’s ready to collapse onto the couch, his bed, or any surface willing to catch him. But he won’t sleep because of his buzzing nerves. By some miracle, he sees himself inside, shrugging his backpack to the ground with a weighted thump. 

As drained as he is, the soft shuffling in the kitchen sets him right back on alert. He knew Ellie was at Dina’s tonight, and there was nobody else he’d been expecting over. If he weren’t so on guard, he’d notice the savory scent of garlic and onion in the air. 

The heavy sound of his boots precedes him as he strides into the kitchen. Upon seeing your frame standing at the stove, clad in an oversized knit sweater, Joel freezes in place. The furrow between his brows disappears as if it were never there. You peek over your shoulder with the sweetest smile, and for a moment, he forgets the ache in his muscles. The weariness that feels bone-deep. 

Slowly, however, the crueler side of reality creeps back in despite his efforts to cling to the good. At the very same time, you realize it hadn’t been just another day of patrol for him. There’s a slouch to his shoulders, and slightly bloodshot eyes take inventory of everything around the room while refusing to meet yours. Sympathy is quick to take root. 

You’ve made dinner. He gathers that much, noting a pot bubbling on the stove behind you. His stomach rumbles lowly at the prospect of food. 

“Hi,” you say with a dampened smile. You try again when he doesn’t meet your gaze. “Joel?” 

There’s nowhere to hide since you’re here. He’d anticipated coming back to an empty house where he didn’t have to be perceived. To be seen so intimately. 

A mix of frustration, embarrassment, and unworthiness rise within him to the point where he’s certain he’ll burst. The last person he wants to suffer from the fallout is you. Yet here you are, a selfless presentation that makes him wish he didn’t destroy every ounce of good he touched. 

His attention is intense when it falls on you. An underlying softness tries to prove itself true, only to be engulfed every time it takes a chance. 

“Never asked for all this.” Dinner, Joel means. 

“I know,” you say. “Just figured you’d appreciate it.” There’s a slight waver in your voice as your confidence wanes. 

More of an edge works its way into his. “Didn’t tell me beforehand.”

You attempt to swallow the lump in your throat as it grows in real-time. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

There’s a matter-of-factness to your tone that makes it sound like you’re reading off a script. Like you’ll break through the ice if you misstep. It’s nothing like your usual friendly, laid-back cadence. You’re trying to convince yourself you’re not a stranger. 

“You gave me a key, so I thought I’d use it to do something nice for you.” 

“I gave it to you for emergencies. If something ever goes wrong.” 

A small huff of humorless laughter escapes you. “Why does everything always have to go wrong with you?” 

His sharp, stubbled jaw clenches at the question. 

“Would you rather me be here because I got robbed or because I think I’m being followed?” Your words are soft and steady and all the more piercing for it. “Do we only get to be in each other’s lives when something’s falling apart?” 

Joel takes a step forward. “You’re puttin’ words in my mouth.” 

“Am I Joel?” 

“You are.” 

Your hands fall helplessly by your sides. “Let me be here for you. I want to be here for you.” 

His voice raises before he can check himself, “What about what I want?” 

It’s a question with an answer Joel’s not ready to face. Because it’s you. There was nothing else. He exhales as his gaze flicks to the floor. 

Tears prick in your eyes despite your attempt to to steel yourself against them. “Do you want me to leave?”

Joel’s never heard your voice sound so small. It tears him apart, but all he can say is, “I’m going to take a shower.” 

•••

Fear is a cold, consuming thing. People fear the boogeyman, monsters under their bed—all manner of creatures that lurk when the sun is tucked away. Since the end of the world, few things scared Joel. Tonight, it isn’t the notion of what lurks that scares him. It’s the possibility that when he goes downstairs, you’ll be gone. 

It’s quiet as Joel stands behind his bedroom door retying the drawstring of his pajama pants for the umpteeth time. His thick fingers tremble as much as they had when he was out in the cold. The longer he stalls, the sicker he feels. 

Tommy’s teasing words from a week ago play on a loop in his head. You wouldn’t recognize a good thing if it slapped you ‘cross the face. 

But Joel had recognized you. 

Long before he had a name to put to your unforgettable smile. Before you mosied into his world and made him long to fall into your orbit. Before he ever admitted to himself that this might be love—messy as it is, constantly changing shape and slipping between his fingers. 

Courage eventually finds him by some miracle.

As Joel pads down the stairs, he tries to ignore the lingering silence. All he has are his creaky footsteps as he enters an empty kitchen dotted with signs of life. The table is set, two bowls on either end with the food organized in the middle. But you’re nowhere to be found. Regret sinks like a millstone into his gut, and takes his heart with it. His appetite vanishes along with any hope enduring within him. 

Before he can continue sinking, the back door flings open and you scramble in along with a chill. There’s a saucer in your grip that appears to have food scrapped off of it. No doubt for Juneau, the neighbor’s husky who often wandered by for scraps. 

Joel’s heart doesn’t know whether to quicken in surprise of slow with relief. There’s no question what yours does as you startle and grip your chest. Like you’re not the visitor in his home. As if he’s the intruder. 

“You scared me,” you breathe, eyes softening as you take him in. 

The way he’s standing suggests he’s trying to make himself look smaller. An air of apology hangs around him. There’s so much he wants to say: I don’t deserve this, I’m sorry, I love you.

Only a few gruff words come out, “Gonna catch a cold going outside like that.” 

“Guess it’ll be you cooking for me then.” Your lips twitch with a ghost-like hint of a smile. It’s an invitation into levity that lets him know he hadn’t severed any major branches. 

A stretch of silence passes before Joel says, “Had no right speaking to you the way I did.” 

Then he sighs into a deeper admission, “I’m not used to this.” He swallows thickly as he awaits a response.

“I know,” you finally say.

“But I wanna be. I want this—” 

You cross the distance to wrap your arms around him. He doesn’t move for a fraction of a second. He’s steady as an oak. As certain as the tide. When he does wrap his arms around you, it feels like another chance. A new beginning. Like a home both of you could get to know.  

•••

The two of you share a quiet meal of sourdough and steak and potato stew, sharing soft glances between bites. Joel goes for seconds, then thirds. Seconds because he was modest with his portions the first go round, and thirds because he can’t remember the last time someone labored over such good food for him. It nourishes him past the bone and to the soul, the warm broth soothing his throat as it runs down. Not once do you ask him to talk about his day, and he’s grateful.

Later, Joel helps you clean even though you insist that he sits down and relaxes. Conversation remains light as the two of you stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink, you washing and him drying. It’s a process much like forgiveness: the staining of oneself only to be made clean as if the offense never occurred. Which isn’t lost on Joel. The fog surrounding his conscious lifts as if his own slate is being renewed.

As the two of you finish and dry your hands, Joel peers over at you with a weighted look. You offer a small, tired smile that makes his chest expand with fondness. 

“Reckon I don’t deserve your kindness.” He clears his throat. “Ya keep giving it to me anyway.” 

“I always will,” you promise. 

Joel nods through the wave of gratitude that nearly sweeps him away. 

“I really am trying, honey.” He can’t remember the last time that nickname rolled off his tongue. Tonight, with you, it flows naturally. 

“I know.” 

Anything worth having can’t be gained without a fight. One against the voices of the past that seek to bind everything to the unmoving, unchanging familiarity of the way things have been for so long. Luckily, Joel Miller wasn’t one to back down. He would tear down every wall he built around himself, brick by brick, if it meant reaching you. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all. 

JOEL MASTERLIST 

ALL MASTERLISTS

[dilf-docs]

I Can Fix Her (No Really I Can)

jackson!joel miller x younger fem!reader

summary: jackson's loud mouthed spoiled princess has suddenly gone quiet. what or who could be behind such miracle?

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (20s/50s), pwp, p. in v., oral (m. and f. receiving), brat taming, dacryphilia, pussy spanking, fingering, humiliation kink, dom!joel, sub!joel if u squint, soft!joel (look at that switch sandwhich fr), brat!reader (she's annoying and v mean, you've been warned), denial is a river so take this before the world mourns joel miller again

word count: 5,391 words

side note: new layout my citizens! will eventually update all of the blog but as for now, enjoy this one and the masterlist. quick thing, i just wanted to say that i had a very shitty week and for the life of me, can't find a way to make ttdik pt. 4 not oversaturated with angst bc i wish all men a very pleasant die or how to connect what i've written so far. note that this was kinda rushed; i feel confident of some parts and not the whole thing. just hoping it works for y'all! (based on this request)

Joel Miller isn't who he used to be before.

Life in Jackson has made him... soft. This version of him, tired of a life of killing and running, tainted with blood and regret. But he's now an uncle and a father. Well, used to be. Ever since Ellie had found out the truth and wanted nothing to do with him, he had somewhat become downright pathetic. Joel could be both Jackson's most useful man, even at his age, while also being their biggest wretch. Ah, yes: Joel Miller, the man who lived in the house down the street, alone and certainly worth the townsfolk's pity.

Maybe that's why you couldn't bother to be nice to him. In your eyes, a man like Joel just didn't deserve your time or respect.

But it wasn't personal, really. He happened to, unfortunately, be in charge of your patrol. That, in your eyes, made him your enemy: a person to be defied and picked apart. And the worst part is, in his current position, Joel just didn't have the energy to fight you back.

"You want me to cross that wearing this?" your protest comes in the form of a whiny pitch. "Ew, no. I'd rather be dead"

At least dead, you wouldn't be a bother. He rolls his eyes, rubbing his face tiredly. The rest of the group watches the interaction in silence, expressions pretty much the same.

"I promise 'cha, princess. Ya' wouldn't want that"

The nickname should irk you, but you let it pass. It is no news to anyone that you are indeed a princess: Jackson's resident little spoiled brat.

Sheltered from early starts of civilization's downfall, maybe your parents had done more bad than good trying to protect you and settling early on in Jackson. You had grown to be a pampered bitch who made Joel's patience wear thin. Of course, to keep him busy and distracted, Tommy had assigned you to Joel. And while he'd rather not spend his days on a house too big for a person, he too wasn't exactly excited about having to deal with you on your patrol shifts.

(If you could call them that. You did anything but patroling)

You cross your arms, petty. "I'm not moving unless you carry me"

Maybe your need to defy him also came, partly, because of this: the way he's looking at you right now, a quiet rage simmering in those big round brown eyes that remind you of a kicked puppy, but when they burn, they seem like a forest fire, old remnants of the hunter that had been tamed by domestic life and a broken relationship resurfacing.

It excites you.

All your life, people seemed to bend to your will-- a force of nature: to your cruel harsh icy wind. You kept Jackson down at their knees, but it wasn't kindness, rather your shoe up their throats what put them to your feet.

Yet, Joel... he could be a loser to you, but he was probably the only one you'd met to be insane enough to defy you. The only man who didn't succumb to your fluttering eyelashes, pink lips and princess manners. No, he ignored the way you looked at him and your constant begging for attention, leaving the job to those men who seemed to follow your every step, ready to be themselves a carpet for you to step in. He'd roll his eyes and walk past you like you were the most bland, boring and uninteresting thing in the world: not worth a second of his attention. Joel simply wouldn't entertain your spoiled attitude past replying to a few snarky comments.

And that revolted and aroused you in equal parts.

It's not like you could escape your obligation, but perhaps, the bigger reason you chose to not skip patrol like you used to before his arrival, is to see Joel Miller's sinking ships for eyes try to wash over your rebel flame.

"Be free to stay then" he replies, but you don't miss the way his grip on his rifle turns white. "I ain't carryin' no one"

"I can carry you" one of the guys from your group offers.

(You can't remember his name)

"Sure" you chuckle, victory smile dancing on your lips at the sight of him looking above his shoulder in a barely stolen glance, thinking you won't notice.

But you do.

Joel Miller fucking hates you.

After five decades alive, he simply can't stand the idea of breathing the same air as a spoiled little brat like you.

Joel's seen destruction, loss, hopelessness and blood up close, and the thought of you walking around like the world owes you a favor fills him with vitriol.

He's been alive for fifty-six years so he's simply just tired. Too tired to give a damn about your attitude, despite how you manage to press all his buttons every time you open your mouth.

He still remembers the first time he met you, how you laughed like people did before all civilization was destroyed. You walked with a confident strut, boots clicking against Jackson's streets, every step made with determination. Like you knew just where you were going.

He envied you, in a way. After Salt Lake City, he seemed to have lost his path, all in the name of love. Then, that warm feeling had turned cold and cruel like all things in this world ravaged by pain, and he felt even at more loss than the first time he experienced grief.

But you? You lived everyday with a dismissal so cold it seemed like nothing could hurt you.

He missed that part of him who just survived: hardened by the world around him.

But Jackson tamed him. Ellie made him soft.

And then you brought up that old dark part of him: the putrid black liquid that spewed through the cracks of his new character that made him loved by Jackson. The same one that made people fear one of Boston QZ's most brutal smugglers. It was that vicious anger, red on his vision like the ichor that would splatter on his clothes or cover his bruised knuckles.

He hated you for it.

But that was in the past, and Joel Miller simply didn't care.

Yet, you made him care. Outright forced him to.

In a way, it seemed like you enjoyed this: the banter of contained rage and practiced patience, dripping as a leak until it overflew. You'd shot your bratty remarks and petty complains until he'd turn around and see you. Then, you'd smile, like that's all you needed to feel better. Far superior. And he hated it. Knew your little game, and fed into it, even as he told himself he wouldn't. Like a drug: a destroying addiction.

Joel didn't understand why you took the time to enrage him, having even heard once when he was late for patrol (he overslept), how you talked bad about the, in your words, Lonely Pathetic Man From The House On The End Of The Road.

Joel Miller has been patient. God knows he has. But he isn't religious, and was never the type to let things pass by.

No. Joel Miller was born with impel, and no matter how many love he had to give, the world around him constantly reminded him of the power hidden behind the exertion over others, how alive he'd felt with the gift he'd been given by heaven.

He isn't patient. He isn't a fool. He isn't pathetic: and Joel Miller will take matters between his rugged hands.

Tommy had arched an eyebrow first, looking at just his and your name on the patrol schedule.

"What's going on?" he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his brother.

"Found a cabin deep on the forest" curt, "I'ont need lot'a people to scavenge the place"

In the end, he agreed. Who didn't? You, obviously, the reason so many before him had gotten rid of their obligation of you. To flirt with you at the Tipsy Bison? Hell yeah. To have you in their patrol team? God, no.

"Where is everyone else?" you cross your arms above your chest, bracing yourself because of the weather. "Also, isn't this climate not patrol appropiate?"

Joel's not dumb, of course he knows that-- he can feel his aching joints shiver and bones creak because of the temperature. But he also knows he's sick of your shit.

"Ain't you little Ms. Know it all" he mocks, brushing past you, shoulders clashing with the same harsh force the icy breeze does to your face.

"And you're an asshole" you're quick to counter, "bringing us out here in the cold. If you wanted to kill me, you could've made it easier for both of us and done it way back in Jackson"

He rolls his eyes at your incessant bickering.

"Watch y'er mouth" is all he says, the brat hanging dangerously close to the tip of his tongue.

"I'd rather watch my step, thank you very much" you purse your plush pink lips, annoyed. "Have you seen the size of this roots? I will trip and break myself"

He chuckles at your hyperboles and the way you jump in a rather exaggerated manner, more in amusement than irritation.

"Don't think ya' can handle all'at?" Joel taunts. "Gon' break like a doll?"

Doll. It hangs in the air, like the snowflakes that fall into your hair and his eyebrows, the white fusing with his own.

"I'm strong" but it comes out weak.

"Don't seem like it" he's laughing at you again, a sharp annoyed edge to it. "With all that complainin' ya' do"

You huff, your incredulity condescing in the air.

"What's wrong with that?"

"With bein' annoyin'?" Joel quips.

"With voicing out my concerns"

He's walking ahead of you, yet you see his shoulders slump, like he does when he disagrees.

"Those ain't concerns, jus' moanin' and bitchin'"

It's still inside the fun banter you're carrying, harmless, but for some reason, it strikes you in the face.

"If you can't stand me so much, why don't you quit on me, like the others?"

You may seem cold, but there's that cut that always bleeds. Or it may be the need for something that blurs the line between you and those survivors out there who've outlived the worst a man can endure.

Like Joel.

You just can't help wanting it all.

Joel stops on his tracks at your words, response barely above a whisper:

"'Cause I ain't a quitter"

As if that could bring any sense into what had started the moment he layed eyes on you.

You finally reach your destiny in silence, the old cabin hanging by a thread.

"This looks like shit" you comment out loud.

Joel lets out a laugh, a deep rumbling sound coming out of his chest. For a reason, red dust makes it's way into your warm cheeks.

"No, doll. In this world, this ain't shit. It's decent"

You don't miss the way your breath hitches and heart skips a beat at the petname. He doesn't miss the way his tongue burns and his jeans squeeze at the sight of you: powerless.

God, Joel could go to hell for this. (But he'd probably be fine)

"Decent? You're one to talk" it spills out, your fear attacking the only way you know how when you're nervous.

Bite.

You hate feeling weak. You hate how your own game has turned on you.

It seems, Joel Miller isn't just a pathetic man but one who knows how to play.

(You knew this. But now, it's real, not the image you touch yourself to during nighttime, and it's equally both exciting and scary)

The red desire for hunger is there on his eyes. "What's that s'pposed to mean?"

You tilt your head, tone feigning innocence. "I think you know what I mean"

He paces around the room, like your floral scent is too suffocating and the cold isn't enough to shake the fire that burns inside him.

"Spit it" he dares, stopping midtrack. You remain silent, so he walks over to you, face so close, some spit lands in your face. "I said, spit it"

"I think you're pathetic, Joel Miller" yet, for some reason, your heart wavers. What were you even doing? Never had you doubted yourself once, sometimes even finding pleasure in the wicked cutthroat words you'd spew, but today, as his face stands dangerously close to you, his breath ghosting over your lips as his eyes roam over them and you count his wrinkles, it feels wrong.

"'S that what 'cha think, doll?" he chuckles, leaning forward. His lips barely brush against yours by mistake, yet it's enough to send shivers all over your body. "Wanna know what I think? I think you're da' real pathetic burden here. Fucken annoyin' and unuseful. All you know how ta' do is complain' and be a bitch"

"A bitch?" your voice is loud as your roar back, probably because it's coming into your face with the force of a train. But that's how truth feels, and it hurts like hell. "Did you just call me a bitch?"

He laughs, bitterly so, equally irritated as fascinated by how easy it's to see you crumble.

Joel made you out to be this unbreakable force, but at the end of the day, you're human, just like him.

"And y'called me pathetic, s' I guess we're even"

You look crazy: hair disheveled by the wind, chest going up and down and that same craze look on your eyes.

"Fuck you, Joel Miller" you seethe.

It's a simple comeback. No witty retort, no elaborated plot. Just four words, yet it's the way you said it, venomous, with such hostility, like his presence alone made you sick. Your skin crawl. Like the thought alone of being equals couldn't pass through your thick skull, and you had to get rid of just the concept; an ofense.

You pull back, realizing how truly close you were. You then march to the bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

With Joel, there's always a first when it comes to you.

(The first man to catch your attention. The first man to show lack of interest or amusement to your well-known tactics that worked every time. The first man to make your skin crawl like seeing yourself in the mirror. Like you would stare until your image would imprint on your brain, and you'd pick apart every small detail you don't like about you. That was Joel fucking Miller, rolling like thunder, ready to strike over your walls, like he knows where to hit to make you crumble, as if the façade you've built is as much in vain as the hate you carry even with the easy life that's been given to you)

He may be the first man to make you cry.

"Come here!" he shouts, roaring voice reverberating against the walls of the cabin. He swings the door of the bedroom open, finding your satisfied expression as you sit over the old worn out mattress, wiping your tears quickly with a harsh tug of your sweater, coat lying on the dirty floor.

"What?" you ask, as if you hadn't started the fight five seconds ago.

"Ya' think y' can shout and then leave like that?" he spits, "you fucken brat!"

A weird wild spark settles in the pit of your stomach.

"I can do whatever I want"

(The fire. It burns)

He scoffs at your childish response. "Not when y'er under my watch. Like it or not, y'r ma' damn responsability, kid"

Now it's your turn to sneer. "Don't call me that. I'm not a kid"

Of course you fucking weren't: he's got eyes. But goddamn, didn't you act like one all the time?

"Good" his voice adquires a weird tone to it, dropping. "Then strip"

It's like the air's been knocked out of your lungs.

You scoff. "Excuse me?"

"I know you ain't deaf" tone stern, "nor stupid. Are you?"

"Did you just call me stupid?" you raise your voice. Was he going to pull out every single insult from the book? Fair, you think, after you had told him to fuck off in the way you did.

(You were aware your words shoot to kill when you were mad. You had a lot of regrets about that)

"I asked 'cha if ya' were. If there's no answer, I s'ppose that's it"

"I'm not stupid" you counter.

"What?" he's asking you to say it again, like he hasn't heard you.

"You aren't deaf" you repeat his earlier words, eliciting a chuckle out of him.

The windows of the cabin rattle, the cold winter slipping inside the cracks. You shiver yet stand still, not wanting him to misinterpret your body language.

As if you'd ever surrender to him. As if.

"I'm sick of your bullshit" he seethes, "thinkin' ya' can make a clown outta me infront of everyone else, and then look at me like I'm sum piece of meat. Now it's your turn"

"My turn to what?" but this time, your voice wavers. You walk closer, eyelids fluttering.

His uneven breath condensces in the air with a shaky gelid exhale.

"Y'e don't know what you're gettin' into" he warns.

You smile at his barely contained temper. "I think I do"

Joel's body is completely surrounding yours in the bedroom. Before you register, he pulls you by your jaw with his hand.

"Still thinkin' that?" he mocks, thumb pulling your bottom lip down, forcing your mouth open. "Answer me"

But he's pressing his finger on your tongue. You feel yourself starting to drool.

"Ya' really want 'tis, don't 'cha?" his eyes darken, "droolin' like a fucken cockstarved slut. Now strip" his grip tightens, "I won't ask again"

Your body shivers, but no longer because of the temperature drop. A treacherous jolt runs in between your legs at the very first instance of someone putting you in your place. It feels too good to backtrack, but the last remaining drops of sanity plead you to quit.

"Joel" you say his name like a prayer, and he thinks he'd like to see you beg. "I was fucking around-"

"Don't make me repeat myself"

You sit on the edge of the bed, getting rid of your clothes. It's like your mind has stopped working and your body belongs to someone else.

But you want this. Fuck, you had begged for this: sharpening your knife to make your words cut deeper with him until the bleeding was too big to ignore.

You wanted this. Craved it. Needed to satisfy whatever foreign feeling you'd now attribute to your rebellious and spoiled nature.

(You had never been denied anything, and even now, Joel knows this, but can't help and too give in)

"Not so loud now, are we?" he jests, "but 's worth the view, lettin' 'cha run your spoiled tongue off"

He hums with approval at the sight of your body, your pliant energy making his hard cock twitch in his pants.

"You like what you see, Joel?" you ask softly, despite your resistence.

He groans at that, calloused digits grazing the soft skin of your virgin collarbones.

"I do, princess" he answers, lifiting your chin up. "I'll show ya'"

He takes your hand into his bigger one, moving it right onto the spot between his legs.

"You've been bad, little spoiled brat" Joel's voice rasps as your thighs rub together. Y'er lucky I like that"

He pats your cheek. "Wanna make it up to me?" you eagerly nod, desperate for Joel's approval. You hate not having the upper hand, and a part of you thinks you'd get it back if you behave well. "Good girl. Now sit"

He sits next to you, patting his thick thighs. You salivate just at the thought, moving your body over his denim clad lap. "Right'ere"

"Look at 'cha" he parts your legs, a hoarse tks falling from his lips. Joel chuckles at the wet mess that's created. "So fucken wet and I ain't even touched yet"

You feel his rough digits ghost over your dripping cunt, just as his lips had done minutes ago. The teasing sets you on edge, thrill coarsing through your veins. Without warning, his big palm slaps against your cunt, and you feel yourself soaking your folds like you had never ever before.

"Fucken dirty whore. You ain't no princess, gettin' wet to 'tis" he mocks, "what would daddy say"

"Shut up" you sneer, but your body is full of hormones and treason.

"Not when I'm above 'cha, darlin'. Wouldn't wanna piss me off when I'm the one who decides if 'tis pretty pussy comes or not"

"What makes you think I'll take shit from you?" but it comes out as a whimper. Smack. A jolt runs straight from your pussy, stinging from the contact. "Didn't take it when we where in patrol, why should I do now?"

He laughs, darkly. It's haunting.

"'Cause you want 'tis. And I know you'll be a good girl for me to get it"

You feel yourself dizzy, head spinning as you land on the floor.

"Let's see if I get 'cha to shut up if that dirty bratty mouth of y'rs is stuffed full of ma' cock"

He pulls down his worn-out jeans, getting rid of his belt on a harsh pull. The clinking sound makes you rub your thighs together in a new found anticipation, instead of taking the time to run away from this, whatever the hell this is.

No. He's right.

You want this as much as he does.

(Isn't that the scariest part?)

"Ya' like what 'cha see, y/n?" he's smart to use your same words back, but it's the way he's said your name, like he was always meant to say it, or the angry throbb of his cock, what makes you drool at the red furious tip, dripping with rage and need.

"I think it's your dick who's more excited than me" you taunt, tracing the inner soft skin of his thick thighs. "Practically begging for me to lick it"

His adam's apple bobs.

"Tell me, Joel, when was the last time someone made this pretty big cock feel good?"

"Enough" his fingers grab your hair, pulling you harshly until he drags your mouth onto his cock. "I'm tired of y'er bullshit"

You aren't a stranger, he thinks, with the way you kiss his tip, tongue making a wet circle through the head of his cock. You take him into your mouth, pulling out in a second.

"W-what you do that for?" he asks, breathing rapidly. Strained voice.

You smirk.

"To watch you"

To watch how his eyes had closed as soon as your breath ghosted over his leaking cock, how he threw his head back and gripped the sheets viciously at just your shameless lazy circling. Joel Miller could be in charge, but God, wasn't he touch-starved?

(And for a reason, that was so fucking hot. And, in a way, adorable)

"J-just 'cause I'm-" he cuts himself off, probably out of need or out of embarrassment. "You're not in charge, so don't fuck around with your chances, slut. Imma show you y'r place real quick"

His grip tightens in your hair, forcing himself back into your mouth. Joel was punishing, with the way he's pushing your head down until it was at the base of his cock. You gagged for a moment, eyes closing at the weight of his thick girth on your tongue. 

"Takin' it like a champ, princess. Usin' that mouth of y'rs for good" and then, with a softer tone he adds, "like ya're made for me"

You moan around him as he starts fucking into your mouth, pulling you off quickly, saliva slipping out of your mouth as you gasp for air. 

"Joel" you whine his name, legs pressing together in order to get any friction. 

"Now you beggin'? 'S gonna take more than jus' that, doll" he taunts, but there's a certain wicked softness to the way he traces your cheek as you scramble an attempt. "Try harder, princess"

"I'm sorry, Joel-"

He moves his head, clearly dissatisfied.

"Not Joel. Ya' call me sir when I fuck you"

A mewl escapes your lips.

"Sir" comes out like a faithless prayer, begging to be heard. "I'll do anything, sir, please, touch me"

"Al'ight, but still, it ain't 'nough"

Oh.

The hot tears in the corner of your eyes shouldn't arouse him this much, but the watery promise makes his cock twitch.

"I-I'll do anything, I swear" you beg, the salty tears stream down your cheeks in cascades. "It hurts, Jo-" you whine, "sir, please. Just fuck me goddamit!"

Your once poised voice, now reduced to a whimpering begging mess. Your red rimmed eyes, beginning to puff. It's the way a gloss seems to coat over them, making you look like a doe-eyed deer and not the brat who challenged his every decision and word.

Fuck, isn't he aroused.

"Lookin' so pretty when you cry" he smiles, but instead of wiping the tears, it's his tongue that licks them off your face. "You beggin' that bad to take my cock"

You nod, eagerly so.

"Please, Jo- Just, please. D-don't make me beg" your face feels hot and wet again, "I-I can't take it anymore. Just fucking give it to me!"

"Easy, baby. Can't understand a thing you sayin'" Joel teases. "Where your manners at, besides?"

"Please, sir" he gently pulls you up, humming in satisfaction.

"Goin' crazy over my cock, baby? Y'sure have a nerve to call one pathetic if you gon' act like this, you little brat"

But he is the one moaning when his lips cature your mouth with a fierce impulse, like he wants to devour you whole and swallow your vocals, as to never speak up again.

(But then, he wouldn't hear his name on your sweet albeit snotty voice, and that's a privilege he can't forbid himself from, no matter how annoying you can get sometimes)

"Please" you whisper one last time. He wipes a stray tear with his rough thumb. "I'm yours"

"See, baby? It ain't that hard to shut that mouth of y'rs"

He guides you to the old bed while renewing the kiss, tongues now engaged on a battle for dominance, like even without using your words you'd still need to assert your power over the other. You moan into his mouth when your body slams against the mattress and Joel lands on top, his weight sinking you in the old bed, that creaks.

"I just want to be a good girl for you" you whimper.

"You sure of that? Not gon' be a brat?" and despite his harsh tone that seems to humiliate you, his wandering fingers are gentle with each touch, like if he were to put any more force, you'd break. Joel thinks it's not necessary with you: just with you begging for his cock, he's broken you.

"No, sir" and then you whimper as his mouth dives to the collarbones you had taunted him with before. Joel takes his time, inhaling the musk and savoring the sweet of your skin. Needy whines leave your lips, and he's having the time of his life seeing you surrender so easily, like you had no idea what limits to push, where they'd take you and how you'd pay for that.

"C-Can I touch you?" you whisper, hands itching to tangle on his grey parted hair. He chuckles at the eagerness and tenderness you don't seem aware of.

"S' you can be sweet if ya' want to, huh?" he leaves a fluttering kiss to your chin. "Needy and desperate too. Do ya' want to touch, princess? Remember to use y'r words"

"Yes, sir. I-I want to touch you"

"Thought I disgusted you, hmm? I take you've learnt y'r lesson now?"

"Yes, I've learned. Please, sir, won't do it again" you plead.

"I'll allow ya' to touch, doll" he gives you a smirk, "but 'ts all you get for now"

He lets your hands cling to his coat, taking it off. Then, you proceed to his buttoned shirt, fingers flidding with buttons until you grown annoyed and desperate, pulling the fabric over his head with need.

"Look at 'cha" but there's only adoration, proven so when he starts to kiss the trail of soft skin that goes from your neck to your stomach, making you squirm. "Easy, baby. 'M gettin' down there"

He finally reaches your core, kissing the inner side of your thighs with wet and sloppy lips. His hot breath tingles over your clit, and a beat later, his mouth presses into your cunt, your back arching at the cold contact of his chapped lips against the humid hot of your folds.

You muffle a moan, embarrassed at the whole situation.

"Ain't need to worry 'bout nothin', doll. Nobody can hear us" he grins, tongue flicking your clit. "Wanna listen to your pretty whimpers as I make 'cha feel good"

You cry out of pleasure, the sound escaping past your lips. Joel has a laugh.

"Good girl"

Joel rewards you with another series of minstrations on your bud, licks made with determination only the expert man knows of. He then slides one finger into you, slowly moving it in and out of your soaked trembling heat. 

"M-more" you beg, eager to get more fingers inside you. "Please, more, sir"

You buck your hips to try to get closer to him, meeting his thrusts.

Joel tuts, "What're you doin', spoiled brat? Did I tell ya' to move? You were doing such'a great job... guess I gotta punish you-"

"No!" you shout. "Do anything you want, but touch me, please- touch me!"

He introduces a second finger, raising his brow at the immediate way you clench around him. Joel curls them, robbing another moan out of you.

"Feels good?" you can't answer, as a hard thrust robs another moan from you. "But I'ont want 'cha to think we done, princess. Think I'd let you come, jus' like that? After all's happened?"

"Need you" you tug him closer with your arms holding onto his. "Joel, sir- please"

"Oh, princess" he smirks, "I think you don't know what you askin' for"

Joel grabs his hand around his length, coating the tip in your slicky juices, and then, he presses his length into you in one thrust.

"You're big-" you pant as he gives you time to adjust to his size. Joel then picks up an unrelenting pace that makes moans spill out of you like a fountain, the pace of his thrusts sending you closer and closer to the edge. 

"N-need to-"

"Don't" he seethes. "Ya' won't 'till I tell ya' can"

All you could do is moan, helplessly pinned between his body and the bed. Your whole body shakes in an effort to contain as his hips loose their rhythm, his groans louder as he gets closer and closer to the edge. 

"Al'ight. 'Cause you've been good" his cock drives through your walls with rhythmic melodies. "Cum, princess, but when ya' do, look at me"

You're seeing stars the moment your toes curl and his head falls to clash against your forehead.

(The beads of sweat roll down out of him like trails to follow, and his scarred rugged skin doesn't compare to your soft one, painted with the maroon of his bites and kissing at the skin of your collarbone. The dried up trails of tears. Your begging and desperate voice. His name on your lips)

It only takes a few more thrusts before he spills in you, cock twitching until every last drop of thick hot white cum is pumped into you.

Joel then pulls out gently, pressing a kiss to your forehead before flopping onto you, the mattress dipping even further. With his hand, he removes a stray strand of damp hair, putting it behind you ear with such tender kindness, your heart strings pull.

"In fact, I want ya' to look at me next time y'even think 'bout defying me. See if that mouth of y'ers can talk after 'tis"

A week later, you're back at patrolling.

"Anyone got anythin' to say?"

The group looks at you. You're about to open your mouth, but Joel cocks an eyebrow.

Just like that, and you're gone. Great job, y/n.

"Whatever" you sound meek as you push past him, yet he catches a glimpse of your warm cheeks. "Let's go"

The rest are too stunned to speak, the silence only cut off by Miller's laugh.

"Would 'cha look at that?" he whistles. "Ain't nobody tell ya' miracles don't happen anymore on this goddamn world!"

credits: divider @kodaswrld / gif @chappellsroans

[pandapetals]

sunlight & sawdust masterlist

summary: For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, you’ve told yourself his gruffness doesn’t bother you—that his clipped words and cold stares don’t matter.But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop.For free.Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that don’t need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, and—most shocking of all—getting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.

pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics.

chapter one: marigolds & measuring tapes chapter two: tulips & testers chapter three: roses & rasps chapter four: sunflowers & saws chapter five: hydrangeas & hammers chapter six: lavenders & levers chapter seven: hyacinths & hacksaws chapter eight: carnations & chisels chapter nine: sages & screws chapter ten: daffodils & drills chapter eleven: peonies & pilers epilogue

[aurorawritestoescape]

BORROWED TIME

Joel Miller x f!reader || 4k

Summary: Joel and you are enjoying an ideal vacation together. Warm ocean, white sand, soft kisses, and hot sex make it feel like paradise. But as your time here is running out, the thoughts that you‘ve been trying to keep at bay start eating at your soul.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, angst, fluff, age is not specified, soft dom vibes, infidelity, praise kink, f!oral, unprotected piv (wrap it up), creampies, belly bulge, soft!Joel, EMOTIONS, rough-ish sex, consensual somno, heavily inspired by Pedro’s vacay pics and videos. Pics are only for the mood. Joel can lift reader. Reader wears a dress, a bikini.

A/n: yay my first fic of 2025! I didn’t expect it to be this one but like all of us I was deeply affected by the recent Pedro content and needed to cope somehow so I wrote this. I really hope y’all will like it! Smooches to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing💋 ILY, baby🫂 Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST

The first day in heaven. A soft breeze caresses your skin as soon as you step out of the cab, just from the airport, but Joel’s hands always do it better.

You’ve been looking forward to this trip, afraid to even talk about it, scared to jinx it, make it vanish like a mirage. You’ve been dreaming of having Joel all to yourself for too long.

Joel hugs you in the hotel lobby while they’re checking you in, and you tilt your head up to face him. You’ve never smiled so widely before. Your heart is fluttering in your chest, and his scent, your favorite in the whole world, makes you tremble and gush.

You taste sugar on your lips from a welcome Mimosa, and as soon as you two are in your room, he licks it off; the kiss is full of passion, his hands eager, desperate to tear your summer dress off. It’s on the floor in a second, just like your panties. He kneels in front of you and kisses your naked thigh. A growl against your skin makes you shiver before he looks you up and down, taking in the sight of your naked body, and then tuts with overexaggerated disapproval,

”Asked you not to wear anything underneath, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t be butt-naked on the plane, Joel,” you giggle, tracing a line from the crease between his brows, down the slope of his nose, and to his chin. You love his profile so much that seeing it is not enough, so you made a habit of touching it too.

“I promise you’ll never see any underwear on me from now on.”

“Good girl,” he praises you with a wide smile, and then suddenly latches onto your wet pussy. You gasp and grab his broad shoulders to steady yourself. Joel helps you not to fall, his strong hands on your thighs spread your legs apart, and you happily grant him access to the most sacred part of your body.

He pushes his tongue between your folds, traces your soft entrance with its tip, and your legs are already trembling. He starts playing with you, mischief swimming in his dark eyes, slowly laps at your folds, gently sucks on your clit but doesn’t give you enough stimulation to come.

You whine when his mouth parts from your puffy bud, desperate for a release.

“You’ll come, my angel. But only on my cock,” Joel promises, getting up, takes you in his arms, and carries you to the shower.

You're caged between the shower wall and Joel. He's naked and wet, radiating sex and desire. Soapy water is running over the curves of your body while he's washing you, taking his time. His big lathered palms are gliding over your breasts, belly, mound, ass. Your hands are pressed to the expense of his chest as he's slowly edging you, always happy to play with you like a cat with a mouse. He's waiting for you to break under his touch, to beg for more. Yet his heart is beating so fast and hard under your palms that it leaves you no doubt that he's desperate for you just as much as you're for him. He can't get enough of you and your heart sings, seeing every sign of it— his blown out eyes, his heavy breathing, his hard cock.

You're revelling in the caress of Joel's hands but your body takes over soon enough. Your wet palm slithers down his torso and wraps around his stiff length. You pump the shaft a few times and then guide his tip between your folds.

"Fuck me, Joel." Your plea is almost swallowed by the sound of the rainfall shower but he hears you.

"Begging me already? So needy." His eyes are obsidian, he can't fool you.

"Aren't you?" you purr, sliding his fat tip up and down over your hardened clit, massaging it, making yourself moan and tremble. The sensation makes Joel grunt and break. Through his teeth he commands, "Turn around."

“Yes, sir,” you breathe out, smile wide, eyes sparkling, and in a second the cold tile kisses your cheek, then your pebbled nipples, and his fat head slowly slides into your pussy, followed by his girthy shaft.

“Hngggg— oh, baby—been thinking of fucking you since this morning. Your damn dress. Took me a lot not to ruin you right on the plane.”

You whimper at his words and then your eyes roll back when he starts thrusting his thickness in and out of your tight cunt. It takes you a few deep breaths to get used to the stretch but you always take him well and soon wet slapping noises reverberate off the walls, together with your moans and his grunts fusing into a melody of lust and passion. You love when he’s as desperate for you as you’re for him. It gives you hope.

Crispy sheets, so white your eyes hurt, envelop your poorly-dried bodies like a cloud.

“C’mere,” he croaks, pulling you closer, and you rest your head on his chest as he covers you two with a blanket. His warm cum is leaking out of your stretched pussy and you tingle all over again but the flight has drained you both and in a couple of minutes you two fall asleep.

You wake up before Joel and slip out from under his arm to look at the view. You walk out on the balcony and the beauty of the ocean under the bright sun overwhelms you, making you squeal with excitement. Not being able to wait any longer to feel the caress of the waves, you hurry back to the room and wake Joel up with a soft kiss.

“Wake up, sleepy. Let’s go swimming before the sun sets.”

Joel’s golden skin is sparkling with a myriad of water diamonds as he’s standing waist-deep in the bluest ocean in front of you, rendering you completely mesmerized. He chuckles, noticing the way you’re almost drooling, and pulls you closer into his embrace. With his body pressed to yours, your pussy starts aching, and a twitch in his swim trunks tells you that he’s also affected by the sight and the feel of you.

“Damn, baby, driving me crazy…your tiny bikini…”

“Do you like it?” you ask, brushing his neck with your lips, tasting salt on his skin.

“Hate the way they all stare at you. You’re mine. But the way you look. Yeah, I like it,” he growls and bucks his hips against you under the water. You giggle and then sigh into the crease of his neck.

“I’m yours,” you whisper. ‘Are you mine?’ you think. You push the thoughts back into a box in your mind you promised yourself not to open here. ’You’re in heaven. Don’t ruin it,’ you remind yourself.

The next morning you wake up and see Joel right next to you, limbs tangled in the sheets, plush lips asking for a kiss. A rush of happiness makes you tear up and you squirm with impatience to start the day when Joel opens his eyes. He’s gorgeous in the morning — hair disheveled, voice hoarse. He looks a little grumpy but you kiss the crease between his brows away and his face softens.

“Morning, my angel.”

You wish you could hear it till the rest of your life. Or at least next week. He pulls you into his sleepy body, the hug is tight, the kiss is impatient, and soon the murmur of the ocean accompanies your whispers as you’re riding him, your thighs, sticky with sweat cling to his hips, his hand is kneading your breast, the other’s focused on making you come, thick fingers swirling around your clit. He expertly brings you to a hard orgasm and follows quickly after—the back of his head dips into the fluffy pillow as he bursts into you and you milk him to the last drop, happy to walk around with his cum between your legs all day.

Joel’s lying on a lounger now, his expression concentrated, reading a book in the shade, while you’re standing a few steps away, drying yourself with a towel, just out of the ocean. You can’t help but stare at his handsome face, the broadness of his shoulders, his big arms. God, he’s gorgeous. Feeling your heart eyes on him, Joel glances at you from the side and his lips curve into a playful smirk. It sends a bolt of lightning through your body, electrifies every nerve, makes your core burn with desire.

No need for words. His expression tells you everything - ‘C’mere. Now.’

Still dripping water, you walk to him and straddle his muscular thighs, barely covered by his red shorts. His legs are hot against your cold skin but you melt into your bikini bottoms because of his eyes— obsidian, piercing, magnetic, they pull you close and you lie down on his chest. His book, forgotten in a second, falls on the sand with a thud. You kiss his soft lips and whisper against them, “Take me to our room.”

Delicious dinners at sunset, the warm ocean, the white sand, clinging to your heated body, but most importantly him next to you make the time here fly. Blissful minutes turn into hours, hours flow into days. Full of laughter, long conversations, endless kissing and hot sex. But your ideal life, your paradise starts glitching and breaking into pixels when one morning he offers, “Wanna go get some souvenirs?”

Just one question, as trivial as it can be on a holiday, breaks the wall you’ve built in your mind between your perfect existence here and your reality there. Between your present and your future. Near future. You’re going back soon. To that life.

Suffocating panic tightly grabs your throat and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to drive away the thoughts, to glue the wall back together but he muses what he should get for Sarah and your wall turns into glass and shatters into a million pieces.

You mumble something incoherent trying to fight the upcoming tears and rush to the bathroom.

By the time you’re standing in front of the mirror tears are flowing down your cheeks and you hastily wipe them away, hating to upset him, but your heart and your head, joined in a cruel tandem, remind you that everything is going to go back to normal very soon. Normal for him is a misery for you. Waiting, hoping, asking him to stay longer, wishing that he finally makes a decision, finally chooses you.

The rest of the day you’re quiet, afraid to speak and to let your emotions spoil your precious time together. It gets unbearably hard to ignore the fact that you’re having him all to yourself on borrowed time. You start or rather let yourself notice his calls, his voice quiet, probably lying about his business meetings. He talks to his wife on the balcony or in the bathroom, not to keep you a secret —you know how to be quiet when she calls at this point, but rather not to rub her in your face. You’re thankful, not wanting to reopen the wound that’s been slowly healing up during these days together. Yet you know that soon it’s going to gush blood again when you say goodbye to your paradise and return to your empty bed, fleeting dates with him and soul-crushing loneliness.

You disassociate when he talks about packing and the flight back. You kiss him and want to cry, moan his name under the weight of his body but your heart aches. Every touch is a reminder that soon it’ll be over, soon he’ll be hers again.

It’s the last day of the trip and early in the morning you sneak out while Joel’s still asleep and go to the beach. It’s almost empty, only seagulls are the witnesses of your breakdown. You’re crying, swept by a wave of dreadful thoughts in your mind. Tomorrow you’re leaving and then he’s leaving you. For a day? Two? A week? Who knows.

You can’t blame him. You knew that he was married from the start. At first it felt like a fling but you got attached, you fell in love with the married man and foolishly expected him to divorce his wife, scoop you up in his big arms and carry you into the sunset like in a cheesy rom-com. But he kept telling you that, yes he didn’t love his wife anymore, but his daughter Sarah was too young and she was his world. He’d never hurt her like that, would never break up the family.

They say, you can’t change the ocean, no matter how hard you try, so it’s best to learn how to sail in all conditions. Just like the ocean Joel was unyielding in his devotion to his daughter but you failed to adapt so you were slowly drowning in despair, your love for him dragging you down like an iron ball chained to your foot.

You wipe the tears away and squeeze a handful of sand between your fingers as anger rises in your stomach. You deserve better than being someone’s dirty secret. What if you give him an ultimatum - you or his wife, and if he chooses her, you’ll find someone else. Someone who’ll love you openly, who’ll choose you. Someone better.

A thought makes your stomach sink - it’s not possible. Joel is perfect. He’s fucking perfect except for one huge flaw. He’s married.

You walk with your heart heavy back to your room and find Joel up, nervously pacing the floor. He asks where you’ve been and, not being able to conceal your feelings any longer, you burst into tears. He rushes to hug you but you slap his arms away. You shout, you cry, you beg. All the pain pushed deep down is spilling out of your heart, accompanied by the words you hate saying, insecurities you promised yourself to hide but it’s hard to stop.

It’s not like he hasn’t heard it all before. He has and that’s why now he looks tired. Not angry. Never. Just tired, sad and guilty.

Joel tries to calm you down, comfort you but all in vain. You’re waiting for him to tell you ‘I’ll be with you forever,” but instead he mumbles that he needs to take a walk and leaves you crying, face buried in his pillow. His scent woven into the fabric brings a thought to your mind which makes you cry even harder — soon you’ll go back to your flat where everything smells like him but loses the warmth of his body the second he leaves.

In the evening Joel timidly suggests going to the hotel bar. You feel embarrassed for your earlier outburst, but the fact that he didn’t make the decision you hoped for is twisting your stomach. Thinking that everything is better than staring at the suitcases in the corner of the room, you agree to go.

The bar is almost empty except for the two of you. You sit at the counter and order two shots of tequila. After emptying them fast, you both get two more and soon the hard liquor slightly numbs your emotions.

Joel’s warm hand is resting on your lower back as he’s peppering your shoulder, your neck, your cheek with open mouth kisses, but you’re cold, distant. It’s hard even to look at him.

He sighs but then suddenly exclaims, making you jerk,

“I love this song! Let’s dance!”

You smile a little, amused by the lights in his eyes. He’s cute when he’s tipsy. But you shake your head and mumble that you’re not in the mood.

Joel surprises you when he slides off his stool and starts dancing. Alone. For you. Despite everything you can’t tear your eyes off him. His dark gaze set on yours pierces your soul and makes your heart flutter in your chest. His movements are slow and alluring and the sway of his hips ignites fire in your core. You press your thighs together, quickly affected by his blatant seduction, and when he moves closer, so close you can feel the heat of his body, it gets hard for you to breathe.

Joel’s lustful eyes tell you to submit and when he places his hands on your knees, you obediently open your legs in invitation. He gets between your thighs and gently takes your face in his hands. Joel looks into your eyes and you stop breathing altogether. At this moment you realize that you’ll never leave him willingly, never be able to say goodbye to these kind brown eyes, these soft lips, these gentle hands. He’s the love of your life and you’re his completely and utterly. But he’s not yours.

You rush to your room, both swept by the urge to tear each other apart. Soon your clothes are littering the floor, your cheek pressed to the bed, ass pushed out in the air, as he’s kneeling behind you, snapping his hips against you hard and fast, pushing his throbbing cock deeper into your wet cunt, grunting, making you scream. His fat tip knocks at your cervix and it slightly hurts but you welcome it, wishing to focus on the ache from his length rather than the pain torturing your soul. His hands are leaving marks on your soft hips and you’re looking forward to seeing them on your body later as evidence that this trip was in fact real and not a wishful dream.

“Fuck— gonna come— you first, baby,” Joel growls and rubs your clit with an impatient hand, wet with your juices. You come shaking and crying on his cock and he rewards you with his load, squirting against your pulsating walls, which are squeezing him tightly and desperately. He’s carefully pulling out, and your tight cunt grabs onto him. Just like your heart, your body always craves him.

You wake up when it’s still dark outside. Joel’s chest is pressed to your back, his hand is cupping your wet folds, as he’s taking you from behind, sleepily moving his cock in and out of your sore pussy, drenched with his cum.

“Oh, baby— ahhh—love you—so much—yeahh— so good—,” he’s whispering in your ear, his voice gruff with sleep, his hot breath caressing your cheek. You moan softly before echoing him, “I love you, Joel.”

You beg him not to stop, already feeling yourself on the brink of ecstasy. The nature of your relationship makes it a rarity to be used by him in your sleep and you get turned on instantly. His arm snakes under and wraps around you as he starts pulling and twitching your nipples, while his other hand massages your puffy folds and then moves up.

“Damn—right here,” Joel grows, feeling a lump, moving under your skin. Thrusting his cock in and out with a steady rhythm, he mumbles, “Gimme,” grabs your hand and presses your palm tightly to your own belly, covering it with his hand.

“Feel it?”

“Yes, Joel, fuck,” you whimper and turn your head to catch his lips with yours. Joel keeps fucking you leisurely while you both are feeling the push of his cock under your skin.

Completely drunk on pleasure, swallowing each other's moans, you start coming hard at the same time, and your bodies, wet with sweat, jerk against each other. You feel so full, complete - your core is full of his load, your heart is full of his love. Happy in your oblivion, you fall asleep in the heaven of Joel’s arms.

But the dreaded morning comes fast. You try to concentrate on the tasks at hand, focus on the last preparations and soon Joel and you get into the cab, ready to head to the airport. You throw one last look at the hotel and the ocean, and take a deep breath, fighting the urge to cry. Sensing it, Joel pulls you closer and starts telling you an old childhood story, something about his brother Tommy and them ditching school together. You know what he’s doing but surprisingly it works and soon your giggles and his deep laugh fill the cab, lighting up the air between you two.

When you arrive in Austin, Joel insists on going to your address together. You refuse at first, but spending an extra hour with him sounds amazing. You hold hands on the way and shamelessly make out at the back of the cab.

You arrive at your place and Joel helps you with your suitcases. When you step into your flat, it seems like you’re carrying something heavy on your shoulders. Should you apologize for the last few days? Should you say something about it at all, risking leaving a bad taste in your mouths, ruining the whole trip.

But Joel beats you to it.

He comes up to you and hugs you tight. So tight that it’s hard for you to breathe. You nuzzle his neck, reveling in his scent, and suddenly you feel his whole body shake. You tilt your head up and see tears in his sad eyes. You’ve never seen Joel cry before, and it makes your chest hurt and your eyes well up too.

“Joel?“

“No, baby. Listen to me.” His voice is shaky, and fear grips your heart. Is he going to break up with you? You’d die on the spot.

He sniffs and continues,

“I’m sorry. Sorry for the mess I got you in. Sorry for your tears, but — I can’t, baby. Can’t do what you want from me. Rightfully so, but — not now. I’m sorry.”

You’re shaking your head, your teardrops landing on his tee,

”No, it’s ok. It’s fine.”

“It’s not, sweetheart. I’m an asshole. It’s horrible what I’m doing to them and to you. But I’m fuckin selfish. I can’t — can not be with you. I need you. I love you too much.”

You smile weakly, hearing his confession. Joel takes your hands in his and holds them tightly as he croaks,

“And you decide to stop seeing me, I’ll understand. I won’t bother you. I promise.”

You wipe tears off his scruffy cheeks and reach up to give him a kiss.

When you part from him, your expression is serious and determined.

“There’s nothing to decide, Joel. I love you. And I’ll wait for you. As long as you need me to. I’m yours.”

Joel’s red eyes dart between yours, and you give him a reassuring smile. After taking a deep breath, he whispers ,

“I don’t deserve you.”

He lifts you up, strong arms wrapped around your torso, and crashes his mouth against yours. You kiss him back with passion, putting your love in every stroke of your lips. Joel possessively licks into your mouth, his big hand cups the back of your head, keeping you close - a sign that he’s not letting you go. He needs you too much.

It might be wrong, it might bring you both grave pain, but a glimmer of hope in your heart, given by his confession, puts a smile on your face when you close the door behind him. He loves you, he wants to be with you, you’re his. And for now, it should be enough.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic!<3

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesfaye @fruityreads @itwasntimethatdidit40

People who were interested in the wip: @baronessvonglitter @almostfoxglove @tammythr @sawymredfox @myownwholewildworld @guiltyasdave