#Joel miller x age gap | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

salingers · 3 months ago

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hayride.

[joel miller x f!reader]. summary: visiting home depot with your dad's best friend, joel miller. [and, him eating and fucking you, in the hay field located behind the store]. warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap. agoraphilia. anal fingering. au. begging. brat!reader. cream pie. daddy!joel. daddy!kink. dirty talk. dom!joel. jealous!joel. language. no outbreak. oral sex. no use of 'y/n'. praising. smut. unprotected piv. use of 'good girl'. use of 'slut'. word count: [about] 2,600. a/n: hi, more october-set smut, before the month's over. thank you for welcoming me into the fandom, by supporting my debut, october's end. cover by me, divider by @saradika. @saradika-graphics. <3

A decade’s fleeted, since the last time that Joel Miller’s arcing, bedroom window’s framed your body; You’re nearly an apparition.

Your mere silhouette’s evoking long-neglected memories for Joel; Your private school’s fussy graduation. Whistling, from the bleacher’s humid, metallic plank. Joel’s abruptly blinking away his proud reverie.

Your haphazard, gauzy curtains aren’t proffering any privacy. Your dresser’s girlish; A dust-ladened and weathered wicker. You’re scrounging the half-dozen drawers, sorting teenaged remnants, Joel’s guessing.

It’s arguably morally awry, that he’s guessing at all. You’ve unearthed an ivory-colored pair of panties. You’re sampling the garment’s width, against your clothed waist; Your index finger’s hooking the pliant underwear and slowly stretching. Joel curses, “Fuck’s sake.”

Joel’s denim-clad groin’s growing taut; You’re unbuttoning your pants. His conscience’s hollering, QuitWatchingQuitWatching. Then, Joel’s belatedly swiping his curtain’s panel shut. The plaid, trembling fabric’s punishing him. You’re right there.

Your peripheral’s revealing that brown, tartan material’s now obscuring Joel Miller’s looming, perusing shadow.

Your phone’s deeply droning, near plummeting from your nightstand’s uneven, wickered top. You answer, “Hi.”

Dad’s beginning, “Hi, you.” Before, “Room ‘lright?”

You aimlessly nod, “Yeah. Need ‘t paint it, though.”

The flat, stark white’s reminiscent of an operating room. A scalpel amid your dominant, gloved hand; Your abandoned internship. You’re certainly color-drenching this bland, interim room.

Dad’s conveniently chirping, “Y’know, Joel’s headin’ over ‘t The Home Depot. ‘Jus asked if I needed anythin’ for work.”

You humorously say, “The Home Depot?”

Dad amusedly huffs, “The one ‘n only.” Then, “I’ll dial ‘im back. Tell ‘im ‘t bring ‘ya.”

You’re nervously inquiring, “He won’t mind?”

Dad’s chuckling, “Kid, seriously? ‘S just Joel.”

He hasn’t been just Joel, since his absurdly sexy appearance in Dad’s FaceBook album, dorkily titled, ‘Fishin’ Missions’. Dad’s askew lens, recording Joel’s roughened, veiny hand, sizably surpassing his fish’s ample breadth; His arm’s rind, rugged and sun-freckled.

��That heathered-gray muscle-tee; Hued identically to Joel’s own silvery threads. Accentuating. Your horny musing’s interrupted, when the doorbell’s nostalgic ding’s reverberated. A leadened, salacious feeling’s pin-balling your rib’s conical-shaped cage.

You’re descending the stairway’s carpeted tread. A once-over’s rushedly ensuing, amid the entry way’s gritty mirror. You’re timidly turning the front door’s bulbous knob; Your skin’s avidly warming.

Joel’s gruffing, “Waitin’ on an invitation?”

You’re feignedly snark, “Go ‘head, Miller.”

Joel’s arousingly large. His belt’s leathered and suppled; Tapering his tender waist. You’re deliriously visualizing biting it. Your teeth’s individualized grooving, engraving Joel’s every-day accessory.

He’s beckoning, “C’mere. Settlin’ in okay?”

Your pulse’s embarrassingly hurried, as Joel’s hugging you. Your nose’s upturned, against his collar’s corduroy lapel; His inherent aroma’s autumnal. A heady medley of burnt cinnamon, earthy hay.

You breathlessly retort, “Y–Yes. ‘Jus fine.”

His beard’s deliciously graying and scruffy; Bristling you. Joel’s inching away; A hand’s kneading your elbow’s point, “Grown. Ain’t ‘ya?”

You’re muttering, “Think anythin’ in my ‘ol dresser’ll fit?”

Joel rasps, “Be fittin’ somethin’ ‘a mine. Talkin’ like that.”

You teasingly tut, “Oh? Promise?”

His jaw’s tightening, “G–Get in my fuckin’ truck, ‘lready.”

The retail store’s unmistakingly orange and tan exterior’s materializing onward. Joel’s hushedly threatening, “Got ‘t behave.”

You’re amusedly assuring him, “Me? ‘Course.”

He’s backwardly parking. His arm’s generously imposing against your seat’s cushiony spine, “Lot ‘a clients ‘a mine, in ‘ere.”

His chin’s abutting along his broad, reaching shoulder’s top. Joel’s delectable, lofting nose’s leading his prominent side-profile; His pursed, upper lip’s capped under an impressive, stiff mustache. Your cunt’s pulsating. You need to rabidly rut against Joel Miller’s aging, sun-tinged face.

You’re resignedly sighing, “Fine.”

Joel replies, “Bratty fuckin’ girl.”

His accent’s aggressively Texan; Languid. Syrupy. You’re involuntarily leaking, beyond your underwear’s cottony corral. The archaic radio’s uttering early-seventies Linda Ronstadt, until Joel’s halting the ignition.

You murmur, “Any cute clients?”

Joel’s apparently unimpressed; He’s agitatedly rolling his coffee-shaded eyes. Tutting, “Best be ‘lone, when I find ‘ya.”

You’re unpromisingly shrugging, before evacuating his Ford’s heated interior. Whispering, “See ‘bout that, Miller.”

Your skin’s momentarily rasped, from the atypically frigid, October wind. The store-front’s decorated seasonally. There’s pallets, upon pallets, of pumpkins; A uniformed variety of classic orange and creamy white.

You’re distractedly mulling around carving or painting pumpkins, while Joel’s unexpectedly wrapping his freshly-shedded, heavy chore-coat against you; His hand’s comfortingly scrubbing your shoulder’s taut blade.

Joel’s deeply humming, “Better, darlin’? Hm?”

You’re instantaneously arming the clothing item’s perfectly tenderized sleeves, “M–Much, Joel.”

You’re leaning, subsequently touching his torso’s muscular crest. Joel’s thumbing your collar’s curving bone, “Warm, here?”

You whine, “Yes.”

Joel’s beginning to crane downard, until he’s chinning your shoulder’s trembling shelf. You’re gasping, as he’s fingering your loaner, Carhartt jacket’s bottom button, from behind. His arm’s caging you.

His calloused pinky’s reaching, before flitting your pant’s folded fly, “And, here?” He’s wagering, “Warmer?”

You’re groaning, “Ngh. Y–Yeah.”

Joel carnally scolds, “Filthy fuckin’ girl. A–Askin’ me ‘bout other men? While your pussy’s pre-heatin’ ‘f me?”

His finger nail’s raking your zipper’s aluminum teeth. Joel’s tauntingly whispering, “Ain’t brattin’ much, now.”

You’re begging, “L–Let’s leave.”

He’s instantly moving. You’re incoherently stunned, as Joel’s adopting an orange-colored cart, “Find ‘ya in the paintin’ section?”

You’re spluttering, “J–Joel. ‘S not what I meant.”

Joel’s winking, “Darlin’, I know what ‘ya meant.”

He’s ambling ahead, bypassing the automatic door’s yawning jaw. Your dominant hand’s flexing, electrocuted in palpable pleasure; It’s reminiscent of Mr. Darcy. You’re involuntarily summoning an image of Joel, dressed as the aforementioned aristocrat, participating in Halloween.

Joel’s robust shoulders, heaving against an incompletely unbuttoned, wispy shirt. His chest’s foggy-toned, furling hair. His head’s rain-rustled, curly strands. A high-waisted trouser; Ascending his belly’s delectable slope, whilst canopying his cock’s dilating weight. You know it’s big.

You’re unfocused; Footing the hardware store’s threshold. There’s an assortment of motion-triggered, Halloween decorations erected nearby. You’re curiously setting one, an animatronic ‘Boogeyman’. The creepy distraction’s festively futile. Joel Miller’s still permeating your skull.

The paint attendant’s named ‘Ruger’. A gun manufacturer namesake’s befitting, given Ruger’s camouflaged, distressed t-shirt. He’s an Austin, Texas quintessential, twenty-something male; A ‘modernized’ mullet-and-mustache duet? Check. A smothering of ‘patchworked’ tattoos? Check.

He’s flirtatiously greeting, “Sugar. How can I do ‘ya?”

You’re brandishing an array of complimentary paint-swatches, against his counter’s crest, “Do color-matchin’?”

Ruger’s endorsing, “Best ‘round.”

You’re inwardly wincing, but Joel’s abruptly approaching. So, “Ain’t doubt it. Clothes shouldn’t be an issue?”

Your palm’s routing your breast’s pocket; Ruger’s murmuring, “T–That jacket? ‘Moss’ by Carhartt. Got codin’.”

You’re falsely enthusiastic, “Really? You’re the best.”

Ruger tosses an isolated thumb, signaling to his computerized, machine mixer, “Told ‘ya.” Asking, “Color’s goin’ in your bedroom?”

You’re agreeably nodding, “Yep.”

Ruger’s grinning, “Lucky paint.”

You begin, “You? Feelin’ lucky?”

Joel’s reprimanding, “Lucky that I ain’t kill ‘im.” Before, “Passin’ at my girl. Gettin’ paid ‘t do that?”

Ruger’s answering, “N–No, Sir.”

Joel’s deeply repeating, “No.” Then, “Two gallons ‘a Sherwin-Williams. Emerald. Matte finishin’, both of ‘em.”

You’re second-handedly embarrassed and incapable of meeting Ruger’s apologetic, parting peer. Joel’s efficiently emptying his cart’s plastic-composed basin, before rehoming his kindred supplies, upon the check-stand’s laminate surface. You muse, “Emerald’s two-hundred dollars ‘a paint?”

Joel’s genuinely offended, “Ain’t payin’. I’m gettin’ it.”

You’re avidly insisting, “Don’t have ‘t do that, Miller.”

Then, Joel’s rapidly reaching outward; Yanking your belt’s fraying loop. You’re firmly tugged against him. He drawls, “Want ‘t do it.”

His breath’s cinnamony and smoky; An inebriating merging of gum and cigarettes. You dizzyingly respond, “Y–Yeah?”

Joel’s languidly leaning, before brushing his nose’s point against your ear’s lobe, “Yeah.” Whispering, “Paintin’ your bedroom the color ‘a my jacket? What’s that ‘bout, darlin’ girl?”

You’re shyly stammering, “D–‘Dunno.” Accusing, “Sayin’ aloud, ‘my girl’? What’s that ‘bout, Joel?”

Joel’s grinning, “That? Want ‘t find out?”

You’re panting, “Oh?”

His palm’s barreling behind; Stuffing his pant’s pocket. You’re savoring the rattling sound of his key-ring’s recovery. Then, Joel’s rapidly shoving the mixed-metal wad inside your rear-pocket. His bulky hand’s harshly kneading your bottom’s fleshy heft; Your cunt’s thumping.

He demands, “Go ‘head. Right behind ‘ya.”

You’re ocularly rummaging around Joel’s unkempt vehicle. American Spirits. Matches. A thrifted, Patsy Cline cassette. Big Red. Coins. A dog-eared, John Steinbeck novel. The sexual suspense’s dampening your sternum; Sticky. Sweaty. You’re beginning to desperately undress.

The Carhartt coat’s discarded. Your flimsy henley’s unbuttoned. Joel’s egressing from Home Depot’s aromatic interior, before pausing at the Garden Center’s check-stand. No way. A hundred-dollar note’s being thrusted, from Joel’s girthy hand, unto the cashier’s gloved palm.

This broad, burly man’s buying you fucking pumpkins. He’s pensively plucking them. His brow’s furrowing; His forehead’s wrinkling. Joel’s literally examining them, heeding any blemished gourds. You’re bewilderedly blinking, as Joel’s palming them, like they’re… Basketballs.

Your waist’s winding, impatiently rutting against his truck’s benched seat; Your pant’s denimed seam, slotting your cunt’s drooly entry.

Then, Joel’s jerking the back-seat’s door ajar. Asking, “Pick ‘em ‘lright? Did ‘ya see?” His scruffy chin’s jutting, at his quartet of pumpkins.

You’re swallowing, “Y–Yep. Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s gruffing, “C’mon. ‘Course, pretty girl.”

His arm’s effortlessly flexing, tanned and veined, amid transferring his plastic-bagged supplies. Joel’s guessing, “Need ‘t be fucked, in ‘ere?”

You shamelessly moan, “Mhm.”

He’s teasingly whistling, “Yeah? Ain’t far from home, baby.”

You’re grumbling, “T–Too far.”

Joel’s patronizing, “Gettin’ cocked, in ‘ere? ‘S really slutty.”

You sigh, “Don’t care. C’mere.”

The shopping cart’s rapidly returned, before the driver-seat’s groaning under Joel’s jeaned ass, “Needy pussy.” His construction boot’s tamping the brake’s pedal, “Ain’t it? Get ‘t fingerin’. Feed me somethin’ warm.”

Your brassy button’s unhitching; Your toothy zipper’s buzzing. You’re hurriedly shrugging the denimed material downward; Ankling it. His mouth’s prematurely parting. Your underwear’s transparent, flooding in arousal. Joel’s dangerously speeding, departing the feebly-populated parking lot.

He’s feverishly warning, “There’s an empty hay field, ‘round back. Bit ‘a off-roadin’. Yeah?” Directing, “Give ‘em.”

Then, Joel’s toughly tugging your panty’s waist-line. You’re shamelessly obedient; Your fabric restraint’s promptly removed. His beefy, index finger’s impatiently suspended; Pumping. Your pussy’s watering his passenger-seat’s cushioning; Your underwear’s encircling Joel’s commanding digit.

The all-terrain truck’s bumpily impeling, devouring the barren field’s acreage. Eyes involuntarily shutting, Joel’s blindly steering, inbreathing your underwear’s deluged gusset. His nostril’s flaring. His cock’s pitching, prodding below his crotch’s denimed rein; You’re stuffing your pussy’s well.

Joel’s harshly moaning, “Listen ‘t that. Cryin’ fuckin’ hole.”

You’re whimpering, “M–Mm. Ngh.”

He’s greedily ringing your plunging wrist; Yanking. The rapid removal’s obscenely squelchy. Then, Joel’s immediately slurping your index and middle finger’s balmy glaze; Your thumb’s pinning upon his chin’s graying, scratchy underside. The truck’s recklessly slowing.

Joel’s haphazardly parking. The halting, howling tires begin spewing an autumnal confetti; A misting of dry hay and auburn leaves. You’re suddenly hoisting against Joel’s bulging lap; He’s instantaneously hammering, before spitting out your moistened finger’s duet.

And, Joel Miller’s finally kissing you. His groan’s pouring, beyond your esophagus. Licking your mouth’s rippled roof; Siphoning your tongue’s humid pad. Your naked pussy’s pouncing upon Joel’s clad cock. He’s thumbing your cheek-bone’s divot and cupping your jaw-line’s hind; Whimpering.

He’s arousingly exhaling, “Ngh. ‘S fuckin’ tasty.” Then, Joel’s dropping horizontally. Laying, “Fixin’ ‘t guzzle ‘ya.”

His head’s hedging the passenger-side’s door; His boot’s budging the driver-side’s door. You’re drawing upward, as Joel’s guiding you. Your dewy hole’s ramming against Joel’s awaiting face; He’s nosing your clit’s distended mound. Your innard thigh’s twitching, “G–God. Feel fuckin’ good.”

Arousal’s rigorously sopping Joel’s beard. His mustache’s coated and creamy. Your behind’s leveraging; Ass firmly spreading. Joel’s maneuvering and manhandling you. He’s lapping, nearly pornographically swigging. You’re internally levitating; Your spine’s liquefied, “A–Ahhhh. Joel, Joel.”

Joel’s innocently whispering, “What?” Then, “Asshole’s puckerin’. Need pluggin’?”

You’re deliriously nodding, Yes. His center digit’s tantalizingly traveling below. Brushing your clit’s crest; Scooping your cunt’s slick. Your fluttering, furthest hole’s aching, against Joel’s circling, finger’s pad. He’s beginning to tandemly traverse; Eating. Fingering.

Your stomach’s tightening, as Joel’s knuckling you. His head’s nuzzling; Shaking. His beard’s rigidly whiskering, across your core’s folding, before he’s relentlessly sucking. Your clit’s flickering; You’re blindingly cumming. Joel’s airily humping; His cock’s englarging.

He’s hoarsely speaking, “A–‘Atta girl.” Praising, “Drippin’ inside ‘a my fuckin’ ear?” Sniffling, “Up my fuckin’ nose? Good, wet girl.”

You’re dizzyingly horny, “Miller. PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel’s grinning, “Please?”

Your puffy pussy’s eagerly lowering, “Yes.” You’re gyrating, against his lap’s ridge, “Fuck. F–Fuck me.”

He’s grunting, “Fuck ‘ya? Fuckin’ slut. Keep beggin’.”

Joel’s leaning upright and sitting upward. Your disoriented shirt’s being tossed away. Licking your throat’s trail; Skimming your nipple’s peak. You’re nakedly stamping atop his torso’s towering mass. Your skin’s goose-bumping, “Ngh. P–Please, Daddy.”

His brow’s amusedly arching, “Y–Yeah?” Demanding, “Who’s.” Thrust. “Your.” Thrust. “Daddy?”

Promising, “You.”

Joel’s approvingly nodding; His driver-side door’s thudding open. His arm’s muscularly solid, whilst effortlessly upholding you. You’re burrowing, at his throat’s protruding, pulsing vein, as he’s regressing vertical. His anterior boot’s pressing upon decaying hay; A gelid gust of wind’s wreathing.

He’s attentively mumbling, “Shiverin’? Let’s warm ‘ya. Hm?”

His beard’s balmy and cunt-scented. You’re being settled, amongst his driver-seat’s aged upholstering. You’re amorously fidgeting, as Joel’s flitting his belt’s metallic prong. The accessory’s yanked from his fading Wranglers, as Joel’s abutting the cushion’s edge; His zipper’s deliciously drawing.

The belt’s noisily plummeting; A leathery slap, against the floor-mat’s rubbery surface. Your waist-line’s eagerly grasped, whilst Joel’s positioning your pussy’s twingeing hole. He’s hissing, during an arousing upheaval, of his cock’s entirety; The seeping tip’s bypassing his belly-button’s nook.

His t-shirt’s becoming translucent, as pre-cum’s dampening it. You’re following the ample shaft’s terse twitching. Blurting, “Need. That.”

Joel’s attractively smug, “This?” He’s robustly swatting his cock, across your clit’s cummy summit, “Think it’ll fit?”

You whimper, “F–Fuckin’ make it.”

He’s lowly whispering, “Dirty fuckin’ mouth.” Then, Joel’s abruptly and aggressively entering, “Go ‘head. Keep mouthin’ off.”

The truck’s boisterously creaking, as Joel’s ruggedly rutting. Your cervix wall’s convulsing, crowning his cock’s head. Your shiny spend’s glossing Joel’s graying, pubic tuft. His groin’s angrily clobbering, striking your cunt’s doused expanse. You’re incoherently stammering, “N–Ngh.”

Joel’s responding, “Can’t hear ‘ya, bratty girl.”

You’re painfully stretching, inside-and-out. His jeaned, lower-portion’s gloriously grating your thigh’s rear. Your right-side leg’s hooking through the steering wheel’s median; Your left-side leg’s perching, against Joel’s widening shoulder’s tier, as he’s weightily falling forward, “Say somethin’?”

Your limb’s achingly pinned vertically; Your body’s contorting, creating an indecent, ninety-degree angle. His focused, sun-wrinkled forehead’s grown moist. His furling, silver-tinged strands begin cascading. The benched seat’s dilapidated stitching’s imprinting, decorating your back’s extent.

Your taint’s repeatedly thwacked, by Joel’s brimming balls. His angle’s hitching, hitting that spot. You’re shrieking, “A–Ah.”

Joel’s accordingly bottoming-out, “Doin’ good. Stretchin’ well. Ain’t it?” His hip’s briskly oscillating, “Good girl. Good pussy.”

You’re shuddering, “D–DaddyDaddyDaddy.”

The pleasure’s pouring. Your cunt’s palpitating; Your spine’s taut. Joel’s resultantly stroking, maintaining his pacing, but drilling harder. He’s licking, crossing your hung jaw-line’s road. His tenderized t-shirt’s feathering, against your exposed nipples, over-sensitively tapering them.

Joel’s rasping, “C’mon. Flood my fuckin’ truck.”

His tone’s arousingly languid. That’s it. You’re breathlessly cumming. Every extremity’s tightening, before blissfully dissolving. Your vision’s brightly impaired. Your climaxing moan’s fractured, as Joel’s ingesting it. His mouth’s restorative, whilst being ruining. You’re whispering, “Flood me.”

He’s whimpering, “Y–Yeah?” A prominent vein’s materializing, against his throat’s girthy rind, “Ain’t wet ‘nough, ‘lready? Greedy hole.”

Then, Joel Miller’s hotly erupting. His length’s flinching. Your fatigued, flittering hole’s wringing him. His aging brow’s bunching; You’re caressing his cinched expression. Your right-side leg’s being removed, amidst the steering wheel’s medial opening. Joel’s comforting, “Hurtin’?”

You’re indifferently shrugging; Joel’s unconvinced. His palm’s expertly massaging your leg’s weary ligament. You’re pathetically sighing, making Joel laugh. He’s kneading your knee-cap’s exhausted muscle, before fingering your calf-tendon’s aspiring knot. You stammer, “T–Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s questioning, “How ‘bout Lowe’s, ‘morrow?”

You’re grinning, “Sure. If ‘ya sleep-over, tonight.”

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lokischocolatefountain · 1 year ago

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Warning || Men Like Me

Masterlist

Fandom: The Last of Us Pairing: Joel Miller x Virgin!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: girth age gap, virgin!reader, eventual loss of virginity (not in this chapter), gratuitous descriptions of Joel Miller's body, somewhat creepy!Joel, fetishization of youth, dom!Joel, breaking and entering, playboy magazine, objectification, fingering, sexual discoveries. Word count: 6.2k Summary: Joel's warnings about what men like him would do to girls like you only makes you want him more. A/N: Back in the depths of hell again, you guys. Now this isn't the most depraved thing I've written by any means but it's up there. Come say hi in my chat or inbox, I'd love to talk. Keep a look out for follow up parts and pleeeeease give me comments. I am very very desperate.

Joel Miller was a bad man. That much he knew.

Even as he fixed taps and renovated houses that were falling apart, he could see the blood on his hands. The very hands that packed lunches for Ellie snapped necks, pistol whipped men, stole from a starving child so he could feed his grown brother. But there were lows even he didn’t stoop down to.

Not that he didn’t have the opportunity. Men always did. And in this world, opportunities had only tripled. Even the Boston QZ, as strict as it was, had an underground brothel. He knew Tess to frequent it and never asked questions. Sometimes she needed to bury her face between a good pair of thighs and wrap her lips around a pretty pussy, and this wasn’t something he could give her. There was a lot he couldn’t give her.

Being in Jackson should’ve civilized him. It did in many ways. He’d reverted to the southern gentleman with table manners. ‘Yes, Ma’am’ spilled out of his lips effortlessly when he spoke to women. He held the door for anyone walking in after him. He even went to Church– sorry, the multifaith house of worship–to help renovate.

That was where his troubles began.

There was no point in him going where people prayed. Being back in civilization did not erase his decades of disbelief in a cruel God who would take his baby and keep him on this accursed Earth. But he did because he was back to being a contractor and Tommy asked him to go fix up the pews instead of him. He didn’t have much time, being a new dad and all.

He was on his knees checking out the rotting wood and evaluating how much wood he’d need for building new ones when he was confronted by a pair of legs and a sweet voice. Yours.

“Lemonade, Mister Miller?”

He looked up, his eyes traveling up your legs, bare until he got to your knees where the hem of your flowery skirt sat. Pure, unblemished knees, never taken a fall, didn’t fucking creak, and never knelt before anyone but God. You looked down sweetly, eyes wide and innocent like a newborn cow. Everyone had a kind of darkness about them in this world. Everyone except the kids who didn’t know a world outside the insular walls of Jackson. And you, it turned out, even though you weren’t a kid.

He wiped his sweat off with the greasy rag he carried and looked up at you once again. You had a pitcher and an empty glass in your hands. A sweet smile on your lips and hair falling down your shoulders and reaching your breasts. A yellow ribbon sat in a bow where your neckline dipped between your breasts, adding to the innocence of your look.

“Yes please, Ma’am. Thank you,” he said, giving you a nod. Your pretty plush lips curled up, a giggle escaping them as you poured him a glass of lemonade.

His hand brushed against yours as he accepted the glass, his hand too large to curl around it without making contact with you. You giggled again before retracting your hand and occupying it with adjusting your hair.

“I’m younger than you, you know? Don’t have to call me Ma’am.”

“Just being polite. Ma’am.” He took the glass to his lips, mindful to take only a small sip instead of downing it in desperation. Another adjustment to make when food was no longer a scarcity. Sweet, sour, and salty danced on his tongue before it glided down his throat. Just a sip refreshed him. And the sight of a nice girl didn’t hurt the cause either.

It’d been so long since he had a nice refreshing glass of lemonade. Summers meant worse infestations of infected, not the barbecues, lemonades, and swimming of past. When surviving each hour was under threat, small luxuries like this became out of reach of even one’s dreams.

“Well, guess I should call you Sir then,” you said, leaning against the wall. You held the pitcher up to your chest and the tails of the ribbon on your chest dipped into it, the soft shiny yellow turning dark, tainted.

His mouth watered and fucking hell, it wasn’t the lemonade you just gave him. He took a sip of the drink and licked his lips, imagining how you’d taste if he wrapped his large hand around your neck and pressed his chapped lips to your plush ones. Better yet, if he held your legs apart and devoured you other pair of lips until you were leaking down his mouth. Would you call him Sir then? His cock twitched in his jeans as he pictured you bent over one of these pews, your skirt pushed up and his hand in your hair as he slid his cock in your hole.

Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Made the lemonade yourself?” He asked, groaning as he managed to get himself back up on his feet. His knees creaked like the floorboards of the houses he renovated, but ultimately supported him as he stood. He towered over you, making you appear smaller, more fragile.

“Depends. Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful, of course. Hot summer day like this…I really needed it,” he said, raising the glass up a little before taking another sip.

“Well then yes, I did make it.”

He chuckled, feeling himself pulled in by your easy charisma. It was nice to have normal conversations like this once again. No agenda, no need for establishing himself as someone who wouldn’t hesitate to beat someone up if even mildly threatened. It was just…normal.

“It’s very sweet, Ma’am. Like you I assume,” he added, mentally dusting off the part of his brain where he stored skills for conversing with pretty girls.

You laughed, holding your free hand up to your mouth to cover your lips that widened and revealed your teeth.

“Is that the southern charm that I hear our townspeople talk about?”

“They talk about my charm? I didn’t hear.”

“Oh yes, they do… Joel Miller, charming pants off of everyone in town.”

“Pants? Well that’s disappointing. I was hoping I’d charmed some pretty skirts off.”

“Lots of experience with that, Mister Miller?” you asked, sliding your hand over the soft fabric of the skirt of your dress. Such delicate fabric. He could fist the hem and give it one tug and it’d rip right off.

“More ‘n what you got for sure,” he said, loath to hint at how infrequent his encounters had become in the recent past. Tess died, he did a cross country hike with an annoying kid, he needed to maintain a good reputation in his new town. One buried after the other. Enough to leave a man with nothing but his fist and his imagination. He would kill for a fucking Playboy magazine. Literally. He’d killed for less.

“What do you know about how experienced I am?”

“Been experiencing longer than you’ve been alive, Ma’am.”

“Oh well. Nothing I can’t learn.”

He laughed nervously and stuck his hand in his jeans pocket. Surely you couldn’t be flirting… Why would a young thing like this flirt with him? He was in his late fifties looking like mid sixties and you were… He didn’t know. Young.

“If you could teach me, Mister Miller. Give a girl some experience?”

“I’m sure you can find someone else.”

“Oh. Not your type, am I?” you asked, and he deluded himself thinking you sounded disappointed. No chance.

He didn’t have a type. Long time since he thought of frivolous shit like that. But you shouldn’t be his type.

“There’s much more eligible men in town is what I’m saying,” he said, suddenly hesitant to lie. Lying had never been an issue for him. The right thing was to lie, say you weren’t his type so he wouldn’t cross lines. It’d been a long time since he did the right thing.

“I’ll be the decider of that,” you said with a shrug of your shoulder before taking the empty glass from him. “Have a good rest of the work day, Mister Miller.”

Later that night, he wrapped his fist around his cock in the privacy of his room. His mind flooded with images of you spread out for him, sweet lips and a sweeter pussy milking him. He couldn’t even recall the last time he was with a woman. It was Tess, of course. Sometime before she got thrown in FEDRA jail for the last time. Too fucking long ago.

Surely it was only because it’d been a long time since he got his dick wet. He’d never, in his entire life, pictured a woman so much younger spreading her legs for him. Sucking his cock. Crying out his name. How old was she even? Not past mid twenties for sure.

It was wrong, he knew, as white hot spend spurted out of his cock and covered his hand. A sour tang took over his mouth as the fog of unadulterated lust cleared up to reveal the ugliness in his head. He shuddered, feeling like something had crawled under his flesh. He hadn’t felt guilt like this in so long.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

You weren’t even as old as his kid would be had she been alive.

He’d known men like that back in the day. Grays in their hair and skin like old leather, but pretty young things old enough to be their daughter hanging off their arm. It was obvious that none of them kept these girls around for love or for their personality. It was always sex and the feeling of self-importance when a sweet young thing paid attention to balding heads, beer bellies and limp dicks that needed a blue pill to get up.

Fucking disgusting.

He began avoiding you whenever you happened to be in the same space. At the house of worship, the town clinic where you interned, trading days when people exchanged what they had for what they wanted. His eyes never met yours and he always quickly looked away when they stared too long at your uh…feminine features– pretty legs, cute ass, round tits. Where the fuck did you get sundresses anyway? Who kept that shit around in this world?

He didn’t know that when he avoided you, you took note of him. When he took glances of your features, you memorized his for later in the night when you buried your head in your pillow and pushed your fingers inside your pussy to simulate what it must be like to be with a man.

He was older. That much you knew from his grey hair, sun-damaged skin, and gait that exuded bone-deep weariness. You knew Tommy had just turned fifty. Hard to miss occasions that meant a free slice of cake from the canteen. Joel had to be in his mid-fifties at the very least. At first glance, he wasn’t what you’d consider handsome. There were younger men in town. Fit and muscular. Didn’t groan and scrunch up their faces when they got up. Didn’t have lines on their foreheads. No bags under their eyes.

Yet there was something about Joel that was more entrancing.

After your first meeting when you offered him lemonade, you made sure to visit under the guise of worship. You didn’t know much about religion and were conflicted about embracing a god. The only faith you had rested in your medical instruments and the medicines the town’s chemist concocted. But it was a nice place to meet people, to check on healing patients.

The visits were worth it for a glimpse of Joel’s large hands wrapped around his carpentry tools. When the sun was the hottest, he sometimes stripped down to his tank top, giving you a show better than any film played in the community theater. His broad back looked masculine enough in his flannel shirts. But you didn’t know desire like the first time you saw him in a white tank, showing off his muscular arms as sweat dripped down his tan skin.

When you pleasured yourself in your room, it took time, imagination, your fingers, and a lot of effort to make slick pool in your pussy. That day, all it took was the sight of Joel Miller working. You sat with your thighs pressed together, rubbing them against each other in the most inconspicuous little movements.

Could it be blasphemy if the God who was supposedly orchestrating everything made this man take his shirt off in front of you?

It made no fucking sense. Joel was old. He looked like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed every goddamn day. He had been chewed up and spat out by whatever the fuck was outside Jackson these days. Hardened expressions, graying patchy beard, hands calloused from carpentry and decades of using weaponry. Features that only indicated a long life lived, not attractiveness.

You were supposed to be attracted to the soft, sweet ones like the guys in the worn out copies of romance stories that the previous inhabitant of your house stashed in the basement. Even his little brother would be a more reasonable target for your lust. Younger, taller, softer, head full of dark, silky hair with few grays. But you wanted Joel Miller with his rough graying beard that would prick your skin were you to cup his cheek like the women on the novel covers.

Something about him just screamed Man. Something that none of the other guys in town had. There was nothing wrong with any of the other Jackson men, but none of them made you want to take the plunge and lose your virginity. It wasn’t the lack of offers, per se. You’d gotten looks from many eligible Jackson bachelors. You had drinks with a few of them. Dinner with fewer and shared a kiss with more than one. Alright, two. But anything beyond that had you trembling in anxiety.

It wasn’t anything precious to you, virginity. But you’d waited so long. Focused so long only on survival and then helping to build this town and now training to become a doctor. Whatever passed for doctor these days. With all your life dedicated to everything but your love life, you simply had no experience. What if you messed up and they laughed? You knew anatomy, but that didn’t translate to practical stuff. What if you couldn’t make them feel good? You’d have to see the guy all the damn time in the small town. There would be no escaping the awkwardness.

Sure it was counterintuitive to keep pushing away sexual encounters because you had no experience. But you didn’t know what else to do. You were too old already to not have done anything. But each day that passed with you rejecting perfectly nice men meant you were getting even older for your first time.

You didn’t know where Joel fit into your need for exploring your sexuality, but it didn’t hurt to stare. God knew everyone else in Jackson did.

So you stared. Work with his carpentry tools. Riding on horseback into Jackson after patrol. Helping with the fucking sheep. Walking around with Tommy. Carrying his nephew around town. It should be inappropriate to be fantasizing about a man when he was doing something as innocent as carrying a baby. But seeing his large hand cradling the baby’s little head made you want to scream into your pillow and kick your legs.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Your heart fluttered and you let out a nervous laugh at being caught. You smoothed out the wrinkles on your clothes just to make it look like you were alright. Unfortunately you were wearing a pair of fucking jeans. You didn’t even want to know how awkward you looked.

“‘m alright, Mister Miller.”

“Joel’s fine,” he said, rocking his nephew in his arms.

Oh fuck, his fucking arms!

“Oh I don’t know,” you said, fidgeting with a belt loop on your jeans. “Wouldn’t want to be impolite addressing you by your first name like that.”

He smiled, recalling your conversation from the house of worship when you called him Sir and had him fucking himself in the shower to the memory. “Ah. ‘cause I’m an old man,” he said, more as a reminder to himself to fucking behave.

“You’re not that old…” you trailed, looking him over in a way that set fire to every inch of skin that you laid eyes on.

Behave, Miller. You’re out with your nephew.

“That so?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“Mhmm. You don’t look a day over seventy.”

He snorted, making Miles stir in his arms just a little. That stung a little. It shouldn’t. Your estimation of his age, whether you were serious or not, was reminder enough that he was too old to be lusting after you.

“Thanks. I’m actually eighty-two.”

You giggled your pretty little giggle, lowering your gaze to the ground and looking back up only when it had turned into a wide grin. “How old are you actually?”

“Old. Fifty six.”

“Fifty-six isn’t that old…” you trailed as you brought a hand up to his bicep. Joel gulped, praying to the non-existent God that you would stop before praying to the same God that you would keep your hand right there. God answered his second prayer. You squeezed, licked your lips and looked up at him with your doe eyes.

“Checking if the hardware is still working, Doctor?”

“I’m not a doctor yet.”

“When do you become one then? Ain’t no Harvard handing out medical degrees in this town.”

“Howard?” you asked, squinting at him. Ah, of course you didn’t know. Harvard didn’t mean the same thing to you. Now it was just like every other building in Boston. Run over by infected. These ones were just the nerdy kind with glasses on.

“That was a thing, too. But I said Harvard. They were big universities back then.”

“Ah. Did you go there?” You asked, with no malice or bite. Oh, bless your heart. No one expected a dummy like him to have gone to university at all, much less Harvard. No one in his family had gone. Sarah was meant to be the first.

“Yeah. Traded some oxy and threw molotovs at clickers in the campus.”

You rewarded him with a giggle and that was incentive enough for him to keep going. “Guys like me didn’t get into Harvard. Or Howard. Didn’t even go to community college. I finished high school and got a job in construction.”

“You didn’t go to uh…construction college?” You asked, cocking your head and raising an eyebrow as though testing out the term.

“No such thing. Well, there were civil engineering programs, but I just learned on the job.”

“Like me.”

“Guess so. I see you reading from all those fat medical books. But there’s no need to study any books in construction. ‘cept if you wanna be an engineer or architect or something, which I’m not.”

“Maybe you should write one. We could all do with some knowledge from before. It’s important to document it, pass it on to Ellie and little Miles over there.”

“I ain’t writing books, sweetheart. Don’t think I even remember how to write much. I’ll just keep to fixing things up in this town. So, if you need some help with your place…I’m happy to help.” It was the least he could do. Maybe as some kind of penance for having impure thoughts about you. Or as a fucked up trade for starring in the mental images he conjured to jack off in the shower.

“There is something, actually. But I don’t have anything to trade for, so I’ll wait until I do,” you said, clasping your hands behind your back and swaying in place in an endearing manner.

“Nonsense. You patched me up just last week. You’ve done enough for the town’s health to not have to trade for anything ever again.”

“Well, no. That’s not how it should be… It’s people’s health. Can’t put a price on that.”

“Believe it or not, health had a steep price back in the day. Cost four thousand something just to give birth. Double that if they had to cut you open.” And that was just how much it cost when Sarah was born. He was sure it had only gone up by 2003. If he hadn’t worked his ass off, there was no way he could’ve escaped debt. It helped that his Ma and his then wife’s parents helped with childcare. Would’ve been even more expensive without that.

“Damn. I don’t know how much that is, since…y’know we don’t have money now. But that sounds like a big number. It shouldn’t cost anything just to be born.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, shaking his head. “But listen. Anything you want fixed, I’ll help out. You can give me something later if you’re worried. I know Ellie’s always on the look for new books to read and you seem to have a lot of them.”

“Nothing Ellie would like. Not like the special limited edition of Savage Starlight or anything. Just medical textbooks and romance novels.”

“We could trade for the lemonade from that afternoon,” he insisted, desperate to do something for you. Take care of you as you took care of everyone who walked into the clinic be it papercuts or a fucking knife in their abdomen.

“Alright. Trade for the lemonade it is then,” you said, giving in to his pressure.

“Now tell me. What d’ya need fixed?”

⌘⌘⌘

It had been a few days since Joel promised to fix your shower for you. Each time he came by and rang your doorbell, you hid somewhere away from your windows. When he caught sight of you in public, you quickly walked away or engaged in conversation with someone else. You didn’t need shit fixed. Everything in your house was perfectly alright. Tommy and his guys had given the place a complete makeover just a couple months before Joel and Ellie arrived.

You were no paragon of honesty, but you didn’t make lying a habit. There were a few white lies here and there and this was meant to be one of them. It just didn’t fucking hit you that if you lied to a contractor that your shower was broken, he would eventually come over to fucking fix it. All your desperate sex starved brain wanted that day was for Joel Miller to come use his tools in your room and flex those muscles while at it.

So invested were you in that particular fantasy that as you unwound after a long shift at the clinic, it was with Joel’s beefy arms in mind. You stood in front of your mirror, taking in your reflection. One of the magazines you’d found in a box under your bed laid open on the dressing table. Playboy. Entertainment for Men. Each had a scantily clad woman on the cover. And many more inside.

You made comparisons to yourself and the woman in the center page of the issue.

She stood in front of a dressing table too, but much different from how you stood. Her legs were on either side of her dressing table chair and her hands on the top of it. Between her arms were breasts, big and round and with smooth skin. They didn’t have any marks on them like yours. No moles, no stretch marks. Just plain. And she just stood there, soft brown hair down, tickling the top of her breasts and her lips parted as she gazed at you. No, at the men she was meant to entertain in this men’s entertainment magazine. All she had on was panties that went high up to her flat belly that connected to high transparent socks.

You reached behind your back and unclasped your bra, wishing that you had something nicer like the woman on the cover of another one of the magazines. Bright red and showing off her breasts wonderfully, but pulled down to reveal almost everything. What was the point of a bra then if it didn’t cover or support anything? Entertainment, you decided. Men seemed to be very entertained by breasts.

Many a man had stared at yours even though you had them behind layers of fabric unlike the naked women of the magazines. Many had conversations with them instead of your face. Some brushed up against them ‘accidentally’. Joel thought he was being covert, but you felt his brown eyes rove all over them. You thought maybe that he too would brush up against it sometime, but he never did. Maybe entertainment stopped at just looking, as in the magazines.

You wondered if Joel sought out men’s entertainment magazines like this. He was from before everything went to shit, so it was very possible that he did. Did he like the women in these pages, sticking their asses out and looking through the pages at him? Would he be entertained if he saw you like this?

You didn’t know that if you turned your head to your bedroom door, you would have your answer. Joel’s cock strained against his already tight jeans as he stood awestruck by your figure. He swallowed as you held on to the top of the chair and lifted your knees, one after the other and placed them on the plush seat. You arched your back, a little too much at first before reducing the curve. Your ass stuck out enticingly and he didn’t know whether to grab, squeeze, slap, or spread your cheeks apart and fuck your ass.

He should leave.

It was stupid of him to walk into your house with a box of plumbing tools to fix your shower when you hadn’t yet given him a date or time for it. Plus you were avoiding him. Running away with your little friends and picking up stuff to hide your face from his view. He was plenty sure that when he’d rung your doorbell, you weren’t always away from home.

He should leave.

Fixing the shower could wait. He could confront you some other day.

But you were putting on such a pretty little show in nothing but your panties and he was only a man. A bad one.

His boots stayed put on your hardwood floors as you enjoyed yourself in front of the mirror. You spread your knees and let your fingers between your thighs, eyes closed, lips parted and low whines escaping your lips in just a few minutes. He palmed his growing erection over his jeans, consequences of being caught be damned. He was a foul beast already. What bad was another sin on the list? Besides, you were the one who’d left the fucking door open.

Your soft whimpers grew into moans as you brought yourself closer and he forced his feet to stay put despite their urge to walk up to you and give you something to really moan about.

“Fuu– mmm Joel, pleeease.”

He let out a gasp, all his restraint flying out the window as soon as he heard his name from your lips. You couldn’t actually be doing this… There had to be another Joel in town. Younger, better looking, smarter.

Your voice grew needy and the pitch higher as you kept at it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Gimme it, Sir.”

No, it couldn’t be anyone else.

Joel toed his boots off and took quiet steps towards you, emboldened by the filth that spilled from your lips. If this old man was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stop himself from reaping the benefits. He wasn’t a goddamn saint. Never was.

He stopped in front of you, surprised you still hadn’t sensed his presence. As though the universe heard his thoughts, it had you open your eyes. You gasped as soon as you saw him and buckled off the chair, but Joel caught you. You shuddered, unable to cope with the sudden touch.

“J-Joel?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, touching your cheek with the back of his hand. You whined, your body molding itself against his chest. You brought a hand to his arm, feeling the rock hard muscles underneath his sleeves and your other hand worked between your legs.

Your fingers no longer felt adequate as you felt his large fingers on your cheek. “Want you, please,” you whined, desperate to return to the edge where you had been right before you saw him.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me…” he spoke dangerously, soft brown eyes clouded with a kind of desire you had longed to see in him for weeks.

“Want you…want you to be with me,” you repeated stupidly, your desperation clouding your senses too much for you to say anything else. While in the past you only wanted to get rid of your virginity, your goals had become more specific with his arrival. You wanted him. You wanted his big hands and broad shoulders, to hold on to them as you rode him. To watch his grumpy expressions turn to ecstasy under you.

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said, his tone low and almost threatening. Any other threat from him, you would’ve heeded. But not this one.

“Touch me!”

It was as though something in him snapped at your words. While darkness only loomed over him before, it now completely took over.The hand that previously only caressed your cheek now wrapped itself around your neck. Before you could completely process the move, his other hand slapped yours away. He replaced two of your puny fingers with his middle finger, eliciting a strained moan from you.

“Touching yourself to a Playboy magazine, huh?”

You only nodded, unable to form words now that a fantasy of yours had finally come to life.

“Dirty little thing…Thought you were a nice girl and all. Helpin’ out at the clinic, head buried in books all the time. Turns out you actually got your head in dirty magazines.”

You whined, your pussy clenching and gushing around his finger at the way he was speaking to you. The same man who insisted on calling you Ma’am despite your protests was calling you a dirty girl now. The veil of respectability seemed to have floated away at the sight of you naked and pleasuring yourself. Had you known that this was all you needed to get Joel Miller to touch you, you would’ve done it much sooner.

He added another finger, the girth of him enough to stretch you more than you had done for yourself. You brought a hand up to his shoulder and fisted his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself to.

“You ever been taken by a man, sweetheart?” He asked, his tone too cool and casual for what he was doing to you. You shuddered, partly from his phrasing– taken, he said. Taken. Like you were a thing. Like the women in the magazines positioned so uncomfortably just so their breasts could look a certain way for the picture. Printed on the cover page with the words Entertainment for Men written on top. You shook your head, feeling small as you confessed it for the first time.

“Any man?”

“N-no,” you managed to breathe out, whimpering at the way the bulge beneath his jeans twitched at your simple answer. He took a step to position himself behind you, letting you lean your back against his chest. The angle at which he touched your pussy changed, opening your world up to a wonderful new kind of pleasure.

“A virgin. Pretty young things like you ain’t for men like me,” he whispered in your neck, making you shiver. His thumb roamed between your legs as far as they could reach, caressed you gently, his softness with you contradicting his warning about men like him. The hand around your neck slithered down your torso, cold air forcing you to face your new desire of having your breath kept hostage.

He took your left breast in hand, squeezing the flesh like someone starved would hold on to a piece of bread. It felt more like a punctuation to the warning he issued than a part of sex. Just then, his thumb between your legs stopped its search, stopping a little above the fingers inside you.

A moan you didn’t recognize as yours at first filled the room and you buckled forward. Blunt nails sunk into the flesh of your breast as he saved you before you could fall. He hauled you back up, making you collide against his chest.

You gasped and quickly grabbed the hand between your legs, the sensation too intense for you to know what to do with. His thumb kept on, rolling over something there that set your person on fire.

“Fuuuck! Joel– I– I– hnnng–”

“I know, sweetheart,” he crooned, keeping at whatever the hell he was doing to make you feel this way.

“Please… I don’t– what was that?”

You felt his chest rumble before you heard his laughter. Heat rose to your face and your throat felt strained though there was no hand around it anymore.

“Never touched your clit? Do you even know what that is?” He mocked, the cruelty somehow not repelling you from him. He forced you to look up at him. Your heart lurched at how close you were to his face. You could see every gray hair, every minute blemish and line.

“Don’t know your own fucking body but you want a man? You don’t know what you’re handing me on a silver platter. I ain’t like the other guys in town. I walked across the fucking country and lemme tell ya, there’s no pretty things like you out there. I’m starved.”

“Take me, then,” you begged, using his own words from earlier. “Please. Whatever you– a-aaah!”

He ramped up the pressure on that spot– your clit– and with it, took your ability to speak coherently. It was as though he’d done it on purpose. You hated it. To be so bereft of control. To be a puppet in someone’s hand. For someone to acquaint themselves with parts of you that you didn’t know of. But it was too much to fight, so you let go. Let him play with you. Take you. Like a thing.

You renounced control of your lips too, his name slipping out effortlessly like it did when he caught you. Then you renounced what was left of your dignity and began begging relentlessly. For what, you didn’t know. In his hand, you’d gone from woman to pupper, your strings pulled by a man, your voice now his. Sounds that would be indiscernible from that of a wounded animal emanated from somewhere deep within you.

Perhaps none of this was real. Why else did your own voice grow so distant from you? Why did your vision become blurry? Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. Your eyes clenched shut, depriving you of your blurred vision. Your toes curled. You wanted to shrink into yourself, shrink away from all this goodness. You went higher and higher, soaring like a bird. Every nerve ending in your body felt electrified, awoken like one switch turned on every light on last winter’s Christmas tree.

You let out a loud cry, the soaring bird in you reaching its peak before beginning its fall to the ground. You could hear your breaths again, labored but doing everything to stabilize itself. Your thighs still shook. Your chest rose and fell. A hand caressed your hand. Behind you, something strong supported your back. Kept you from falling backward.

“Joel…”

“I know, I know…” he whispered into your head. You opened your eyes and looked up at him, surprised to see a softer visage. He picked you up off the chair like you’d seen him lift giant logs before. With ease. You didn’t protest as he carried you. Didn’t protest when he laid you out on your bed.

He bent down and picked something up. No questions, no instructions. He simply spread your leg away from the other. Cold air touched the gushing mess dripping out of you and you shivered, feeling a sudden need to cover yourself but unable to defy him. His hand was on your pussy again. His hardened, calloused fingers behind a soft fabric this time. He wiped upwards, collecting the mess he made out of you. When he lifted the fabric up, you realized it was your panties.

He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans and then looked back at your face, the intensity of his gaze making you want to run. Problem was your weak legs wouldn’t take you anywhere. You didn’t screw your eyes shut. You didn’t pull your blanket to conceal yourself. You looked back at him, defiant. Like you were trying to prove something. I can handle a man like you.

“Be a good girl from now.”

That and a condescending pat on your pussy and he was gone.

⌘

Part 2

#joel miller #joel tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x oc #joel miller x original character #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller age gap #joel miller fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #all that i've inflicted on the world

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joelmillermylove · 6 months ago

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I need a Joel Miller type of man, that is maybe a little too protective over me. He has just a hint of silver in his hair, the cutest smile, broad shoulders and smells like leather, whiskey and oak. He’s grumpy and intimidating but with me he’s sweet and gentle. That’s what I want.

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oceandolores · 6 months ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | masterlist!

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"God loves you but not enough to save you,"

summary: In the small town near Austin, Texas, you are trapped in a life of rigid expectations and silent suffering. As the preacher's daughter, you endure the mental and physical abuse of your father while your mother, bound by obedience, offers quiet love. Your longing for a father's warmth finds an unexpected solace in Joel Miller, your father's best friend and neighbor. In Joel's presence, you discover a forbidden sanctuary, where your yearning heart is met with a gentle strength you've never known.

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡

❝ to my love, Joel.

,...found you just to tell you that I made it real far, i never blamed you for loving me the way that you did.

while you were torn apart, i would still wait with you there.

don't think about it too hard, honey. or you'll never sleep a wink at night again.

and don't worry about me and these green eyes,

baby, just know that i love you. and i'll see you when you get here.

i love you forever, Joel... ❞

THE PLAYLIST! (on spotify)👰🏼‍♀️

the preacher's daughter ▪️ dbf! joel miller

MASTERLIST!🐇

Chapter 1: "But I always knew in the end, no one was coming to save me,"

Chapter 2: "Because that's how my daddy raised me,"

Chapter 3: "I watched him show his love through shades of black and blue"

Chapter 4: "He looks like he works with his hands, and smells like Marlboro reds,"

Chapter 5: "Because for the first time since I was a child, I could see a man who wasn't angry,"

Chapter 6: "Let him make a woman out of me,"

Chapter 7: "You wanna fuck me right now?"

Chapter 8: "The fates already fucked me sideways,"

Chapter 9: "Christ, forgive these bones I'm hiding,"

Chapter 10: "and that's why I could never go back home,"

Chapter 11: "I don't care where as long as you're with me,"

Chapter 12: "If it's meant to be, then it will be."

Chapter 13: "Beautiful people, beautiful problems."

Chapter 14: "You put your hands into your head, and then smile cover your hearts."

Chapter 15: "Something's bad is 'bout to happen to me,"

Chapter 16: "Tag, you're it."

Chapter 17: "If he's a serial killer then what's the worst that could happen to a girl who's already hurt?"

Chapter 18: "He's cold-blooded so it takes more time to bleed"

Chapter 19: "Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise,"

Chapter 20: "You poor thing, sweet, mourning lamb. There's nothing you can do."

Chapter 21: "If we die tonight, I'd died yours."

Chapter 22: "I'm always going to be right here, no one's going anywhere"

-THE END-

read it on wattpad!

the preacher's daughter by babyvenoms

ENJOY! and if you guys have any like visuals to this, or art that you made for this I would love to put it here, just let me know! thank you!! 🩵

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meet-me-backstage · 21 days ago

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𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ꥟ Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

𝑆𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑛！

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 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 realise 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.

𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕, 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈!

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ꥟ Horror themes, not following the second season/game so kinda au, reader can sing and play guitar, weapons, bad language, death, parental neglect, angst, mentions of pregnancy and stillbirth, blood, 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❗️

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬!) ↯

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

𝑇𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦 <3

𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐫 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐭𝐚𝐠-𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭! 🫶

𓃗

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toxicanonymity · 11 months ago

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aches, thoughts, and needs

miniseries masterlist (complete)

post-outbreak, Joel Miller x innocent reader

SUMMARY: Joel takes you under his wing on the journey to Jackson. You have a lot to learn.

WARNINGS: I8+ big girthy age gap (20s/50s), cock hungry virgin, no experience, only one sleeping bag.

Fires - Prologue

Aches

Thoughts

Needs

pedro characters masterlist

complete but open to asks about these two 🖤

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #innocent reader #virginity loss #cw age gap #toxic masterlist #aches!joel #toxicanonymity ☠️

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bweeeb · 24 days ago

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FUCKED

Joel Miller × Reader ( called Blue as a nickname )

Summary: When girls' night at Sarah's house is attended by her indispensable father, Joel Miller, you try to hide it, but all your friends catch your eye on him and what was supposed to be just a thought becomes reality upstairs.

Warnings: Smut, daddy kink, age gap, adult reader (around 21 years old), they don't fuck when she's drunk, dirty mouth and anything like that. (I thought it would be worse to write something like that with Pedro's name, so i leave it as Joel, but in case you think it's...shit (bcs I read that once here), know that it's all for Pedro Pascal)

— Come on, everyone takes a shot. Whoever drinks the vodka tells a truth.

Sarah clapped her hands excitedly as I spun the roulette wheel with shot glasses. Four of them were filled with water, and one with such cheap vodka it would definitely give a headache by tomorrow morning. Everyone grabbed a glass, and as I downed mine, I laughed, knowing it wasn’t me.— It was me.

Bella said, smiling shyly.

— When I said I was going out with my grandma on Friday, I actually went out with Nat.

— Natasha?

Sarah shouted.

— Oh my God, Bella. I feel like grabbing your foot and chaining you up.

I joked, and the girls laughed.

Natasha was Bella’s ex, who honestly never liked us, just as we didn’t like her.

— She’s actually super jealous of you all; it’s crazy

— Ugh. Another reason on my list of dislikes.

Luna groaned, also smiling.

— Literally, I’m dating, Luna is obsessed with people who have cars, So Natasha you better be careful if you start driving. Sarah is waiting for her prince charming, and Blue is a sucker for older men. She’s crazy.

Nick said, and my jaw dropped in shock.

— Excuse me, I feel a bit uncomfortable with the “sucker for older men” nickname.

— And do I care, bitch?

Nick glanced at me sideways and smiled, earning a smile back from me. Did I like older men? Yes, but not the creepy kind.

I scope out the situation, and whoever treats me best wins. They make such a big deal about me, even though I just don’t minddating a guy who’s 40 while I’m 21.

— Next.

The roulette spun, the glasses were downed, and this time, it was me.— Uh… here’s a fun fact: I’ve never slept with an older man.

— LIES.

Luna shouted, pounding the floor.

— IT’S NOT.

I shouted back, laughing loudly and getting on all fours to look at the brunette in front of me.

— You left with that guy at the bar.

She squinted her eyes with a smile.

— He just dropped me home.

I growled, and the sound of the door opening made us all look towards the entrance, where Joel Miller stood. White shirt unbuttoned, glasses hanging where a button was done up, gray jeans, and if I looked closely when he moved, the bottom part of his shirt revealed the V-line of his abs.

Joel Miller had always been my biggest secret crush. Unfortunately, he was Sarah’s dad.

— Hi, Dad.

— Hi, Mr. Miller.

I smiled at him, moving out of the all-fours positio

— not that I minded him seeing me like that, but I thought it wouldn’t be good for appearances.

— Hi, girls. — He gave a general hello, glancing at Sarah and then at me.— I saw your car is here, kid. Are you all drinking?

— My boyfriend is picking us up later, Mr. Miller.

Nick said, and I smiled without showing my teeth.

— I’m not leaving , but I promise to stay around to keep an eye on Sarah. Scout’s honor.

I smiled innocently, knowing I wasn’t all that innocent, raising my hand. He gave me a long look and said nothing, just nodded and went upstairs. When I turned back to the circle we were making around the coffee table, all four pairs of eyes were on me.

— Don’t even think about it.

Sarah pointed a finger at me, and I shrugged.

Damn, busted.

— What?

— “I’m not drinking, but I promise to stay around to keep an eye on Sarah…and maybe you if you’d like. Scout’s honor because we give excellent blowjobs.”

Bella mimicked what I said, and my eyes widened, along with Sarah making a gagging noise. — Her look, AHH!

Nick shouted, laughing, and Sarah screamed right after: — THE LOOK. YOU GAVE HIM THE LOOK. OH. MY. GOD, BLUE.

— NO, I DIDN’T.

I defended myself.

— You combined the look with the sweet smile. Luna said, laughing, and I crossed my arms, rolling my eyes and leaning back against the couch.

— Shut up, he’s upstairs. If he hears, it’ll be so awkward.

I said, and Sarah almost got on her knees to thank me.

— Yes, it would be awkward. Thank you. She then took a vodka shot, even though we weren’t playing, shaking her head.

— If you ever do that… just don’t let me find out, please.

— Wait… so I’m allowed?

— No!

I got slapped on the arm, and I laughed loudly, repeating that I was just kidding.— Let’s keep going.

I filled the shot glass with vodka, and Nick huffed.

— Let’s make this more interesting. For every shot, say something you’ve always wanted to try during sex.

— What if I’ve never had sex?

Sarah asked, and Nick smiled. — You’ve thought about it; you’re just waiting. Say what you’ve been curious about. But you see? You don't have sex because you live with your dad and your dad doesn't have sex, Blue fix that.

— I can't speak out, I'm going to be thrown out of the window.

The first to get the vodka was Luna.

— I’ve always wanted to have sex on a boat.

— Like in Fifty Shades of Grey?

Bella asked, and I shook my head.

— No, it’s in 365 Days that they have sex on a boat.— That’s it. That.

Luna pointed in agreement, and the game continued, landing on me.

— I’ve always wanted someone to realize my neck is like a portal to make me orgasm.

The wheel spun again, landing on Nick, who said she’d like to have sex with two guys at once.

Then it was Bella’s turn, then Sarah’s, Luna’s, Sarah’s, Bella’s, and mine again.

— I’ve always wanted to feel a guy finish inside. — It’s sooo good.

Nick groaned, and I laughed through my nose.

Half an hour later, another round landed on Nick, then me again. By that point, we weren’t even keeping track of how many shots we’d taken. We were all a little drunk.

— I really just want to orgasm from penetration.

— That’s so true. They just shove it in and think it’s that easy. It’s frustrating.

Luna grumbled, and I silently agreed. Closing my eyes, I rested my head on the couch and felt like staying there.

— I’m literally done.

Bella threw herself on the carpet, and Nick agreed, saying: — Noah’s on his way, so we’re heading out.

After the three said their goodbyes, my eyes closed, and I ended up on the floor without realizing I’d fallen asleep, my dress hiked up over my thighs.I was sleeping, but I knew Sarah got up, tipsy, and called her dad. She stood in front of his door with a drunken smile.

— Hey, Dad, thanks for letting me invite the girls over tonight.

She smiled, and the man smiled back, getting up and patting his daughter’s shoulder.

— Anything to make you happy.

— Hm… could you bring Blue upstairs? She fell asleep.

They called me Blue for a dumb reason—because one time, a guy said I tasted like blueberries. The nickname stuck, but Joel never got used to it. He always made that funny face that made me want to grab his scruffy face, kiss his neck, and erase that know-it-all look.

— Sure.

Being the good dad he was, he didn’t say no and came over to me. He saw me lying there, shook his head, pushed the hair out of my face, and picked me up bridal style. That’s when I sort of woke up.

— “Look after Sarah,” you little shit. He muttered, and my brows furrowed.

— Did you just call me a shit?

I grumbled with my eyes closed.

— Are you awake?

— No.

I immediately denied it, burying my face closer to his neck.

— Look at me. — He commanded, and without hesitation, I opened my eyes with difficul — Can you walk? — He asked, and I shrugged. He set me down, and I gave him a thumbs-up as I made my way to the stairs. On the first step, I tripped, catching myself on the ground, putting him in a… compromising position behind me. I was almost sure my black dress had ridden up, and the cold air met my white lace panties.

— I’ve got this. — I said, straightening up. As I tried to take the next step, he grabbed me by the waist and threw me over his left shoulder. — Hey! —

I grumbled, feeling him pull my dress down as far as it would go. Walking down the hall, he stopped at Sarah’s door. Though I couldn’t see, I knew she was sprawled across the bed, as always, when he changed direction and shut her door.

— You could’ve left me on the couch.

I grumbled again. Without a reply, I grew impatient, hitting his broad back and trying to push myself down. His large hands slid over my exposed butt, and my legs wrapped around his waist. He stopped in the hallway and adjusted me in his arms.

— What are you doing?

I asked, seeing he wasn’t putting me down on the couch.

— What are you doing?

He repeated my question, looking at my bare legs around him.

— Trying to talk to you since you’re ignoring me back there. I didn’t think you were old enough to have hearing problems.

— You little brat. — He growled, stepping into his room and tossing me onto his bed. The number of times I’d imagined this scene was obscene. — Sleep.— Another command. Does he know how sexy he looks doing that?

— You like being bossy, huh? — I propped myself up on my elbows, smirking at him. I saw him taking off his boots, and my gaze fell over him entirely. Gray T-shirt and shorts. He looked comfortable, casual as always—and hot.— Where am I sleeping?

— On my bed.

— And you?

— On the floor.

— Dude, you could’ve just left me on the couch. I grumbled again, sitting on my heels and pulling my dress up.

— Better not. My brother’s coming over in the morning. What are you doing?

— Is he hot? Because if he is, I’ll stay there. I joked, throwing my dress onto a chair in the corner of the room.I pushed my luck a little because at that moment I was only wearing lace panties.— What?

I looked at him, seeing him frozen, staring at me. — How long has it been since you’ve seen a woman undressed?

— You’re a child.

Joel grumbled, tossing one of his T-shirts at me.I rolled my eyes, putting on the white T-shirt that draped over me comfortably.

But I felt that seeing me in his clothes made it worse for him, as the bulge in his shorts was impossible to hide.

— The kid turns you on. Oh, oh.—I laid down on your bed with my butt up and, even then, I could feel him staring at me. — The bed is big enough for two. But if you can’t control yourself over the 21-year-old lying here, then sleep on the floor. — It didn’t take five minutes before he lay down beside me. I knew perfectly well how to make him fall into my trap.

— You better behave.

— And when do I ever do that, Mr. Miller?

I turned to him and looked at him through the darkness of the room. Big eyes stared back at me, and I no longer felt the alcohol in my system because the little nap I took on the floor had made the feeling fade away

— If you said you wanted to fuck me, I wouldn’t behave. If you let me show you how much I want you to fuck me, I’d show you just how wet I am right now and let you fuck my brains out. But you didn’t say it, so I’ll behave. Good night, Mr. Miller.I Smiled and turned my back to him, and it didn’t take 10 minutes before Joel grabbed my waist and pressed my ass against his erection. He rubbed himself against me, my hand went to his neck, and Joel buried his lips in my neck. His beard tickled me, making my panties wetter than they already were.

— Joel.— I let out a small moan, and he bit my neck, making me gasp. He knew exactly what he was doing.His hand lifted my shirt, and it slid down to my lace panties. His fingers found my pussy and dipped into my wet folds.

— So wet. Fuck.

I whimpered as he started working on my clit, and just before I came, I pulled his fingers away and turned to face him. I sat up on the bed, removed my shirt, and straddled his hard cock. I lowered his shorts, freeing him, and his length slapped against my stomach. His fingers hooked into my panties, and as I knelt on top of him, Joel pulled them down and helped me take them off completely. I grabbed his length in my hand, pumping it a little before sliding it through my wet folds. I wet the tip of his cock, teasing him and making it slick, then took his shaft in hand and straddled it, rubbing myself against him without letting him inside me.

— Fuck, baby, so tight.

His large hands gripped my waist, and his dark eyes met mine, saying so much without words.I lifted myself a little and, without warning, sank down onto him. Bouncing up and down, Joel increased my pace, making his cock fill me completely.

— Fuck, s-so big.

I stammered and Joel, needing more, turned me over on the bed and penetrated me once more. — Lift your hot ass for me. Just like you were lifting it earlier, baby. He groaned and my ass was lifted up high as he fucked me hard.

— Harder.— I groaned, knowing that Sarah doesn't wake up when she drinks. And if she did, she'd be mad but we'd be fine.Joel thrust harder inside me, and I felt his cock starting to throb. My walls clenched around him and his cock pounded harder into my pussy.— Fuck, fuck, fuck.

— Come on, baby. Cum on Daddy's cock.

— Fuck, Daddy.

I whimpered as he pounded harder.

— Cum for me, baby. You're doing so good.

As soon as he said that my orgasm came and Joel groaned loudly, he was almost there.

— Cum inside me, please. Please.

— I shouldn't.

— Please, cum inside me.I moaned and he came inside me, making my body shiver from head to toe.

— So good. Thank you.

I said and he pulled me towards him, hugged my limp body, sat me on his lap and with his cock still inside me he continued hammering inside me, his face buried in my neck and there he stayed kissing me while he fucked me again. If anyone had any doubts that this old man could still fuck, fuck, they were very wrong.

— Joel is too much. I can't.

I whimpered and the good sensations were making me see another kind of sex. I want this forever.

— You can, you're a good girl. Good girls cum on cocks twice.

He said into my neck and that was enough for me to go against his cock and he cum inside me once more while I gyrated around him again.

— Fuck. — He groaned, holding on to me as if his life depended on it.— I’m so fucked up right now. — That makes two of us.

÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷÷

That's it. Hope you all enjoy it.

Requests are opened.

#pedro pascal x y/n #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #joel miller age gap #joel miller fic #pedro pascal x ofc #pedro pascal characters #joel miller imagine

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slutz4fanfic · 2 months ago

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Chapter 2:

Words: 1,773

After that barbecue my dad had last week, I really got to thinking. I need to just stop acting like some childish school girl, and continue life as normal. I'm 25 years for Christ sake. This stupid crush with Joel will drop and life will continue on as normal.

"Honey you take this out to the boys" my mama calls from the kitchen. It's some fresh ice tea she just made. "Yeah I can but mama I don't think they'll drink it, you know they drink beer during these games " I say to her. "Which is why they need it. Ain't no one need to go through case of beers like that" she waves "plus Joel will drink it, he appreciates good tea unlike your hard headed daddy out there" she shakes her head with a smile. "Alright" I chuckle grabbing two glasses.

The rhythmic buzz of cicadas filled the warm Austin evening as I pushed open the screen door, a glass of iced tea in each hand. The familiar sound of my father's laughter rumbled from the garage, followed by the low, steady drawl of Joel's voice.

They were exactly where I expected to find them- my dad and Joel leaning back in my dad's old lawn chair, beer in hands.

The small television in the corner of the garage flickered with the rangers game, its glow casting soft shadows over the walls cluttered with tools and half-finished projects.

For as long as I can remember Friday nights have been a ritual to come out in the garage and watch the game. The rangers game or really whatever game would be on, for my dad and Joel. Just two life long friends unwinding together after a long week of work.

I stepped in the garage, my heart fluttering in that maddening way it always does lately around Joel. He glances up at me, his brown eyes catching the light enough to make my breath hitch. He's dressed in his usual- faded jeans and a t shirt that clung just right to his broad shoulders, his sleeves of a flannel rolled up to reveal strong, tan forearms.

"There my girl" my dad says like he always does when I come in a room. "Come to keep us company?"

"Ma thought you guys might need these" I smile handed my dad one glass. My father chuckles shaking his head. "Got one for him too kid?" He nods towards Joel.

"I uh.." I faltered for a moment as my cheeks warmed. "Here ya go" I smile up at him, he takes it from hands gently brush my fingers as he does. "Thank you darlin" his voice quiet but warm. He sets it on the workbench by him.

My cheeks flush at the way the word fell off his tongue, so casual yet so intimate. He defiantly doesn't realize the effect he has on me and that seems to only make it worse.

"God I love your wife's ice tea Jimmy" Joel smirks setting his cup down. "Watch it kid" my dad warns him with a smirk on his lips. "Can't help it man" he jokes.

I perch myself on a stool near the corner, folding my hands in my lap as the men returned their attention to the game. I try to focus on the screen, but my eyes keep drifting to Joel. The way he leaned back against the chair, his arms crossed over his chest, the slight furrow in his brow as he watched the game. He was so at ease here, so much a part of her world, and yet so completely out of reach.

"So, Violet," my father starts, breaking my thoughts. "How's the bakery? Y'all keepin' busy?"

I nod, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Yeah, we've had a lot of orders lately. Everyone's getting ready for the holidays."

"Bet your cinnamon rolls are flyin' off the shelves," Joel added with a small smile.

My heart stuttered. He remembered my cinnamon rolls? "They are, actually," i said softly, my lips curving into a shy smile.

“You oughta bring some by next time," Joel said, his tone teasing. "Don't think I've had one since your dad stole that batch last year."

My dad lets out a bark of laughter. "Damn right I did. They're too good to share."

I laugh quietly, the sound easing some of the tension in my chest. "I'll bring some by," I promise him, my eyes darting to Joel for just a moment before I looked away.

The game carried on, the two men chatting and joking as the evening wore on. I stayed quiet, content to sit in the background and soak in the easy camaraderie between them. But every now and then, I could feel Joel gaze drift onto me, lingering just a second longer than necessary. And each time, my heart would race.

Tomorrow at work I'll make Joel some cinnamon rolls. They're my favorite thing to make and a lot of people really do like them.

The hum of the game on the small TV blended with the soft night sounds outside, but I'm only really half-listening. Fiddling with the hem of my skirt, my heart seems to be caught in the steady rhythm of Joel's voice. Every now and then, his low chuckle rolled through the garage, and I feel it deep in my chest, like a warm breeze cutting through the thick summer air.

"You hear that, Joel?" My father said, snapping my attention back to the conversation. He gestured at the screen, shaking his head in disbelief. "Third turnover this quarter. They're throwin' the game away."

Joel snorted, taking a sip of the iced tea she'd brought him. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when you've got a rookie QB with no line to protect him. Kid's got no chance out there."

My dad let out a frustrated grunt and leaned back in his chair. "I swear, we could do a better job with a couple of 2x4s and some duct tape."

Joel chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "Hell, maybe we should put in an application. Tell 'em we've been buildin' houses so long, we might as well start buildin' teams."

I can't help but smile. I really do love listening to them banter, the easy rhythm of their friendship a comfort I'd grown up with. But tonight, there was an ache underneath my contentment, a quiet yearning Im having trouble shaking.

I glance at Joel, trying not to be too obvious about it. He catches my eye, and for a split second, everything else seemed to fall away. I watch his brown eyes softened, his lips curving into that easy, familiar smile.

"You alright, Violet?" he asked, his tone gentle.

I blinked, startled by the directness of his question. "Oh, um... yeah," I respond

quickly, dropping my gaze to my hands. "Just tired, I guess."

My father, oblivious as always, waved a hand. "She's been bustin' her butt at that bakery. Don't know how she does it, gettin' up at the crack of dawn every day."

Joel tilted his head, his gaze lingering on her. "That why you're so quiet tonight?"

“I'm always quiet," I mumble, my cheeks warming reminding him.

Joel's lips twitched into a smirk. "True enough. But you're quieter than usual."

I hear my dad laugh, taking another sip of his beer. "She gets it from her mom. Always had a way of keepin' to herself." He glanced at Joel. "I used to worry about it, but turns out, it's not a bad thing. Means she doesn't talk nonsense like the rest of us."

My blush deepened as I offer a small, self-conscious smile. Thanks dad. God this is embarrassing.

"Talkin' nonsense keeps life interesting," Joel said, his gaze still on me. His voice dropped just a bit, softer now, like the words were meant just for me to hear. "But quiet's nice, too. Don't let him make you feel bad for it."

I feel my heart stuttered at the kindness in his tone, at the way he looked at me like I'm actually was worth noticing. But my mind can start spinning creating fake situations and reasons in my head my dad speaks up.

"See, Violet?" My father starts, gesturing at Joel with his beer. "This guy's been defendin' you your whole life. I swear, if I didn't know any better, I'd think he was the one who raised you."

Joel chuckled, shaking his head. "That's 'cause I spent half my life cleanin' up after her dad's messes," he teased.

The weight of my father's words settled over me like a cloud. Joel had been around my whole life—looking out for me, fixing things when they broke, always just... there. He wasn't just my dad's best friend. He was part of the foundation my life had been built on. And yet, the way my heart raced when he smiled at me, the way I catch myself dreaming about his hands brushing against mine, felt so much bigger than that.

I stand up quickly, suddenly overwhelmed by the closeness of the garage, by the intensity of my own thoughts. "I should get back inside," I say fast, brushing my hands against my skirt. "It's getting late."

My father barely glanced at me. "Alright, sweetheart. Don't stay up too late—you're always complainin' about bein' tired."

"I won't," I promise, my voice quiet.

Joel straightened, his eyes following me as K moved toward the door. "Thanks for the tea, Violet," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that made me pause for a moment.

I turn back, my hand resting on the edge of the doorframe. "You're welcome," I murmur, my gaze meeting his for a brief, charged moment before I slip back into the house.

3rd POV

As the door swung shut behind her, Joel let out a low breath, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"Kid's too sweet for her own good," her father said, shaking his head.

Joel didn't answer right away. He just stared at the door, his thoughts tangled in a way he couldn't quite untangle. "Yeah," he said finally, his voice quieter now. "She is."

And as the game carried on, Joel found himself less and less interested in the score and more preoccupied with the memory of her smile, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

#joel miller x age gap #joel miller x original character #joel miller age gap #joel miller fic #sunshine x grump #sunshine x joel miller #shy reader #shy reader x Joel miller #joel miller au #joel miller smut #joel miller x sunshine #joel miller #pedro pascal fan fic #zaddy #damn zaddy #age gap x Joel miller #the last of us

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salingers · 4 months ago

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october's end.

[joel miller x f!reader]. summary: a filthy halloween night with your dad's best friend, joel miller. [you get him to briefly wear a ghostface mask. enjoy]. warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap. alcohol. au. begging. cream pie. dirty talk. dom!joel. fingering. jealous!joel. language. masked!joel. no outbreak. no use of 'y/n'. praising. smut. use of 'good girl'. use of 'slut'. unprotected piv. word count: [about] 3,800. a/n: hi! debut, written for @mermaidgirl30's halloween writing challenge. cover by me, divider by @saradika. @saradika-graphics. <3

Everything’s bigger in Texas, including Halloween. Your childhood neighborhood is locally televised each October’s end, due to every home’s enthusiastic participation. There’s an annual stoppage of traffic for the singular evening’s festivities, permitting only costumed bodies to roam the gated community’s residential roads.

Branches draped in gauzy webs. Yards engulfed in artificial fog. A beloved holiday tradition, predating the tailend of the seventies, when Dad and Joel were elementary aged and wielding pillowcases of candies. Now, they’re fifty-somethings, bemoaning mutual back pain and cursing pesky lawn decorations.

“Here,” Joel gruffs, while individually sliding Dad two Reese’s pumpkins, from across the kitchen’s counter. “Protein break. ‘S four grams.”

Dad swipes them both up, before confirming that statement by thumbing one’s wrapper, “That ain’t bad.”

You’re quietly laughing at their supposed refueling, while stooping behind the fridge’s door and scanning the moistened shelves. There. A seasonal beer, from your favorite brewery in Austin. It’s comfortably predictable, returning home for Halloween; From Dad purchasing your favorite autumnal ales, to Joel Miller’s ruggedness.

You properly right yourself. Then, using your waist, nudge the appliance’s door shut, “Dad, where’s your bottle opener?”

Dad’s phone abruptly drones, reverberating against granite and interrupting your question; He grimaces at the caller’s illuminated identity.

You guess, “Ghostface?”

Dad laughs, before emphasizing, “Worse. My neediest client.” He abandons his barstool, continuing, “Actin’ like buildin’ up in Waco makes ‘er Joanna Gaines.” Dad apologetically nods toward you, “Joel. Will ‘ya?”

Joel’s scruffy chin tips upwards, directing you, “C’mere.”

Something’s brewing, once Dad vacates the vicinity. Your forced proximity to Joel is newly palpable; Tonight’s different. You’re obedient, in approaching him. Joel doesn’t stop staring. The bottle’s neck is being strangled, under your dominant hand. You can’t completely ward off an image of taking him into your palm.

Your minimal passage to his barstool seemed slow-motioned, almost. You’re not sure. Time’s just apparently lengthier, under Joel’s browned gaze.

Joel grunts, fingering his carabiner of keys, attempting to sift out his bottle opener keychain, “You playin’ Michael Meyers, ‘gain? ‘Round one night, only?”

You amusedly scoff, “Keepin’ track?”

Joel shrugs, “Eight days, in eight years.”

You’re genuinely surprised that Joel’s noted your absence. Maybe, Dad revealed that specific number, correlating to your sparse appearances in Austin; Well, it could’ve been that Dad mentioned to Joel about how since your high school’s graduation, you’ve only managed to visit home yearly. That’s just basic math. Right?

You stammer, “Uh huh. ‘S my favorite holiday.”

Joel hums, before abruptly wrapping his calloused palm around the entirety of your hand and the beer bottle’s width, “Hm. ‘N that your favorite beer?”

You’re momentarily silent, muted by Joel’s warmth. A sizable hand, roughened from decades of hard labor. The tips of his delectably thick fingers begin tightening at your wrist, securing his hold as he’s standing himself up.

Even fully seated, Joel’s intimidating in size. Him standing toe-to-toe with you? That’s another story. His construction boots are weathered and worn; They would be comically large, in comparison to your measly-sized sneakers, but nothing’s funny about Joel Miller’s body mere inches from yours.

You reply by mustering an eager nod; And, whether that’s in response to Joel’s prior question pertaining your liking of the beer, or merely an approval of his nearness to you? You haven’t decided.

Joel rasps, “Anythin’ else?” He’s pulling your combined hands downward, to his waist. The carabiner’s remained attached to his belt’s loop, “That ‘ya favor?”

You’re struggling to think of something witty to retort. Because, the frayed seam of Joel’s zipper is right there. He’s deftly notching the bottle’s cap inside of the opener’s teeth; The beer crisply hisses, releasing any contained pressure.

Joel whispers, “What, darlin’? Bat got your tongue?”

You defeatedly laugh, “Somethin’ like that.”

He grins, carefully releasing you, “Taste it.”

You harshly gulp, “S–Sorry? Oh, right. T–The beer.”

Joel agrees, “That’s right.” Then, darkly teases, “Y’know, that pretty mind ‘a yours is boundin’ for the gutter.”

He crosses his arms against his broad chest, the canvas fabric of his Carhartt jacket drawing taut. Joel’s now cocking his head, sending his gaze along the pathway from the glass vessel that you’re feebly holding, to the lower lip that you’re inadvertently biting; Daring you.

You’re feignedly bold, “Meet ‘ya there.”

You drink, even if it’s primarily to keep yourself from further stuttering. At first, it’s an adequate enough distraction; The alcohol’s frigid in temperature, soothing to the high-strung tendons of your throat, from the inside-out. Then, you’re curiously drawn to Joel’s own gulping throat, and that transient composure of yours is gone.

Joel’s devotedly watching you, his glare heady and sensual. His Adam’s apple jerks, moving atop the clenched muscles and corded veins of his neck. You’re somewhat tipping back, gathering your final mouthful, for now; You’ve drained three-fourths of it, by the time that you’ve halted your sipping.

Then, Joel’s thumb darts out, before smoothing against your glistening mouth. He drawls, “Got it lookin’ real good. Let’s see.”

You’re only narrowly audible, “Oh? Joel.”

Joel’s tongue, deliciously large and scrubbed pink, strokes his finger. He groans, “Mm. Ain’t sure. Need ‘t sample it from the source.”

You inwardly whimper, “Yeah?”

You’re foolishly tempted to extend him the ambered bottle itself, because surely Joel Miller, your dad’s best friend, would identify that as the ‘source’. Not your parted, wanting lips. Like Joel’s read your hesitant mind, he reassuringly pins your hands behind your back, easily dismissing the beer; A singular hand of his own, dwarfing the pair of your wrists.

Joel’s ghosting your lips, “Yeah.”

For good measure, Joel lightly moans, sucking his dampened digit. Humming around the pumpkin spiced suds, lapping up any residual taste from his finger. Arms restrained, spine straightened; Your chest’s rising urgently.

Joel’s own chest, delicately hairy below his threadbare t-shirt, is an odd inch away. A desperate heat’s begun permeating your lower abdomen; Achingly unfurling, taking up residency in your cunt.

Of course, it’s then that Dad’s barrelling over, having withdrawn from his nearby office, “Sorry ‘bout that, kid. Get ‘er open?”

You’re coughing out, “Y–Yep.” Then, “Thanks, Joel.”

Dropping your wrists, Joel winks, “Oh. ‘M pleasure.”

Your incriminating closeness to Joel goes unrecognized by Dad; Seeing as, Joel’s wide shoulders completely obscure you from view.

Dad sighs, “Gee, there ain’t no escapin’ this shiplap.”

Joel immediately laughs, casually reclaiming his prior barstool. The jarring segue from Joel’s flirting with you, to his joking with Dad, is absolutely disorientating. You’re fidgeting, repeatedly and silently tapping your foot. You can’t do Joel here; You’ll settle for doing last-minute Halloween preparations.

You blurt, “Goin’ to start organizin’ the candy. ‘S all in the garage, Dad?”

Dad assuredly nods, “Sure is. ‘Cept these.” He chuckles, gathering the forgotten wrappers from his earlier ‘protein break’ with Joel.

You remind him, “Don’t forget to refill the fog tanks.”

Dad, who seemingly had forgotten, regretfully snaps his fingers, “What would I do without ‘ya?” He’s bragging to Joel, “Look at ‘er.”

Joel agreeably nods. Eyeing you, “Good girl.”

Because, Dad and Joel are career contractors, who are simultaneously life-long friends and next-door neighbors, it’s only right that they’ve done an elaborate, joint Halloween for three decades; Locally dubbed the ‘Construction Fright’.

A (questionably) age-appropriate spread of horror, featuring thrifted tools that bludgeon and dismember an assortment of plastic skeletons. Hard hats, faux-bloodied and stabbed with rusted nails. Construction tape, riddled in spiderwebs.

A half-dozen, battered wheelbarrows, brimming with chocolate candies; Three brown ones, carrying Hershey’s, Rolo, and Tootsie Roll. Three orange ones, containing every imaginable variant of Reese’s.

You’ve already been working for nearly an hour; Arranging the color-coordinated barrows of candy. You’re jamming the recycling bin’s lid shut, overtop the cardboard and plastic wrappings of king-sized bars, when the entry door’s opened.

Dad’s entering the garage, “Sun’s settin’ soon, kid. ‘Oughta get dressed.” He lazily squeezes you in an impromptu side-hug, “Thanks, for helpin’.”

You breathily sigh, “Mhm. Oh, I need ‘t light the Jack-O-Lanterns.”

Joel appears, insisting, “Go on, darlin’. I’ll get ‘em sweatin’ for ‘ya.”

You’re thinking, ‘That’s ridiculously slutty of him to say’, when Joel continues, this time addressing Dad, “Hey. Phone’s ringin’ over ‘gain.”

Dad sighs, “Got ‘t be kiddin’ me.” Then, grumbles, “Sure hopin’ it’s Ghostface.” He grins, lightly pinching your elbow.

You giggle, “C’mon. She can’t be that bad.”

Dad shrugs, smiling before swiftly jogging up the garage’s concrete steps; When Dad’s fully retreated inside, and the door’s naturally swung shut, Joel doesn’t waste any time pinning your body against it.

Joel whispers, “Bet ‘ya find that this pussy’s wet ‘f me, when you’re undressin’ it.” His jeaned, muscular thigh’s nudging your legs ajar.

You airily groan, “P–Please. Fuckin’ kiss me.”

Joel grins, wedging his ample thigh’s sturdy surface against your beating cunt. He kisses you; Joel Miller fuckin’ kisses you. He’s grabbing your face, thumbing your cheekbones. His lengthy fingers, scraping your skull.

His tongue’s deeply delving, eagerly exploring your mouth’s every crevasse. You can’t breathe efficiently or think coherently. Everything’s Joel. His graying beard, raking your chin; A woodsy scent, like that of the hardware store’s lumber aisles, exuding from his clothing.

You’re moaning, “Ngh.” Then, ripping at the silvery hair that’s curling against the nape of his sun-freckled neck, “More.”

Joel’s grunting, “Fuck. Need ‘t stop.” He can’t stop, and sucks your bottom lip, once more. Then, “H–Hear ‘im? He’s gainin’ on us.”

Sure enough, Dad’s approaching. It’s damn-near impossible to quit rutting along Joel’s denimed, upper leg. You’re whining, “Need ‘ya.”

Joel’s panting, “T–Tonight, darlin’.” He arousingly whispers, “All night. When the porch light’s out, sneak over.” Then, darker and deeper, “Repeat it.”

You repeat, “Tonight. When the porch light’s out, sneak over.”

You’re admittedly distracted, during the evening’s trick-or-treating segment. You understand that nothing’s allowed to appear awry around Dad, but Joel’s playing casual too well. You shouldn’t overthink, but it’s torturous; That he’s apparently unaffected. Drinking with Dad and Tommy. Never really staring at you.

Joel’s (conveniently) costumed as himself every Halloween, but himself during working hours; A leathered tool belt, cinching his tender waist. A backwards Filson hat, tamping his unkempt curls. His dirtiest ‘white’ t-shirt; The neckline’s absurdly tattered and torn, an array of holes displaying his body’s coarse hair.

Midland’s country cover of ‘Wicked Game’ is emitting from neighboring speakers. You can’t resist likening the song’s drumming pattern to your own heart’s pulsating rhythm; Yearning for Joel’s attention. Then, Dad’s whistling for your attention.

Dad’s pointing, “Look, kid. Your ‘ol boyfriend, Nick. He’s fuckin’ Ghostface.” Dad humorously roars, standing, “See ‘im? H–Hold on.”

You’re avidly protesting, but Dad’s already approaching Nick, who’s not wearing, but holding his hooded mask; Fingers cupping the elongated, rubbery chin. There’s nothing inherently wrong about him; He (morally) should be your holiday hook-up, not your dad’s best friend. It’s too bad.

Joel snipes, “Dick?”

You tut, “It’s Nick.”

Joel’s feigning understanding, “Oh, Prick.”

You’re unsure what’s initiated this potent sexual tension, but it’s consumed your every thought this Halloween; While, Joel’s every word is loaded. His irritated sarcasm’s gunned your way. Any bickering’s uncommon, for the pair of you. You’re hoping that Tommy’s too busy proffering candy to notice.

Dad’s returned, towing Nick, “Weren’t we just talkin’ ‘bout him, kid? So funny.” Dad, and his dorky penchant for inside-jokes.

Nick cluelessly smiles, “Hi, you.”

You politely reply, “Hi, yourself.”

Nick’s extending his hand, summoning you from your designated seat, “Got ‘t see this costume.” Then, he’s declaring you, “Stunning.”

You’re incredulously laughing, “They’re bloodied overalls.”

Nick grins, persisting, “Love ‘em. Also, this apron’s awesome.” He’s thumbing your accessory’s front, tracing the logo, “Carhartt girl, huh?”

You’re aiming to get under Joel’s skin with, “Scream girl, too.” You inspect Nick’s black robe, feeling his arm’s draping sleeve.

Oh, Joel Miller’s jealous. He’s rolling his earthy-toned eyes; Aggressively peeling his beer’s damp label, while instigating Dad, “Hearin’ this?”

Dad’s indifferent, shrugging. He’s always approved of Nick for you; He’s Texan, and plays Minor League Baseball. That’ll do it.

Nick’s pleading, “Let’s please walk ‘round, sweep the neighborhood?”

Joel snarks, “Hell. Reckon he’s recruitin’ for Neighborhood Watch?”

Nick’s nervously smiling, having not heard Joel’s dig, but surely hearing Dad and Tommy’s abrupt snickering.

You kindly respond, “Let’s. Love seein’ the decorations.”

It’s nine-thirty. Your street’s grown habitually sparse; Toddlers, having resigned to stringent bedtimes. Teens, having retreated to erupting parties.

You decipher Joel’s looming silhouette; His rocking chair’s creaking, upon the dimmed porch’s planks. A gleaming tumbler of (presumably) whiskey is resting against his crossed leg, the glass winking at you.

Joel’s dragging his index finger’s edge against his groomed mustache, thumbing his angrily tightened jaw. He rasps, “Ain’t walk ‘ya home?”

You’re ascending his porch’s tread, “Didn’t need that. Told ‘im so.” Then, untying your apron’s chaotic knot, “Uncross your leg, Joel.”

Joel’s pleasingly pliant; He warns, “That’s the only order that I’m takin’ tonight.” His lap’s deliciously spreading, “Get ‘t drawin’ the blinds.”

The anticipation’s wetting you. You’re immediately scampering along the porch’s perimeter, rolling down every privacy blind; Joel’s patiently swigging his auburn liquor. You whimper, “A–Anythin’ else?”

Joel’s rolling the wick of his adjacent kerosene lantern; Thrusting his opened lap, scrounging his Zippo lighter from an anterior pant pocket. His hand’s arousingly veined, while flicking the lighter’s flint wheel.

He belatedly replies, “Drop your apron. Undo your overalls.”

You’ve dropped the apron, and something’s spilling out from the largest pocket; Joel’s deeply exhaling, “Explain that.”

The lamp’s emitting faint light, fire illuminating his hardening expression. He’s so scarily sexy. You’re inching nearer, but Joel hoists his palm, stopping you.

You embarrassedly gulp, “N–Nick’s mask. Asked me ‘t hold it. He never wore it.”

Joel’s impatient, waving, “And?”

You’re tentatively unhooking your denimed straps, gently uttering, “W–Would ‘ya? Wear it?”

Joel’s mildly surprised, “Oh?” Deciding, “Bring it here. On your knees.”

You instantly kneel, before gathering up the discarded disguise using your teeth. You’re crawling to Joel, crossing the porch’s dully-lit surface. The bib upon your overalls undone; The garment’s buckling loops clinking.

Joel involuntarily moans, “Ngh. Dirty fuckin’ girl.” His index finger’s pumping from his balled up fist, signaling you.

Your pussy’s thumping, because of his commanding, curling digit. You’re itching to suck it. You need anything of Joel’s inside of you.

You’ve gradually reached Joel; You’re being caged in-between his lengthy legs. Joel forcibly pinches your face, removing the mask from your bite’s grasp. The item’s resultantly spat, against his abutted groin.

He’s astonished at the filthy sight, rustling, “How ‘bout that.” You’re resting on your haunches, while Joel praises, “Good girl.”

Joel’s abruptly leaning downward, before hungrily lifting your body’s entirety along his own. He’s immediately kissing you, sinking against the rocking chair’s curved spine; The porch’s cedar ground sighs, creakily duetting with Joel’s groans.

You’re practically siphoning the remnant whiskey from his tongue’s cushioned pad; Your mouth’s rabidly sucking, while your waist’s desperately grinding.

Joel’s bypassing your denimed, disoriented trousers; His palm’s greedily grasping your back’s arched column. His remaining arm, ladling your ass. Then, Joel’s effortlessly hauling your goosebumped figure upward; The rocking chair’s momentum being an assistant. The mask’s wedged in-between your upright bodies.

Joel breathes, “T–The lamp. Hang tight.” You’re licking Joel’s partially bearded throat; He’s briefly hunching, responsibly lowering the wick, consequently extinguishing the flame. Your quartet of limbs, wrapping his flexing torso.

You’re whispering, “You’re so big and strong, Joel.”

He amusedly sighs, “Yeah?” Promising, “Ain’t seen nothin’.”

Then, Joel’s roughly stamping your body against the front door’s exterior; His bulge swelling, pinning your pussy. The entry knob’s blindly twisted. Joel’s heavy-footed steps are reverberated, crunching his home’s metallic threshold.

First, Joel carelessly clears his entry way’s waist-heighted table. Juggling you, while his tanned arm’s sweeping everything off; A ceramic, coffee-stained mug of loose change’s completely shattered. Second, Joel harshly kicks his anterior door shut; There’s an impressive boot print, left behind.

Joel’s panting, “Tell me ‘t stop?”

You’re begging, “K–Keep goin’.”

He hums, “Hm. Need it, darlin’?” Joel’s hurriedly planting you upon the table’s cleared crest, kissing your nodding throat. Agreeing, “Yeah. You do.”

It’s dizzyingly hot; Joel gruffly ripping off your mussed overalls, easily tugging off your slip-on sneakers. He’s lobbing them across the room, away from the mess of coins and shards. You’re noticing the Ghostface mask, under his unmoving bicep.

Joel’s noticing you, “This what ‘ya want?” He’s hesitantly thumbing the mask’s gaping jaw. “Ain’t scared?”

You quietly say, “Like ‘t be scared.” You’re reaching upward, prying off his hat; His hair’s deliciously gray and tousled. “Here.”

Joel’s flinging his accessory away. Then, handing you the hooded, horror mask, “Go ‘head.” He warns, “Wearin’ it ‘till you’re comin’. Understand?”

You’re stroking his untidy hair, readying him, “Won’t be long.” You murmur, “S–Soppin’ for ‘ya.”

Joel’s grunting, “Fuck’s sake.” Kissing you, in-between threatening, “Filthy. ‘Oughta edge ‘ya. Talkin’ like that.”

He impatiently rings your wrists; You’re positioning the mask properly overhead. The draping fabric’s hitting Joel’s colossal shoulders.

Your pulse’s hammering, “Oh.”

The mask’s milky-colored expression, surveying you. Stark, against the setting of Joel’s unlighted home. His index finger’s impulsively traveling your body; Dragging over your bottom lip’s dampened flesh. Then, carnally downard, riding your throat. Fingering your jugular’s delicate divet. Hooking your undershirt’s airy collar.

Joel’s taunting, “Heart’s racin’.”

You’re anguishly rutting against his console table’s lacquered top. You need to be touched. You beg, “J–Joel. Oh, Joel.”

Joel’s eerily tilting his head, “Pussy’s racin’ like that, too?” Whispering, “Ain’t it?”

You’re deliriously horny, “Yes.”

He’s humming, “Hm. Shirt’s got ‘t go, first.” His unoccupied hand’s rummaging his hind pocket, while, “Reckon that my knife’ll work?”

You’re pleading, “C–Cut it off.”

Then, Joel’s brandishing his utility knife. The blade’s expertly flicked outward. He urges, “Try ‘t hold still.”

Joel Miller’s carving your fucking shirt; His blade’s blunt edge skimming your sternum. He’s effortlessly halved it, forging an impromptu vest. He’s instantaneously shoving the garment overtop your rigid shoulders.

The knife’s frigid handle brushes your tapered nipple; Joel’s awaiting permission, hovering your underwear’s waistline. You’re nodding, kneading his large shoulders. His finger’s hitching the material, before his blade’s cutting it.

Snipping the remaining side, Joel grunts, “Cunt need stuffin’?” He’s pocketing your saturated underwear and his retracted knife, “I know it’s wet ‘nough to take two fingers.”

You’ve been fantasizing about Joel entering you all Halloween. And, finally; He does. He’s groaning, “S–Swallowin’ both of ‘em. ‘Jus like that?”

Your angling head’s hitting the paneled wall. You’re obscenely squelching around his battering digits. You belatedly respond, “JoelJoelJoelJoel.”

Joel’s roughened wrist’s repeatedly rubbing your beating clit. You’re clenching speechlessly around him, innately meeting every re-entry. Your spine’s warming; Your stomach’s taut.

Your arousal’s watering his driving hand; His palm’s pooling. Joel’s incessantly steady. Praising, “Comin’ up. Doin’ good.”

You’re gasping, “There. Oh, right there.”

The instant that you’re coming, Joel’s yanking off his hindering mask. His beard’s patchy and sweaty. He grins, “Man ‘a my word.”

Then, Joel’s amused mouth’s pounding upon your own; He’s desperately inhaling your breaking moans. Licking your teeth’s underside.

You’re abundantly squirting, as Joel’s uncorking your cunt. Your spotting vision’s correcting leisurely. You’re languidly sighing; Breathing deeply.

He’s genuinely insane for drinking you from his cupped palm. Then, Joel’s mouthing his soggy fingers; Hitting knuckle. You’re blurting, “Need ‘t fuck.”

Joel’s arching his aging brow; Rasping, “Ask nicely.” Then, he’s towing your body overtop his broad shoulder. Spanking you, “Greedy fuckin’ girl.”

You’re nakedly suspended, Joel’s bicep rippling below your ass. He’s entering his living room; Carefully placing you across his cognac-colored sectional. You’re propping upon the chaise’s leathered cushions. You whine, “Please, Joel.”

Joel’s tutting, “Better’n that.”

You supply, “Pretty please?”

He’s gradually moving nearer; His denim-clad shins, butting the couch’s edge. Joel’s unhurriedly thumbing his belt’s loop, painfully prolonging his removing it. You’re wetting and writhing against his furniture’s fabric.

Joel’s unimpressed, “C’mon.”

Shedding his accessory; Working his zipper. His acting arm’s so freckled, tanned, veined. Joel’s yanking his t-shirt overhead, before subsequently revealing an appetizing, softened tummy. His happy trail’s graying and wiry.

You’re begging, “Joel. Please.”

He’s winking, “Good ‘nough.”

Every sound’s tantalizing; Joel’s boots and pants, thumping across the carpet. His bare, bulky thigh’s abruptly rubbing against your naked pussy; Then, Joel’s mirroring your body’s horizontal position. Mounting you.

Your arousal’s drenching his underwear’s front; His length’s largely tenting the humid material, “Beggin’ like that. Fuckin’ slut.”

You’re involuntarily panting, when Joel’s finally and fully undressed. His cock’s deliciously girthy. The tip’s engorged, reddened and seeping; Erecting far beyond his belly’s button.

You’re whimpering, “PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel grins, “Cunt’s quiverin’. Feelin’ that?”

You desperately nod, “Need you ‘t feel it.”

Joel’s immediately pistoning his fleshy waist; His cock’s knocking your cervix’s wall. His rough thrusting’s fastly inching your bodies upward, until your head’s rearing the sofa’s supple tailend.

He whispers, “Warm ‘nough?”

You gasp, “C–Cock’s perfect.”

Joel’s inaudibly responding; Ramming your hand, palming your pelvis. You’re feeling his cock, below your abdomen’s exterior. He’s interlocking your fingers; His own swallowing yours; Pressing. You’re practically tracing his bulbous, twitching tip.

He’s praising, “Takin’ me well.”

Joel’s bottoming-out, pounding steadily; His bloated, weighty balls welting your taint. Your clit’s puffing, from his pubic bone’s rhythmic route. Dementedly fucking you. You’re moaning, “Ah. F–Fuck.”

He murmurs, “Cunt’s gulpin’ me.” Joel’s hooking your knee’s underside, before lugging it overtop his broad shoulder’s slope, “Needy fuckin’ hole.”

You’re stammering, “Ngh. M–Mm. RightThereRightThere.”

Then, Joel’s angling deeper, differently; Laying his body’s robust weight against your languid, vertical leg. Your foot’s achingly surpassing your head. His chest hair’s graying and saturated; Scraping you.

Your pussy’s overwhelmingly spasming. Joel’s messily tonguing your nipple’s peak; His mustache’s prickling the sensitive skin. You’re tugging at his hair’s curling strands, “J–Joel. Close.”

Joel’s echoing your prior words, “Meet ‘ya there.”

You’re shockingly surprised, that Joel’s remembered the momentary retort; Your faux-bold response and pumpkin spiced alcohol. That’s it. You’re blindly coming. His cock’s densely brimming your contracting hole; Hammering you.

Your pussy’s pornographically sloshing. Joel whimpers, “A–’Atta girl. Drenchin’ it.” Then, “Comin’ inside. ‘M snipped. Yeah?”

You’re immediately kissing him. Palming his beard’s rugged stubble. Sucking his tongue’s pink pores; Tasting your arousal’s heady flavoring.

His climaxing moan’s roaring down your throat; Cum rapidly spurting, coating your cunt. You’re rubbing his rolling eye’s crinkled grooves. His forehead’s tanned and wrinkled. Joel’s especially gorgeous, while cumming hard.

You’re pouring, when Joel’s unplugging you. He’s breathlessly cursing, “Fuckin’ hot.” Standing, “Gettin’ towels. Need anythin’ else? Water?”

You’re beginning to respond, when Joel’s unexpectedly bending; Kissing you. You smile, tapping your bottom lip, “What’s that for?”

Joel’s embarrassedly pointing, toward the nearby microwave’s blinking clock. He explains, “Ten thirty-one on October thirty-first. ‘Dunno. Good luck? Make ‘a wish or somethin’.”

You’re actually dumbfounded, “Oh? You’re absurdly cute.”

Joel frowns, “Ain’t allowed ‘t call me that. ‘Specially while leakin’ my seed.” He’s nakedly turning, preparing to walk, “Water?”

You’re pulling Joel’s hand, “Wait. Want ‘t hear your wish.”

He gulps, “That… You’ll be visitin’ home on Thanksgivin’.”

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ladybirdswritings · 9 months ago

Text

SWEET THING, DBF — joel miller x reader.

DESCRIPTION: your life is a storm—an overbearing father, a shitty boyfriend, and the ache of growing up. everything becomes more tangled when you find yourself drawn to your father’s best friend, joel. NOTES - no apocalypse! leave me all your thoughts and opinions. i love them <33 | next part

A03 | masterlist

sweet thing…

Your father did the best he could. You knew that very well. Charlie was a man respected and adored by his humble community. A hard working father turned single parent when your mom fell ill and god— you were his little flower. His sweet thing. His angel.

Flowers are fragile, though. Gentle, moldable petals and stiff, snappable stems.

It is why he kept you so close to him, so prized like painted porcelain just ready to crack.

It is why you were here. Here at Jackson’s golden hued dance with more powdered, jam-filled pastries and red, roasted meats then you could count on one hand. Here. Instead of the alternative option which was the party your boyfriend decided to attend without you.

You got the invite, sure, yet even as a legal adult— what daddy says? Goes. So long as you remain under his roof, at least. It was infuriating, though. The freedom of all your dear friends, the spontaneity. If only that could be you…

Your eyes drifted to the moustached sponge of all fun and joy in the world, wrapped in a flannel with bourbon in hand. Your dad was seated next to Joel, as he often was. His presence was a newfound thing for these recent years and though Joel would never say it, you had an inkling that he wanted to stand by his friend’s side after your mother… well.

You didn’t know Joel well. No, not at all. His visits were always the occasional dinner or drop in for fishing or some awfully manly thing. You knew well that your mother adored him, though— so that was enough to make him alright in your book.

Neighbor Betsy told you once that Joel had lost his wife and daughter too, and that maybe he was trying to keep your father from going through what he went through alone.

You only laughed at that.

Joel Miller was gruff and cold. Could he have such a warm heart beneath his sherpa coat?

You dazed out, the fingers snapping in front of your eyes made you blink back into the golden hues and roasted sausages on pointy little sticks.

“You alright, honeybee?” Your father asked, laying a heavy arm upon your shoulders. Joel was slower in his approach, eyeing you up and down with confusion and something else in his eyes.

“Peachy.” You only muttered, taking a sip of your freshly squeezed lemonade. Jackson’s finest.

“Oh come on now angel… now you know I can’t have you runnin’ off with that boyfriend of yours. I always told you he was trouble. Member’ when he ditched you down by Church Road during mosquito season? Well you were ripe as a red tomater and who had to pick you up?”

You were riper, redder now. Your cheeks an embarrassed hue not even on the color wheel, not even identifiable. You bowed your head, huffing out your frustrations before simply muttering: “you did, dad.”

He nodded proud, squeezing your shoulder. “That’s right, I did… what?”

Your eyes drifted up to see your father’s oldest friend with an odd kind of expression on his face. Brows pinched and raised, wrinkles plaguing his forehead deeper now.

Joel only cleared his throat, shifting on his boots and taking a sip of his bourbon in preparation. Then? He spoke.

“You ain’t lettin’ her be.” He gruffly offered, eyes set and sure. Your father only stilled for a moment, wondering if it was even Joel’s place to have an opinion… maybe it was.

“Why’s that?” He asked Joel, and the rough looking man only took another swig.

“Mm. We were both young once. We both made mistakes, y’gotta let her make her own— can’t hide her from em’. Just ain’t how it works.”

Poppies blossomed like springtime had finally begun in your eyes. Finally— someone understood. You didn’t expect him to be so… wise?

Your father only huffed, taking a long glance your way as he mused.

“Even if I wanted to loosen the leash tonight, Joel, I can’t. Maria needs me here to keep an eye on crazy old Arthur.”

Joel’s brows relaxed at that, a purpled hand running along the zipper of his flannel coat. His eyes were a chocolate kind of brown, dark and quietly encasing his thoughts within them.

He hummed, gaze drifting back to you.

You wanted to shrink. Perhaps it was because you were on the spot, perhaps it was because the way he stared would make anyone feel small.

It seemed like centuries before he cleared his throat again.

“I’ll take her.”

What?

You didn’t understand it, not one bit. Why was he kind enough to offer you an out here? Kind enough to test your father’s words.

Discomfort radiated through your father’s coat, tension molding its way into his already stiff bones. A long sigh, a glance back and forth as he truly considered. His expression was far too plagued with worry, and you knew well that it was now or never.

You had to slam down the last nail in the oak wood coffin.

“Please, daddy? I’ll check in every half hour, I promise.”

Tension eased, slightly but— still. Your eyes were doe-like and sweet, and he gazed into them for a moment far too long before allowing his arm to drop.

“Every fifteen minutes and you’ve got a deal. Miller, you make sure my daughter gets in and out of that bastard’s house safely.”

Joel only nodded once, jaw tense and expression stoic. Your grin was wider than a field of flowers, and you immediately wrapped your father in a hug. Your thank yous seemed endless, and it made him laugh.

When you parted, Joel had keys grasped in his rough hands. You realized for a moment that you had no idea why he was doing this. What did he owe you? Maybe it was pity. You were half an orphan, after all.

With a cautious glance, your eyes met his own. He nodded once as if to urge you closer, and you stumbled his way. Before you knew it? You were out the door, trailing behind him like his shadow.

Of all the people who cared enough to convince your father to let you go to this party tonight? Joel Miller was the last person you expected it to be…

¿to be continued?

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joelmillermylove · 2 months ago

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hehe Guilty 😏😏

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 1 year ago

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pairing: cult leader!joel miller x virgin!female reader

rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

word count: 8.6k

summary:

You think you’re as good as dead when a band of raiders find you. In what you think are your final moments, an angel appears.

His name is Joel Miller, and he is here to deliver you from evil.

author's note: a huge thank you to my fellow cultist @atinylittlepain for listening to me scream about this. without them, we'd probably be on version 5 of this story. and to everyone who has been excited about this, i hope you enjoy!

warnings: DARK CONTENT - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, dub-con: power dynamics, dub-con: cult mentality, age difference - 60M and 27F, explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), no use of y/n, dual POV, post-outbreak, canon divergence, canon typical violence (knife wounds, gun shot wounds, numerous mentions of blood), minor character death(s), blood cult ceremonies, religious themes, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, loss of virginity, oral sex - f receiving, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, cum play, dirty talk, pet names, praise, joel really has a loose screw ok? if there are any tags missing, please let me know!

“I don’t think you should go out there by yourself,” you say, watching as your dad inspects his gun. He looks up at you with a pained expression.

“I gotta see where we should head next. I don’t want to lead you out in the wrong direction, accidentally get you in a bad spot,” he says. “I’ll be fine, buttercup.”

There’s a heaviness that settles in your stomach at his words. He sounds confident enough, but his eyes tell a different story, expose his fear. He stands with a sigh, a wince of pain washing over his face.

“Maybe I should—“

“No,” he interrupts. “I’m going. I won’t be gone long, okay? We can’t stay here forever. Who knows what’s out there in the forest.”

That’s exactly what you’re afraid of. At least inside the rotted cabin you stumbled across you could pretend you were safe. The forest is alive in a way you’ve never experienced growing up in a QZ surrounded with barbed wire and steel. You hear the snap of twigs and the howl of wolves, or the flutter of wings and the call of birds, and sometimes you think you feel the weight of eyes watching you if you venture out too far in your exploration.

“We’ve made it this far. We got out of Denver and that was half the battle,” your dad says. “You got your knife, right? And enough rations.”

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. He kisses your forehead, dry lips lingering on your skin. You have an aching feeling this is a goodbye, some sinking intuition that he’s making a mistake that you can’t correct.

“Be back soon. I love you.”

Joel’s been keeping an eye on the people in the woods for the last three days. There was chatter on one of the radio stations that the Denver QZ was facing an uprising and he knows that once those walls come down, the survivors that venture out are bound to stumble across his town.

The cabin door opens and the man steps out, venturing into the forest. Joel waits to see if his female companion follows, but the door remains shut. He longs to see you, the girl who’s image has been burned into his brain since his first glimpse, but he has a duty to fulfill first.

He walks quickly and quietly through the forest, sure feet catching up with the man less than a mile from where he’d started. Joel clears his throat.

The man turns, fumbling with a gun that he clearly has no experience using, pointing it at Joel with shaking hands and shouting, “Move and I’ll shoot!”

“You lost?” Joel asks, holding his hands up and keeping his face trained in a mask of concern. “Lookin’ for somethin’?”

After a pause, the man seeming to have concluded that Joel isn't a threat, he says, “My daughter and I…we escaped the Denver QZ."

"That must've been difficult."

"We....we're running out of food," he continues, dropping his arms, limbs hanging heavy at his sides. "I-I don't know what else to do, man."

Gun no longer pointed at his face, Joel approaches the man, stopping when he's within arms reach. Up close, he can see the dismal state the guy is in -- sunken cheeks and bloodshot eyes, tattered clothing hanging on a thin frame. Joel places a hand on his bony shoulder.

"I can help you," he says. The man looks up, a brief glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes. Joel watches the slow realization, the way his brain catches up to what's just happened, a choked noise spilling from his dry lips.

Joel tugs his knife from the man's gut and steps back, watching as he collapses to the ground. Desperate hands smear the blooming red stain across his abdomen. Joel circles the man, positioning himself at his back, and pulls him close with a hand slapped over his mouth.

"I'll take good care of her," he whispers before dragging his knife across his neck in one clean slice. The man twitches once before growing limp and Joel releases him, body hitting the forest floor with a dull thud. Not one to waste, Joel gathers anything of use from his person.

Something catches the light against his neck. Curious, Joel tugs the bloodstained neck of his t-shirt to the side, finding a silver chain. He pulls, revealing the length of it.

A cross.

The clasp snaps with a sharp tug and Joel stuffs it in his pocket. Standing and shouldering his bag once more, he begins his walk back towards the cabin.

You're running as fast as your legs will carry you, lungs and limbs burning with the effort. You made the mistake of not listening to your dad when he'd told you stay where you were, to stay hidden, that he'd come back. Your nerves had gotten the best of you and you decided that you would catch up with him, but you didn't know which direction he'd gone. You figured you would travel a little ways and see if you could find him and if you didn't do so quickly, you'd rush back to the cabin and wait, just as he told you.

That's when the men saw you, two large figures with rifles that reminded you of FEDRA soldiers slung across their backs.

You duck behind a thick tree to catch your breath. You can hear voices calling out through the forest above the rush of blood in your ears, taunting tones carrying through the air.

"C'mon out, pretty girl!"

You chance a peek out from your hiding spot, only catching a brief glimpse of one man through the trees.

"Where ya hidin', sweet thing?"

His voice sounds far away and that gives you the courage to move forward, a tentative dash for another tree.

“I might be nicer to ya if you just come on out, but if I have to hunt ya down…well…you know what a hunter does to its prey, don’tcha?”

You press your hand over your mouth, muffling the cry that claws its way up your throat. You start to run again, faster, not caring if he can hear you so long as you're able to maintain that distance, hoping that if you can outrun them for long enough, he'll just give up and then maybe you can find your--

You crash into something, the world sliding out from under you and the breath rushing from your lungs as you land on your back with a pained shout. A hand wraps around your ankle, pulling you across the rough ground before you have the chance to recover.

"Gotcha," a man says, the voice different from the one that had been taunting you before. A figure stands over you, a foot on either side of your hips, looking down at you with a sinister smile. "Pretty little prize, huh?"

You twist your body, scrambling away from him. He laughs, following after you with unhurried strides.

“Now, don’t play hard to get,” he admonishes. A hand wraps around your ankle and he drags you toward him, kicking and screaming. Your foot connects with some fleshy part of him and he curses.

“You little fuckin’ cunt,” he hisses, dropping your foot. He kicks you, heavy boot colliding with soft flesh and bone, a sharp pain blossoming in your side, shooting down to your very marrow. You curl in on yourself, wounded prey trying to protect its most vulnerable parts.

A shot rings out, the sound startling in the relative quiet of the forest. You sit up, sudden movement making you light headed, and it takes you a long moment to register the scene before you.

The man that had been chasing you, the one that had caught you, the one that had hurt you on the surface but planned to do far worse, lies on the ground, eyes wide open but unseeing. Above him stands your savior, an older man with gray streaked dark curls and tan skin, broad shoulders and hard brown eyes. He reminds you of a painting you saw once in a book your dad owned, long before the outbreak.

“Death On A Pale Horse,” he explained when you showed him the painting that caught your eye. “Based on the Book of Revelations. You remember that one, right?”

“Yeah.”

“This one,” — he pointed to the central figure, a dark creature on a white horse — “is Death. And this one” — he pointed to a figure on the right that rides a dark brown horse, the dark colors making him blend among the horrors breaking from the sky behind him — “would be famine. You can see the emaciated man below him.”

“What about the other two?” You asked.

“The one of the red horse would be war.”

You pointed to the remaining figure, a man with dark curls and a determined expression. “And the white horse?”

Your dad paused. “Conquest. Pestilence. The Antichrist. The first horseman of the apocalypse.”

The man before you today looks like that figure on the white horse and despite his choice to rescue you from one horror, you fear he may be something far worse.

The man kneels and you flinch away from him. He sighs and says, “I ain’t goin’ to hurt you.”

“Who are you?” You ask, voice weak, throat on fire.

“My name is Joel,” he says. “I want to help you.”

“How do I know you weren’t with those other guys?” Your eyes grow wide and you rush to stand on shaky legs. “Wait, there’s another—“

“He won’t be an issue,” Joel assures you, wrapping a steadying arm around your waist. “C’mon.”

“I can’t—“

“Men like those two ain’t the only things in the forest to worry about, and I’m afraid we can’t sit around and find out. That gun shot could send a horde runnin’.”

“Wait!” You snap, pulling out of his grasp. He holds his hands up, as if in surrender, or maybe like he’s approaching a wounded animal. You’re not sure which. “My dad is out there. H-he went to figure out where to go from here. We were in a cabin…” Your voice trails off. “I told him I would wait for him.”

Joel’s eyes are soft as he says, “We need to get ourselves to safety. I can send someone out to look for your dad first thing in the mornin’.”

“Send someone?”

“There’s a group of us, down in the valley. Survivors, like you.”

“Really?” Relief washes over you, eclipsing even the ache in your belly and the burn in your throat and the pain in your muscles. “How far?”

“With the state you’re in, probably about a two hour hike.”

You don’t have much choice but to go with him, do you?

“Okay.”

“Where’re you comin’ from?” Joel asks, glancing over his shoulder at you. You’ve been following quietly behind him, head down and eyes fixed on the ground.

“Denver,” is all you offer in response. He knew that much already. He wants to know more.

Maybe he has to give more first.

“‘M from Texas, originally. Was in a QZ in Boston for a while before makin’ my way out here.”

“Why’d you come out here?” You ask.

“Had a friend once tell me, ‘Save who you can save’,” he says.

“What does that mean?” You ask.

“You’ll see.”

Joel had mentioned survivors, but you're shocked to discover that just past a wooden sign proclaiming WELCOME TO CRESTONE in chipped yellow paint, a whole town is tucked away, surrounded by a wooden gate that opens for you as you approach. You feel the weight of curious eyes as you walk through a town square, Joel's palm between your shoulder blades steering you towards a more residential area until you reach a two story adobe home.

Once inside, you’re led upstairs to a sparsely decorated bedroom, a large bed in the center with a faded quilt tucked around the mattress with precision and a dresser against one wall covered in yellowed wallpaper. Joel gestures for you to sit, kneeling on the wood floor in front of you to work on the laces of your sneakers.

“What—“

“You need rest,” he says, removing your shoes. He looks up at you, brown eyes full of concern. Your stomach flips.

“But—“

“No,” he says sternly. He stands and walks to the side of the bed, tugging the quilt free and folding it down. “I have duties to return to, but you’ll be safe here.”

You don’t have it in you to continue arguing. You haven’t seen a comfortable bed in more than two days and the exhaustion catches up to you in one fell swoop, eyes halfway to shut as you crawl into the space Joel’s made for you between the sheets. He pulls the covers over you, the warmth of a hand smoothing across your cheek the last thing you feel before falling asleep.

You wake to the sun high in the sky, streaming through the open window of a room that you don't recognize. You push yourself to sitting, your ribs protesting the movement and your head pulsing just behind your eyes. Your mouth is unbearably dry, so much so that you start coughing, further aggravating your bruised ribs.

"There's water on the nightstand," a voice says, startling you.

You look to your left, finding a young girl sitting in a wooden chair by your bed. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face, wayward pieces falling across pale skin. Her sharp brown eyes watch you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl.

“I’m Ellie,” she says. You mumble your own name.

“Did Joel save you?” Ellie asks.

“Uh—“

“He must have. That’s what he does,” she continues, cutting you off.

“Ellie!” A familiar deep voice calls out. Her eyes go wide and she scrambles from her seat, rushing for the door. Heavy footsteps climb the stairs, Joel appearing in the open doorway. He looks at her with a stern expression, mouth pressed in a thin line. “Thought I told you not to come up here.”

The look on her face isn’t fear, like her reaction would have led you to believe. No, she looks up at Joel with reverence as she says, “Sorry. Wanted to see her.”

Joel nods. “Head to the mess hall. I’ll bring her down shortly.”

Ellie casts a lingering look in your direction before disappearing through the doorway.

“Sorry about her,” Joel says. He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. “How’re you feelin’?”

“Could be better,” you say honestly. “How long was I asleep for?”

“A little more than a day.”

Your eyes go wide. “My dad—“

“We’ve sent out a search party. No luck yet, I’m afraid,” he says. You curl into yourself a bit at the news, shoulders tight with worry. He reaches forward and places a hand on top of your own where it rests on the sheets. “You should get some food. I brought you some new clothes, too. I’ll let you get dressed and we can go down to the mess hall.“

He leaves the room before you respond and you drag the pile of clothes closer to you, finding a neatly folded t-shirt, jeans, underwear, and socks. It takes you a long moment to work your way out of your dirty clothes, your movements slow to not aggravate your injuries. You keep your bra on, pulling the clean shirt over your head, followed by the jeans. You're thrilled to be wearing something that's not caked with dirt and sweat.

You're working on putting your socks on when there's a knock at the door, Joel entering when you call out for him to come in. He smiles at you.

"There, that's better," he says. "C'mon. Let's get down to dinner."

You follow him out of the room and down the stairs. The first floor of the home has a kitchen that opens up to a living and dining area, the space filled with worn mismatched furniture. The walls are wood paneled and there's a massive stone fireplace with elk antlers mounted above it.

The sun is setting as you step outside and get your first real look at the town as its bathed in gold. Narrow residential streets give way to wider roads once you reach the town center, where commercial buildings are pressed together advertising long forgotten businesses, their windows dark.

"That's the butcher up there," Joel says, pointing to one of the wooden buildings. "He gets the meat from the traps prepped for us." He points to another building with a sign that says RESTAURANT. "That's the bakery."

"A butcher and a bakery?" You ask. "Do you have electricity here?"

"Sure do. Solar panels, just outside the gate."

You continue walking through the town until you come up on a large white building, people entering and exiting through a set of thick double doors. The shadow of a cross remains above the door, perhaps scorched by the sun where a crucifix once sat. People welcome Joel as he enters, heads turning in their curiosity. You press a little closer to Joel's side.

The large room is bursting with noise and activity -- a flurry of conversations, the clink of cutlery, and laughter. You've not seen anything like it before, the mentality in the QZ not conducive to camaraderie. You can count on one hand the number of people you would have considered friends within those walls, and even that was a stretch. You and Joel join a line of people retrieving plates of food from a single window.

"How long has all of this been here?" You ask, gesturing to the room. He looks around proudly.

"Ellie and I came across this town on accident after we went through hell leavin' Boston. The folks here set up their own quarantine zone and with bigger fish to fry, FEDRA sort of left ‘em alone. They were kind enough to take us in," he says. "After that, more people started showin' up lookin' for safety. Lots of people who escaped the QZs or had been on their own for a while and were tired of runnin'."

"Ellie says you save people," you comment, taking a step forward as the line moves. "What's that mean?"

"Every flock needs a shepherd."

You’re at the front of the line now, standing in front of the window. A woman appears, her face lighting up when she sees Joel.

“Joel! How are you?” She asks, leaning onto the ledge. Behind her you can see people moving quickly and efficiently around a stainless steel kitchen, large pots of food simmering on the stovetop.

“Well enough,” he says. He places a hand on your shoulder. “We have a new guest. Make her plate nice and full for me?”

“Of course.”

She gathers a plate from a precarious stack, loading it with a heaping pile of food ranging from mashed potatoes and stew to colorful vegetables that you haven’t seen in ages, not since before the outbreak when you were seven and your dad would make dinner rather than pass you a ration package. You’re speechless as she hands you the plate with a kind smile, a mumbled thank you the best you can manage to show your gratitude.

Joel is handed a plate as well and you follow him to a table where Ellie sits next to a man with white hair, her plate already empty in front of her. The man looks up at Joel as you approach, his expression closed off and wary.

“Michael,” Joel says in greeting, jaw ticking. You take a seat beside Ellie, who to your surprise moves closer to you, arm brushing yours. “You botherin’ Ellie?”

The man, Michael, shakes his head. “No, sir. We were just having a little talk.”

“What about?” Joel sits on the opposite side of the table. He rips his bread roll in half.

“Just some concerns I was having.”

“You bring your concerns to me. Not to her.”

The two men stare at each other, the tension thick and impossible to ignore. Finally, Michael gets up, leaving the table without another word. Ellie’s shoulder’s lose their tension and Joel catches her eye, the two of them seeming to have an entire conversation in just a look.

The moment passes and Joel’s features relax, a smile tilting the corners of his lips as he returns his attention to you and gestures to your plate.

“Dig in,” he says.

Joel walks you back to his home after dinner, the sky now dark. Ellie’s already closed herself in her room by the time the two of you return, having left the mess hall before you had finished eating.

“Tired again?” Joel asks when you yawn, mouth open wide as you stretch your arms above your head.

Your expression is sheepish as you say, “A little bit.”

“That’s to be expected,” he assures you. “You fought a hard fight. It’s okay to relax now. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” Your fingers tangle in the hem of the t-shirt he’d given you earlier. “I don’t know if I’ve said that already.”

“You’re welcome. Come on, let’s get you back upstairs. You can use the shower and get to bed.”

“Oh my god, a shower sounds amazing.”

He shows you the bathroom and helps you get the water running. Once he shows you where to find a towel, you smile gratefully before shutting the door on him.

Dismissed, Joel makes his way to Ellie’s room, knocking on the door. She answers quickly, opening up only enough for him to see her face.

“Yeah?” She asks.

“Can I come in?”

She rolls her eyes but opens the door further, allowing him inside. Her room is smaller than his but far more decorated, pages ripped out of old magazines and comic books tacked to the wall. She takes a seat on her single bed, folding her legs beneath her.

“What did Michael talk to you about?” He asks. She shrugs her shoulders. Joel bites back a sigh. Sometimes he forgets what it was like to reason with a teenage girl. “Ellie.”

“He said” — she pauses, scratching at her wrist in the way that she will when she’s anxious — “he said that you were full of shit. That your fucked up ceremony isn’t helping any of them.”

Joel’s teeth grind together. “That all?”

“Called me a stupid kid for following what you say,” she mumbles. “Said everyone in town was stupid for believing you.”

“Thank you for tellin’ me,” he says. Rage burns in his veins as he turns to leave.

“What are you gonna do?” Ellie asks as he reaches the door.

“I’m goin’ to teach him a lesson.”

He pulls the door shut behind him, tilting his head against the wood with a sigh. The click of a latch down the hall precedes your quiet, “Joel?”

Joel turns to face you, surprised to find you standing just outside the bathroom door with a towel tucked around your body. Water glistens on your skin in the low light, drawing his eyes down your neck and across your chest. He clears his throat.

“Everythin’ alright?” He asks.

“Yeah, everything is fine,” you murmur. “I…could I get some new clothes?”

“Of course, should’a given you some before you showered. Sorry about that.”

Joel walks past you, entering his bedroom and approaching the dresser. He tugs the top drawer open, full of clothing he’d gathered while you’d been asleep for more than a day. He piles together another t-shirt, sleep pants, and underwear, setting them on the bed for you.

You’re standing in the doorway when he finishes and he fights the urge to go to you, to pull you close, to run his wretched hands over your body like he’s wanted to since he first saw you in the forest.

He doesn’t, though. Not yet. You still have much to learn.

“Here you go,” he says. “Some more stuff in the drawers for you if you need it.”

Joel leaves you to get ready for bed, shutting the door behind him. He heads downstairs to grab what he’ll need, essentials shoved in a bag thrown over his shoulder before venturing off into the night.

Only a few lights continue to illuminate windows as Joel walks through the residential area. The house he approaches at the end of a street is already dark, quiet beyond the wood door that he knocks on three times. The door opens slowly, Michael appearing in the small space.

“What?” He grunts.

“Come take a walk,” Joel says. Michael rolls his eyes, moving to shut the door but Joel’s boot blocks his effort. “I ain’t askin’, Michael.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you going to do?” He challenges. Joel throws his weight against the door, catching Michael by surprise enough for him to step into the house.

Joel throws an elbow into the man’s gut, making him double over with a groan. He circles behind him, kicking the back of his knee to send him to the ground. He pulls a length of chain from his pocket, looping it around Michael’s neck and pulling the ends.

Michael struggles, clawing at the garotte and thrashing wildly, but Joel holds strong. He tightens his grip further until Michael’s fight becomes sluggish, lack of oxygen finally causing him to go limp.

Joel releases the chain and Michael’s body slumps to the ground. He removes his backpack, digging through the contents until he finds a rusted pair of handcuffs that he uses to bind Michael’s arms behind his back. Next, he places a strip of duct tape over his mouth.

When he wakes, Joel will lead him out past the gate. He will find an unassuming home that rests outside the boundary of Crestone. He will open the hidden doors of the cellar, the ones covered in a layer of leaves and grass. From the darkness he will hear the echo of desperate groans and the rattle of chains and the angry attempts to break free from bindings. He will lead Michael down the dirt steps, the smell of rot and fear and death clawing at his olfactory nerves.

He will place a burlap bag over a struggling Michael’s head and the man will beg and plead in words muffled by tape. Then, Joel will offer him for judgment.

A hand on you shoulder shakes you awake, the room still mostly dark when you manage to open your eyes. You groan, pulling the quilt up over your head.

“C’mon, we gotta get to breakfast,” Ellie says. The cover gets yanked down and she gives you a mischievous grin.

“Where’s Joel?” You ask, sitting up slowly. She shrugs.

“Probably there already.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand, stretching your arms up. You grab the same jeans and socks from the day before, changing into them quickly and sitting down on the floor to pull your sneakers on. Ellie watches you, her foot tapping impatiently.

“You can go without me if you’re in a rush,” you offer. She shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly. “You ready?”

“Sure.”

You follow her out of the house, her clipped pace difficult to keep up with due to your lingering pain. As the sun starts to rise and you pass by more of the houses, you notice something peculiar about some of them.

“What’s that?” You ask, pausing in front of one the houses. There’s a streak of what looks like dark red paint across the top of the door. Ellie doubles back and stands beside you.

“Protection,” she says.

“From what?”

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, uncomfortable with your line of questioning. Rather than answer, she walks away, leaving you to catch up to her or be left behind.

As the two of you start to walk through the square, there’s a rush of people around you. Shouting can be heard up ahead as a crowd comes into view, gathered around the front of the mess hall building. People press in close together, craning their necks to see over each other and catch a glimpse of whatever spectacle has their attention.

Ellie pushes through the crowd and you follow close on her heels until she manages to break through the other side of the wall of people. You catch glimpses of something writhing on the ground, something animal but not quite, something failed and fetid and foul. Another peek affords you a view of an arm littered with bite marks shaped by blunt teeth, deep gouges into their skin that shine red with blood and fester with disease.

Joel appears, stepping around the side of the building. The whispers cease, the crunch of Joel’s boots and pained groans the only noise to be heard in the stale air.

His dark eyes scan the crowd. People shrink back from his gaze, pressing closer to each other for relief. He reaches down, curling his fingers into the burlap material and yanking it off to reveal a man, familiar and yet not recognizable. Unseeing eyes, ashen skin, and dark red veins now the hallmark characteristics of the man you now remember as the one who had been talking to Ellie in the dining hall.

Joel draws a gun from his back, aiming it at Michael’s head. “Let this be a lesson,” he says, pulling the trigger.

The shot rings out, making you jump. The agonized sounds come to abrupt halt and his body goes limp, eyes still open as blood blooms on the ground around him.

“No blood spilled. No blood saved,” Joel says. You look up from the horrible scene and meet his hard gaze. You step back, turning and shoving your way through the crowd.

Then, you run.

You’re frantically shoving clothing into your bag when a door slams downstairs and heavy footsteps climb the stairs at a quick pace. You can feel the burn of Joel's eyes on your back, his presence in the room thick and cloying as you refuse to turn around, even when he murmurs your name.

He moves closer, a hand on your shoulder prompting you to turn to break the connection. He holds his hands up in surrender, taking a step back as he says, "Let me explain."

"Explain? Explain?! How the fuck do you explain that?!" You snap.

"If you'll just listen--"

"There's nothing you could possibly say that will--"

"Ellie is immune!" He shouts. Your words die on the tip of your tongue, lost to ether as you stare at Joel.

"W-what do you mean? Immune?" You ask.

He takes a deep breath. "I told you what my friend said. 'Save who you can save'. The first person I saved was Ellie."

"I helped her out of Boston, kept her safe, nearly lost my life if it meant keepin' her alive," He continues. "That's what I offer here."

"So you think you're....what? Some kind of god? That you can grant immunity?"

He huffs a laugh, the noise devoid of any humor. "God abandoned his worst experiment in their time of need. There is no god anymore, just the poor creatures he left behind. Someone had to take up the mantle."

"But how?"

"The ceremony," he says.

"That’s not a fucking answer, Joel!” You shout. “What fucking ceremony?!”

“Blood spilled for blood saved. You can’t make it in this world without givin’ your everythin’ first.” He lifts the bottom of his shirt, just enough to reveal a jagged scar to the right of his belly button, shiny scar tissue disrupting smooth tan skin. “I did this for Ellie. Now everyone else has to do it for themselves.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand.” You take a small step closer to inspect the wound, raising your hand and reaching out with a tentative touch. Joel inhales sharply as you run your fingers across the puckered flesh.

His hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your hand up and holding it against his chest. “It’ll be easier to show you, okay? There’s a ceremony in a couple days.”

“I don’t—“

“You’re just afraid because this is somethin’ new, but I promise you that you got nothin’ to be scared of. I’ll take care of you.” He lifts a hand to your face, tilting your chin with his thumb. “I just need you to trust me.”

His eyes are honest, earnest, pleading with you to believe him and the longer you search them, the more truth you seem to find. He will take care of you. You just know it.

“Okay.”

Dinner is served early on the day of the ceremony, the room buzzing with excited conversation. You haven’t seen Joel much the last few days, just passing glimpses, and Ellie says it’s because he has a lot to prepare for. Tonight there’s a woman at his side wearing a white dress that flows to the floor, black hair braided down her back. She smiles at Joel, hanging on every word you can’t hear. It makes your stomach clench in a weird way when her hand curls around his bicep and her head leans against his shoulder.

“That’s Marcy. She’s volunteered for the ceremony,” Ellie says. She’s sitting across from you, a smirk on her lips. “S’why she’s been hanging around Joel the last few days. Joel’s gotta prepare her.”

“Oh,” is all you manage to reply, picking at the vegetables on your plate. “What does…what does he do? To prepare her.”

She shrugs. “Dunno.”

You glance at the pair. Joel leans in close to the woman, whispering into her ear. Your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, your hands curled into tight fists beneath the table. He stands, a hand on the woman’s shoulder as he calls the people to attention, voices fading until silence envelops the room.

“Tonight,” Joel says, “another is to be saved. And we will all bear witness to the gift of deliverance that only self-sacrifice can grant.”

It’s only a few words, but the power in them is palpable as you glance around the room at the entire town watching him with rapt attention. His eyes meet yours.

“Save who you can save,” he intones. A chill runs down your spine.

“Save who you can save,” the town echoes back.

The sun is already low on the horizon, twilight casting a soft glow on the scene. You stand at the back of the crowd, watching as Joel leads Marcy onto a raised wooden platform. Another man joins them, passing something wrapped in cloth into Joel’s outstretched hands.

“The thing about the world today,” Joel says, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a large knife, “is that there ain’t a single guarantee.” He looks out over the crowd. “Except here, within these walls. Why? Because here you’ll make the greatest sacrifice and earn the greatest reward.”

He begins to pace the length of the platform, knife in hand. “Givin’ your blood in exchange for your safety? That doesn’t sound so bad, right?” The people around you nod their heads in agreement. “You’ve seen what that sacrifice can do. I did it for Ellie. I did it for myself. And tonight—“ he places a hand on Marcy’s shoulder “—another has made the choice to earn that gift of protection.”

A cheer erupts, spreading through the crowd through shouts and applause. You find yourself joining them, clapping your hands together as you continue to watch Joel.

“Marcy,” Joel says. “What brings you here today?”

“No blood spilled, no blood saved,” she recites dutifully.

“Are you afraid?” He asks.

“No,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I trust in your protection.”

Joel smiles at her, beaming with pride, and that knot in your stomach from earlier returns with a vengeance. You want him to look at you like that.

He stands in front of her, blocking her from view with his body. A hush falls over the crowd and from the silence erupts an anguished scream. You flinch, the sound piercing and painful and petrifying, though it seems to have taken nobody else by surprise.

Another scream as he jerks his arm back, the knife in his hand now stained with red that slides down the blade, dripping to the wood beneath his feet. He steps to the side and you can see the woman now, her hands pressed to her belly. Crimson blooms beneath her hands, marring her pretty white dress and leaching the color and vitality from her face. She drops to her knees and so does Joel, who wraps an arm around her shoulders and gently guides her until she’s lying on her back. He holds her hand and smooths her hair from her face as she just repeats, “Thank you.”

Slowly, the strength in her voice fades. Her arm goes limp in his grasp, dropping to the floor with a dull thud as her eyes flutter shut. Joel whistles sharply, three men rushing up the platform and lifting the girl into their arms, careful not to jostle her too much. Joel remains kneeling, his head turning to scan the crowd.

“We are born covered in blood,” he says. “It gives you protection from the outside world when you’re wrenched from the womb. And it will protect you now as it is wrenched from you.”

He steps off the platform and walks past the crowd, heading for the residential street. Everyone shuffles forward, moving en masse like sheep following their shepherd or cattle to the slaughter. You’re led to one of the smaller homes and you watch as Joel smooths the flat of the blade across his hand, gathering blood in his palm.

He places his palm on the door, smearing the blood across the faded blue paint. When he’s done, he turns to face the crowd.

“Marcy has earned her protection. Those of you among us that have not yet made your sacrifice, may you return home this evenin’ and realize that each passin’ day is a wasted opportunity for your salvation.” His serious expression softens as he smiles. “No blood spilled.”

“No blood saved,” the crowd says.

To your surprise, the words fall easily from your lips.

Joel shuts the door quietly behind him. He’s just finished checking on Marcy and was pleased to find that her wound has been dressed and she’s recovering well. At the kitchen sink he runs the water as hot as he can tolerate and scrubs his hands clean.

He can hear faint footsteps upstairs, the sound of your pacing back and forth in his bedroom. He’s pleased that you stayed through the entire ceremony, didn’t run away filled with fear or disgust like you had watching him make an example out of Michael.

There’s hope for you yet.

Joel dries his hands on a towel and heads upstairs. He glances at Ellie’s room out of habit, though he knows it’s empty. She likes to help out after the ceremony, usually sticking beside the town nurse, Shelly, as she monitors the person who participated in the ceremony over night.

The door to his bedroom is shut but he can see that the light is on, the glow of it seeping out from the gap beneath the door. He knocks, three sharp raps of his knuckles, and waits.

You pull the door open, and Joel is once again struck by how much he wants you, how much he’s craved you since the first time he saw you. You look up at him with wide eyes but he doesn’t sense any fear as you pull the door open further and step back to let him enter.

“You doin’ okay?” He asks, shutting the door quietly behind him. You’re standing with your arms wrapped around yourself, nodding quietly. Joel moves closer, tentatively reaching out to tilt your chin up so that he’s looking into your eyes. “Talk to me.”

“I….,” your voice trails off. You take a breath. “I want that protection.”

He was hoping you would say that. Relief floods through him.

“I can’t do that,” he says. Your brows pinch together, hurt flashing across your features. “I won’t have your blood on my hands.”

“But—“

“Listen to me—“ his hands frame your face, thumbs smoothing over the high points of your cheeks “—you’re meant for somethin’ different here.”

“Something different?” You repeat. You shake your head slightly. “I don’t understand.”

“From the moment I saw you, I knew I couldn’t let you lose a drop,” he whispers. “You don’t need to bleed, sweetheart. Not like them. I’ll protect you myself.”

Your mouth drops open the slightest bit, drawing Joel’s gaze. He slides his thumb across your bottom lip, mesmerized by the softness of it. There’s not much about his life the last twenty or so years that he would call soft.

There was his brother, Tommy, even though they couldn’t see eye to eye and had to part ways. His daughter, Sarah, before the outbreak. She took care of him, made sure he took his vitamins and packed his lunch and didn’t miss a parent-teacher conference. She was light and joy, his heart outside of his body, and she was ripped from his grasp.

There was Tess, who was not a soft person but was a soft place to land among the carnage. Bill, ornery though he was, and Frank, arguably his better half. They were a breath of normalcy, even when Bill had a gun trained on him. Ellie, once she quit being a pain in the ass and wormed her way into his heart with her promise to follow him wherever he went.

And now there was you.

“Will you let me do that?” Joel asks. “Protect you?”

You lift your hands, delicate fingers wrapping around his wrists. He wonders if you can feel the rapid beat of his heart, his pulse pounding beneath your grip. Finally, after a long moment, you whisper, “Yes.”

Joel captures your lips with his, swallowing your gasp of surprise. You’re tentative, a bit clumsy with your movements as you kiss back and he pulls away, leaning his forehead to yours.

“I-I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I’ve never—“

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

While his words don’t stop your pulse from racing, they do calm your nerves the slightest bit. It’s not that you’ve never been interested in sex, there was just never a good opportunity. Going through puberty in an apocalypse where a militant government faction monitors your every move in exchange for basic necessities wasn’t exactly conducive to forming intimate relationships.

While you’re lost in your thoughts, Joel moves you backwards until your legs hit the mattress and he urges you to sit down. He kneels in front of you, working on the laces of your sneakers, removing them and setting them to the side. He looks up at you as he removes your socks and you’re not sure if you're supposed to find the sight of him kneeling at your feet as sexy as you do, but a rush of warmth rolls through you all the same.

He runs his palms up your legs, across your thighs, until his fingertips find the waist of your jeans, popping the button of the fly and pulling the zipper down.

“Lift your hips a bit, sweetheart,” he says, working the denim down and off your legs, tossing them aside. His hands return to your thighs, goosebumps erupting along their path to your hips.

“No one’s touched you here?” He asks, here being the soft skin of your inner thigh that his thumbs sweep across. You shake your head. He moves higher, a featherlight touch over the elastic of your underwear that makes you gasp. “What about here?”

“N-no,” you manage to whisper. He smiles at you, the same proud smile he’d given Marcy that you were so desperate to have for yourself.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. He kisses the inside of your knee quickly before sitting up higher, reaching up to lift your shirt up, tugging it over your head and dropping it onto the growing pile of your clothing.

“Lie back for me,” Joel commands. You shift up the mattress and follow his instruction, bringing your arms up to cover your exposed breasts. He makes a dissatisfied click with his tongue, pulling your arms away as he crawls up the mattress to settle between your legs.

“None of that,” he admonishes, planting your hands by your head. He kisses your lips again, butterflies erupting in your stomach when his tongue tangles with yours, hot and demanding. He palms one of your breasts, hands rough on the delicate skin. “This is mine, do you understand?”

Joel brings his mouth to your breast, tongue swirling over your stiff nipple. You cry out, the foreign sensation making more heat rush through you, leaving you throbbing between your thighs. He looks up at you through his lashes as he sucks your nipple between his lips, releasing it with a lewd pop.

“Mine to touch,” he says, leaning on one arm to trail his fingers down your stomach. “Mine to kiss.” His lips trace the same heated path. “Mine to protect.”

When he reaches your underwear, he pulls back. “Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing across the gusset, making you whimper and squirm. “You’ve soaked your panties, sweetheart.”

Your face feels hot with embarrassment. “‘M sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry? Ain’t nothin’ you need to be sorry about,” he says with a chuckle. He sits up, working your only remaining barrier between you down your legs. He spreads your legs with his hands on your thighs. “Goddamn, you look so pretty, baby.”

“Really?” You ask. His answering grin is wolfish.

“So pretty,” he repeats. He settles on his belly, face so close to your pussy you can feel the warmth of his breath against your heated flesh. “Gotta get you ready.”

Your response to the question is cut off with a high pitched moan as Joel runs his tongue through your folds, circling your clit with broad strokes. You try to close your legs against the sensation but his strong hands keep your thighs pinned down near the mattress.

He groans as he sets a slow and measured pace, alternating attention to your clit with dipping his tongue inside of you, dragging your essence from the source. Your hands clench in the sheets, chasing and retreating from the overwhelming sensation in equal measure.

There’s a blunt pressure that turns into a slight pinch as Joel slips a finger into your tight heat. Your head tilts back with a high keening noise and you’re panting, desperate for breath as he moves his hand in tandem with his tongue.

One finger becomes two that thrust and curl and part inside of you, stretching you in unfamiliar ways. It feels good, and all you want is more, more, more.

Joel’s hand moves quickly and he sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves until that flood of relief that you’ve only accomplished a handful of times on your own washes over you, your back arching sharply off the mattress as you shout his name like a prayer to the heavens.

His motions slow to a stop and he leaves the bed. You hear the clink of a belt and the rustle of clothing being removed before his weight returns between your legs, a new heat to be felt against your flushed skin with his clothes no longer in the way. With shaky hands you reach up to touch him, starting at his shoulders.

You trail your hands across his warm tan skin, down his hard chest and softer belly. That scar, the one that frightened you before, leaves you breathless as you run your fingers over it now. He’s so strong, so powerful, and he wants you. Wants to protect you so that you don’t know that same pain.

“Joel,” you whisper. He leans forward, hands on the mattress beside your head. He kisses you, slow and all encompassing. You can feel the hard length of his sliding through the mess he’s made of you and you gasp.

“Let me make one thing clear,” he says, face serious, “there ain’t any goin’ back from this. You’re mine. You got that?”

“I trust you,” you reply. Your response earns you a deep groan from the man, a kiss to your forehead that precedes the blunt head of his cock pressing to your soaked entrance.

His cock is thicker, much thicker, than his fingers were and you whine at the intrusion. His shushes you, peppering your face with soothing kisses.

“I don’t think—“

“You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart, I know you can handle it,” Joel says. “Take a deep breath, just a little more.”

Tension gives way, a sharp pinch that turns into an ache as Joel presses his hips firmly against yours. He kisses your neck and trails his nose across your sweat damp skin, holding still as you adjust to his girth.

You shift your hips the slightest bit and Joel’s moan echoes your gasp. “Tell me I can move,” he begs, another desperate kiss pressed to your lips. “Please, baby.”

There’s something heady about the power you have in this brief moment, a man like Joel begging you for something when he’s used to having everything. You nod and that’s all the encouragement he needs to draw back slowly, that fullness leaving you inch by inch, before thrusting sharply.

It’s unlike any experience you’ve had before — the way his body moves with yours, the flex of his muscles above you, the intense look in his eyes each time he presses inside of you.

“Made for me,” he murmurs. “Mine.”

“Yours,” you agree, moaning as each drag of his cock presses against a tender spot inside of you that has your stomach tightening rapidly.

His effort doubles, hips slamming hard enough to make the headboard bang against the wall. You dig your nails into his back, watch the clench of his jaw against the sting, and moan his name as you succumb to the feeling of free falling into bliss, clenching around his cock.

“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck,” he growls, hips stilling against yours as warmth pulses inside of you, his mouth dropped open on a groan of your name.

Joel takes a moment to catch his breath before withdrawing from you. He reaches his hand between your legs, pressing his fingers into your swollen pussy as you gasp.

He holds those fingers up, the light catching on the red staining them.

Perhaps you’d spilled blood for your safety after all.

You wake to the early morning light filtering through the window, a noticeable ache between your legs as you begin to stir. You’re naked, having fallen asleep in Joel’s arms last night, his lips caressing your neck until you’d drifted off and dreamt of blood and wolves. You stretch your limbs, encountering only cold sheets as you do.

As you sit up, you realize the sound of rushing water is the shower and surmise that Joel must be in there. With stiff movements you leave the warmth of the bed and approach the dresser, tugging open the top drawer to find clothing for the day.

You’re reaching for underwear when your fingers catch on something cold, metal in a sea of fabric. You pull on the object, unearthing it from its hiding spot and holding it up for inspection.

A cross, hanging from a silver chain. A chain you would tangle your fingers in as a child, a cross that a thumb would rub across as a deep, familiar voice muttered prayers.

The shower turns off and you take one last look at the crucifix before setting it back into the dark corner you’d unearthed it from.

Then, you shut the drawer.

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meet-me-backstage · 6 days ago

Text

𓃗

𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

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.

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 following the second season/game so kinda au, reader can sing and play guitar, weapons, bad language, death, grief, parental neglect, angst, mentions of pregnancy and stillbirth, blood, 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 𝐎𝐧𝐞 ꥟ 10.5K (wtaf🫢)

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 ꥟ Horror themes, mention of death, grief, mentions of pregnancy and stillbirth, mention of blood and vomit, PTSD, nightmares, bad language and weapons.

𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲, 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝! <𝟑

⇜ ⌚️ ‘𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞’ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⌚️

NOW

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑

His voice haunts your mind day and night. It had lingered, wormed its way into the depths of your brain and buried itself into the trench-like indents of it like the parasitic fungi that had wreaked havoc on the world twenty years ago. It's crazy really, how you could not decide what was worse, the infected or Joel Miller...

On days like today, you almost wish that you had been mauled by one of those rotting monsters instead of ever having been under that intense and unwavering brown stare of his. A bite from a runner and Joel's existence, they're not all that different to you. If you'd have been bitten, at least you knew that it'd be over within a few days, that the pain inflicted upon you would only be temporary... that deep and harsh Texan drawl, it had you in that stage between being bitten and losing your mind, except it was never ending, a permanent, inescapable limbo.

You'd lost hope in ever forgetting, it's been sixteen years since you last heard his voice in the flesh so how could you even fathom an escape from it at this point?

All you could do was throw yourself shoulders deep into distractions, hay and horse manure being two of them.

Every day you arrived at Jackson Ranch bright and early to tend to the horses. Your role there as a stable-hand is ideal and smooth-running, usually, and it comes with a bonus of company in the form of large-scale dogs, your preferred company, though you would never tell Maria that.

Justified, Ajax, Callus, Silver Dollar, Maggie, Old Beardy, Guinevere, Old Belle, Branwen, Murphy, Old Boy, Bandit, Pearl and Shimmer. All a mix of stallions and mares, friends you never knew you needed until you took on this job that you had very little experience in before the end of the world as you knew it.

Going beyond Jackson's sturdy walls was a no go so patrolling was out of the question.

Some roles going required previous experience, either in medicine or biology so you couldn't be a doctor.

Being a teacher or hunter crossed your mind for a split second before making you sick to your stomach.

Taking on the role of a cook, barmaid or trader meant that you had to constantly face people, be sociable and smile even when you didn't want to, and you were in no state to do or be any of it seven years ago, when Maria found a desolate Jackson and sought to build a settlement out of it.

That left only three jobs for you to pick from: keeping Jackson maintained, the greenhouses thriving or the horses healthy, groomed and content. Initially, you chose to be a gardener... you lasted six months. It had brought back some meaning into your life, knowing that you were doing good for the community from a distance that you could tolerate, that it'd brighten the food palette of all of Jackson's residents and that the kids of Jackson would grow up healthy and well fed. The catch for you was the quietness of the role, the silence was deafening and allowed too much space in your mind for it to drown into the depths of what you'd lost to get here.

You felt even more useless than you did before you met Maria, who did everything she could to help you fit into a community that you didn't believe in anymore. With a stern knock on your door one morning, she practically dragged you by the arm to Jackson Ranch and coerced you into the hands of Rick, the man in charge of the ranch, in order for him to train you into the hard-working stable-hand that you are today.

Maria had, had it less than easy, leading a group of people who looked to her and her late father for guidance in a cause that didn't seem attainable when people were constantly dying around them.

Like you, she had to make life-altering decisions for the good of herself and others she'd met along the way.

Tagging along with her was not a choice that you made, neither was living or dying, Maria made both choices for you. It had been a walk in the park, the years you spent with her group searching for a decent place to start a new life, at least when you compared it to the hell that you went through to find her group in the first place.

Leaving your first and only group before joining Maria's was a gut-wrenching decision, the toughest one you've ever had to make. You knew that there would be risks, danger and fatal consequences if anything went wrong... you knew it - god, you knew it, yet you still went along with it anyway and you sure did suffer the worst of consequences on your journey from Boston to Colorado.

You hadn't been alone on your month and a half long journey, two others were with you, Charlie, a runaway hunter and an unlikely friend that you'd gained on your way to the Boston QZ from Austin. The other, well, you tried not to think about him too much.

Unlike Maria, you'd failed because neither made it to her camp alive.

You made it... empty and alone, which was the biggest consequence of all.

Though you were entirely unaware that you had. You didn't remember collapsing in the snow with a stillborn baby in your arms, being found by a handful of Maria's group just a few miles from the very people you'd tried so hard to find, and taken back to her camp on horseback.

Sixteen years had passed and still all you could remember was waking up, the bright whiteness of a medical light making your eyes strain, an unusual and rapid beeping noise and slurred voices that you didn't recognise all around you. Once your consciousness came over you, your eyes blinking constantly to try and adjust to the unusual light, you remember panicking, noticing the lack of blood and dirt on your skin before kicking your legs out from under a heavy white duvet and desperately straining out cries to see your baby and Charlie.

Your breath hitches, getting trapped in your throat before you gulp, swallowing the air down quickly as you subtly shake your head and mumble a 'nope' under your breath, choosing to steer your focus onto the task at hand.

You usually spend the first hour of your morning in the stable and today has been no different. You fill the wire racks hanging off of the edge of each stall with fresh hay, starting from the closest to the entrance and working your way down. Then you groom and dress the horses required for each patrol shift that had been listed next to the names on the patrol board on your way into the stable this morning.

During the winter months more horses are needed for each patrol shift due to the increased likelihood of running into a horde at this time.

Not even a blizzard could stop them from pushing through routes towards Jackson - you'd seen it for yourself, how they ran as if the strength of violent gusts of air was no match against them... and not only that, they were typically more angry from being so ravenous at the lack of animals and humans around so you weren't surprised that Maria had made sure numbers of patrollers had doubled with the thaw that came yesterday evening, the infected would travel easy and fast while the weather was this clear, desperate to find their next victim.

You were still surprised to see that Maria's name had been messily jotted down alongside Maggie's.

Maggie had always been Maria's girl, she would accept no one but Jackson's chosen leader so you knew that it couldn't have been a mistake, and even if it was you'd learnt to accept the fact that there is no fighting Rick because he is 'always right'. Recalling one of your first pointers during training, you do as what is written and dress the mare anyway before dedicating an equal amount of time with each horse as if they are children fussing for your attention.

You're stroking Maggie's pink muzzle, your fingers gently tracing just below her nostrils when you hear your name being called behind you. You flinch, making your fingertips brush over her whiskers and causing her to snort.

"Is Maggie ready for me?" Maria asks, strolling into the stable with purpose, wearing clothes suitable for beyond Jackson's walls, a padded forest green winter jacket over a faded brown shirt paired with jeans and snow boots.

You turn on your heel, your palm cupping just above Maggie's nose, "she's ready for you," you respond with a nod, pursing your lips together after as if to stop yourself from vocalising your worry. You watch her cautiously as she walks towards Maggie, naturally stepping out of the way so that she can lead the horse out of the stall. Your lips pop open unconsciously, a hum leaving them before you cut it short - you can't just let her go, "but—"

She cuts you off with a deadpan look, Maggie does the same, side-eyeing you as if to say 'don't question my human'.

You shut your mouth for a brief moment as Maria and Maggie resume their movements towards the opened stable doors that go directly to Jackson's main gate. "Maria—"

"I'm fine," she calls without turning her head to look at you, still walking and leading Maggie.

"Hey," you start jogging, catching up with her while being careful not to spook Maggie, "hang on a second - are you sure?" You reach out to touch Maria's arm in order to grab her attention, your fingertips brush against her jacket, "I'm sure they can spare yo—"

"No, I've got it," she states casually, ignoring your touch.

"Or - or someone can fill in for you, there's gotta be someone else? What about - T-ommy?" Your eyes light up at the idea but your voice still trembles slightly when his name leaves your lips, though you try your best to hide it by lowering it.

"Tommy is doin' construction work today, you'd know that if you showed up to dinner last night," Maria sighs, finally halting her steps and giving you an expectant glance over her left shoulder.

Oh.

Your head tilts and your brows furrow in genuine confusion that Maria doesn't seem to buy, but you truly didn't remember her inviting you over.

When she notices your confusion she raises her brows at you, now turning her entire body to face yours, "I visited you at the end of your shift here yesterday? You really don't remember me asking you to come over?"

Oh.

She did.

Your eyes widen in realisation and your grip on Maria's upper arm tightens for a moment, "shit - I'm so sorry, Maria."

"You said you'd be right over."

You did.

Unable to think of an excuse quickly enough that you already know she won't believe and will make her late for patrol when she'd already made the effort of being here early to pick up Maggie, it'll only aggravate her more to lie to her face… and you hated to let Maria down of all people, she took a chance on you, believing in your survival more than anyone else did when you were weak and unable to move from the bed that her people had tucked you into after finding you unconscious in the snow.

"I'm sorry - I forgot," you tell her, sheepishly avoiding eye contact and deciding to focus on the straws of hay stuck to the bottom of your own snow boots.

Maria hums, scrutinising you with her deep brown eyes, "You forgot," she repeats before placing her spare hand on her hip, "like when you forgot to decorate the Christmas tree with us? When you forgot open mic night? Or the countless times you forgot drinks at the Tipsy Bison?"

"Yes," you answer quickly, your hand dropping down to your side as your palms start to sweat at her questioning, "exactly like all those other times I - forgot." Very convincing. "I'm sorry - again."

She shakes her head and blinks slowly, doing very little to hide her annoyance towards you, "stop apologizing."

"Sorry," you mumble without thinking.

"Don't. Just - show up next time, okay?" Maria asks you with a raised brow. "Tommy doesn't bite."

"You sure about that?" You try to joke but you end up sounding unsure instead.

You failed to amuse Maria as it hadn't been the first time you'd tried to mask your uneasiness with humor whenever Tommy was mentioned. "I've given him enough trouble from the first day he stepped foot in Jackson and he's done nothing but prove himself time and again. He's a good worker - a good man... and he's really tryin' to get on your good side so will you please try cutting him some slack?"

"I'm - workin' on it," you sigh out, nodding with a lack of purpose that, again, Maria notices.

She exhales your name slowly, quietly, but loud enough for you to hear, "He is not his brother." Maria never mentions his name because she knows how just the sound of it sends you into a period of sleepless nights and locking yourself into your house after a horrific array of nightmares... it'd happened before, the worst time being when Tommy first arrived at Jackson.

You thought that you could do it, that you could ignore his existence just like you had Joel's.

Whenever you saw him turn a corner you'd run the other way.

Whenever you saw him on the street you'd turn back.

Whenever you saw him in the Tipsy Bison you'd trade week's worth of your rations for a bottle of red and go home.

It wasn't until his unexpected visit to the stable for his first patrol three and a half months ago that he finally saw you for the first time since leaving you, Joel, Tess and Charlie behind to join the Fireflies.

As you suspected, he was surprised to see you, perhaps because he'd thought that you would never make it in a world like this, because you were unwilling to kill innocent people, young and at a disadvantage being pregnant, or because he'd forgotten about you entirely. Either way, you didn't stick around long enough to find out, feigning a sudden sickness and begging Rick to let you go home before sprinting out of the stable like your life depended on it... that was what caused your worst episode.

Hearing his voice utter your name, he sounded so much like Joel and it terrified you.

It played on a loop inside your head like a scratched record and when you tried to settle into your bed it only got louder, so you grabbed your pillow, pressing it against the ear exposed to the cool air of your room as hard as you could while scrunching your eyes shut.

Eventually you fell asleep, but Tommy's voice followed you into your rest.

You saw Joel and you saw blood, it was all over him and he wielded a revolver in his hand. A droplet of sweat trailed along the end of an eyebrow, disappearing when it reached the crow's foot beside his eye. His eyes pierced into your soul, dark and concentrated, causing your chest to rise and fall rapidly and small whimpers to leave your lips in between heavy breaths.

There were dead bodies everywhere. The blood of his innocent victims puddled at your bare feet, staining your skin crimson red.

You screamed and ran, but Joel's voice continued to utter your name and the blood - the blood... it rose quickly, making it difficult for your legs to move as fast. Determined to get away, you waded through the thick liquid as it consumed your bottom half. Your hands were encased in blood too, the warmness of it on your skin grasped your attention and stopped you in your tracks... you couldn't move, you couldn't yell, you couldn't get away - you failed - again.

You silently cried into your hands, not caring about smearing the blood all over your face because you knew that there was no escaping it, that before too long your entire body would be swimming in it.

Elevating with the rapidity of quick sand, you remember the blood reaching your neck and throwing your arms outward, wailing and kicking your feet desperately... Joel's voice sounded angrier than it usually did, like he was disappointed in your fighting, in prolonging the inevitable.

There was a pull beneath you, sucking your feet downward, and just when you thought that you'd beaten the nightmare, something, you didn't know what it was as your eyes were scrunched shut, dragged you down with inhumane force.

You didn't get to take one last breath before the blood pooled over your face, you opened your eyes but all you could see was red. You could still hear his voice, but it was muffled, and as you got pulled further down it got more distant until it faded into nothingness - finally.

A sense of calmness spread throughout your entire body, all you could hear was the rush of liquid past your ears as you got pulled down.

It calmed you even though you were far from safe and unable to breathe... that was until an intense pressure started at your toes, then to your feet, your ankles, knees, thighs, hips, stomach, hands, arms, chest, shoulders, neck and head. The pressure became unbearable, your bones felt as though they could snap at any moment and your throat choked when it got so desperate to breathe that it let the blood into your system.

The next thing you knew, your eyes had flown open. You were back in bed, your entire body so clammy with sweat that it had dampened your sheets and duvet.

You refused to sleep for weeks on end. You'd think that after a couple days your body would succumb to sleep without your brain's permission due to being so exhausted, but you were just that terrified that it'd happen to you again... that you'd hear Joel's voice again. To stop any possibility of that happening you locked your front door from the inside, your logic being if you stayed put then there would be no chance of bumping into Tommy again... boy were you wrong.

So wrong.

Maria watches the way that your lips tremble, waiting for you to answer her. Her features are much softer now as she realises that she had been so close to stepping over another line just by alluding to Tommy's older brother.

She says your name under her breath again, but you cut her off, shaking your head, "It's okay," you whisper, your voice small, and you try your best to muster up a smile to reassure your closest friend in Jackson, "I - I know... Tommy isn't him, so I'll try, for you - and for the - baby," your voice lowers when you mention Maria's baby.

It is new news that only Maria, Tommy, Maggie and you know about.

"Thank you," she hums, her lips tilting upward at one side and a glimmer in her eyes.

A glimmer that you recognised all too well, a familiar yet distant memory of how you felt that brings back the worry that you expressed just a few minutes ago at the thought of Maria going beyond the safe barrier of Jackson while pregnant. It’s only natural for you to be concerned about her, even if it is Tommy's baby, you see the love that she already has for it which you came to understand during your own experience, only for it to be ripped away... you wouldn't wish what happened to you upon your worst enemy, let alone Maria.

"Eight O'clock!" As if on cue, Rick calls into the stable from outside, giving both you and Maria a charming smile, sounding way too chirpy for the morning before disappearing behind the stable's front doors.

Your eyes widen and your mouth forms an 'o' shape for a moment when you remember that you still hadn't dissuaded Maria from going on patrol.

"I'll be fine, I promise," she reassures you, sensing your worry. "It's only a few hours," she adds nonchalantly.

"A lot can happen in a few hours," you retort quickly, sternly, holding firm eye contact with her, which is unusual for you - Maria knows that, understanding the truth in your words because you knew yourself how quickly things could turn out there.

"I know." Maria looks over your shoulder and gestures behind you with a nod. You can hear footsteps and the trotting of hooves behind you of the patrollers that'd be joining Maria, leading the dressed horses to Rick, who would mark them off on the register by the schedule board. "I'm in good hands," she tells you as they come into view, walking past you with smiles on their faces directed at both you and Maria, though you couldn't help but notice how their smiles widened at the sight of your friend.

You aren't surprised - everyone loves Maria.

She has done so much for everybody here, while you, you kept to yourself, the horses and an occasional sing song at the Tipsy Bison - otherwise, you are unreachable, not that you preferred it to be any other way.

"Mornin', Maria," Arthur nods, holding Murphy's reigns while giving the stallion's white coat a pat and you a small smile.

Two less familiar faces walk past holding Old Boy, Silver Dollar, Guinevere and Callus, they must be Silas and Claire, two names you didn't recognise on the list of patrol shifts.

Nathan is a regular on patrol, one of the most experienced alongside Arthur, so it is no surprise that Rick had assigned the two newbies a spot with them and Maria.

Bandit follows Nathan, his head bopping forward playfully, a cheekiness that he seemed to adopt from the man leading him. "Ladies," Nathan tips his hat with a smirk, oozing arrogance.

Jean follows close behind Nathan holding Ajax at her side with a fond smile on her face. She loves that horse just as much as you love him. He's a big brute, Ajax, intimidating at first glance, but he's just a softie under the muscle.

Jean's blonde hair catches your eye, it sways as she walks as she's put it up in a ponytail. She grins widely at you, displaying her dimples and squeals your name, "where've you been?!"

"Uh - here?" You answer unsurely.

Jean laughs, stopping to stand in between you and Maria, nudging your shoulder with her own, "duh, I mean at the tipsy - everyone misses ya!"

"Be serious, Jean," you mutter, ignoring Maria's stare as if you hadn't just been speaking about your obvious avoidance of any invitation if there was any possibility that Tommy would be there... which was always high because he’d followed Maria around like a lost puppy from the very first day he arrived here.

"I am - even Seth misses you and he's the biggest party pooper in Jackson," she exclaims with another light-hearted laugh.

You shake your head in amused disbelief.

"It's true, so you've gotta come back and sing a couple songs for us, please?" She grabs your arm, making you flinch, but you already know it's Jean and she wouldn't hurt a fly... unless it was infected. "I'll rip my eyes out if I have to sit through another night of Dave's jokes about drugs, dildos and chameleons."

So that's what you've been missing out on all this time that you've been avoiding open mic nights at the Tipsy Bison.

A small laugh escapes your mouth, "I'll think about it."

"Really?!" Jean's hazel-brown eyes light up.

You nod.

Jean inhales excitedly, clearly already assuming that your vague answer is a confirmation that you would in fact be performing at the next open mic. "Your version of that Linda Rondstadt song - ugh, what’s it called again?" She asks, looking both between you and Maria.

"Err - Long Long Time?" You sound unsure, but it's the only Linda Ronstadt song that you've sung at the Tipsy Bison so it's the only possible answer... you blame your forgetfulness on the nerves of singing in front of other people, each time you did it felt like a blur and when it was over you didn't remember a goddamn thing.

Jean nods enthusiastically, practically bouncing on her feet at this point, "yes, that's it! It's to die for - you have to sing it again!"

You forgot the warmth that would spread throughout your chest when random people of Jackson would approach you after you sang, complimenting the one gift you still had from long before the apocalypse... you never remembered what they said, but the buzz it'd give you was enough for you to brave any fright you faced before the next open mic. It's a good feeling - another thing you had Maria to thank for because you would never have even thought of stepping in front of an audience to sing had she not nudged you to do it two years ago.

"Please!" Jean begs again.

Whether it's the warmness of your insides, or the pressure of having two sets of eyes on you, or how guilty you'll feel if you say no, you cave, "okay okay, I'll do it."

Jean celebrates by fisting the air with a toothy grin, "yes! Thank you - you've made my Christmas, seriously!"

You open your mouth to respond, about to say something like 'it's nothing really' while internally panicking, asking yourself what you'd gotten yourself into without even really processing it in your head.

"Eight O'clock!" Rick's voice calls out again, sounding more stern this time, "last call!"

His piercingly blue eyes linger on the three of you huddled together while the patrollers that had walked past you stood waiting to leave behind him.

They bore into you, Rick's baby blues, silently urging you to wrap up your conversation with Maria and Jean. If they hadn't looked so agitated with you you'd probably swoon... instead they give you the urge to flip him off, to question him on his timing because if he'd have just called Maria and Jean over to him ten seconds earlier then you would've evaded Jean's request for you to sing again.

You don't.

You never would.

For a man who didn't tolerate bullshit, he'd tolerated a lot from you and you'd never take that for granted.

On the plus side, Jean hadn't had time to ask why you stopped going to the open mics in the first place, how your best friend's husband was the reason, how whenever you saw Tommy in the Tipsy Bison you felt like you needed to vomit then and there, then leave...

You nod at Rick, taking a step away from Maria. Jean had already left the two of you alone, jumping upright at the sound of Rick's voice and obediently scurrying towards him with Ajax eagerly treading along behind her. "Well, don't let me hold you up any longer," you mutter loud enough for Maria to hear, nervously dragging your eyes away from Rick's.

Maria shakes her head, the lines between her eyebrows prominent, "you didn't." Maggie snorts over Maria's shoulder, immediately diverting her owner's attention to her, "Maggie doesn't seem to agree though, do you girl?" Maria asks in an amused, but loving tone of voice, bringing her hand up to pat Maggie's neck.

"Oh please, that horse kisses your ass even when you're wrong."

"I'm never wrong," Maria states, to which Maggie neighs in agreement.

"Exactly, she just proved my point," you gesture towards Maggie with an uncontrollable laugh.

Maria hums, watching you closely with an entranced smile on her face. "I missed this," she admits.

"Missed what?"

"Just laughing - talking with you without feeling like you're gonna run away any second."

A hint of a smile spreads across your lips, shy and nervous as always, but you had to admit that you'd missed this too, you'd missed your best friend... it'd been so awkward since Tommy started to linger behind her like a shadow, like you could never spend time with her because he was always with her. Now that they are married with a baby on the way - you just had to accept that Tommy and Maria came as a package, that where Maria would be, Tommy would probably be... you suppose you should be glad of that, that he wants to be there for her, be a good husband and father.

You never pegged Tommy to be the type to commit to anything or anyone. The man you knew before would run whenever things got hard, that was crystal clear to you. This Tommy, he was different, from what you'd heard from whispers about him, and you can tell how happy he makes Maria even though she doesn't talk about him to you that much on the rare occasion that you do catch her alone.

Maybe you could give him a chance, give him the benefit of the doubt.

To pick up where you left off with your friendship with Maria you tell yourself that you won't 'forget' another invitation again, that's a good place to start, you think.

For Maria.

For you too.

"Me too."

Maria chuckles while you fiddle with your fingers. "I'll see you later then?" She raises her brow at you.

"Later?" Your head tilts in confusion, not remembering another invitation being offered to you during this conversation.

"Mhm, at the Tipsy Bison—"

Your eyes widen so much that they could fall out of their sockets and suddenly your palms are dripping with sweat again, "please tell me there's not an open mic tonight I haven't practiced I haven't even sung in like four months I can't do it I can't I'm callin' off this whole thing why did I even agree to it in—" you ramble without taking a single breath.

"Relax, open mic isn't until next weekend," she informs you, trying not to sound entertained by your moment of panic.

You let out a long, drawn out breath of relief, "well thank fuck for that because I'm not ready."

"You realize you don't have to do it if you really don't want to right?"

"I know, but I couldn't do that to Jean. You saw her face, she'll be heartbroken if I don't," you try to play it cool, smiling as if you hadn't gotten yourself into a state over it a few seconds ago.

"No kidding."

"So if it's not an open mic, what is happening tonight - at the Tipsy? Just drinks? Dinner?" You ask, innocently curious... you'd gotten so used to the repetitive cycle of going to work and going straight home every day for so long that you had no idea what to expect from a night out with Maria at the Tispy Bison anymore.

"The Goodbye Girl," she answers plain and simple.

"What's that?"

She shrugs, "an old romantic comedy I think. I wanted to do something for the kids and it's the most family friendly movie we've got right now so... you'll be there?"

"Is—"

"Yes, Tommy's coming," she interrupts with the answer you're expecting, just as she expected you to ask because it was what you always asked whenever she invited you over or out... her answer being the decision-maker of whether you'd be there or not most of the time.

Maria watches you, so sure that you're going to cower and say 'no' immediately, but you don't, you think and she lets you, ignoring the stares of the other patrollers boring into her back.

Maybe there is nothing to be afraid of, if Joel were to show up then surely he would've got here by now?

Surely Tommy is too far away for Joel to track him down.

There can't be any leads linking Tommy to Jackson that Joel would ever find out about, right?

With what you went through to be here, how could you let a close to impossible possibility dictate the way you live at Jackson, make you hide away and ruin your closest friendship here.

Maria's lips fly open, ready to console you if you truly decide that tonight is too soon, "if—"

"I'll be there," you blurt before your brain talks you out of it.

"Oh - okay," Maria blurts back, so taken aback by your confidence that she actually takes a small step back, narrowly missing Maggie's hoof, "okay - good. Guess I'll see you there then," she says almost to herself, her relief as clear as day, as she turns on her heel.

"See you there," you nod, giving her one last reassuring look before Maggie catches your eye.

The mare stares at you with her beady brown eyes, silently telling you that you'd taken up enough of Maria's time and that it was now her turn.

She leads Maria away from you, taking her to the rest of the patrollers.

You're left feeling hopeful about tonight, that this'll be a good change for both you and Maria after months of avoiding every possible interaction with her husband... you don't want to let her down anymore, and for your own sake you don't want to turn into the resident hermit of Jackson... people here already think you're a little odd as it is.

You watch on as Rick takes a register of the patrollers and their horses. Each of them had already mounted their designated horses and Nathan and Arthur are holding the spare horses that'd be carrying any extra cargo they find out there.

The horses that remain watch on longingly as the horses picked for this patrol shift are ridden out of the stable.

Old Beardy lets out a low pitched snort, expressing his frustration which diverts your attention from the patrol group to him.

He is sticking his head out of his stall and as soon as he sees that he has grabbed your attention he bobs his neck, making you giggle.

Old Beardy is a shy boy, grumpy at times. At first he didn't like you, he refused to be petted by you and even turned his back on you whenever you visited his stall, side-eying you at any opportunity he could. You had been cautious of him at first, doing your upmost to avoid him because you were genuinely afraid that he might bite or kick you if you got too close.

He sensed your fear, you knew it, Rick knew it.

Rick assisted you in tending to Old Beardy for your first few weeks as a stable-hand. You'd groom the stallion's chocolate coat while Rick patted his dark mane, you'd fill his feeder with new hay and trough with fresh water while Rick distracted him, you'd clean his stall while Rick took him out on the exercise grounds at the other end of the stable.

In those moments you noticed a softness to Old Beardy's character that made you less frightened of him.

Rick's own words played in your head on repeat after another day's work, another day of Old Beardy entirely ignoring you: 'Old Beardy doesn't just trust words, he trusts actions more than anything. Keep showin' up and doin' what you're doin' for him and eventually he'll come around, I'm sure of it.'

'Was he the same with you?'

'You bet - he was worse with me.'

'Worse?'

'Yup, he nipped me right here - just above my nose - was lucky he didn't catch my damn eye.'

'I don't believe it.'

'Why'd you say that? Got the scar to prove it and everythin'.’

'It's just - you're so good with 'em - all of 'em.'

'That, darlin', is what you call experience. I've had my fair share of tendin' to tortured souls like Old Beardy, often all it took was showin' 'em that they need takin' care of. If they've been alone a long time they start thinkin' they don't need anybody cause 's been a while since they've been given any love, so you've gotta get 'em off their high horse a bit 'nd show em' they need you.'

You were determined to gain Old Beardy's trust after what Rick had said about him because it reminded you of yourself... so you continued to go about your chores for Old Beardy while he watched on with an unimpressed look on his face.

Slowly but surely there were changes as each week passed.

Rick no longer needed to aid you with Old Beardy's upkeep.

Old Beardy no longer turned his back on you when you stood at the gate of his stall.

He side-eyed you a little longer than he used to.

While you filled his trough with new water he'd stand beside you.

He would take singular straws of hay out of your hands in order to avoid touching you... then two, then three and soon he took handfuls of it, not minding his rubbery lips brushing your fingers.

You remember walking back home with a skip in your step the day that Old Beardy finally let you pet him. It was about a month into your personal quest to earn his trust and it took a little coaxing from Rick on both yours and the stallion's part to encourage the barrier of wariness between you to be broken down.

About ten seconds after you'd slowly reached your hand out towards Old Beardy's muzzle, he leant forward to rest his soft nose against your outstretched palm... His nostrils flared and he hesitated a few times but he did it, and suddenly what felt like a lost cause from the beginning was worth all the time he spent rejecting you now that you'd got him.

You'd received an intense dose of self-accomplishment which made you feel like you were really made for this job... you wondered why you ever even doubted yourself about taking it on in the first place, and you certainly couldn't give up on it after that... you always returned to it, even after all the nightmares and days stuck in your house, you had to after Old Beardy had put so much trust in you.

You'd shown him love and he needed you, and perhaps you needed him too.

You'd argue now that Old Beardy loves you more than he does Rick.

"There's my sweet boy," you greet him with a toothy smile, approaching his stall. He continues to bob his head even when you're stood directly in front of him so you bring your hand up to try and soothe him. A few gentle snorts later and he stops moving his head so that you have easy access to his nose to give him a good scratch under his chin - his favorite. You giggle at his obvious appreciation for your touch, your fingers tickle the small beard below his bottom lip, causing his eyes to shut and occasionally flutter his dark lashes, "don't you worry, somebody'll snatch you up one of these days - I mean look at you, how could they not hm?"

Old Beardy lets out an impatient sigh that blows air onto your forearm.

All of the patrollers without designated horses never picked Old Beardy for a shift, likely for the reasons that you had once been afraid of, so he spent all of his days with you and Rick, unable to form a connection with anybody else... it makes you sad sometimes, that no one ever goes near his stall or gives him the time of day, knowing the sweetheart that he is under the grumpy outer shell.

"How about I take 'im out on the grounds—" Rick's voice pipes up behind you, almost making you jump out of your skin. He stands next to you, reaching up to stroke Old Beardy's forehead, "while you go check on Pearl 'nd little Shimmer?"

Your face instantly lights up, a hitched breath leaving your lips as you nod at Rick, who is already looking at you with a proud smile on his face and a stray piece of his brushed back brown hair falling over one of his eyes.

"Alright then. We'll walk - together."

He's in a good mood today. You were convinced that he'd approached you to scold you for holding up the patrollers.

You give Old Beardy's chin one last scratch before retracting your hand, your arm brushing Rick's firm one in the process, "sorry, Rick - I mean - about holding Maria and Jean up."

"'S okay," he chuckles, watching you as you turn your back on him, starting to walk towards the fenced exercise grounds for the horses, "just don't do it again!"

You huff a laugh, a faint blush spreading across your cheeks at hearing the amusement in his voice.

Rick jogs behind after expertly attaching Old Beardy's harness and lead, the horse trots alongside him eagerly and he makes sure that he doesn't get too close to you in order to not scare you... knowing how you didn't like being approached from behind, he'd learnt that the hard way with the amount of times your survival instincts took over, throwing punches at him.

Like you said, he'd put up with a lot of bullshit from you since Maria dumped you into his hands.

The sound of snow crunching under your snow boots can be heard as you and Rick step outside... you can't deny that it's one of your favorite sounds so you're in no haste to interrupt the silence between you and the man walking next to you.

You take quick, subtle glances at Rick, noticing the way that his light stubble catches at the beige collar of his brown jacket, his hips swaying coolly with each step he takes, his curls at the back of his neck bouncing at the same time.

You aren't blind to Rick's looks. You'd be an idiot not to notice them... you'd also be an idiot not to notice the way that people spoke about him, about the two of you.

Rick is considered to be the most eligible bachelor in Jackson, he's a hard worker, a leader with rugged charm, affectionate with animals, a good communicator, good with people and he's single... he's also just a few years older than you... thirty-eight, you think, so it's no wonder why people spoke about the possibility of something happening between you.

All the people you once loved had either died or didn't love you back, the pain being so intense that you'd not even considered it to possibly happen again, with Rick, not until now... but you're sure that he doesn't see you as anything other than his stable-hand anyway.

You take another glance at Rick, but are unable to admire anything else about him because he catches you red-handed, already staring at you with eyes the colour of ice under the sunlight.

His thin pink lips tug upward at one side, "so - er - you're goin' to the Tipsy tonight then?"

"Hm?" His question makes you look up at him again after quickly turning your attention to the snow when he saw you looking at him.

Rick's little side smirk doesn't falter, "I overheard - you and Maria I mean."

"Oh - yeah," you murmur, bringing your hand up to your neck and scratching, fighting the urge to hiss as your cold fingertips touch your skin. You blink, watching him as his sloped nose and chiselled cheekbones flush, you assume that it's because of the cold, but part of you wonders if it's because he feels embarrassed at his admission, "will you - be there - for the movie?"

"Yeah—" he shoves the reddening fingers of his spare hand into his jean's front pocket and looks ahead at the sheep's pasture which is snowed over, his ranch workers clearing it so that the sheep could continue grazing, "not so much for the movie though."

"Oh." Scratching your neck is not enough to soothe your nervous, instead you clasp your hands together, fiddling with your fingers... it doesn't quite do the trick but there's not much you can do about it when you feel so exposed to the cold air and his piercing gaze. "You meetin' Arthur and Nathan then?"

"No - actually I was er - wonderin' if you wanted to go with me?" He states as if it's not a question or out of the blue.

Like a date?

Sure, people talked, but you were convinced that he hadn't noticed.

Is that why he's asking? You wonder.

He can't be asking for any other reason, right?

Is it out of pity?

Had he forgotten all the times you punched him? Given him a black eye? Kicked him? Lashed out because you could've sworn you heard Joel's voice? Hid away in your house for weeks without telling him and come back to the stable as if nothing happened?

It's gotta be pity.

"As in—"

"As in we'll walk to the Tipsy Bison after work, find Maria and Tommy 'n sit down with 'em - then I'll get you a drink and we'll watch whatever fuckin' movie it is playin'," he states, looking you directly in the eye even when he's waiting on your response.

Maybe he's asking because of Tommy.

He knew how you avoided him like he was infectious, he'd seen it with his own eyes whenever Tommy entered the stable to take Justified on patrol with him, you'd hide in Old Beardy's stall, leaving him to deal with the youngest Miller brother... it's why Rick doesn't like Tommy very much, he thinks he must've done something very bad for you to react the way you do around him.

Although Rick had consoled you a countless amount of times as you sobbed over your past, he still only knows parts about it because he joined Maria's group after you did, but before Jackson was found... he knew about your baby, that was it, and assumed by the surname 'Miller' on his little gravestone that Tommy was the father.

Why else would you hate him so much?

Since starting work at his ranch he'd been protective over you as his worker, wanting you to be as good a stable-hand you could possibly be and that meant no assholes like Tommy Miller interfering with your duties to the horses.

Maybe he's asking as your boss?

Or he just wants to spend the night glaring at Tommy over a table.

Maybe he's just wanting to look out for you.

Even if it is just pity or for a reason like pissing Tommy off, there isn't a reason that outweighs your reason to say yes... you just don't want to see Joel's face in the back of your mind like a constant nagging thought anymore because goddamn you for having such a brilliant photographic memory... maybe if you spent a little more time with Rick, the face of the man you'd been hung up on for decades would be replaced, maybe the nightmares would stop and maybe you could look at Tommy without associating him with his brother.

Your heart thuds against your ribcage, "believe it or not I um - I was actually plannin' on not smelling like horse shit tonight—" you send an apologetic look Old Beardy's way, who is not at all paying any attention to yours and Rick's conversation and is more entranced by the repetitive 'baaa' noises coming from the odd-looking fluffy creatures in the next pasture, "so I might have to pass on walkin' straight there with you."

Rick looks down at his own outfit, parts of it ripped and most of it worn or stained with odd pieces of hay protruding out of the seams of his clothes, just like yours... not that it bothers either of you, you're used to it by now. "Right - yeah, you make a good point," he responds between chuckles.

You take the opportunity to rake your eyes over his lean and muscular frame less subtly than you had before, just because he was distracted by the filthiness of his own clothes. When he looks at you expectantly again you hesitantly drag your eyes away and hum in agreement, almost choking on your own saliva - pull it together, you tell yourself as if you have any idea of what it's like to be asked out on a proper, adult date that you want to go on. "Sooo—" you start to say, entirely expecting him to interrupt you, which he does, quicker than you thought he would.

"Sooo we'll meet there instead, find Maria and Tommy, sit with 'em - I'll get you a drink and we'll—"

"Watch whatever fuckin' movie it is playin' - I got it," you mimic his words in a failed attempt at his smooth southern accent... like he knew so little about you, you didn't know much about him other than that he likes horses and he was born and bred in Cynthiana, Kentucky.

He playfully rolls his eyes before quizzically raising his eyebrows at you, that half-smirk making an appearance again, "you got it as in you're in?"

You thought it was obvious with how you teased him, but perhaps he'd also noticed the way that you used humor to deflect from your real feelings, so you spell it out to him verbally, ignoring the fact that you've lost all feeling in your tongue... luckily you don't need it to deliver your next two words: "I'm in."

Rick's side smirk transitions into a fully fledged grin that shows off his dimples, which are usually difficult to spot under his dark facial hair, "great."

You nod absentmindedly, suddenly feeling the need to get away before you cancel on him seconds after accepting. "I should - um - go see the girls."

"And I should probably get back to work too before Old Beardy here gives me a good kicking," he gives the distracted stallion a few pats that draw his attention back onto the two humans beside him.

"Not before I punch you first." A shameful attempt at last second flirting, you know, but it seems to do the trick and end the conversation with grins on both your faces.

A circling flutter had invaded your stomach after seeing that killer smile of his and it continued even as you walked away from him... you're just not sure whether the butterflies are because of him or because you're now aware that someone could possibly fathom the idea of wanting you, or both - it's probably both.

You'd not felt like this since him, since... Joel… you sigh and look down, bringing your hand to your stomach and gently caressing it to try and calm the butterflies doing loops around your insides.

Don't get too distracted now.

Pearl and Shimmer need you.

You set your eyes on the maternity barn beside the main stable and you don't look back, not even to ogle at the way Rick's arms flex as he effortlessly climbs into Old Beardy's saddle... you shake your head to clear that thought and speed-walk for the barn, for your girls.

Shimmer.

Pearl.

You couldn't possibly pick favorites, but you knew that when a patrol group had gone out and found the stray, pregnant perlino Tennessee Walker a year ago, she was your girl.

She loved you instantly but she hated Rick - not him specifically, only because he had a dick between his legs and you could understand that. She didn't trust men one bit, that much was obvious when the patrol group told you and Rick that she refused to be led by anyone other than Jean on the way back from their shift, and you could understand that too.

So Pearl was, and still is, your responsibility and yours alone... which terrified you at first because she had life growing inside her and you didn't trust yourself not to mess up somewhere, somehow. Doing what you had already been doing for the other horses was one thing, but having the mare depend on you for assisting with the birth of her filly was another thing entirely...

It was another reason not to sleep at night.

You wondered how you could do it if you'd failed to do it yourself once already.

Rick did everything that he could for you from afar, explaining the ins and outs of looking after a pregnant horse and equine delivery... even going to the extent of writing you a manual for it with diagrams and drawings that he'd rustled up one evening after having to listen to you panic over the entire situation for the hundredth time.

To your relief, Pearl was not that far along in her pregnancy when the patrol found her, only four months - Rick could tell by the way her stomach swelled only just, but not enough for her to be any further along than that.

You spent every minute of the day with the mare, staying even after your work hours had finished just to make sure that you were giving her the nurturing that she needed in order for her filly to grow healthy in her womb.

With each month that passed no complications came her way as you worked to the bone to provide her with everything she needed that you didn't have - a comfy bed, stability, double portions of fresh food, lots of water, warmth and a space where she felt safe, where even the thought of someone or something attacking her was not a possibility.

So when Pearl's water's broke naturally on an orangey-skied evening four months ago a moment of sheer panic had flushed through your body before you sucked in a bucket load of tears and dashed to her side, remembering everything that Rick had taught you because at ridiculous hours every night you reread that darn manual... the man watched over the maternity barn's half-door without Pearl kicking up a fuss, she was in too much pain to notice him, in case you needed any emergency assistance - you didn't.

You did it all yourself.

You'd delivered Shimmer all on your own.

Just you and Pearl.

You'd given her everything that you had in you, shown her and her little one the unconditional love that you'd buried deep within you for the baby you mourned for. In return she'd given you some healing, shown you that you could do it again, but without the despair that came after.

It's no wonder why you've formed such an emotional attachment to each other in so little time.

You sniffle softly, blaming the cold weather for it, but a tear falls from your eye, slowly trailing over your cheekbone and catching the line beside your mouth. You don't bother to wipe it away because you just know that Pearl will understand.

The half-door of the barn is open already, Rick must've very cautiously done that first thing in the morning without Pearl noticing... she had been sleeping a lot during her recovery from giving birth.

As you near the door a smile starts to form on your lips as you prepare for Shimmer's adorable 'good morning' that she greets you with every day without fail.

Her brown muzzle appears, resting on the grey wood as soon as she hears you coming.

"Is that you, Shimmer?!" You gasp, now standing directly on the other side of the wooden door.

You hear excitable shuffling at the sound of your voice before Shimmer's entire head comes into view, still preciously resting the weight of it on the door.

"Well good morning to you too!" You run your fingers along the white line that trails from her forehead all the way down to her small nostrils, the only aspect of her appearance that she'd gotten from her mom... she must really take after her dad looks-wise, wherever he is.

Shimmer's mane and tail are black, her eyes dark and her coat brown, and just like her name, it shimmers under the morning sun.

Shimmer neighs and snorts, enthusiastic as usual, lifting her head from the door and jumping onto her two hind legs as you continue to fuss over her, but you hear further inside the barn a neigh from Pearl, telling her baby girl to 'calm down'.

At the sound of Pearl's voice you hold onto the edge of the half door and lean your upper half over it to peek into the barn. Pearl is laying down on her stomach with her head perched up so that she can watch Shimmer closely, her blue eyes move to you when you come into her line of vision, she neighs again, welcoming you into her and her young's space.

You gesture for Shimmer to back up, to which she does, running around in circles, distracted while you open the half-door and slip into the barn, "look at you go little girl!" You exclaim as you lower yourself onto your knees so that your face is just about in line with Shimmer's, she trots towards you, her face warps slightly as she gets closer and closer, making you giggle. You gently wrap your arms around her neck, your fingers digging into her silky hair while she tucks her head over your shoulder and her neck is pressed to the side of your face.

Pearl watches on fondly from the edge of the barn's interior. The bond that she has let you develop with Shimmer is something that you are so grateful for, after all, you had helped her through her pregnancy and she knows that, so she trusts you with her entire being and is content with you being Shimmer's human mother figure.

Shimmer doesn't stay still for long, removing her head from your shoulders and going back to playing with her hay ball.

"There's my not so little girl," you greet Pearl with a toothy smile, slowly lifting yourself back up onto your feet and treading lightly towards the mare.

You sit yourself beside Pearl absentmindedly twirling her blonde mane around your fingers, and admire the way her beige coat glows where sunlight sneaks through the cracks between each wood panel... that's where Shimmer gets her glow from... You both sit and watch like two proud mothers as Shimmer knocks the ball around the barn with her hooves, occasionally taking some hay from the middle of it.

For what feels like ten minutes is actually hours, the time that you spend in the barn with Pearl and Shimmer.

Playing with Shimmer, sitting with Pearl in the hay, dressing them both in their bridles, taking them both out one after the other for exercise on the grounds, giving them both treats and new water.

It's just after midday when you decide that it's about time for Pearl and Shimmer to have lunch.

The hay bales are located under shelter beside the maternity barn, so you figure that it'll take you just a few minutes to deliver some fresh hay to the hungry-looking faces watching you leave the barn.

The wooden shelter is to your right and you can already see the stacked hay bales inside of it through the wide door frame on the far left side of the rectangular structure.

Rick is nowhere to be seen now, but distant voices, hammering and water trickling from hoses at the greenhouses and sheep enclosure can be heard. When you enter the shelter every sound fades into nothing and the sweet, earthly smell of hay fills your nostrils.

You wrap your fingers around the string of the closest hay bale to the entrance, but as soon as you attempt to lift it you notice the way that your breathing has started to speed up until you're panting heavily, sweating and whimpering - no - you shake your head quickly and try to focus on lifting the hay bale to your chest but your legs quiver, almost making you drop it.

It's his voice again, creeping its way into your head like an agonizing migraine, one that presses down harder on your brain with each word spoken until it's completely squished at the hands of Joel.

'No, don't you fuckin' look at her.'

'Look at me.'

'Don't you look nowhere else.'

'I will break every bone in your body.'

'Give us what you got easy, medicine, supplies, anythin' like that and I'll make killin' you a whole lot quicker.'

Your lips tremble and your hands shake as a second, third and fourth tear fall from your eyes, making your vision blurry and you're unable to clear the liquid away. Even after the hay bale falls out of your arms, they're frozen and held out in front of you as if you were still holding it... you can't move.

Not again, not here.

You'd not had an episode like this at work before.

Why is this happening?

He says your name just like he did in your nightmares: low, raspy and angry at you for running away from him all those years ago.

Unlike your nightmares, you notice how the anger in his voice fades instead of getting louder and angrier, and it allows for you to gain control, steady your breaths, blink away your tears and rub your eyes with the front of your hands... bringing you back to the real world and all you can hear are Jackson's day to day noises, kids screaming as they play outside in the snow, animal calls and people just living.

He says your name again and you stop breathing altogether because it is not in your head this time, it's coming from behind you.

Joel Miller's voice is as clear as day.

Like the characters in all those horror movies you used to watch in your bedroom that know they're about to be killed because the monster is behind them and they're unarmed, you turn to face him slowly, trying with every fibre of your being to not break down, fall at your knees and beg him to just put you out of your misery.

Your mouth falls open slightly at the sight of him in the real world, looking so... normal, dressed in thick layers for the winter weather that hug his softer-looking frame, and he’s not at all covered in blood. He looks so out of place to you after seeing him so often in your mind that you can't bring yourself to believe that he is really here, or scream for him to ‘leave you alone’... and you still cannot bring yourself to breathe, which is making your vision cloudy.

"It's you - 's really you," you hear, it's him… his voice in the flesh.

Joel Miller is here, in Jackson.

You blackout.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 ⇝

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 (𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆!!!!! 𝐈𝐭'𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐲 <𝟑

𝐈 𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞

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 @pedrosgrogu @whirlwindrider29 @ccmoonshine @wheatmaze @hayleynott @peelieblue @senoratess @sunnypeachdream @puddles221b @kirsteng42 @piercethevic03 @bardot49 @maybe-a-bi-witch @exzidss

𝐽𝑜𝑒𝑙 𝑀𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟

𓃗

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