#The Miller's Daughter | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rrickgrrimes8 · 1 year

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Your Bear

summary: Joel Miller doesn’t just lose Sarah that night but his other daughter too. but maybe you can still be found. (part II)

Joel Miller x daughter!reader -- she/her pronouns used & AFAB

warnings: guns, violence, angst, mentions of death, birth, hurt/comfort, happy ending ;) (kinda), no spoilers for part 2/canon divergent

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word count: 3.2k

Joel Miller was always a good father - no matter what he thought. He cared for his girls more than he cared about anything in his damn life. So when they were both taken from him... there was nothing left to care about.

It was Sarah first.

He held Sarah as she died. His shirt was still stained with her blood. The watch on his wrist shattered by his failure.

But his other daughter, you, looking back he can only imagine the worst.

It all happened so fast. He had Sarah in his arms she gasped for air that was growing distant by the second, while Tommy watched with a pained look.

You, however, no one was watching you. Only 5 years old - you didn’t understand a thing. And so when you heard a loud noise. When you saw your sister go down and hearing the cries of both your father and her you panicked.

You thought you were getting help. That’s what’s your dad always told you to do if something bad happened. “Find the nearest phone or adult. Call me or Tommy or this number, okay? 911. Remember that number babygirl.”

And you did.

You ran as quick as you could, which wasn’t all that impressive but it was fast enough for them not to notice you had gone.

By the time you had found your way back into town, Tommy had noticed. “J-Joel,” His voice wavered, fear taking hold. Tommy searched the clearing, calling your name.

Joel looked away from his limp daughter then. His heart was thumping in his chest. His ribs ached as did the wound on his side but nothing compared to the terror that tore through his whole body.

“W-where is she?” His eyes darted over the area but you were no where to be found.

“No, Tommy,” He sobbed already fearing the worst, “T-tommy not her, please.”

Tommy shuddered. This couldn’t be real. This wasn’t real. You were just here. Sarah was just here.

“Joel,” He began until he heard shrill, painfully familiar scream from off in the distance.

“No,” Joel cried looking down at Sarah, hesitating just for a moment before setting her down, “I’m sorry baby.”

Tommy was already running at that point, hoping not to be late, not like he was for Sarah. Joel screamed your name as he sprinted - he couldn’t lose anyone else. He couldn’t lose you, his babygirl.

When he got there he saw Tommy knelt beside a bloodied teddy bear.

Your bear.

He collapsed. Knees giving way. He pulled the bear of the ground, its white fur tormented by the red hue.

Tommy shouted your name a few times. Joel didn’t have the energy to bother. His answer was here.

You were only five. You’d never have survived on your own.

And he would never survive without you, without his girls. He hugged the bear as if it was your body and he never let go.

“Why’d you have a bear in your bag?” Ellie teased as she caught sight of an fluffy ear sticking out.

Joel clenched his jaw, stuffing the teddy back inside. “What?” She laughed innocently, “Is it for your bad dreams? Chase the monsters away?”

The man grunted, discarding the bag on one of the chairs - away from Ellie’s view, “None of your business.”

Ellie frowned as she caught his eye. The brown was darker than usual, which was really saying something. They were empty, hollow but at the same time watery. Like he was one step away from crying. She shook the thought off - this was Joel she was talking about. Joel never cried, not in front of her - not really... She didn’t even think he could cry. But his eyes told her something else. They told an unspoken story. One she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. But one, at the same time, she needed to hear.

“Sorry,” She mumbled, moving into the living room of the house Tommy and Maria had given them.

Joel sighed as she did, guilt running through his veins. “Sorry,” He called out, gruffly, stopping her in her escape. Ellie turned back waiting for him to continue. “it was...” He cleared his throat roughly, “The bear was my daughters.”

“Oh,” She whispered, looking up at the man with sympathy, “If i had known it was Sarah’s... i wouldn’t have said anything.”

Joel sucked in a breath, turning towards the cupboards behind him, grabbing a cup. “Wasn’t hers,” He corrected trying not to let his voice catch on the lump forming in his throat.

“What?” Ellie dared a step closer, “But Sarah was... is your daughter.” Joel bit his tongue, forcing himself to face her again. “Joel?”

He let out a watery sigh, eyes set on the ground, “I had... i had another daughter.” He spoke your name softly but with fear. He hadn’t said it in years - he couldn’t. He hadn’t spoken about you in nearly 20 years either. He hated to talk about you. It was hard enough letting Ellie in, letting her know about his past, about Sarah. But it was too hard to say your name. You were only a baby. His baby.

“I didn’t know. You never mentioned her,” Ellie almost felt guilty asking - like this was something she should’ve known. That she should’ve known wasn’t something you just bring up.

“Yeah,” He scrunched his face a little, the feeling of your loss rushing back.

He thought and he believed for a time that if he didn’t talk about you, about the way he failed you then all that hurt would go away. He was wrong. He saw you every night in his dreams. He saw the woman you grew up to become. He saw your smile and heard your laugh. But then he’d wake up alone. He was always alone.

The worst was when the dream felt real. You were a baby again, Sarah was young too. It was just the three of you. You’d be doing something mundane - watching TV, eating dinner, whatever. He’d have conversations with the pair of you, forgetting that none of it was real. He’d hold you to his chest, sing to you, make you laugh. He’d dance with Sarah to their beat up radio in the kitchen. He would watch you take your first steps, say your first words, form your first smile.

But he’d always wake up. He hated waking up.

“How old was she?” She dared to ask.

Shakily he replied, “Five.”

She fell silent after that. Five. Five years old. Joel lost a five year old - no wonder he didn’t want to talk about it, idiot.

Ellie thought for a moment, a question daring to fall from her lips. “But she’s wasn’t on the memorial at Tommy’s.”

Joel’s head snapped up, anger residing in his chest. Who he was mad at he didn’t know. Himself? Tommy? Ellie? You? “Tommy... he,” He huffed, “He doesn’t believe she’s gone. Holds out hope on that fucking plaque - fuckin’ delusional.”

Ellie leant against the countertop, eyes not leaving the man for just a second, “Why would he think that?”

“No body,” His voice was cold all of a sudden as if it meant nothing at all. As if he wasn’t talking about the body of his five year-old.

“But then she could be-“

“Don’t,” He snapped, “Don’t say another word.”

Ellie rolled her eyes but complied. Joel turned back to his cup, filling it with coffee he had just traded for. He didn’t speak until he was finished and even then he wished he hadn’t.

“We heard her scream... And we found-“ He grimaced, gesturing to his bag, “And we found that damn bear.”

“But,” She tried again.

“Ellie-“

“No, seriously, if all you found was a bear she could still be-“

Without another word, Joel stormed past her, ripping the bag open, slamming the bear onto her chest.

Ellie saw it now.

She understood the haunting look in his eyes. She understood the story it told. It was matted, showed its age. What once was white was red now.

All of it.

Not just a patch here and there.

Everywhere.

It reminded her of Joel.

“That look like she could be alive to you?” He shouted.

“Fuck,” She felt sick just looking at it let alone touching it.

“You kept it?” A voice called from behind her.

Joel met his brothers eyes. “‘Course i did,” He spoke defensively.

“Joel,” He simpered. They stared at each other for a while. Almost like they were having a silent conversation.

Until Joel spoke, “It’s all i have of her left.”

And there was nothing else to say.

Years had gone by since they had gotten to Jackson. And things were surprisingly good. Eerily good. It was the type of good that Joel knew deep down wouldn’t last. It was the type of good that only existed before this mess.

Every morning he would wake up here he had a weight on his chest. A feeling that something was going to happen. This was the calm before the storm, he’d remind himself.

He didn’t tell anyone about it. He couldn’t. He’d just sound paranoid.

Him and Ellie were on a run. It was simple - it always was. The people in charge at the commune never liked to overstep - go to far. Never liked to do what Joel craved.

All they had to do was scope out a few cabins that were spotted deep in the woods. Ellie had jumped at the proposition as soon as Tommy had suggested it. She hated being cooped up for so long - Jackson could only give you so much freedom.

And just because Ellie agreed he knew he had to as well. There was no way in hell he’d let her go out risking her life when there was no way he’d be able to save it.

Getting there was the easy part. The horses at Jackson were a godsend. When they got there the place was still. Ellie gave Shimmer a soft pat before joining Joel who was stalking up to the door. He knocked first - not out of curtesy, just to attract any infected that it may hold. Because that’s what they expected. But Joel should’ve known better.

Joel should’ve thought about their biggest threat - people.

They had only cleared two rooms when Joel felt the cold sting of mental on his temple.

Ellie gasped but kept her gun up, eyes trained on the figure that held Joel’s life in their hands. “Put it down,” The voice ordered.

“Like hell I will,” Ellie retorted, finger edging closer to the trigger.

“I said put it down or the old man gets it,” She forced the barrel against his head - so hard he was sure it would bruise.

“Jesus, fuck, okay,” Ellie mumbled, slowly setting her gun on the floor infront of her, “Just let him go?”

The woman laughed, “So you can kill me, yeah, no thanks.”

“We can work this out,” Joel tried, hands raising to show he was unarmed but it only aggravated her more. Her arm wrapped around his neck, making him stumble back into a chokehold.

“Hey!” She yelled at Ellie as she reached for a gun. The teen stopped, taking a few steps back.

“Just put it down. We can work this out,” Joel proposed, gasping as she applied pressure to his neck, “We don’t want to hurt you.”

“Bullshit,” She spat, breathing heavily, “What the fuck else are you here for then, huh?”

“Supplies,” Ellie told her, “We’re from a commune-“

“Ellie-“

“We can take you back there - help you. If you just put the gun down.”

“Bullshit,” The woman removed the gun from Joel’s head aiming it now at Ellie, “You’ll kill me the first chance you get.”

Ellie shook her head, going to respond before Joel gripped the woman’s arm flipping her over. She gasped as she forcefully hit the ground, splinters from the wooden floor embedded into her spine.

Her breathing picked up, hand scrambling to get to the gun he had knocked out of her hand but a foot stopped her.

Joel’s boot pressed harshly against her wrist, “Don’t.”

“Christ Joel,” Ellie huffed, “You scared the fuck out of me.” Joel watched her as she reached down to get her discarded gun. Ellie laughed as she caught her breath, “Where the hell did that come from? You’re like 80.”

“Ellie,” He scolded with a strict look.

“Right, sorry,” She chuckled.

“So this is when you kill me then,” The woman heaved, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Joel turned to her then, catching her eyes for the first time. He faltered, boot leaving her wrist as he took a step back.

She was a spitting image of... you.

No.

“Shouldn’t’ve tried to kill us, i guess,” Ellie retorted humourlessly.

“You came into my house,” She shot back.

“This is your house,” Ellie muttered, “Needs some work. Right, contractor?” She shot a look over her shoulder at Joel. The man was pale, breathless. His eyes were trained on his attacker with a foreign look she couldn’t decipher.

“Joel?”

“Name,” He ordered, gun pointed down at her but both of them could see it shake.

“What?” She coughed, struggling to understand the strangers.

“Your name, what is it?” He yelled.

“Jesus,” She almost let herself laugh - she would’ve if she wasn’t so shit scared.

Joel gave her a stern look so she said it. She spoke your name.

Ellie’s lips parted, confusion leaving her face, “Holy shit.”

Joel’s expression crumbled as did the grip on his gun, which now hung loosely at his side. “Last name?” He asked, voice a mere whisper.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Answer.”

“It’s Miller, Christ,” She answered, “What the hell is the matter with you people?”

Joel’s knees felt weak, his breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. You died. You were gone.

“Joel is she-“

“Stand up,” He told you.

Hesitantly you did as he said, struggling slightly as your injuries caught up to you. Seeing this Joel stepped forward, hand outstretched. With an odd look in your eye you took it - ignoring how the mans eyes lingered on it for a second too long.

“Are you alone?” Fearfully you shook your head. “Where?” He ordered.

You shook your head again, “Please don’t- You can’t. I was just trying to protect her.”

“Who?” Ellie spoke up, despite it not feeling like her place to be in this conversation.

“M-my,” You started but a cry interrupted, echoing through the cabin.

You didn’t think for a second before you ran out of the room. Joel cursed as you did, going to rush out after you before Ellie spoke up, “What are we doing here, Joel?”

“I-“ He paused, shaking his head and leaving the room.

“Is it her?” She questioned, following closely behind him, “Is it really her?”

He gave her stern look as he entered the room you escaped into. His eyes blurred as he saw you with a baby to your chest.

“Please don’t,” You held up your free hand, stopping them, “You can’t- not her.”

“Holy fuck,” Ellie gaped, “You have a fucking kid!”

“Ellie!” The baby fussed in your arms, cries escaping despite your comfort.

“Please leave,” You beg, “Just let us go. I know i messed up. I didn’t want to hurt you guys but i- i couldn’t let you find her.”

“It’s okay,” Joel spoke softly, a type of softness you wouldn’t expect a man like him to be capable of. He holstered his gun, carefully and moved his hands where you could see them.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” He told you, “Ellie, put your gun away.” Ellie did as he said.

“So leave,” You pulled your child closer to your chest.

“We can’t do that,” Joel said.

“Why?”

“Because he’s-“

“Ellie, don’t,” He cut her off, turning back to you, “We weren’t lying before. We have a commune - it’s safe. You’ll be safe there. You both will be.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, repeating the same question, “Why?”

“B-because you’ve got a kid,” He lied, “We can’t leave you here to die.”

“I don’t trust you,” You frowned. Joel mirrored your action, looking around the room at the makeshift cot you had constructed. He felt his heart ache when he spotted a blood stain on the carpet in the corner - you had given birth here, alone. You went through that alone.

“Please,” Ellie spoke up, “You won’t survive out here. You need somewhere safe. And maybe you don’t trust us, that’s okay but we’re honest. We want to help you.”

Hesitantly, you nodded after a few minutes, anxiety building in your chest.

Joel’s eyes were still stuck to the bloodied patch and he was reminded again of how he failed you. How he failed Sarah. He thought about that damn bear. The bear that he thought was the last part of you he had. And despite the pain in his chest and the ringing in his ears he was so glad he was wrong.

“What’s her name?” Ellie asked as she took a tentative step forward.

You didn’t flinch, you wanted to but a part of you, a naive, childish part, wanted to believe them. “Sarah,” You returned, pinching your girls cheeks causing her to smile.

Joel’s eyes filled with tears, tears he had been trying to suppress for the past 20 minutes. For the past 20 years.

Sarah. His Sarah. Your Sarah.

Ellie’s eyes snapped to Joel. He almost felt embarrassed, showing this side of him. Showing his weakness.

“She’s beautiful,” He whispered.

You smiled as he spoke, kissing the side of Sarah’s head. “She is,” You kissed her again before whispering - more to her than them, “My babygirl.”

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller imagine #joel miller x daughter!reader #joel miller x platonic!reader #tommy miller x platonic!reader #the last of us #the last of us imagine

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marieslittlecorner · 4 months

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My Joel 🌾

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heartpascal · 6 months

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i was born waiting

▹— joel miller x daughter!reader

▹— summary: you’ve been looking for your dad for as long as you can remember, is this really him?

▹— a/n: hi! i started writing this september ‘23, so it has. it’s been a WHILE. so if this seems jumpy / not consistent then that is why! sorry!!! i have done my best!!!

▹— warnings: canon-typical violence and themes, weapons, parental death, witnessing parental death, aka insane amounts of trauma, death in general, she/her pronouns, reader is biologically related to joel but no mentions of appearance, no mention of her bio mother’s appearance either, fantasising about being dead (sorry), all hurt zero comfort, attempted murder, unrealistic expectations of someone you never met — please let me know if ive missed anything!

▹— taglist: @rhymingtree @sleepygraves @wnstice (everything), @auggiesolovey @just-kaylaa @evyiione @lemonlaides @fariylixie0915 @faceache111 @randomhoex @canpillowscry @pedropascalsrealgf @star-wars-lover @coolchick333 @soobsdior @rvjaa @sunflowersdrop @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @miss-celestial-being @hqkon

MASTERLIST

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

There are certain things from your childhood that you can remember vividly. Though, really, childhood is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? It’s hard to find the right word to encompass the way you had grown up, because you didn’t have much of a chance to actually grow.

From the moment you had been born, your life was a battle of staying alive to see another day.

That’s not to say that your mother didn’t do her best for you, obviously. But it was hard to raise a child as a child in the midst of a global apocalypse. You were bound to end up the way you did — moulded and hardened by the world around you, by having to pick up a gun at seven years old and use it to protect your mother. By never putting that gun back down.

For the past few years, you had known your mother was suffering. The world had been anything but kind to her, and age was hitting her harder than she had expected. More than the physical aspect, you knew it had been destroying her, the fact that you were now the one protecting her and not the other way around.

But what choice did you have? Her aging body had left her fragile, prone to falling and breaking even more frail bones. You could see the strain on her muscles, as they slowly decayed and shrunk, until they were barely there at all. You couldn’t let her carry the burden for you anymore, because you knew her body couldn’t handle it.

You had been preparing yourself for that moment, though. Making sure that you were ready, that you were strong enough for the both of you, strong enough to shoulder the burden she had been carrying for years.

When you were growing up, your mother had told you tales of your father.

She had told you all about how strong he had been, how he had been the best man she had ever known. She told you how he had cared for his daughter before you, how he had been the best father to that girl. When you were old enough to comprehend these things, you’d asked what had happened to him. “Is dad dead?” You had asked her, watching the way her face fell.

“I don’t know, honey. I hope not.” She had responded, smiling sadly at you, and patting her hand against your cheek.

It was hard for you to let go of that.

The uncertainty had haunted you for the rest of your life since that very moment, leaving you wondering for hours at a time where he could possibly be, why he would ever leave your mother to carry this responsibility alone. And in your more selfish moments, you couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t here to care for you as he had his daughter before you.

For a long time, you had convinced yourself that he was dead, despite what your mother hoped. And sure, you felt that loss, something like mourning weighing you down, but it was the only way you felt you could accept his absence. He had to be dead, because otherwise, why wasn’t he here?

But as you grew up, getting taller, stronger, you felt like you could rationalise his absence even if he wasn’t dead. After all, the apocalypse wasn’t exactly family friendly. You figured that if your mother didn’t know whether or not your dad was alive, that the same could go for him. He might just think that you and your mom died, years ago. After all, how many pregnant women survived the end of the world?

You have a feeling that the answer would have to be not many.

So, really, you and your mother being alive by now was nothing short of a miracle. It was a testament to your mother’s strength, her ability. She had succeeded where so many others had failed, and she had managed to keep both herself and you alive.

It’s a bitter kind of irony that you can’t do the same.

The last dredges of autumn fall away, leading into the coldest and harshest part of the year. Winter is hard — it’s full to the brim with fresh Infected, the ones not yet frozen solid, and resources are more scarce than ever. And this winter feels like something tangible, something which sends unending waves of dread through you.

Your mother gets weaker by the day, spending more time resting than moving, and you spend as much time as you can keeping her warm, finding food and water and pain relief for her broken arm that didn’t heal right. She’s exhausted, you can see it in her face, in her every movement. And you’re pretty sure it’s not just from the lack of rest. She watches you with dulled eyes, something like heartbreak reflecting in them.

For a long time, you pretend not to notice.

You pretend that you don’t see the way she lags behind, just watching you move away from her with speed she can’t quite manage any longer. You pretend that you don’t see the way she hesitates before taking her painkillers, or her food, or the last sip of water.

This year, the winter brings something worse than the cold. A bug, spreading across the state in a way that was familiar to so many. Not quite the Infection, but still able to take out people with ease.

When your mother catches it, you physically felt your heart clench in your chest. You felt it squeezing all of the blood around your body so quickly that you became dizzy with it. There’s a panic so deep that you can’t climb your way out of it. For days, weeks, you’re certain that you’ve lost her. That after everything, everything you’ve done, everything the two of you have been through, a cold would be the end of it all.

But then, she gets better.

The little strength she had before the sickness returns to her, bringing some colour back to her skin, some ease back to her breathing.

Religion wasn’t a thing in the apocalypse. Not really. But if you had believed in God, you would’ve thanked every one that might’ve existed for giving you this. This miracle. This small mercy.

The two of you are in an abandoned barn when it happens.

You’re dozing away, not quite asleep, but not awake either, when you hear the sound of old hay crunching underneath boots. If you weren’t so familiar with the lightness of your mother’s footsteps, you might’ve passed it off as her wandering. But these boots are heavy. They’re purposeful.

The gun in your hand means nothing when you jerk upwards, eyes snapping open and squinting through the light let into the barn by the rising winter sun. It’s an image that has since been ingrained into the back of your skull, replaying each time you close your eyes.

There, right in front of you, is your mother.

Behind her, a man, a gun pressed to the back of her skull.

Your stomach lurched suddenly in that moment, the small rationed dinner you had before dozing off trying to rise to the back of your throat, trying to race the rapid beating of your heart to see which would kill you first.

“Put down the gun.” He said, voice cold, throat dry from the winter air. The sound of his voice is printed in the base of your brain, echoing every time things around you still, go quiet.

He could be bluffing, you thought in the moment. His gun could be unloaded. It didn’t take you long to notice that the safety was off, but in those few moments, he had pressed the end of it harder into your mother’s head. You dropped the gun to the floor without another moment of thought.

You were nauseous, waiting to wake up, to realise this was all some twisted nightmare.

But you could see a look in your mother’s eyes. Acceptance. Defeat. It was almost familiar to you, so closely related to the look she had been giving you for months.

All this time, she had just been waiting to die. Waiting for something to come along and kill her off, to free you from having to take care of her. She knew that if it was up to you, that you would look after her for the rest of your goddamn life. If she lived any longer, she might just live long enough to see you die.

“Slide it over.”

You barely registered the cold pinch of metal against your palm as you pushed the gun away from you, sending it skittering over the rough ground and into the side of an old hay bale.

“Now your pack.”

There was a numbness to you as you gripped the backpack you had been leaning against, and chucked it towards where he stood behind your mother. It hit the front of his boot, but his eyes didn’t stray from where he stared at you.

“Turn around.”

You stared at him, teeth gritted together.

“No.”

There was a beat where both him and your mother just watched you. And then the surprise flickered across his face, apparently not expecting any resistance from you.

“Turn. Around.” He told you, firmer this time.

“No.”

“Okay then,” He relented, after a moment of consideration. His eyes drifted down towards your mother, who stared forwards at you. “This your daughter?” He asked, jerking his head towards you despite knowing your mother couldn’t see the movement.

“Yes, she is,” Your mother said, voice shaking, her breath clouding in front of her face as it reached the cold air. “Please, just let her be.”

He hummed, dropping his free hand down to rest heavily on your mother’s shoulder, his fingers clamping around it and not helping the way she trembled.

“So, your momma, huh?” He asked you, a smirk drawing up his face, showing smile lines around his murky blue eyes. His hair rustled in the wind, a piece falling down across his forehead. He stared at you, and you stared at him, not daring to say a word, still hoping that this whole thing was a dream. Muscles in his cheek twitched, pulling his skin taut and showing a scar across his left cheekbone. “Good.”

There was a moment where the sound didn’t register. A moment where you didn’t even realise it was your mother when the body slumped forwards. A mere moment where you didn’t think about it being her blood that splattered across your face.

The moments after that though, become blurry, hazed over, and you’re not sure it actually ever hit you that the body before you was your mother.

You’ve always had a hard time remembering that bodies were once people, that they once had lives and loved ones and thoughts and feelings. That they weren’t just bodies. So seeing her like that, as a body, not her, was wrong on so many levels. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did.

You heard the second gunshot, just a moment later, followed by a snickering laugh that you would never forget, before the pain bloomed in you.

It was buried by the shock, the complete disbelief, and you only felt the pain for mere seconds.

His gun — the one that killed your mother — was whacked across the side of your head a moment after, and that was the end of that.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Three months passed by, judging by the way the seasons turned, and you were on your own.

It was a strange feeling, really. Throughout the entirety of your life, you had never actually been alone. At least, not really. Your mother was always a small ways away, a mere shout from running to you. There had never been any true distance between the two of you until that day.

A sort of ache claws your throat each day, when you realise that it’s easier like this.

The only back you have to watch is your own, the only life you have to worry about belongs to you, and you have nothing to lose in this world. There was no terrible outcome if you were caught. Nobody else would be hurt, or suffer because of it. And you’re less likely to be caught now, when you don’t have your mother slowing you down. You don’t have to stop for the frequent rest breaks she needed, you can try to outrun Infected without worrying about someone lagging behind, and you only have yourself to feed.

If your mother had known how much easier survival was when alone, you hope that she would’ve abandoned you at birth. Because perhaps, without the burden of you upon her shoulders, she wouldn’t have fallen apart so quickly.

Sometimes, you like to think of a world where she was spared all of this. Never pregnant with you, for a start. So when the infection broke out, she would’ve only had herself to worry about. You think that maybe, one day, she would’ve been able to reunite with your father. If she hadn’t been carrying a child, she would’ve been able to manage the journey to where she believed him to be. You look at the picture that had been in the pocket of her coat for your whole life, the papers folded and clipped to the back of it, one word underlined: Boston.

You had reached a store in the weeks after that day, and when you found a map, it wasn’t difficult to notice that the direction the two of you had been heading in was to that very city.

It’s a long shot. More than a long shot, really, but you find yourself continuing in that direction regardless. You don’t know what you hope to find in Boston, whether it was your dad, or the man who had killed your mother, or perhaps just somewhere to take shelter for a while. You try not to hope for anything. You try not to focus on the fact that you might not even make it that far.

It keeps you up for days.

The uncertainty of it. The unknown. The fact that you’re walking your way to a city you know nothing about, almost certain that your mother’s killer was already there, and more than that, consumed by a fever that might kill you regardless of the where the journey took you.

The only sleep you get results in fever dreams, rippling, warping images that make your perception falter, feeling all too real until you notice that it’s not. And when you do wake up from them, it’s as if you haven’t slept at all. An exhaustion weighs heavily upon you, and your shoulders hunch over with it. There’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to get rid of that endless feeling.

You hope—or wish, maybe— that if you reach Boston, the journey there will have tired you out so much that your body will have no choice but to rest. It’s a distant thought in your mind, though. You’re almost certain you won’t make it that far, because if the fever doesn’t get you, surely the Infected will.

It’s not as though you’re trying to get killed. But there is a kind of peace that comes with the thought. There’s an idea of rest behind it, hiding within the shadowy depths that make you scared. Would not having to fight in order to survive really be so terrible? You have this image in mind, of a never ending blackness, a void, somewhere that your thoughts and worries can just fizzle away. The small part of your fever-fried brain that has retained its rationality reminds you of the unknown. It reminds you that death could be worse than this.

You don’t like the thought. Not after that day. It’s a shuddering feeling, wondering if your mother is in some kind of unreachable hell.

By the time you’re even close to Boston, a few hours out at most, you’re out of ammo in the gun you’d found along the way. Out of food rations. No knife, no resources. You’re barely standing on two legs, kept up by the adrenaline, the knowledge alone that you’re this close.

When the tall walls of the QZ finally come into view, you start to feel some amount of hope. Which is a dangerous thing, but especially in a situation as dire as your own. You couldn’t afford any adrenaline fading, couldn’t afford to lose your cautious nature. You couldn’t make a mistake. One wrong move, one slight misstep, and you’d be as dead as your mother. Or worse, infected. Though this close to a QZ, you had some amount of relief at the knowledge that they should’ve cleared out any nearby infected. Runners, and clickers alike.

Your steps don’t falter for a moment. Partly because of your worry about the fever taking you out, but mostly because you’re certain that the FEDRA guards on watch on top of the wall will have spotted you, and you don’t want them to think you’re Infected, just because of your sickly appearance, and shoot on sight. Though, with FEDRA’s track record, it wouldn’t surprise you if they just shot you down regardless.

For a while, you’re not sure if you’re even awake, or if perhaps you were stuck in yet another fever dream. Everything felt so real and so not real simultaneously, it felt impossible to believe that you had actually made it.

Soldiers met you on your approach, calling out for you to get on the ground with your hands up. You called back some sort of response as you did so, practically collapsing to your knees and squeezing your eyes shut at the pain that followed. But despite all of it, despite the pain and the rough hands that grabbed you and pulled you forwards, through the gates and straight into a building, you had made it to Boston.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

It was maybe three weeks into being a resident of the Boston QZ that you caught wind of him for the first time. Or, at the very least, somebody who might be him. You didn’t know how common the surname Miller was, being a child of the apocalypse, but you kind of hoped the answer was uncommon.

“Goddamn Miller, again.” A man had muttered as you walked through the trading market. You paused almost instantly, pretending to peruse the feeble amount of clothes a woman had to trade. “Said we gotta go through him and Tess if we want anything, as if we gotta listen to them.” He practically spat out, glaring around as he spoke to the woman beside him.

“They’re the most well established smugglers in the whole goddamn QZ. Don’t have to tell you how, do I?” She asked, sounding more annoyed with her companion than she was with whoever Miller and Tess were. “Joel is as nasty as they come, Darren. Don’t get on the wrong side of him.”

Your heart practically stuttered to a stop in your chest, and you had to remind yourself to keep breathing. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Could there be another Joel Miller? One who wasn’t your father? Sure, it was possible. Plausible, even, considering the fact that you had absolutely no idea if he was here. Not any concrete idea, anyway. Your mother had believed as much, but who was to say she was right?

Besides, whoever this Joel Miller was didn’t sound like the man your mother had told you about. As nasty as they come didn’t have any relation to the heroic and kind and amazing father and man your mother always spoke about. Though, you knew as well as anyone what the apocalypse could do to people.

Darren didn’t say anything else to his companion. So, after a few more moments, you continued on your way, making the journey to the tiny box apartment that FEDRA had elected to you.

But even as you got there, sitting down on the poor excuse of a mattress, you couldn’t shake the conversation out of your mind. After everything you had been through to get here, what was it all for? Could you really make this journey and just never try to find Joel Miller? Your father? You could still remember the anxiety that had come when you first arrived, when you were strapped into a chair and scanned for the fungus that had taken over so many. You didn’t know what you were more scared of: the idea that it would flash red, and you’d be killed, or the idea that it would be clear, and you’d be sent out into the QZ, where you may just find the other half of your DNA.

You don’t even know if you want to find out anything about him. Don’t know if you could face that, especially after losing your mother. That’s been the hardest thing since being here, since having your own place, the fact that you’ve gotten it all without her. It feels… empty. For your whole life, she had been there at your side, making every short stay at whatever accommodation you could find feel like home.

Plus, even if you did consider trying to find him, and if it was him those people were talking about, then who the hell was Tess? What if she got upset at your appearance, your claim as Joel Miller’s surviving child? You’re not sure you can lose another parent.

Sure — Joel Miller wasn’t exactly your dad, he couldn’t be classed as a parent in the way that your mother was, but if you never met him, that could’ve been for any number of reasons. He could be dead. He could’ve thought you and your mother were dead, all these years. You didn’t want to face a reality where you met him, and he wasn’t present for you and your mother because he didn’t want to be. You’d rather live your whole life thinking him six feet under, than know he was out there, and just didn’t care about you.

The more you think about it, the more certain you are that Boston was a mistake.

It would all be different if your mother was alive. If she had brought you here, if she had been the one to hear the chatter about Joel Miller, if she had been the one to seek him out. But she was dead, and the only living connection you had to Joel was, too. Hypothetically, if you did seek him out, you didn’t know enough about him to prove your claim as his child, and without your mother, how could you make him believe you?

They had been a family, once. They being Joel, your mother, and your deceased half sister. You’d heard the tale of how Joel and your mother had met, of how it took months for him to finally feel comfortable introducing her to his little girl. Hell, you had heard almost as much about Sarah as you had about Joel. Your mother had certainly adored his daughter, and you’re somewhat sure that they had planned to have you, despite Sarah already being a teenager.

You don’t want to have to mourn a family you had never actually had. Perhaps, Joel and Sarah were out there, living their lives certain that you and your mother were dead, just as you and your mother had done.

Not that any of this even mattered — you didn’t even know for sure if it was the same Joel Miller! And even if it was, it’s not like Boston QZ was small. There’s absolutely no chance you run into the man who might just be your dad. No way.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

You find someone else, before you hear anything more about Joel Miller, and it immediately sends the thought of your biological dad to the very back of your mind.

After all, it’s not every day you see the man who murdered your mother.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise. You had guessed that this was the place he was heading, all those moons ago. But to actually see him, here, in the flesh, alive and well despite all of the pain and heartache and devastation he had caused you? It was surreal. You had to practically pinch your skin from your body to make yourself believe he was real.

And it only really hits you now, that this man killed your mother. You had been so focused on surviving, on living to see another day, on healing and moving and getting away from her body, buried in shallow dirt outside of some abandoned barn. You can vividly remember the strength it had taken to pry the frozen dirt from the ground.

Sure, you had felt the guilt over it, the guilt over the ease that came with surviving without her, guilt over your very existence, but you’re not sure you had ever actually grieved over her. Not sure if you had ever let yourself be sad, be angry, be anything about what had happened.

But now, seeing him, you feel… almost too much.

All of the rage and grief you had squashed in favour of surviving another day, all of the sadness and fear, all of it. It all comes rushing towards you at once, hitting you in the chest, winding you. You gasp for breath on the street, ducking away for a moment, gripping your chest like you could physically hold your heart steady.

When you look back out at the street, you see him as he nears the corner. Panic grips you at the thought of losing him, of never seeing him again, of failing to avenge your mother. You follow after him before you can think better of it.

It’s strangely easy. You fall back into the life of a hunter like it’s the most natural thing you’ve ever known — and maybe it is. You’re healed up, by now, or about as healed as anybody gets in this world, and your shoulder only bothers you when you move it too much. Even with that, you’re pretty sure that you could take the man on. Now that you’re not hazy with sleep, caught off guard, held back by any sort of earthly tether.

You’re strong. And despite FEDRA’s harsh reign, their dire consequences for rule-breaking, you have a switchblade stuffed into your shoe. You could do it. You could kill him.

There’s no question about it in your mind, especially as you follow him from a distance, and he remains none the wiser. He takes a left, and a moment later, so do you. He’s clueless. It’s almost painful that he was the one who managed to get the jump on you. How could you have let this man kill your mother?

He skids to a stop outside of a doorway, so you slide down the wall of the building opposite and listen. He pays you no mind as he knocks twice on the door.

“What d’you want, Colin?” The man who opened the door asked gruffly, seemingly inconvenienced by the man. He sounded tired, or out of it, maybe.

“I need the supply.” Colin answered, and the sound of his voice sent a shiver down the back of your neck. It echoed in your ears, the words he said that day. Good. Everything in you itched, like thousands of critters had dug into you and made a home scuttling around your insides. You wanted to kill him. You wanted to end his life, and you wanted to make it slow. Brutal. Painful. Even if it meant you were hung by FEDRA tomorrow morning. It’d be worth it.

The man at the door sighed, as if deeply bothered by getting Colin what he needed, and disappeared inside. He emerged a moment later, empty handed. “I’m all out. You’ll have to go across town tomorrow.” The man said flatly, saying nothing as Colin swore, before stepping away.

You ducked your head down as Colin passed, all too aware of the man in the doorway watching you suspiciously. After a moment, he sighed again, and retreated inside, slamming the door after himself. It took almost no time at all for you to push yourself back to your feet, and take off after the man who had left.

Despite your pounding footsteps against cracked concrete, he didn’t pay you any mind as you caught up to him. He seemed focused on getting to wherever it was that he was unknowingly leading you to, glancing up at the darkening sky every other step. FEDRA’s curfew would be coming into play soon enough.

To your disappointment, he walked into an apartment building, about three blocks away from your own. It seemed that, unless you were willing to risk being caught and stopped, today wasn’t the day you would be avenging your mother. You vowed that tomorrow you would do it. You would kill Colin. No matter what got in your way.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

By the time curfew was lifted, you had been waiting by the exit of your building for an hour.

The switchblade in your shoe felt heavy with every step you took towards the home of your mother’s killer. It weighed almost as much as the picture in your pocket. All of it was heavy. But you acted as normally as you could manage, passing by patrolling FEDRA guards without them so much as glancing towards you.

You were waiting by his building when the door opened, when he stepped out, and headed determinedly in the opposite direction from which you had come. You followed without a moment of hesitation.

He made his way around town, trading with a few people on the side of the streets, handing them small wads of ration cards in favour of various items. Nothing dangerous, though. Not to you. He clearly was oblivious to your loitering figure, standing a few metres away, like some omen of death. Despite your shadow reaching for his shoes as the sun rose, he didn’t flinch.

It was irritating you, just how easy this was. You had been following the man for two days now, and he hadn’t even noticed. How had he gotten the drop on you? How had he managed to kill your mother? How had you allowed him the opportunity to do so?

There was nothing remotely special about him — no reason that he should have survived over your mother, no reason that he should have been granted mercy over the last twenty years. He didn’t deserve it. Not like your mother had. She had done the best she could, for years, for the only daughter in her care. And she had done it all alone. This man, Colin, he was alone, and he had no reason to hurt her. You were going to make sure he regretted it.

You loomed at the entrance of an alleyway as he walked down it, finally stopping at a dead end, leaning against the brick wall as if he was waiting for something. Or someone. You knew it wasn’t you he was waiting for, so you bided your time, cautious of someone happening upon the two of you. If they had business with him, they would care. If they didn’t, then nobody but FEDRA would care.

By the time you finally decided to move, almost an hour had passed, and Colin was facing away from you at the entrance of the alley, head pressed to the bricks.

It was strange, what the innate desire to hunt and kill could bring out in you, that it could make you move silently without thinking about it. It could make you reach for the blade in your shoe, without so much as a rustle of your clothes.

With a final glance back at the entrance of the alleyway, you grew impatient, and you attacked.

From an outside perspective, you probably looked like some kind of wild animal. You jumped at him, tackling him, pushing him sideways and landing on his back as his shoulder smacked the asphalt, and he howled in pain. It was like seeing a cheetah hunt an antelope, the way you bored down on him. If you could have widened your jaws, and ripped out his insides, you think you would have.

But without that ability, you could only press the cold metal blade to his throat, and feel him go still.

“Do you remember me?” You asked, voice flat and still, despite the way your heart felt as though it would beat out of your chest, and splatter down in front of his face. You were quieter than you had expected, too. You thought that the words would burst out of you, vicious and unending, but they were quiet. Calm.

Colin shook his head, as much as he could with the side of his face pressed to the ground, and a blade to the soft skin of his neck.

“Think about it.”

His eyes strained to try and get a look at you, and they widened as you leant sideways slightly, allowing him to gaze at your blank face. “Oh, shit,” He said, mouth fumbling around the words.

“Yeah, shit.” You repeated, waiting for satisfaction to seep into your chest cavity, waiting for the grief to fade away.

It didn’t.

Nothing changed, even as you pressed the blade closer to his throat, even as you watched his eyes dart back and forth, as you watched him try and formulate a plan to survive. “Listen, kid—” He started, throat bobbing against the knife, drawing the tiniest line of blood. You watched him bleed, and expected to feel more than numb.

He threw your weight backwards, sacrificing more skin on his throat to your knife. You went flying off of him, but you flung yourself forward faster than he could stagger up, and dug the knife into his calf as he tried to stand. His yell pierced the air, louder than any of the commotion yet, and likely drawing attention of people out on the street. You just hoped, distantly, that FEDRA wasn’t around.

His flesh and muscle moved as you pulled the blade free, and you didn’t flinch at the squelch of blood that left him alongside it.

Colin fell back to the floor, resulting in crawling along the asphalt without care for how the small stones cut into his palms, leaving streaks of blood. “You don’t gotta do this, man, chill out!” His voice had more emotion in it than it had back when he killed your mother, which was infuriating. “It wasn’t personal!” He insisted, crawling further as you got to your feet, prowling after him similarly to the wild animal you felt like.

You’d disagree with his statement, though.

He already had your pack, you had already relinquished your gun — the only thing you refused to do was turn so you could be executed. If you were going to be killed, you were going to look your murderer in the eye. Instead of that, though, Colin had decided to make it personal. He had decided to kill your mother, to spread her brains out on the ground in front of you, to cover you in her blood, rather than spare her. And then, worse, he had let you live.

That seemed pretty personal.

“You killed my mom.” You stated, getting closer as he turned so he was facing you, watching you get closer. “D’you remember what you said to me?”

He shook his head.

“You said good. You were glad that it was my mother. Admit it, Colin. Tell the world all about how not-personal it was.”

More than anything, you wanted to feel satisfaction for how badly he was trembling beneath you, for how scared you were making him. But you just didn’t. Fear wasn’t enough. Not for what this man had done to you.

“I’m—I’m sorry.” He said, shaking, still shying away from you,

“No, you’re not. You’re sorry that I’m here, that you’re going to die. And that isn’t something to be sorry for.”

“Pl—Please, I have a daughter—a son, you don’t need to do this.” He begged, tearing up as he watched your grip on the switchblade tighten, watched you continue to approach. He was pathetic. Everything about him was pathetic.

“She had a daughter, too.”

His eyes widened as you leaped at him once again, digging your knife as deep as you could get it into his shoulder, feeling it graze bone as you pushed the hilt firmly against his skin, until you could practically hear the blood vessels breaking. He howled, a wounded animal, prey. And he did nothing as your fist descended against his face, once, twice, a third time.

It was just as you were losing count that somebody grabbed you, hauling you up and away from the body sprawled out on the floor, the puddle of blood slowly expanding beneath him. His chest was stuttering, but he had stopped groaning minutes ago.

“Well, shit.” A woman’s voice said, not sounding particularly authoritarian, so you figured she wasn’t FEDRA.

The hands grasping onto your arms released them shortly after, and you dropped to the asphalt, watching Colin’s chest closely, waiting for his breathing to stop. It didn’t seem to be slowing much, and you could feel that unending wave of rage coming back to you, overruling the numbness, and enhancing your need to have him dead.

You moved the slightest bit, about to launch yourself at him, but as soon as your foot was pushing you from your spot on the ground, the hands wrapped around your arms again.

“Fuck! Get off of me!”

“We can’t let you kill the guy, for fuck’s sake. We got business with him!” The woman spoke again, sounding increasingly irate as she moved to get between you and your mother’s murderer.

“He deserves to die. He deserves to be killed. Get off!” You practically roared, resorting to a state not unlike a feral cat, spitting and hissing, spine curling, trying to claw at the hands holding onto you. They stayed steady, even when you managed to scratch one of them deep enough to break skin.

The woman swore again, “Everybody deserves to die, get a hold of yourself!”

“Tess, ‘s probably best if we get him out of here.” The man gripping you said, voice straining slightly as he focused on keeping you restrained. He couldn’t do anything but hold on to you and watch as Tess dragged the guy, by his ankle, down the alley slightly, banging on a side door that you hadn’t even noticed. It opened, and the man inside swore before helping Tess grab the guy and haul him inside.

As soon as the door was safely shut, the man released you.

You walked to the end of the alley, gripping at the back of your head, swearing the whole way. You were probably screaming, given the way your throat was grating on every word, but the sound didn’t register.

“Joel, you’d better get in here.” Tess called, poking her head out of the door. You could hear the irritation in her voice, but it was immediately sent to the back of your mind as you realised what she had actually just said. You whirled around.

He wasn’t exactly what you were expecting.

But he was… familiar.

You couldn’t help it — you laughed, almost hysterically.

“Are you kidding me?” You said, voice strained with laughter, “You are Joel? Miller?” You asked, wanting him to say no and be done with it all so badly, but you knew that he wouldn’t say that. It was ingrained in your blood, in your very DNA.

He stared uncomprehendingly at you, as if expecting a spark of recognition to go through him, but it didn’t happen. You saw Tess step cautiously out of the building, apparently prepared to have Joel’s back, no matter what your next move was.

“Who are you?” Joel asked, instead of answering your question, or even making a move towards where you had begun to cry. If only he fucking knew — he had just saved the man who had murdered your mother, who had murdered the woman who was, once upon a time, his wife.

You reached into your pocket, uncaring of the way they both reached for what you assumed were weapons, and pulled out the photo. The moment you unfolded it, revealing him stood next to your mother, it was certain. This man was your father. You held the photo out towards him.

“Joel—” Tess warned, as he stepped forward, but he dismissed her with a look, clearly communicating that he could handle himself. He wasn’t worried, despite the state Colin had been in when they had arrived.

He stared at the photo, brows creasing, face drawing blank, before he reached out and took it. His finger ran across the image of your mother, her bright smile, not a slither of grey to be seen in her hair. “How did you get this?” He asked, clearly in disbelief, denial, maybe.

You pointed to the woman in the picture. “That’s—was my mom.”

It could’ve been funny, months, maybe years ago, the way his eyes flickered between you and the image of her, as if trying to put together how much of the statement was true. You vaguely noticed Tess shift uneasily behind him, before approaching.

“Was?” Joel decided to ask, eventually, instead of whatever else was going through his head. He said nothing to Tess as she took in the photograph he was still holding onto.

“That man, he—he killed her. A few months ago.” You said, smiling, because you couldn’t do anything else. This was all too much. First, your mother is killed. And then when you finally find somewhere potentially safe, you hear about your father. And then before you could do anything about that, you see her killer! And then, before you could finish the job, your biological dad, Joel Miller, saved his life. It wasn’t funny, but you didn’t know how else to react.

You stepped back, sliding down the brick wall behind you until you were sat on the asphalt, and could hang your head between your knees.

“Oh fuck,” Tess said, connecting the dots as she looked between you and Joel rapidly, brows furrowed as she became increasingly concerned. “Don’t tell me that she’s—” She shook her head, turning away from the photo and Joel and you, running a hand through her greasy hair.

Joel was still processing, or at least that’s what it looked like to you. He was staring at the photo, strangely still, seeming blank of any and all emotions.

Tess paced for a moment more, before releasing a heavy breath. She walked past Joel, over to you. “Okay, c’mon.” She said, holding out a hand for you. When you hesitated, she waved her hand and barely refrained from putting it in your face. “C’mon, we’ve gotta get you out of here before Colin goes to FEDRA.” You take her hand, surprised by her strength as she hauls you to your feet in an instant, releasing you immediately. She shook her head again. “Joel, time to go.”

He looked at her, and then towards you, nodding once. You said nothing when he put the picture in his own pocket, instead of handing it back. You hesitantly followed after Tess, wondering what your next move should be, and Joel followed after the two of you, looking stricken.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

None of you had said anything, the entire time Tess had hurried you through borders and to what you assumed was their apartment. It felt like it was miles away from your own.

The wallpaper was yellowed with age, slowly drooping down the walls, peeling away at corners, but it wasn’t the worst state it could’ve been in. The floral pattern didn’t really lend itself to the vibes of the apocalypse, though. Nor did it match either Tess or Joel’s stoic and tough demeanours.

You had no idea what to expect from this.

For as long as you could remember, your mother had told you tales of your father, of the great man he was, the great father he was. But here, on the other side of a worldwide outbreak of infection, you couldn’t quite match the image in front of you to the man in those stories. You had spent so long thinking of him as being dead, unable to do anything to find you or your mother from a grave, that to learn he was alive, and with Tess, it was a shock to your system.

Where was Sarah? Where was the half-sister you had heard so much about from your mother?

Despite Joel matching the name, and the photo that your mother had kept, it just didn’t feel like he was the man you had been imagining as your father. He didn’t seem kind or caring, he didn’t look like he had any love left in him. And maybe, you could have accepted that, if he had other aspects to him, if he hadn’t let your mother’s killer live.

“What happened the day of the outbreak?” You asked, finally, despite the way you ached to run away and cry, for your mother, for yourself, for the father you would never have. Joel just looked at you, rarely blinking as if you were a figment of his imagination, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

“No, we are asking you questions.” Tess responded, clearly taking the lead on the situation, despite having no connection to you. It really shouldn’t have been her business. You scoffed. “Where did you come from?” She asked you, unblinking in the face of your disbelief.

You shook your head, “How is that even relevant?”

“Because I said it is.”

“I don’t care what you say. He’s my dad. You’re not my mom.” You replied, roughly, angrily, and you’re only more irritated when Tess doesn’t even react. You become furious when Joel says nothing. “Are you going to say anything?”

Tess went to speak, but you spoke again before she could utter a word.

“Not even about how you let my mother’s killer go? You don’t have anything to say about that?” You questioned, stepping towards him where he had taken a seat on the couch in front of that god-forsaken wallpaper.

There was an awkward lull in the room, each of you waiting for Joel to speak. He seemed unsure if he was going to speak at all, his brows furrowing further, and he pulled the photo out of his pocket to look at once again.

“She died, years ago. My—my kids…” Joel swallowed, and shook his head. He placed the photo down beside him. The photo meant nothing. You could’ve been to his house, and brought it here with you, never having met the woman he hadn’t seen since the day the world fell apart.

“Did you even look for us?” You asked him, head tilting, eyes stinging, wanting desperately for him to say yes, to say he scoured the world but missed you somehow. But looking at him, covered with scars, you could see he was nothing like the man your mother remembered. He didn’t care, not like she thought he had. The man in front of you wasn’t your father — he was a disappointment. He was your father’s shell.

Joel didn’t speak, swallowing harshly, seemingly unable to form any words.

“You’re nothing like she said you were.” You told him quietly, shaking your head, reaching by his side and taking the picture. You wanted to rip his half off, throw it at him, denounce him, tell him he wasn’t your father, that he was never worthy of your mother, but you couldn’t. It was the only thing that you would ever have of the father you should’ve had. The man your mother had loved. She’d already had so much taken from her, you couldn’t, even after her death, take Joel away too. He could live on in the memory. In pictures.

They didn’t say anything when you turned your back on them, shoving the picture in your pocket, and walking out of their door. You slammed it behind you, felt the walls of their apartment tremble with the force, and kept walking.

Part of you, a big part, wished that Joel Miller would have stayed dead. At least that way, you could have kept pretending.

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mea-trinitas-profana · 1 year

Text

being a single father is difficult

#something silly while i work on something serious again #listen. if father garcia and michael by word of god can have a “twisted father/son dynamic” i think gary and amy can be father and daughter #in like the worst way possible #i did not finish hannibal and i dont plan to but like. theyre hannibal and abigail (?) to me #anyway. ramble over #my stuff #faith the unholy trinity #faith game #faith airdorf #ftut #amy martin #gary miller #michael davies #redraw of that one toddler leash image

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elliesbambi · 11 days

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requestttt maybe u could do outbreak!joelmiller with a controversial age gap maybe they meet in jackson btw love ur writing girly 🎀

⭑.ᐟ all american

꒰ pairing. joel miller x fem reader

꒰ warnings. farm hand!joel, farmer’s daughter!reader, post outbreak, large age gap (joel is mid-fifties, reader is nineteen), sneaking around, reader is a tease, pervy joel, smut/porn with plot (unprotected p in v, blowjobs, cunnilingus, doing it in public places, brief mentions of rough sex like choking and slapping)

꒰ wc. 2.3k

꒰ dni. minors

joel miller had settled into life at jackson city more comfortably than he ever expected to. after everything he’s been through over the years from the moment the cordyceps flipped the world upside down, jackson is a much-needed escape from it all. it’s peaceful, organized, and a small semblance of the life joel used to know. he’s grateful for it, grateful for the people who have taken him in, grateful for ellie to finally have a safe place to grow up in.

he started working at your daddy’s farm about a month after he arrived at jackson, and soon enough, he found himself at the farm almost every day for the past few months, helping mend a broken fence here; stacking the barrels of hay there.

after a bad fall during the winter of last year following your mother’s death — bless her — your daddy needed help running the place. joel didn’t hesitate to lend a hand. he admires your daddy; the man is kind, patient, and more generous than what joel is used to. plus, your farm provides for much of jackson, so to him, it’s no problem.

the one problem there is, though, is you.

nineteen years old and far too smart-mouthed for your own good, you seem to take great pleasure in getting under joel’s skin. from the first day he arrived at the farm to help, you’d been there. hanging around the barn, fluttering your lashes, wearing little summer dresses that left very little to the imagination.

joel, being a man of discipline and restraint, had done his best to ignore it at the start — your obvious flirting — but you made that a difficult task.

every day, you seem to find new ways to tease him. if you’re not flaunting around in one of your short dresses, you’re leaving your panties hanging on the washing line where you know joel will be working nearby or bending over right in his line of view on a windy day, purposefully making your dress fly up just enough to give him a glimpse of what he can look at but not touch.

joel grits his teeth, clenches his fists and keeps his eyes focused on whatever task your daddy gives him, but he can’t deny that it’s affecting him. the way you talk, the way you smile at him from under those thick lashes, the way your backside ‘accidentally’ grazes the noticeable bulge in his pants as you pass by. all of it is enough to drive any man insane.

and joel is a man. he’s not blind to the fact that you’re a beautiful girl, and your constant teasing stirs something inside him that he hasn’t felt in years…

so he’s really not to blame for how he starts responding. stealing your panties off the washing line when no one is around, tucking them into his pocket for safe keeping. he can’t help himself; they smell too much like you, your intoxicating scent. and he gets lonely in that big, empty house of his; he needs something to get him through the long nights.

craning his neck to get a better look up your dress when you’re bent over a berry bush or collecting the chickens’ eggs. you’ve caught him staring quite a few times, but you never flinch or try to cover up; you just pursue your lips and give him that same teasing smile of yours that never fails to make his stomach flip. you know exactly what you’re doing.

even going so far as to sneak into your bedroom and pounding you into the mattress when your daddy is out. your daddy likes joel well enough, but at the same time, he’s a stern, protective man and still doesn’t like the idea of his daughter, his angel, you, with men. especially not men thrice your age. he would put joel’s head on a spike if he ever found out about this.

joel gets where he’s coming from. joel himself knows it’s wrong. a man his age shouldn’t be focused on a sweet, young thing like you. the age gap is far too big — controversial, even. when he first brought it up to you one afternoon while he was watering the crops, telling you, “i’m old enough to be your father,” you’d responded with a giggle and a simple “so? even better.” joel had raised his eyebrows, amused, and said “really, sweetheart?”

from that moment on, he stopped caring about the age gap, and soon, things escalated from simply just sneaking into your bedroom. joel fucked you in practically every area of the house; on the dinner table, in the shower, over the armrest of your daddy’s favorite rocking chair. he’d have to clamp a large, calloused hand over your mouth to muffle your screams, or press your face into a pillow, and he never stopped until your legs were shaking, your core was aching, and you were stuffed nice and full with his seed.

your rendezvous aren’t just limited to the house, though. other days, you’ll fuck in the barnyard too. joel will have you bouncing up and down on his cock, your slick, puffy folds swallowing every inch he has to offer, grass in your hair and over his shirt, loud grunts and breathy moans echoing around the loft — though you always pull off with a teasing grin just when joel is about to cum, wanting to see how long he lasts before he snaps. and when he finally decides he’s had enough of your teasing, he flips you over, pressing you into the hay-strewn ground, and rails you, your thighs either pushed up to your chest or coiled tight around his torso, ankles digging into his lower back, pressing him deeper and harder into you.

he’s a talker too. whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he blows your back out, calling you his princess, his baby girl, his little doll. other days he can be mean with it, which you know is to be expected. joel is a hardened, brutal man, rough around the edges with a past loaded full of trauma. he needs some sort of outlet for all that. he’ll deliver a light smack to your face to jolt you back to the present, maybe apply a bit of pressure to your throat, but nothing ever too rough. he’d never want to harm something so precious to him; like a porcelain doll he’s too scared of breaking.

and of course, it all remains a secret. your daddy isn’t the only one who would disapprove. the people of jackson, as understanding and caring as they are, would definitely frown upon a relationship with such a large age gap. not to mention the difference in personalities. you, the sweet, gentle farmer’s daughter, and joel, the hard-as-nails ex-raider.

even tommy, as much as he jokes about finding you attractive and calling you a ‘little fox,’ would never let joel hear the end of it if he found out.

so it stays like that between you and joel. constantly sneaking around the farm, sneaking kisses and subtle flirtations behind your daddy’s back, fucking as soon as you can get your hands on each other. some nights he’ll spend with his face buried between your legs, tongue rolling over your sensitive clit, the bud swollen and red from how long joel’s been at it. other days you’ll give him a quick blowjob behind the shed to help him release some of the stress that’s been pent-up since he saw your cleavage in your tight shirt earlier that day.

to your daddy, joel is simply just the farmhand. the trustworthy farmhand who minds his own business and keeps his focus on his work. but behind closed doors… well, that’s a different story.

one morning, joel is out by the barn, working on repairing the broken sheep gate that’s come loose from its hinges. the sound of hammer hitting wood and the cows grazing in the paddock is the only thing that fills the air.

you’re there, lingering nearby as always, pretending to hang washing but really just watching joel. your dress today is shorter than usual, the hem barely even brushing your thighs, so tiny that if you were to lean forward or stand on your tippy toes, your entire ass would be out. it’s light and airy, perfect for the summer heat yet entirely inappropriate for a farm — though joel suspects that’s the point.

he tries to ignore you, focusing on the task at hand, but he can feel your eyes on him, can see the way you’re stretching and bending and shifting a little closer each time to purposefully rile him up, soft giggles of satisfaction escaping your lips every time he glances over at you with dark, longing eyes.

eventually, he sighs and turns to face you, wiping the sweat from his brow with a huff. “(name),” he mutters, voice low and firm. “quit it. your father’s gonna see us.”

your smile widens and you reply, “daddy’s all the way up at the house, joel-y.” joel-y. a nickname you’d given him at some point when he started working here. “he can’t see anything.”

joel shakes his head, but he can’t help the way his gaze drifts down your legs before quickly snapping back up to your face. “you’re gonna get us caught,” he warns you, his voice lacking the conviction he wishes it had.

you giggle again, clearly not taking him seriously. pushing yourself away from the washing line with a twirl, you saunter closer, hips swaying with each step, making joel’s heart rate quicken despite himself.

“i like the risk,” you whisper as you come to a stop in front of him, reaching out to stroke a hand down his chest. you’re close now, too close for joel’s liking. especially with your daddy only a few feet away.

joel chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to hold onto the last remnants of his self-control. “i’m serious, girl—”

but before he can finish his sentence, your hand dips lower. your fingers brush past the waistband of his worn jeans and easily unbuckle his belt in a matter of seconds. joel sucks in a breath. he knows he should stop you, knows that this is reckless, downright stupid even. but as soon as your hand slips inside his boxers and wraps around his hardening cock, all thoughts of self-control fly out the window.

he groans loudly when you give him an experimental squeeze, droplets of precum oozing from his tip and gathering on your fingers. then your hand wraps all the way around his shaft and you begin to stroke him. slowly at first, then faster the louder he gets, grunting your name like it’s a prayer on his lips.

“you’re always so tense, joel-y,” you whisper to him, nipping his ear. “i can help you with that…”

he doesn’t even register the words. all he knows is that you’re here, so close, smelling of roses and strawberries, your soft breasts pressed against his arm, your dainty hand down his pants, and he’s so so close...

and it’s then that a voice rings out from the house, ruining the moment completely.

“(name)!”

it’s your daddy.

joel’s stomach drops. he stiffens immediately, instinctively going to push you away despite that being the very last thing he wants to do. thankfully from where your daddy is standing on the porch, the washing line and the nearby willow tree provide enough cover for the hand you have shoved down joel’s pants to be hidden from his view. still, it isn’t exactly a comfort either, considering your daddy could come wandering over at any second now if he felt like it, and see for himself what’s going on.

“come inside, honey,” your daddy calls out again, his tone stern but not questioning. he doesn’t suspect anything. “leave joel alone while he’s working. i need that fence fixed today.”

without missing a beat, you step back casually. you give joel’s cock another quick squeeze before you pull away completely, subtly wiping your hand clean on his jeans. he swallows and shoots you a look which you return with a wink.

then, you turn to your daddy, chirp a sweet “coming, daddy!” and skip up the pathway to your house. joel doesn’t miss the way you tug your dress a little higher up to flash him a hint of the lacy panties you’re wearing beneath — his favorite pair, the same ones he’s snatched off the washing line and used to jerk off to numerous times before.

then, just before you disappear into your house, you glance over your shoulder and give joel a look that clearly says ‘we’ll pick this up later.’

he swallows hard, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. his jeans are now way too tight and uncomfortably sticky, and his face is flushed and hot. he feels like a damn teenager again, getting so affected by a bit of touching from a pretty girl. but you’re different. you’re not just any pretty girl. you have a way about you, a way of making joel forget any common sense, a way of making him forget about anything other than that he wants you.

with a grunt, he returns to his work, his hands slightly shakier now as he continues hammering nails into the splintered wood of the sheep gate. “damn girl will be the death of me.”

but he gets back at you for your teasing later, when he fucks you in the stables until your throat is raw from screaming so much, your hips are covered in bruises, and the skin of your neck is barely even visible beneath all the hickey’s joel leaves there.

and the next morning when your daddy asks you why you didn’t come down for dinner last night or for breakfast, how can you possibly explain to him that it’s because you physically can’t walk anymore?

please do not steal, copy, translate or repost anywhere else ♡

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jamietukpahwriting · 2 months

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From "The Miller's Daughter" in Fierce Fairytales by Nikita Gill

#bookblr #books #poetryblr #poetry #poem #the miller's daughter #fierce fairytales #nikita gill #jamietukpahwriting

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mroddmod · 6 months

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"everybody loved contractors."

"nice."

#me when it's time to get mentally ill about another troubled father daughter duo #anyway i watched the show last year and ever since i wanted to play the game so i finally did #finished it like a month ago and then rewatched the show twice #so #i guess u could say i enjoyed it a fair deal 👍#gonna start the second game soon #i know what's coming but i'm still not ready so i've been putting it off LOL #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou #tlou hbo #joel miller #ellie williams #my art #mods draws

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oceandolores · 2 months

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | series

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦."

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, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, 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.

CHAPTER 1

masterlist of the series!

next | chapter 2

The Texas sun had a way of casting long, dramatic shadows across the sprawling landscape, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. In small town near Austin, the heat clung to everything, wrapping the town in a sweltering embrace that seemed to slow time itself. You, a preacher's daughter on the cusp of graduation, trapped in the rigid confines of a life dictated by faith and fear.

Your father, Reverend Gibson, was a towering figure in the community, his voice booming from the pulpit every Sunday, filling the church with sermons about sin and salvation. To the congregation, he was a man of God, a beacon of righteousness. But within the walls of your home, he was a tyrant. His heavy hand and harsh words left marks not just on your skin, but deep within your soul. Your mother, ever the obedient wife, offered what little comfort she could, but her love was a quiet, subdued thing, overshadowed by her fear of defying your father.

The Millers lived just a few houses down, their home a testament to both prosperity and tragedy. Joel Miller was your father’s best friend from high school, a bond forged in the fires of youth but strained by the paths they had chosen. While your father found his calling in the church, Joel built a successful construction business with his younger brother, Tommy.

Joel and Tommy not live far from each other, while your house is just one house away from Joel, Tommy is a few houses down from Joel's.

The Miller brothers were well-known and respected in the community, their work evident in the many buildings that dotted the town.

Joel’s life had been forever altered by a single, devastating moment. He had lost his wife and daughter in a car accident, an accident where he had been behind the wheel. The guilt of their deaths weighed heavily on him, a burden he carried in the lines of his face and the shadows in his eyes.

Since that tragic day, he had distanced himself from the church, finding solace instead in his work and in raising his adopted daughter, Ellie. Joel has adopted Ellie when she was only 10 years old with the help of Tommy.

At 16, Ellie was a spirited girl, one of your juniors at school. She attended church every Sunday with her uncle Tommy, her presence a reminder of the Millers’ lingering faith.

Tommy, married to Maria, had recently welcomed a baby boy into their family. The joy of new life was a stark contrast to the sorrow that had marked Joel’s existence. The Millers were a close-knit family, their bonds of loyalty and love a stark contrast to the fractured and tense environment of your own home.

You had known the Millers your entire life, their presence a constant thread in the fabric of your existence. Yet, as you stood on the brink of adulthood, your interactions with them took on a new significance. Your father’s sermons about the dangers of straying from the path of righteousness echoed in your mind, but so did your longing for something more, something real and tangible.

It was just another Sunday, and you were helping your dad with the after-service fellowship. The congregation mingled in the church hall, sharing coffee and pastries, their voices a low hum of conversation and laughter. You moved through the crowd with a tray of refreshments, offering smiles and polite nods, your mind elsewhere.

The Sunday service had been like any other, filled with hymns, prayers, and your father’s booming voice delivering his sermon. Today, he had spoken about temptation and the perils of straying from God’s path, his words heavy with the weight of his own fervent belief. As always, you felt the eyes of the congregation on you, the preacher’s daughter, the living example of his teachings.

You couldn’t help but glance towards the back of the room, where Tommy and Ellie stood, their presence a rare but welcome sight. Joel, as expected, was absent, his appearances in church growing increasingly sporadic since the accident.

Your thoughts kept drifting to Joel Miller. It had been years since the tragedy that had claimed his wife and daughter, leaving an indelible mark on him, transforming a once regular churchgoer into a haunted, reclusive figure.

You didn't really know or remember Joel's wife and daughter. Sarah Miller had been much older than you, and she passed away when you were only five. The memories you had of them were hazy at best, a blur of faces and voices that you couldn’t quite place.

Ellie caught your eye and waved, her smile bright and genuine. You waved back, feeling a pang of longing for the carefree spirit she embodied. She was one of the few people in your life who treated you like a normal person, not just the preacher’s daughter.

After the service, as the crowd began to thin, you found yourself gravitating towards Tommy and Ellie. Tommy, ever the warm and approachable figure, greeted you with a smile. “Hey, kiddo. How’ve you been?”

You returned his smile, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “I’m good, Tommy. How’s Maria and the baby?”

Tommy’s face lit up with pride. “They’re great. Little Luke’s growing like a weed. Maria’s over the moon, of course.”

Ellie nudged you playfully. “You should come over and meet him sometime. He’s the cutest.”

You laughed softly. “I’d love that.”

Tommy’s expression grew more serious as he glanced around the room. “How’s your dad doing with all the church activities? Keeping busy?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, he’s always got something going on. Keeps him out of trouble, I guess.”

Tommy chuckled. “Good to hear. Your family always looks so put together. It’s impressive, really.”

You shrugged, trying to brush off the compliment. “We just try to do our best.”

As you continued chatting, the weight on your shoulders seemed to lighten, if only for a moment. Ellie shared stories about school, her infectious laughter bringing a smile to your face.

“So, any plans after graduation?” Ellie asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

You hesitated, the uncertainty of your future looming large. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about college, but it’s complicated.”

Tommy’s expression grew serious again. “You should follow your dreams, kid. Don’t let anything hold you back.”

You nodded, grateful for their support. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Tommy.”

As you chatted with Tommy and Ellie, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Glancing around, you caught your father’s stern gaze from across the room. His eyes were a silent warning, a reminder of your place and the expectations that came with it.

Excusing yourself, you slipped out of the church hall, needing a moment of solitude. Your dad won't notice you are gone a little, your job has been taken by your mom.

The Texas heat hit you as soon as you stepped outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the gravel parking lot. You decided to walk, the streets feeling empty because everyone was still in church. As you walked aimlessly, your mind whirled with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

You found yourself drawn towards the lake behind the church and the town, a place far enough to avoid everyone. The lake and the surrounding forest were comforting, a sanctuary from the oppressive atmosphere of your home.

Looking around to ensure you were alone, you carefully pulled out your cigarettes and lit one, taking a long drag. Your parents never knew you were quite a smoker, especially your father. If he ever found out, the repercussions would be severe, his wrath swift and unrelenting. The thought of his anger made you shudder.

You decided to sit by the old fallen tree near the lake. It was very quiet, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. You loved to come here every chance you got, a hidden escape from the prying eyes and harsh judgments of your daily life. As you exhaled a cloud of smoke, you heard a rustling sound in the underbrush.

Startled, you quickly put out your cigarette and looked up. Emerging from the trees was Joel, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Your heart pounded in your chest as you met his gaze. "Joel?" you stammered, hoping he hadn’t noticed the cigarette.

He looked at you, then at the still-smoking cigarette butt near your feet. His expression was unreadable, but you felt a wave of fear. What if he told your father?

Joel approached, his steps slow and deliberate. "Didn’t expect to see you out here," he said, his voice as gruff as ever.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "I… I just needed some air."

Joel’s eyes flicked to the cigarette again. "That why you’re hiding out here? To smoke?"

You bit your lip, the truth hanging heavily between you. "Please don’t tell my dad," you whispered, the desperation clear in your voice.

Joel sighed, his expression softening slightly. "Your secret’s safe with me," he said finally, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Relief flooded through you, and you nodded gratefully. "Thank you,"

As you stood up, brushing off the dirt and bits of wood that had stained your dress, you noticed Joel's gaze lingering on the rifle in his hand and the heavy boots caked with mud.

"You didn’t come to church today," you said, your curiosity overcoming your apprehension. You had noticed his absence with the frequency that had become almost routine over the years.

He glanced at you, the stern lines of his face softening slightly. “Yeah, I’ve been... busy,” he replied, his tone clipped and noncommittal.

You took in the sight of him, his rugged appearance a stark contrast to the tidy, polished look of the other churchgoers. The rifle and the muddy boots seemed to tell a story of their own, a story that was far removed from the neat rows of pews and the polished wooden floors of the church.

“You know, Father always says that you used to come every Sunday,” you said, trying to sound casual. “He misses you at church. Everyone does.”

Joel’s expression hardened again, the hint of vulnerability disappearing behind his usual reserve. “Yeah, well, things change,” he said tersely, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “People change.”

You wanted to press further, to understand what had driven him away, but you knew better than to push too hard. Joel was a man of few words, his emotional landscape a guarded territory. You had seen it in the way he interacted with Ellie, the way he kept his distance, the way he seemed to be perpetually battling some invisible storm.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, your concern slipping through despite your efforts to remain detached.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something raw and unspoken. He shook his head, as if to clear the thoughts from his mind. "Just trying to get by, same as anyone," he said gruffly. “Out here, it’s a little easier to do that.”

You nodded, accepting his answer even if it left many questions unanswered. The silence between you stretched, filled only with the distant chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves.

Joel shifted, breaking the silence. “What are you doing out here anyway? It’s quite a trek from town. This place isn’t exactly safe, you know.” His tone was a mixture of concern and curiosity, revealing a sliver of his protective nature.

You sighed, glancing around the lake and forest. “I needed a break. Just... needed to be away from everything for a bit. It’s peaceful here." You looked at Joel, your eyes subtly asking if it was okay to continue smoking.

Joel noticed your look but chose not to comment immediately. Instead, he took a few steps closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. You took that as an invitation and sat down under a large tree near the lake, patting the grass beside you.

“Feel free to join me if you want,” you offered, your voice light despite the heaviness of the situation.

Joel hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to you. His presence was a grounding force, even if he wasn’t the most expressive. He glanced at the cigarette pack you had placed on the grass between you.

“Want one?” you offered, extending the pack towards him.

Joel shook his head with a faint, rueful smile. “Nah, I’m good. I’m not sure it’s right to be smoking in front of you.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t judge me for it.”

Joel chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to that. I’ve had my share of bad habits.”

You nodded, accepting his refusal. “How are you, Joel? I don’t see you much,” you said, your curiosity evident. It was true; Joel had been increasingly distant from the people in your town, retreating into a shell of his own making.

He met your gaze briefly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his features. “Just... getting by. Working hard, dealing with stuff. Not much else to it.”

There was a weariness in his voice that spoke of battles fought silently and wounds healed only with time. It was clear that the years had not been kind to Joel, even if he tried to mask it behind a facade of rugged determination.

You sensed that pushing further wouldn’t get you anywhere. Joel was not one to open up easily, and you could see that the topic of his feelings was closed off. You decided to shift the conversation, sensing that it was best to focus on something lighter.

"How’s school?” he asked, his tone shifting to something slightly more personal but still restrained. “Almost done, right?”

You nodded, a smile touching your lips despite the lingering tension. “Yeah, I’m just a few months away from graduating. It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joel replied, giving a slight nod. “High school’s a big deal. A lot changes after that.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your legs beneath you as you sat on the grass. “It is. It feels like the end of one chapter and the start of another.” You took a deep drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you in the still air. Exhaling slowly, you continued, “I just want to get out of here.”

Joel’s gaze, always direct, fixed on you. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing the weight of your words to settle between you. He shifted his weight, leaning slightly on the rifle, his hands still coated in the grime of the day’s work. “Yeah?” he finally said, his tone soft but edged with curiosity. “Where do you want to go?”

You looked out over the lake, its calm surface reflecting the last rays of the sun. “Anywhere but here,” you said with a sigh. “I want to leave this town, start fresh somewhere new. I’ve been dreaming about it for a long time.”

Joel watched you silently for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes getting out can seem like the only way to find something better,” he said slowly. “But it ain’t always as simple as it sounds.”

You took another drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing brightly as you exhaled. “I know it’s not that simple,” you said quietly. “But it feels like I’m suffocating here. I just need... something different. Something real.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze not unkind but keenly observant. There was a protective instinct in him that had always been there, even when you were much younger. He sensed there was more to your words than just a desire to leave town. The carefully constructed façade of normalcy that your family projected wasn’t lost on him, though he had never delved into the specifics of your home life.

“You know,” Joel began, his voice taking on a slightly softer tone, “sometimes people want to leave for reasons that go beyond what they’re willing to say. It’s one thing to want a new place, but it’s another to be running from something.”

You stiffened slightly, the cigarette now nothing more than a stub between your fingers. You were careful not to let your emotions betray you. “It’s not just about running away,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s about finding a place where I can breathe.”

Joel nodded, his gaze steady. “And you think you’ll find that out there?”

“I hope so,” you said. “I just need to get out and find out for myself. It’s been hard to see beyond this place.”

Joel shifted his weight, leaning on his rifle. His rugged face, often set in lines of stoicism, now bore a hint of concern. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of folks runnin’ away from what they don’t want to face. Sometimes they find what they’re lookin’ for, sometimes they don’t. But it’s dangerous out there for someone who’s not ready.”

You looked at him, sensing the genuine concern behind his words. “I’m ready,” you said softly. “I’ve been ready for a long time.”

Joel studied you for a moment longer, his fatherly instincts kicking in. He could see the innocence in your eyes, the quiet strength that belied your troubled soul. He had been a father before, and he knew what it was like to want to protect someone from the harsh realities of the world.

But then, with a shift in his demeanor, Joel decided it wasn’t his business to involve himself further. He cared for you, that much was clear, but he also knew his boundaries. His expression hardened slightly, a testament to his tendency to keep people at a distance.

“Look,” he said gruffly, his Southern accent thickening his words, “it’s not my place to get too involved in this. You’re gonna have to handle things your way.” His tone was direct, carrying the weight of a man who had learned to let his actions speak louder than his words.

Despite the coldness in his voice, there was a flicker of tenderness in his eyes, a brief glimpse of the protective instincts that lingered beneath his guarded exterior. Joel operated in a morally gray area, making decisions that were often difficult and controversial, and he understood the complexities of navigating a world where right and wrong were not always clear.

He wanted to help, but his experience had taught him that sometimes the best way to show care was to step back and allow others to find their own way.

“You know,” Joel said, shifting the topic slightly, “Ellie talks about you sometimes. Says you’re smart, and she admires you for stickin’ it out. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, but she looks up to you. So, if there’s ever a time you need someone to talk to, or if you just need a friend, don’t hesitate to reach out. I may not be the best at this whole ‘talkin’’ thing, but I’m here if you need me.”

You appreciated his attempt to offer support, even if it came in a roundabout way. “Thanks, Joel. It’s nice to know that someone cares,” you said, smiling as you put out the cigarette.

Joel watched you with a mixture of concern and curiosity, as if weighing whether to press further. You could see that he was struggling with how much to say, his usual reserve at odds with the genuine warmth he was trying to convey.

“Well,” you said, glancing at the fading light, “I should head back to the church before Dad notices I’m gone.”

Joel shifted his stance, a hint of hesitation in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want a ride back? It’s a long walk, and it’s gettin’ dark.”

You shook your head, feeling a pang of guilt for declining his offer. “I appreciate it, Joel, but I don’t want to trouble you. I can manage the walk.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, and he gave a firm nod. “It ain’t no trouble. It’s just a ride. Besides, I’d rather make sure you get back safely.”

His insistence made you feel slightly uncomfortable, but you also recognized his sincerity. Raised to be polite and considerate, you found it difficult to refuse when someone was being genuinely helpful.

“Alright,” you said reluctantly, “if you insist. Thank you.”

Joel nodded, his face softening a bit as he walked over to his truck. The vehicle was old but reliable, with a rugged appearance that matched Joel’s own. He opened the passenger side door for you, gesturing for you to get in.

As you climbed into the truck, Joel got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The interior was a mix of practical and worn, with a faint smell of leather and earth. Joel drove with a steady, practiced hand, the truck rumbling over the uneven terrain as he navigated the path back to town.

The silence in the truck was comfortable, with only the sound of the engine and the occasional rustle of the trees breaking it. You stared out the window, the fading sunlight casting a warm glow over the landscape. You could feel the weight of the day’s conversations settling in, and the quiet offered a moment of reflection.

After a few minutes, the truck rolled into town, the familiar sights coming into view. Joel slowed as he approached the church, where you could see the remaining congregants beginning to disperse.

Joel pulled up to the curb and stopped the truck. "We're here."

"Thank you once again, Joel. It’s good catching up with you," you said, giving him a grateful smile. Just as you were about to step out of the truck, you spotted your father from a distance. A sinking feeling washed over you as you realized he had seen you.

“Oh no,” you muttered, catching Joel’s eye. He turned to see your father walking towards the truck, a determined look on his face.

Joel, ever the gentleman, exited the truck as well. You followed suit, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. Your father, who had been conversing with some church members, excused himself and made his way towards you and Joel.

“Evening, Reverend,” Joel greeted, extending a hand.

“Evening, Joel,” your father said with his usual charming demeanor, shaking Joel’s hand firmly. “It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well.”

Joel’s expression was polite but reserved. “Can’t complain. Been keeping busy.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” your father replied smoothly. “You know, we’ve missed you at church. It would be good to see you back.”

Joel gave a noncommittal nod, his discomfort barely masked. “Maybe sometime.”

As your father turned his attention to you, his smile faltered slightly. “And where have you been, young lady? You were supposed to help with the service.”

You flinched at the stern tone, feeling his grip tighten around your arm as he spoke. “I was just taking a walk, Dad. Joel gave me a ride back.”

Your father’s grip was rough and unyielding, his fingers digging into your arm with a strength that was both painful and controlling. Joel noticed, his gaze briefly flicking to your father’s hand before returning to his face.

“Is that right?” your father said, his voice carrying a hint of disapproval. “Well, I hope you weren’t gone too long. We have responsibilities.”

"Yes, I'm sorry, father." You said smile a little to hide the pain he's causing you.

Joel cleared his throat, attempting to steer the conversation away from the tension. “I’m just making sure she gets back safe."

“Of course,” your father said, releasing your arm but maintaining a veneer of politeness. “We have a dinner invitation from Tommy and Maria next Saturday. I trust you’ll be joining us?”

Joel looked momentarily surprised. “Well, I'm supposed I am,"

Your father’s smile widened, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Yes, they extended the invitation to our family. It will be good to catch up.”

Joel nodded, his expression neutral. “I’ll have to check with Ellie, but I’m sure we’ll make it.”

“Excellent,” your father said, still maintaining his charming facade. “It’ll be good for everyone to reconnect.”

As the conversation continued, Joel’s discomfort grew. He noticed the strain in your father’s demeanor and the way he seemed to be masking a more sinister undertone behind his polite words. Joel had been out of the social loop for a while, but he was perceptive enough to sense when something was off, even if he chose not to probe further.

“Well,” Joel said, his tone shifting to one of finality, “I better be on my way. Got some things to take care of. It was good seeing you again, Reverend. And you too,” he added, offering you a brief, reassuring smile.

You gave him a grateful nod, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. “Thank you, Joel."

Joel, giving one last nod before turning to leave. As he walked away, you could feel the weight of the evening’s encounters settling heavily on your shoulders. The brief respite you’d found in Joel’s company had been overshadowed by the return of your father’s control and the unsettling realization that your escape from this small town and its complexities might be more challenging than you had hoped.

After the Sunday service, you returned home with a heavy heart. The warmth of the day had turned cold, and the familiar feeling of dread settled over you as you approached the house. Inside, the tension was palpable, and the moment you walked through the door, you knew there would be consequences for your absence during the service.

Your father’s voice was stern and unforgiving as he called you into the living room. “You’ve abandoned your duties. Do you have any idea what that means?”

You tried to explain, but his anger cut you off. “I was just trying to get some fresh air, Dad. I didn’t mean—”

Before you could finish, he was on you, grabbing your arm with a grip that left no room for argument. He dragged you to the center of the room, his face a mask of fury. “You’ve abandoned your duty. It’s about respect and responsibility. You know how important this is.”

“No, please, Dad, don’t. I’m so sorry. I will not do it again,” you pleaded, your voice trembling.

The fear in your voice only seemed to fuel his anger. He disappeared into the hallway, returning with his belt in hand. The leather looked menacing, and your heart raced as you saw it.

“Please, Dad, I’m sorry,” you continued to beg. “I didn’t mean to disobey. I’ll make it right. Just please—”

Your father’s face was a mask of cold determination. “Take off your dress and face the wall,” he ordered, his voice steely. “You needs to be taught a lesson.”

You could barely keep your composure as you undressed, your body shaking with fear and dread. The scars on your back from a previous punishment throbbed with anticipation. When you were finally positioned with your back to him, every nerve in your body was on edge.

The first crack of the belt was sharp and painfully immediate. The sound echoed through the room, followed by a searing pain that made you flinch. You cried out, tears streaming down your face. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” you sobbed, your voice breaking with each cry of pain.

You could feel the belt cutting into your already tender skin, the sensation of bleeding mixing with the agony of the blows. Each strike felt like a betrayal of your trust, a reminder of the harsh world you were trapped in.

Your mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her face pale and tear-streaked. She wanted to intervene, but fear held her back. She could only watch helplessly as you were punished, her own sobs mingling with your cries of pain.

In a desperate attempt to mask the sounds of the abuse from the neighbors, she turned the gospel music up loud, hoping the noise would cover your screams and your father’s harsh words.

The music blared in the background, a twisted contrast to the suffering in the room. It felt like a cruel mockery, the joyous hymns clashing with the reality of your punishment. Your mother’s tears fell silently as she stood by, unable to offer more than the muted comfort of her presence.

As the beating continued, your strength waned. The pain was overwhelming, a relentless reminder of the control your father exerted over every aspect of your life. You could only endure, hoping for it to end soon, each moment stretching out painfully as you clung to the hope that this would be the last of such torment.

When he finally stopped, you were left huddled on the floor, your body aching and your spirit broken. Your father’s anger subsided, leaving him with a cold, resolute expression. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” he said gruffly, his voice devoid of empathy. “Disobedience won’t be tolerated.”

Your mother rushed to your side as soon as your father left the room, her hands trembling, “I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her tears, her voice filled with sorrow and helplessness.

You looked at her through blurred vision, your own tears mingling with hers. “I—It's okay, mama." you said weakly, your voice strained and shaky. “It’s my fault."

She helped you put your dress back on, her fingers brushing gently over the raw marks on your skin, causing you to wince. Each movement was a reminder of the pain you were enduring.

As you slowly gathered your strength, your mother helped you to a nearby chair, her hands still shaking. She sat beside you, her presence a small but comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions. The music from the kitchen blared on, a cruel backdrop to the quiet moments of shared sorrow between mother and daughter.

In the midst of the pain and turmoil, there was a flicker of hope that someday, somehow, you might find a way out of the darkness. For now, though, you could only cling to the small comforts and the hope that things might one day be different.

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