#joel miller x adopted!teenager!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chronically-ghosted · 24 days ago

Text

i'm empty without you, so come grow within me

AO3 Link | main masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

rating: explicit (18+)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

word count: 9K

summary: with winter approaching, joel takes stock of what he wants and what he has in his life. he wants you, but he's not quite sure he has you, not in a way that only a life in Jackson can afford. joel's an old-fashioned guy, so he's looking for an old-fashioned love . . . if he can only remember how to do it right.

inspired by the songs 'why don't we just dance' by Josh Turner and 'the kind of love we make' by Luke Combs, this fulfills a request from @handsomehelmet for my 1k celebration (creativity struck and now i'm going to make it everyone's problem)

warnings: the nastiest thing i can possibly imagine which is romance and sincerity, some willie nelson lyrics, established situationship, no age of reader specified, body insecurity, feelings of unworthiness/shame, survivor's guilt, blatant disregard for old man knees by eating pussy on the floor, unprotected piv, a teenager bullying fully grown adult to quit being stupid.

a/n: i know everyone gets into a tizzy when Joel doesn’t name what Tess is to him in front of Bill and while there probably was a heaping amount of guilt that accompanied that omission, i wonder if it might be a bit more complicated: he simply couldn’t name one thing because she was all things to him. A friend, a lover, a guide, a support system, a protector, a partner. So he says it the best way he can: “she’s mine.”

come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

By the fourth bag, all you can think about is a warm shower.

A chance to scrub away the dirt smeared on your arms, your neck, probably your face. You’d brought your own work gloves to bag fresh dirt for the greenhouse, but the longer you work, more sprinkles of dirt find their way down the lip of your gloves. You can feel it against your palms, under your nails. The cold winter air lurks beneath the crack of the door, stifled from invading by the artificial heat provided by the generator just outside, and it stifles you too with its oppressive weight. You’re fairly sure the dirt on your forehead has turned to mud, sweat and damp earth encrusted on your dry skin.

By the sixth, you doubt your shoulders will ever move again without popping.

You know Joel’s already do.

Never a particularly chatty man even in his best moods, the greenhouse had become stuffy with heat and silence, both you and Joel too lost in the work to find the energy to even fake idle chatter. But, knowing this about Joel and a certain degree yourself, silences with him were never a bad thing. That was one of the things you enjoyed most about being with him; you two could do your own things together. Many snowy days were spent with him stretched out on the couch, reading, and you working on writing your sheet music on the floor, his knee hovering over your shoulder with your back to the cushions – spent in total silence, and they are some of the fondest memories you had since coming to Jackson and falling into the third and final piece of the Miller-Williams household.

Like with the end of the world, you weren’t sure how you got there until everything had fallen into place around you; Joel and his adoptive daughter had been just another group who were taken in by the town of Jackson . . . until they weren’t. Ellie was just another foul-mouthed kid who had seen too much and had too much taken from her . . . until she wasn’t. Joel was your occasional patrol partner and a fellow Willie Nelson fan. . . until he wasn’t.

Until that unmistakable line, one that seemed to be lost on a global scale beneath the blood and the gore and the grief, had been crossed when he asked you out for drinks and the both of you knew the evening wasn’t going to end in a nightcap.

And then you were partners, even outside of patrol. Partners in re-enforcing a weakened part of Jackson’s outer walls. Partners in cooking, attempting to recreate an enchilada recipe Joel only vaguely remembered from a Tex-Mex hole-in-the-wall fifteen minutes from where he used to live in Austin. Partners when it’s snowing heavily outside and there’s not much to do except to read and, well . . . Joel was a fantastic partner in that.

Joel Miller was a great partner for a lot of things. He worked diligently, quickly and, unless the conversation was started by someone else, silently.

He, in short, was not someone who was easily distracted.

Which, in combination with your own exhaustion and a desire to scrub the first layer of your skin off with a loofah, is why you feel a flare of annoyance when you look up and see him staring off into the distance. His fingers loosely grip the handle of the shovel, his palm resting over the curved point, Joel’s expression is nearly unreadable, except for the small crevice between his eyebrows. He stands, fixated on the greenhouse wall, as if watching the blurry Christmas lights from the town square, suddenly oblivious to the work you two have been doing for the past hour and a half.

“Joel.” Nothing. “Joel!”

You raise your hand to smack him on the leg when, without looking down, he asks:

“When was the last time I took you out?”

“What?”

His weight shifts, holds the shovel by one hand now. You catch a sliver of frustration in those deep brown eyes as he looks at you. He wears what you and Ellie secretly refer to as his ��pouty-mouth”, a classic expression when he isn’t getting his way about something but won’t draw attention to the fact that it annoys him.

“Tell me about the last date I took you on.”

You huff, standing up with a pop in your hips. Your knees are aching from kneeling on the cold winter ground and your skin fluxes between overheating under your jacket and stiffly frozen on your extremities.

“Joel, c’mon, be serious. We’ve got three more –,”

“I am being serious.” Dumb-founded, you watch as he digs the tip of the shovel into the ground with a hollow chunk. Crosses his arms and continues to frown at you like you just suggested doing away with the Christmas holiday entirely. “We’ll get to this, but I want you to tell me right now what we did on our last date.”

You roll your eyes, humoring him. “Fine, I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but okay. On our last date, we . . . we did . . . you took me to . . .”

It’s your turn to frown. He raises a petulant eyebrow and it’s eerie how many times you’ve seen that exact expression on Ellie.

“Okay, fine, so it’s been a while. We’ve been busy – we’ve all been busy with the winter season coming. All of Jackson has been out battening down the hatches. What does it matter if we’ve let things slide a bit?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, quiet in his Joel way. He glances out through the blurred greenhouse glass and maybe he was actually staring at the string lights hung over Jackson’s square. Normally, you didn’t mind being unable to dissect his every expression, every sigh, every carefully wielded silence, but when it came to you and his feelings about you – feelings that were always implied in those silences – you wished you had a little window, some hint, as to what rumbled on behind those earth-dark eyes.

Joel drums his fingers on the handle of the shovel, unease rolling through his body as he shifts his weight.

“Matters some,” he tells the ground. “With the holidays comin’ around . . . matters for Ellie – her first winter here in Jackson. Matters for Tommy, with that new baby of his . . .”

“Your nephew,” you supply as much as prod. Sometimes the only way to get an honest answer out of him was when he was just a bit pissed off and less guarded. Instead he just nods, gloved hand on his hip, thick jacket widening his already confounding broadness.

“It matters because it’s important. To me. It’s important to me.”

He meets your gaze and you’re struck full force again with that feeling like you drank too much of the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey too fast. Same feeling that couldn’t be drowned even with the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey when you shared a drink with him for the first time. When you managed to laugh when he bet you a whole day of stable cleaning duties that Willie Nelson and Chris Stapleton survived the apocalypse somewhere in a shack in Tennessee. Joel Miller was disarmingly funny when he wanted to be.

And even worse, disarmingly sincere.

You take his gloved hand in yours. You feel the sensation of his fingers threading through yours but not the heat you’ve grown so accustomed to.

“Alright, then. What do you want to do about it?” You ask quietly, to the upturned collar around his neck, his green flannel peeking out from behind the zipper of his jacket. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a lot of snow on the ground so that makes our options for date night kinda limited.” You scrunch your nose at him because you like to see the light in his eyes bloom when you do.

He chuckles, a rumbling sound, and he drops his forehead against yours, fingers tightening their grip around yours. Suddenly in your throat, your heart pounds. He’s never this affectionate in public. Maybe it’s those miraculously blurred greenhouse glass walls.

His breath smells like that peppermint toothpaste that came in last week, infused with the warming-coil smell from the greenhouse.

“Dunno yet.” He admits. “I’ll think of somethin’.”

“No ideas yet?” You raise your eyebrows against his forehead and he grins, shaking his head.

“Not yet.”

“Then can I make a suggestion?”

“‘Course.”

“We finish bagging this dirt, then head home for a shower. In a really sexy way, obviously.”

He huffs, smothering a laugh, and quick as lightning he kisses you on the cheek. But in the same movement, steps away and grabs the shovel again. You don’t have time to react to the fact he just kissed you for the first time outside of the four walls of his house before he’s scooping up dirt. You drop to your knees to pick up the bag again, your legs already weak.

“We both know you’re going to pass out on the couch the second we’re home.”

Your voice is steadier than you feel, as you look up at him. His face is flushed and that worry line between his eyes is gone.

“You got me pegged, Miller. You got me pegged.”

Two days later, he stands in the middle of his living room, hands on his hips, surveying his handiwork. All of the furniture has been pushed to the far ends of the room, up against the walls or against the staircase out in the hallway. He’s kept the overhead lights off and put the standing lamps in the corners, bathing the room in a despondent glow. He thinks, after a quarter of a century never even entertaining something like this, it might be interpreted as romantic. He hopes you’ll see it that way at least.

He hears it now, in his head, even though she’s out in the disconnected garage, snug and warm as he could have possibly made it – you worry too much, old man.

Ellie knows there’s something going on between you two. Hell, the entire town has cottoned onto whatever this is; you’re often seen leaving his house early in the morning, and he’s been seen on occasion strolling up to your house with flowers. It’s not new, it’s not a secret, but it is . . . it just is and that’s about as far as he’s gotten.

He hasn’t had you over for dinner with Ellie in that very specific way that very much needs to happen, as it often does when there is a new presence added to an established dynamic – as Maria often reminds him. But that almost feels like presenting your head on a silver plate to Ellie to either sniff with disinterest or tear into – both terrifying scenarios, even though they seem unlikely. Ellie does in fact seem to like you very much, as her riding teacher and occasional greenhouse buddy. But would she continue to like you in the context of you being one half of “You and Him” as a pair? Together. As a couple . . . of people who are seeing each other, whatever that means in a world filled with the most aggressive form of fungus imaginable.

This life in Jackson, this fragile second chance to remember and rekindle his own natural instincts, is too precious to bet on a question like that.

So he doesn’t ask it. At least not out loud.

That’s one of the things he likes so much about you: his silences aren’t entirely indecipherable and often are encouraged by your own. Except this silence about this particular thing doesn’t feel like one of your shared, comfortable moments and instead it’s encroaching rapidly into avoidance.

Standing in that greenhouse and seeing the string lights over the town square reminded him of a long ago Christmas, dancing with his favorite person under a Christmas tree, and how good it made him feel. How special it made him feel. All these years later, safe in a way his body has almost forgotten, there’s an urge he has to share that feeling, to recreate it under entirely different circumstances, with someone new. Someone else. To not try and fight the smile that constantly threatens to buoy up every time he’s around you.

It’s foreign, that feeling in his chest, but it’s not entirely alien, at least not of late.

He knows he’s white-knuckling it because he knows firsthand how painfully quick it can all be gone. Taken away. Left and buried by a black river while the world burns.

But he’s worried he’ll crush it with how tightly he holds on. How hard he begs a silent universe for it to last just a little bit longer.

His knees ache, his left shoulder goes tight when it rains, his body is not what it once was, but his mind is still there, still clear, and he remembers how romance used to feel, where it used to reside in his younger body, and as he stares out at the cleared room, listening to your footsteps overhead as you attempt to follow his vague instructions to “make yourself feel pretty” (because you already were to him, even covered in dirt and sawdust), he thinks this feels like the old world. An old world romance. It’s foreign, that feeling, but for the first time in a long time he doesn’t want to hold it at arm’s length.

“Joel?” You call from the top of the stairs, your voice tentative and cautious. But not cautious like you peeking around a corner to look for clickers. But cautious as in unsure, doubtful. You are a woman made up of a lot of things, with foundations unlike he’d ever seen before, but doubt is not a part of you. You never doubt him.

“Yeah, baby?” Your nerves make him nervous and he futzes with a lampshade while waiting for you.

“Are you done down there?”

He has to breathe slowly through the fluttering beneath his breastbone before he can answer. “Yeah, baby, all finished. You can come down now.”

“Okay . . . but you can’t laugh.” Him, laugh at you? There’s the instinct to smother the faint grin that spreads out across his mouth, but he told himself he wasn’t going to fight whatever came across his face tonight. If you see it, then you see it and he’s come to accept that.

(Maybe even want that.)

He shakes his head, his only pair of nice boots (a thank you from a former rancher when Joel fixed his family’s heater) clicking on the hardwood floor as he stands at the bottom of the stairs. You must be hiding behind the wall because he can’t see you.

“I’m not gonna laugh, sweetheart. Why d’ya think I’d laugh?”

Silence faces him at the top of the stairs, and then:

“Because quite frankly I forgot my tits could look like this and I don’t know how to feel about it.”

The snort that comes out of him is a poor attempt to muffle the chuckle. He thumbs the wood finial at the top of the bannister.

“Can’t remember ever having any complaints before and I don’t think I’ll have ‘em now, no matter how they look.”

“Whatever, Miller, you’re just a horn dog.”

He rolls his eyes, fingers rubbing anxiously together at his side, as if he could tug the fluttering out of his chest. He leans on the other foot, the one with the bad knee, to adjust the slightly uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. A dark swirl in the second step of the stairs has become wildly interesting.

“Baby, just come down here. I’m not gonna laugh. Promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” you grumble, still out of sight. “I know where you keep your feral child and I will not hesitate to let her loose on you.”

Joel nods, grinning faintly, still focused resolutely on the whorl in the floor. “That’s a real big threat from someone who –,”

The words die in his throat.

In fact, he’s quite sure he won’t be capable of speech for a very long time.

That foreign feeling – that feeling he’s worked for twenty years to suppress – is ignited in his chest.

You walk, no, maybe you float down the stairs in the most stunning red dress he’s ever seen. It’s definitely not yours – he knows every inch of your closet because he had inspected it studiously when you offered to keep some of his clothes at your place and he was trying very hard to delay putting a handful of his belongings beside a woman’s things in a move that felt heart-stoppingly domestic.

No, he has never, ever seen you in this dress.

Come to think of it, he’s never seen you in any dress and you were entirely correct that your tits look wildly different. Fantastically different, but –

“Maria didn’t have any heels that fit me to go with the dress,” you announce airily, your chin up. But your eyes dart over his face as if looking for something you need to find. “But it’s fourteen degrees outside, Joel, and I’m not doing whatever this is in just socks because that’s ridiculous so you’re just going to have to deal with the boots.”

The Boots. The ones you wear while crushing clicker skulls and tending the stables. They still bear damp spots from where you tried to clean the blood and dirt from the leather.

It’s rather incapacitating how arousing he finds this particular combination.

So much so, he doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything in a full minute until you bark at him, a cold tinge of panic in your voice.

“Joel!” His eyes snap to yours. Of course, you’re fucking beautiful – your eyes seem bigger, cheeks pinker, mouth wet – fucking Christ, where did you get make up?

“Say something!” Those rosy lips drop down and to his horror, you’re upset. “Please!”

“B-baby, you look . . .” He doesn’t mean to grab your entire ass in one hand; he just wants to feel as much of that velvet on your skin as possible. You stumble into his arms, another something that is so unlike you, as he tugs you forward. Bends his lips to your ear to discover how fast you’re breathing. How fast your pulse races in your neck. The shudder that breaks the rigidity of your body when he brushes his mouth, the short bristles of his beard, against your skin is no surprise; you told him exactly what that sensation does to you in no uncertain terms the first night he ate you out on the table of your kitchen. “You look incredible.”

Your fingers bite into his biceps. Push back out of his arms, despite the obvious warmth in your cheeks. You level his arousal in a single glare. “Joel, I asked you not to tease.”

Tommy once told him he was a pain in the ass to be around sometimes because he displays every negative emotion as anger and so it’s damn near impossible to figure out whatever it was he was so bent out of shape about.

Sadness as anger.

Shame as anger.

Guilt as anger.

Fear as anger.

With your fingers balled up, it's the tremor in your fists that gives you away.

He had genuinely intended this to be a quiet night away from the cafeteria, away from the Tipsy Bison, away from anyone else. He wanted you all to himself and in his greed, he didn’t see it until he saw it in your eyes.

How vulnerable being pretty made you. How vulnerable privacy made you.

How being vulnerable made you so deeply, deeply afraid.

Almost as afraid as he was.

Without a word, he turns to the record player, strategically hidden behind the couch and puts on the carefully selected record. The silent scratches for a moment before –

Your eyes widen as Nelson begins to sing his most beautiful love song (in Joel’s humble opinion). Your shoulders slacken, hands lose their grip, you blink up at him in total bewilderment. You aren’t an indecisive person, you’re quick as a whip, rarely confused – so this befuddled look on your face is kinda cute.

Tucking that rare look on your face away for another time, Joel wanders to the center of the room, in the heat of the light from the fireplace, his good boots clicking over the wood. He opens his arms, hand out to you.

“Let’s try something new tonight.”

I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest but you are the trees

The decision you make is a visible one.

Your palm is warm, weighted as it slides over his. This time his hand respectably settles on your waist, then on your low back when (to his surprise) you come closer. He’s delighted to watch you smile at him, distantly aware of the stretch of his own on his face.

Willie strums on his guitar, crooning softly, the sound warm and deep. With the weight of you against his chest, that feeling crackles like the flames over the wood logs in the fireplace. You drop your head, turn your cheek, and just before you come to rest on his shoulder, he sees your smile slide into a smirk.

“New, huh? What’s new look like for a sixty-five-year-old man at the end of the world?” Even with teasing, your voice is soft and sweet, the soft powder of cinnamon. Slowly, as if not to startle either one of you, he leans his chin against your forehead.

“You n’ I’ve been burning both ends, keepin’ the lights on. New to us is having a goddamn break.” His voice is low, meant only for you, and in the tremble of his deep bass, the words elongate in his mouth. He brings your intertwined hands just under his chin and when that goes well, he tightens his grip around your back, drawing you flush against him. It reduces the dancing to more of a sway but Joel can’t find a single thing to complain about. You gently tap the pad of your middle finger in the hollow of his collarbone to the beat of the song.

I'm empty without you so come grow within me

For I am the forest and you are the trees

And the heavens need romance so love never dies

“‘N ‘m only fifty-six, jackass.”

You grin, twisting in his grasp, rub your nose on his chest to wrap your arms around his neck. He clutches to your back like a key finding its lock.

You'll be the stars dear and I'll be the sky

And should any of this find us let them all be forewarned

That you are the thunder and I am the storm

“This is nice, Joel,” you murmur in his ear. The backs of his arms are growing warm by the fire. He presses his lips to your exposed shoulder, unsure of what to say, or what not to say, only nodding. He closes his eyes, trying to hold this moment forever in his memory. The soft flare of your waist, the winged-spread of your ribs, beneath his hands brings him back into your arms.

"Yeah?" Quiet, into your skin as if to muffle the question entirely, to muffle the unsure wobble in his voice. "It's good?"

He feels you nod beneath his chin, the smell of fresh soap escaping from the back of your neck, and the clamp around his throat loosens. He breathes, unimpeded for the first time all night, a low exhale taking the tension from his body as the air leaves his lungs.

Relief. A sinking down into the moment, into your arms.

You chuckle with your cheek against his chest and he feels the vibrations down to his stomach.

"Yeah, Joel, you did good. Really good." With the hand he holds in the air, you rub your thumb over the knuckle of his thumb, soothing. It used to bother him you could read the lines of his emotions as well as you read a book, as well as you write your own name, effortlessly, as if you had been given a guide no one ever thought to show him. But now, now that you understand how much this means to him, that you know he needs to be told he made you happy, it's more than relief. It's an unburying – a resuscitation of pieces of himself (seed-like bone fragments) that he thought had long since died in the soil of his ribs. "Thank you. I needed this."

He wants you to see the whole of him. Lift up an antiquated silver plate and show you the dents and scratches in his reflection. When you kiss his cheek gently, the hope floating in his chest flares, a solar explosion with tendrils that reach into the blackness of space and it asks him, what would you do to keep her?

Everything. Anything.

He shuffles closer, feels the warmth of your body lined up against his, the clean scent beneath the edge of your jaw blooming in his nose and throat. The hope hums, pitches dark like the forest floor in the rain, and grows teeth. His want for you digs into his skin and evolves into a needy, unsatisfied thing.

“Where’d you get this dress, hm?” He asks, lips half an inch from your shoulder. It falls and rises, never catching on your skin as he plays with the fabric. He runs his palm up your spine, the velvet coming with him, and watches as the swell of your thighs and the tease of your ass is revealed. Dirty old man. “‘N who do I have to kill to get you to keep it?”

You laugh into his neck. He wonders if you’re intentionally twisting his curls at the base of his neck to send sparks of arousal down his spine or if you are completely unaware of the cause of his insanity. Your hands are littered with scars and calluses and every time you touch him, he could melt through the floorboards.

“They found it in some strip mall and were actually going to strip it down for material. But Aaron at the sewing center owed me a favor and you said wear something nice, so . . .” You thumb the lip of his collar, your fingertips brushing the knot of his spine every time you drag your fingers back and forth.

And I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest and you are the trees

He knows you well enough to know that something lingers in your mind, but even after all this time, even after what he’s seen with you, been through with you, the things he’s done to you – he isn’t quite sure if he has the right to ask.

Instead, he squeezes you. He means to do it just with his hands, but ends up swallowing you in his arms.

Your mouth is pressed up against his chest when you finally go on.

“It just seems silly to keep, Joel.”

The high he’s been riding on all night falters, since you first walked down those stairs to him. Your eyes are wet when he pulls back and cups you by your cheek. He stops swaying with you.

“Why’s that?”

There it is, that all too familiar flicker of fear. You can’t look at him, despite his every touch, his every glance pulling you into him, to be near him.

“Because other people should have it. They should have a chance to . . .”

You withdraw your head from his hands, his thumb brushing your jaw as you retreat. He might actually lose a piece of himself if you let go now, but instead you clasp his wrists in your fingers. You stare at your hands and his between you, as if this whole thing between you could solidify at your feet, finally real.

Willie has stopped singing, only that musky drone on an empty track.

“Someone else should have a chance to feel pretty, to feel this way, because it shouldn’t be wasted and I’m afraid – I wonder if –,”

He knows he’s being a bit too rough when he takes your jaw and straightens your gaze to him, but his heart might fly out of his chest before he has a chance to say anything. His stomach turns, not knowing he’s not at the peak of a roller coaster drop, that he’s standing on solid ground, even if it swims under his feet.

“What you feel is not wasted.” A murmur, stern, as steadily and as serious as he possibly can be.

That feeling aches in his chest and you haven’t even gone anywhere. You haven’t left . . . yet. “What this is, is not wasted time. I spent twenty years wasting time, looking for something that wasn’t there, and with you . . . I can’t say I’ve found it –,”

“Why? Why can’t you say you’ve found it?” Your grip around his wrists tightens, eyes hard. “Why can’t you name it, Joel?”

“Can you?” He pulls his hands out of your grip and you let him go. “How can you ask for what you want when you can’t even ask to keep this dress?”

“Because I don’t deserve it!” It’s not silence that follows; it’s emptiness. You face away from him, pressing the heel of your hand into your brow bone, teeth slightly bared. Your arm bars across your stomach like you are literally holding in your guts. Finally, you lift your head, the few scant tears on your face sparkling in the firelight. “I don’t deserve you, Joel. I don’t deserve any of this. Ellie, the way she . . . I’m here, warm and happy, acting like the fucking world hasn’t ended. Playing house, playing pretend. Pretending like I’m your –,”

You swallow the words caught in your throat, gaze leaping away from him. At your side, your hand trembles again.

Oh, honey, the shit I’ve done . . .

With wide, wet eyes, you watch him approach. He doesn’t look at you, instead seeing exactly where he’d like to put his lips on your stomach beneath the fabric.

“Then what do you want, hm?” There’s a fold in the front of the dress and he runs his fingers along the edge of it. “We can’t fix it. Can’t go back ‘cause there’s nothin' to go back to. I don’t care what you had to do to get here, right here, with me because I’m so fuckin’ glad you are. I’m not pretending, not wasting my time, never was. ‘Cause you’re right.”

Your hand over his stills his endless roving and then it stays, scarred hand over scarred hand. Your gesture says something to him, something so meaningful he has no idea how to put it into words. He swallows his attempt and instead, slowly, drags both hands over your hips, where they stay. Heavy against the velvet.

You rest your own against his forearms, neither pulling him in or pushing him back.

“I was right about what?”

His eyes flick to yours and maybe it’s presumptuous, maybe he really is an old man afraid of his feelings, or maybe living this long – despite everything that ever tried to make it otherwise – living this long has granted him the privilege of knowing with perfect clarity what you’re thinking when you look at him like that. How he wants to whisper it back to you and he decides he will the next time your skin is warm and tacky, body helpless beneath his.

Your eyes shamelessly track the brush of his tongue against his bottom lip.

“That you’re mine. Just like I’m yours.”

The hands at his forearms glide up to his chest. The rims of your irises have gone a bit blurred, a bit unstable, and you can’t decide whether to look at his mouth or his eyes.

“Joel?” Suddenly breathy, all begging, pleading.

“Hm?”

“Get me out of this fucking dress.”

When your lips crash into his, his entire world narrows down to where on his body, yours touches:

your rough hand cradling his cheek, the other fisting the collar of his shirt. His fingers digging into your skirt, the heat from your thigh nearly driving him to tear straight through the fabric to get to you. Your sweet, perfect mouth smeared against his, lips puffed pink, nose to your cheek.

That warm, wet cunt he thinks he can feel through his boxers, jeans, the dress and your underwear.

It’s not enough.

The cry you let out is some mangled mix of a moan and his name when he licks the soft supple skin behind your ear and nips your earlobe.

“Baby, please – please – bedroom, we have to–,”

He grunts his disapproval at your words, overwhelmed by the scent that makes his mouth water as he stains the column of your throat with wet, humid kisses.

“Joel, c’mon, honey, just upstairs –,”

The last flickering tiny speckle of logic in his brain fights with itself; take your right here or haul you over his shoulder – which isn’t great for his back and, quite frankly, he intends to spend most of the night on his knees.

First option it is.

You mumble in confusion, eyes shut, chin brushing the thread of gray curls on the top of his head as he purposefully sucks a bright hickey into your collarbone, one hand cupping your breast, the other pushing you backwards. You go willingly, of course.

Until the backs of your legs hit the couch and there’s nowhere else to go. In the stumble, your dress rides up even higher and those thighs he’s actually lost sleep over appear to him. He drops to his knees, hands like meat hooks as they squeeze your waist, pulling that warm cunt even closer to him over the edge of the couch. You groan when he pushes the skirt up even higher, practically to your tits, as he explores your outer, then inner thighs with soft strokes of the back of his hands. He presses his nose to the crevice between your thigh and hip and inhales.

“B-baby, the windows,” you swallow thickly, slurring like you’re drunk, grabbing at his shoulders like you’re trying to steady yourself, or turn him towards the windows. “I mean – the curtains, baby, the curtains are –,”

“It’s a fucking blizzard outside,” he explains tersely with his eyes still closed, as if irritated to have a conversation instead of focusing every ounce of concentration he has to the heat and smell beneath your black panties. He drags his teeth over the elastic band around your hips and makes you whine his name for an entirely different reason.

You don’t make him stop or wait when he tugs those panties down your hips. In fact, you help, lifting your hips, the irises of your eyes so wide and black, you look halfway out of your mind.

Good.

He gathers the skirt he was once so fond of and stuffs it into the cushions behind you. You watch him as he moves, eyes half-lidded, finger scraping your bottom lip. Around his ribs, your knees dip back and forth, moving targets, like he’s forgotten why he’s here and needs reminding.

His big paw, the size of which makes you feel indescribably small, catches your knee and stills it, gaze dark and heavy. Do not test me right now. You try not to moan.

“Can’t believe I’m going to let you fuck me with my boots on,” you whisper airly, watching with delirious fascination as he puts one of your slender legs over his shoulder. His mouth is actually watering at the sight of your damp curls.

“Not gonna fuck you. Just gonna eat your pussy. You’ll know the difference.”

“Semantically, it’s the sa-a-me thi-ng, Jo-e – ah, Joel!”

His tongue up inside you turns you into a whiny, high-pitched, feminine mess. He eats like he does everything else: diligently, quickly, and silently.

Until you bury your fingers in his ash-flecked curls and tug.

That first deep, loud moan ripples through his body, rolling him up just off his heels, his crotch seeking some kind – any kind – of friction.

The feel of his mouth humming against your cunt has your eyes rolling back in your head. “Please, oh fuck, please –”

You are a grown woman. You should not be making these noises.

You also shouldn’t be using a man’s face to get off . . . but you do it anyway.

“Tha’s it, baby,” he mutters when your hips grind against his face. His nose catches your clit and around him, your thighs wobble. “Use me, fuckin’ use me.”

His grip around your calf over his shoulder turns rough and he knows he’ll bruise you, but fuck, the thought of you walking around town with a mark in the shape of his hand where everyone can see —

He briefly lifts his grip from your thigh to adjust his iron-hot cock in his jeans. From his view over your cunt, it doesn't seem like you noticed, or even saw him leave your skin. He watches you writhe, try to capture your breath, eyes crammed shut as your hips rock almost without your control. He takes a chance to lick the musky dampness from his upper lip when your cunt rolls back from his face a fraction of an inch — and then he sinks in again.

Call it age or the fact that you both are here at the end of the world, but the first night he ate you out, you told him exactly how and where you like it, unabashed and in control and honestly it’s the hottest thing he can think of in recent memory.

He would have written it down on the backs of his eyelids if he could.

He follows it to the letter.

“Joel – Joel, baby, please don’t stop –,” You buck and moan beneath him as he spells out your instructions with his tongue along your cunt. He dots the i’s with a tap of his tongue or a lick on your clit. Just inches above his head, your chest heaves, your fingers locked into his curls, gently pushing him closer to your puffy pussy as if he’d ever waste a drop of what leaks out of you.

With a flat-tongued brush against your suffering clit, you arch off the couch, your sighs now verging on desperate, high and whinging, because it’s just not fair how good he makes you feel. He can feel your foot curl against the planes of his back, the rubber heel heavy, your mouth open and wet, with your eyes locked on the ceiling as you try to ride out your humming orgasm with a semblance of control.

“Look at me.”

No other man has ever been able to make you come with just his mouth, you told him once.

And no other man ever will.

It’s sweet, the way your eyes soften briefly when you lock eyes with him, crouched between your thighs — before your head tips back, lips wrenched apart in a silent scream, and you come, as hard as he has worked for the flush of slick down his chin.

There’s goosebumps on your thighs, he notes. He rubs his thumb against your raised skin and you shudder, head rolling against the back of the couch.

He’s already feeling a slight twinge of shame at the noise his knees will inevitably make when he stands, but for now he’s content watching you glide down from your high, his head against your knee, shoulders still stretching your legs open wide.

To his delight, you manage to laugh, your hand draping over your eyes. You can see the shine of the dull light all across his lips, his chin, his nose and you have to close your eyes. He should make you lick it off him, but not tonight.

“Top marks, Miller, as usual,” you mumble, “but the threat of voyeurism really deserves the extra credit.”

He grins. Still waiting for your breath to slow, he wipes his mouth with his palm and slides the leg over his shoulder down in between his own thighs. Propped up on one knee, he begins to unlace your boot. He holds your calf like it’s delicate as he gently drags the boot over your heel.

He’s just as reverent with the other side.

And then your boots, the pair, sit at the end of his couch, like they were always meant to be there.

His heart, easing down from its own thunderous beat, squeezes and that feeling, that strange-not-so-strange feeling, the one that dictates practically every action with you, dribbles into his veins.

You open one eye. A flutter of lashes, coy and playful, the curve of your mouth guarding a hoard of secrets.

“Now, Joel Miller . . . will you take me to bed?”

It’s a question. A request. Your eyes, as dark as ever, on his warm his chest, all the way down his spine. You’re asking, politely, for a thing you both know he would never, ever deny you.

He cannot lose you, he just can’t.

He stands and, yes, his knees crack and pop, but he regains stability when he toes off his only good pair of cowboy boots. He nods, grinning, and offers you his hand.

The walk, half-run up to his bedroom is something his brain designates as not important enough to store away.

Instead, it languishes in the way you stretch out on his mattress before him, ass in the air, knees spread over his blankets and arms sliding through crumpled sheets towards the headboard.

The room is dark, the only light fighting its way through the downpour of snow comes from the lamp posts that dot the street outside. But the veil of snow warps the light and everything in the half-darkness is doused in blue.

The shadowy, blurred curve of your shoulder, blue.

The spread of your fingers on his mattress, blue.

The swollen bottom of lip of your mouth —

“Joel.”

The snow falls so fast and hard, it patters against the windows and the sides of the house. It’s the only thing he can hear over the pounding of his heart and the short breath in his lungs. He stares at you, soaking his blankets in your scent and slick, and you stare right back in utter and total silence.

You sit in the center of his bed, bare for him beneath the velvet dress that is red like blood, your patchy white socks at complete odds with your smeared make up and the fucked-out look in your eyes. But there’s something else there too.

Something softer. Gentler.

You reach out a hand to him and he goes to you, like always. The instant your skin touches his the instinct to fuck you hard until you’re bruised and crying evaporates. He doesn’t think you want that anymore either.

No, you need —

“Joel, please come here. I need you.”

You need him.

The mattress squeaks when he settles one knee and then the other on top of it, his fingers stroking your ear, brushing the tips of your hair, while he kisses you with an ache that is not physically manifested. Instead, it resides —

“I love you,” you whisper.

You pull back infinitesimally, just enough that your eyes are all he sees.

A patient silence hangs from the ceiling. The sound of snow falling. Of baited breath. The scratch of your fingers against at his beard —

“I love you too.” You smile and his body is no longer big enough to contain his heart. “I feel like I’ve always loved you. Is that strange?”

Your gaze traces the same path your fingers take when you think he’s sleeping; it runs over his nose, his forehead, his eyebrows, the plush curve of his lips. Like you can’t believe he’s there with you. Like you can’t believe he’s real.

That feeling — that feeling he had been fighting because it always was the only thing that would ever really do him in — is love. He loves you.

He loves you.

And you love him.

Didn’t think they told stories like this anymore, not in a world like this. So maybe, for once, Joel Miller just got lucky.

“No. It’s not. Just be sure you mean it.”

He can't tell if the glow in your eyes comes from within you or it beams out of him. “Every word.”

Eventually, he sheds you of his favorite dress of yours, your only dress, and he lays you back, fully bare in the nest of his blankets. In the corner of his bedroom, the heater hisses like the wind from a purple storm, the static crackle of warmth hovering in the air. You watch, with eyes that shine like stars, as he pops apart the pearl-snaps holding his shirt together.

And then his white undershirt goes next. He used to worry what he looked like, until he found someone else who had done exactly what was necessary to survive.

When he goes to unzip his pants, you sit up, hair mussed and the hickey he gave you earlier throbbing like a dream.

“I wanna do it.”

He lets you unbutton his jeans, slide the zipper down, at the edge of the bed, but your hands are shaking, your breath stunted.

“I’m fumbling like a teenager,” you huff, a small, flustered smile on your face. “It’s like I’m nervous, but what is there to be nervous about —,”

His mouth pressed up against yours creates the most beautiful silence of all.

How do you want me, you ask him and he thinks, all the time. But he takes you both under the covers and settles in next to you. He positions one leg over his hip and immediately you know exactly what he’s asking for. Quick as a whip, you are.

There’s a rustle of covers, the bed slats squeaking, and then he’s nearly nose-to-nose with you. You kiss him again, maybe nervous still.

He disconnects, when you slip between his legs and take his thick, leaking cock in your hand.

“Baby, wait, do you need — I know it’s a lot — I’m a lot –,”

He can’t fathom why he’s so nervous either. But you chuckle, shake your head, smile at him.

“Don’t need anything but you.”

Your leg wraps tighter over his hip, knee up to his ribs, as he sinks inside you. The palm wrapped around the back of your knee grips roughly only once.

This is true silence. The instant where the world goes muted, everything distant and muffled, when he’s first buried deep in your heat.

Your fingers thread through his curls and suddenly all sound is cranked up to an eleven. Your rapid, stilted breathing, the groan of the bed, your soft smothered moans, or are those his? —

“Fuck me, Joel.”

Eyes never leaving yours, he does.

Your fingers dig into his skull, nails biting, hand wrapped around his neck to hold yourself steady as he thrusts up into you. He thumbs your stiff nipple, half of his hand still grasping your ribs.

You meet him thrust for thrust, a slow steady pace that draws sweat to his hairline and endless gasps from his mouth. But your gaze stays strong, never falters. Your hand slips to his shoulder, to stabilize just a bit more, but then it's on his chest, twisting his chest hair and he thinks he feels that sparkle of sanity, of rationality, any restraint to hold back crack and shatter between the clench of his teeth.

“Goddamn–,”

He rolls, taking you under him and demanding a faster pace. You push your hand against the headboard, the bed knocking against the wall in rhythmic, hypnotic thuds.

He thinks you hiss his name before you bite down his shoulder.

The sharp shock of pain lights up his brain, channeling the sudden awareness that he liked that so fucking much all the way down his spinal cord where it presses hot against his groin.

He lifts up onto one elbow, skin sweat hot and sticky as it splits from yours.

“Tell me what you need to come,” he pants.

You whine again, your throat dripping sweat, but that’s not an answer. Knowing he has about a half-a-dozen to a dozen good grinds before it puts too much strain on his back, he uses every single one of them to drag you to the knife’s edge.

“What–,” grind, “do you need –,” grind, “to come?”

The wail you let out nearly makes him come on the spot. Your eyes have that same, out-of-this-world, off-this-planet unfocused gaze, any sort of language impossible. You plead with him in the silence. A silence loaded with damp moans, grit teeth, and skin against skin against skin against skin against skin. Best sound in the world, as far as he was concerned.

You arch until he lifts above you and, taking the hand that was by your head, tuck it down between your legs. You let him grasp around with spread fingers where you are wet, where his cock rocks into your body, watch as that pulls him apart faster with dark eyes, before pressing his thumb against your clit.

There, you say without words. There is where I need you.

Once, twice, he circles – he can feel the tightness in his back already settling in, his jaw fixed and locked, his body battling the two overwhelming sensations of dull pain and fierce, wild pleasure – and you hit your release and you soak him in it.

He falls then too, falls just as hard and as fast as you, the chronic pain he holds in his shoulders, his neck, his back, his knee fleetingly gone in the rush of heat that branches out of his body from his groin and it feels divine.

When he lies on top of you, face buried in the curve of your neck, the heat from your humid skin warming up the breath in his lungs, the throb of your body matching his, his mind wiped clean, the thought occurs to him:

It’s not silence he’s found with you, it’s quiet.

It’s peace.

Eventually, some awareness seeps back into his trembling body and he rolls off of you, but takes the curve of your jaw in his hand as he goes. He can’t settle into the pillows because he can’t stop kissing you, love bites occasionally against your lip, as if where his body fails, he proves his love for you won’t end so easily.

Eventually, you press your fingers into the base of his skull and, like a reset button, he groans and drops onto his back.

Eventually, the quiet returns. Only soft noises, murmurs of existence outside of this perfect little room, fill the space.

Eventually, he falls asleep with you curled up next to him.

He knows you love waking up in bed together, but he also knows you love fresh coffee even more.

Which is where Ellie finds him the next morning.

He nearly adds too much ground coffee to the pot because he’s distracted, lost in thought about the way your curves looked in the bright morning light, when the back door slams open and a little creature made of entirely scarves, mittens, and an oversized purple jacket stomps into his kitchen and clomps its snowy shoes on the rug.

“Joel, we gotta go!” She’s a little breathless, red-cheeked too as she unwinds the scarf around her head and her face is revealed. “We don’t wanna miss it!”

“Miss what?” Joel asks, this time carefully measuring how much water the pot needs.

His question is not met with her usually buzzy chatter. Instead, she’s stopped undoing her scarf and just stares at him like he’s been beamed down from another planet.

He realizes all too late that he’s still in PJs at 9AM (basically a sign of another apocalypse), he’s making more coffee than just for himself, and he’s smiling.

Shit.

“Ellie, um, I –,”

She rolls her eyes. Her scarf is flung off her neck and she starts yanking off her gloves, her plucky attitude back, if not a bit smug.

“Get your girlfriend up too. They’re lighting the big tree in town square in an hour. I know she’d be pissed if she missed it.”

So definitely caught. Time to be “The Adult” here and put it out on the table.

“Don’t call her that.” Joel eyes her. Coffee percolating, he grabs a slice of bread and Ellie’s favorite jam. “Makes it sound like we’re fourteen.”

She frowns at him, classic “pouty-mouth”.

“I’m fourteen — rude. But seriously, and I say this because I care, get over yourself. Call a spade a spade. You’re dating her, fucking her–,”

“Ellie!”

"– and you make gross ga-ga eyes at each other when you think I’m not looking."

She slides into the seat at the island in front of him as he pushes the toasted bread with jam across the marble to her. She takes a bite, chews with her mouth open, and shrugs. “That’s a girlfriend, dude.”

Joel turns back to the eggs that might be burning, his shoulders hunched and fist tight around the spatula. Hate it when the kid is right.

He salvages what he can of the eggs, plates them along with two strips of bacon on two plates, and balances a mug of coffee on each. He tries to salvage some of his dignity with a glare.

“When you’re older, you’ll see some things just don’t need labels.”

At that, she rolls her eyes again and snatches up the last strip of bacon from the folded, greasy napkins. “Whatever, you dork.”

Argument soundly lost, he gathers up the plates and heads back up stairs. She’s still mumbling to herself as he goes.

“'Girlfriend', pfft . . . much better than fuck bunny!” She yells to no one in particular.

You hear the entire conversation from bed, the door cracked open enough for the sound to travel. Muffling a giggle, you snag his white shirt from the floor and draw it over your head. You should probably be more embarrassed that Joel got caught in his Walk of Shame, even if it was to his own kitchen to make breakfast. But . . . you’re just not.

The smile is still on your face when his footfalls approach the door and he sticks his head into the room.

“Sounds like we’re busted,” you smirk.

Joel almost chuckles. “'Bout as busted as you can be.” He hands you one plate and sits on the end of the bed with his own. He takes a low, slow sip of coffee and you follow him. The eggs are nibbled at and the bacon is perfectly crunchy.

“So . . . girlfriend?”

He rolls his eyes. “Not you too.”

“I mean," you slip the plate and coffee onto the bedside table, then hug the sheets around your knees, "I agree with you on the bit about labels. It seems silly. And not wasteful silly. Just . . .”

“Silly.” Joel’s eyes are as dark as his coffee, warmer than it too. “Doesn’t really capture the whole thing, does it?”

An apocalypse and a half later, and a boy’s sweet eyes on you can still make your stomach swoop.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then what do you wanna say, if people start askin’?”

You bite your lip, eyes up in faux-thought. “Truth be told, I'm kinda partial to fuck bunny. Cute like with a little tail and ears —,"

The groan from Joel and subsequent head shake makes you laugh enough for you to take pity on the old guy. You crawl closer and his eyes slip from your face to where the sheet tucks under your knees. But a hand on his cheek returns his gaze.

"I like what you said last night." Your smile is soft, pleased. "That I’m yours. Like you’re mine.”

Joel’s warmth bleeds from his whole frame as he leans in close to put his mug on the bedside table, then leans in closer still to you. He drags his nose over your bare, exposed shoulder, in a way that is sweet and sensual all at once. He stops with a kiss on the hinge of your jaw.

“I like that too. I like saying that you’re mine.”

Ignoring the shiver that rockets up your spine at the low hum of his voice, the flutter of his lips barely against your cheek, you tuck an errant curl around his ear and it immediately springs back up again. You smile and he smiles back, a youthful shine in his eyes.

“Wherever you are, I am too.”

Listen to: I am the forest by Willie Nelson

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wildemaven · 5 months ago

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life and loss | joel miller

pairing: dave york x f!reader / joel miller x f!reader word count: 1k content warnings: 18+ blog; death, grief/loss, major character death (no description of said death), AU and crossover universes, kind of fluffy, navigating loss, reader is non descriptive/blank slate. notes: this randomly came to me yesterday on my walk. It was meant to be just a moodboard and a small blurb to go along with it… and then this happened. Oops! Tried to pack a lot into a small thing so hopefully it makes sense.

Momentos of him, your late husband, have remained tucked away for the last year following his unexpected death. As you settle into your new widowed life and new home over a thousand miles away from the life you created with Dave, all the beautiful memories reside in cardboard boxes out of sight.

Word travels quickly through the small neighborhood about your arrival and marital status— or lack thereof. Welcoming introductions turn into unannounced check-ins and flowers. Uncomfortable small talk on your front porch is sprinkled throughout the following weeks, a hand on your shoulder accentuates their let us know if you need anything. Sympathetic casseroles finally dwindle allowing you to finally ease into this new season of your life.

The hammock left by the previous owners becomes your sanctuary most evenings. Searching for the brightest star in the night’s sky, then asking Dave how he’s doing before reading aloud to him the words from your latest book.

It's days later when you’ve read the final word that a small voice from over the fence manifests as a quirky teenage girl sitting at a table you’ve set up on your back patio. She has a million and one questions about the book and is filled with theories about what happens beyond its ending. The side gate is never regularly latched closed now, eagerly awaiting Ellie’s return. She navigates most of your late night conversations that follow, including personal stories and the history of her life. My grump of an old man is in construction. He’s single by the way— not by choice, but life happens.

His voice is calloused the first time he makes his presence known to you. Goddamn it, Ellie! I told you to leave her alone! They exchange brittle words back and forth through the shared barrier, before you insist he join the two of you. The crunch of his boots on the ground stall when he towers over where you’re still seated. His hand engulfing yours, warm and gentle as he tries to determine where his gaze should fall— you, the ground, the smirking teenager sitting across from you. Joel. Joel Miller. Uh, Ellie n’ I live next door. Not sure how long she’s been botherin’ you, but I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen again.

It’s weeks later when you run into Joel at the mailboxes. The clanking of keys and squeaky hinges fill the space between you before you’re both retreating back to your respective pathways. Your hands fidget and twist the bills and letters from your parents when you bravely initiate a conversation before he’s able to reach his front door. She’s the first person since moving here who wanted to talk to me about something other than the death of my husband. I don’t think I’ve laughed as much as I have with her in a long time. She’s welcome over here anytime.

He reeks of nervousness as he stands on your doorstep the following evening. The ambered hue of his eyes absorb the warmth from the front porch light, adding a brightness to them that they seem to be commonly lacking. His words waver a bit as he begins to speak, starting and stopping, scrubbing his hand down his face before he attempts to start again. You offer him nothing but patience, sensing the mournful energy radiating off him— similar to the one you’ve been carrying. My wife and older daughter— they were both in an accident on their way to Sarah’s soccer game. I was pickin’ up Ellie from her counseling group for adopted kids. We were headin’ to the soccer field when I got the call. Some days are harder than others. And everyone wants to help, however that may be— lots of food as I’m sure you know. It doesn’t ever really get easier, but you learn to live with grief. Anyways, if you ever need anything or just want to talk— you know where I live.

He accepts your impulsive invitation to join you for dinner, offering him the open seat across from you in the same spot as your timid first meeting. The crickets orchestrate the evening ambience as you share stories you’d tucked away, too painful to revisit until now. You find you laugh just as much, if not more, with Joel. Even among the tears shed, the conversation is filled with a hope and optimism that you longed for.

You still feel his wholesome embrace long after you’ve called it a night to seek out much needed sleep. But much like the nights that ensued after Dave’s death, loneliness and the weight of your grief rear its head.

The black ink glides over the surface of the paper. Line after line formulated a year’s worth of unsaid words that had been bottled up and blockaded by the rigid walls you’d built around them. Joel was right about the therapeutic effect of getting rid of the burdensome thoughts that come with loss, finding it’s hard to stop now that you’ve started.

You convey the love that you still carry for Dave, something you’ll never willfully ignore or regret. It feels wrong but you touch on the hatred you feel towards his death; you hate him for leaving you, hate that you miss him, hate that some nights you forget the small details that you cherished about him. You tell him about Joel and the kindness he’s afforded you in a short time of knowing him and that there’s life beyond losing the love of your life. To look for the light even when shrouded by darkness.

Pictures and trinkets find their way out of the cardboard confines Joel helped pull out from the guest room closet. The bare walls now filled with familiar faces and shelves adorn with colorful memories that you tried so hard to keep hidden.

Joel and Ellie being a constant presence in your life allows you to see that life can surprise you when you least expect it and there’s room for new love.

#Dave york #joel miller #dave york x reader #dave york x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #wildemaven moodboard #dave york imagine #joel miller imagine #wildemaven writes

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justagalwhowrites · 6 months ago

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The Savage and the Sanctuary - A TLOU Story Masterlist

After the death of his daughter, Joel Miller fell apart. But when searching for answers at the bottom of a bottle and within his own rage doesn't fix it, he resigns himself to working for his brother in private security. It's a job that starts him down the path to stability and a semblance of a life, even if it's not one he particularly wants. At least it does until you show up.

The biggest movie star in the world with your newly adopted niece in tow, you throw everything about Joel's life into flux. Is he capable of letting himself feel something again while protecting the only things left in the world that matter?

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

A slow-burn, no outbreak, enemies to friends to lovers bodyguard fic.

Main Masterlist | AO3

Prologue

Chapter 1: Wrong Foot

Chapter 2: Teenagers

Chapter 3: Parents

Chapter 4: Past and Present

Chapter 5: Fracture

Oneshots:

The Campaign

Turkey Trouble - Thanksgiving One Shot

Taglist: @christinamadsen @eff4freddie @brittmb115 @copperhalfcent @r3dheadedwitch @pedropascalsbbg @lovelyjess69 @yopossum @moel-jiller @picketniffler @lilyevanstan1325 @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @wintersquirrel @missladym1981 @mellymbee @canthinkof1user @inept-the-magnificent @secretlyangelic @pedrobae @scarletsloveletter

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #smut fic #slow burn #enemies to lovers #enemies to friends to lovers #bodyguard au #no outbreak!joel miller

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tightjeansjavi · 1 year ago

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Slow Hands | Joel Miller x f! reader

Chapter 1 “Cuppa Love”

A/N: I breezed through this chapter in a matter of hours 🫠 I’m so beyond stoked for this little story and I hope it can end up providing all the soft Joel feels that we love ♡

~word count: 3.5k~

Summary: Joel Miller thinks that your coffee shop in Jackson is a bit too “frivolous” for his taste until Tommy tells him one day that it’s the best cup of coffee that he’ll ever have. Little does he know..he’s going to get more than just a cup of coffee when he finally meets you. You soon find out that the grumpy old man with a rambunctious teenager, is hiding sugar sweet softness under layers of hardness.

Warnings: some angst, Joel is struggling to adjust to living a domestic life, anxiety, feeling like an outcast, grumpy old man! Joel, shy! Joel, kinda mean! Joel, sunshine reader, flirting, fluff, awkward situations, reminiscing on the past, alluding to death/loss but no description, reader has no physical descriptions and is from Texas, reader has a nickname (beanie bc y’know coffee beans) no age gap, overall light chapter, vulgar language, +18 minors dni!

Joel Miller in your eyes was aloof, a tad bit on the grumpier side, never really smiling, always with a furrowed brow and a grunt under his breath. He was an old, grumpy man as Tommy Miller first described his older brother to you. That was the first time Joel Miller and his adopted kid, Ellie Williams rode into town one snowy afternoon.

You watched curiously from your coffee shop window at the sight of Tommy hugging his brother for his first time in years. It was a sight for sore eyes to say the least. By the time you gathered enough courage to introduce yourself, it was too late. Joel and Ellie were gone by the morning and you had missed your opportunity..or so you thought.

The following spring, Joel and Ellie had returned. From where? Well..that wasn’t disclosed to you. From spring to fall you’d catch Joel walking past your coffee shop every morning. His eyes would flit up to the old sign that swung calmly in a passing breeze. He’d shake his head, mutter under his breath before continuing down the street. You’d secretly hoped that he would stop in for a cup of coffee one of these days. Why? Well, you were curious. Curious about the old grumpy man that rarely shed a smile. You were curious on how he possibly took his coffee. (straight black) you imagined. No cream, or sugar as it didn’t seem like his cup of tea.

Presently, Joel was having a hard time adjusting to his new life. For over 20 years he was constantly living on the means to survive. There was no room for comfort or the little things in a post apocalyptic world; or so he had thought. Ellie was having a much smoother transition period into the domestic lifestyle. She was attending school now, working at the stables and she was making friends. Joel was happy for her, of course. After everything they had gone through together all he wanted was for his kid to be happy. Confusion would etch across his face anytime someone in town would smile in his direction or dare to even say good morning to him? He’d grunt out a goodmorning back followed by a painful forced smile.

Your little coffee shop in the middle of town absolutely plagued him. He’d walk by it every morning muttering under his breath about how frivolous your sign was. Cuppa Love how fucking cheesy was that? Not to mention, the sign above your shop had seen far better days, and the chipped wood, and peeling paint was grinding his gears to a painful level. Yet, despite the fresh and familiar scent of roasting coffee beans wafting through the cracked door, it was not enough to persuade him to take a peek inside.

Not yet at least.

“Have you met Beanie?” Tommy asked his brother in a casual conversation as they were riding back into town after being on patrol all morning.

“Who? N’What in the hell kinda name is that?” Joel gruffly asked as he looked over at his brother.

“She owns the ‘lil coffee shop tucked in the middle of town. She’s been here a few years, makes one mean cuppa joe. Honestly the best I’ve ever had since..well, you know.” He trailed off.

“That frivolous waste of space? Yeah, I walk past it every mornin.’ Doubt it’s the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had, Tommy. So, her name is Beanie? S’that like her nickname or somethin’?”

“It ain’t a waste of space! C’mon now. You gotta lighten up a little big brother. You don’t gotta be so up-tight all the goddamn time. How many times do I gotta say that you’n Ellie are safe. Y’know, I’ve had plenty of people come to me and say that you don’t even bother sayin’ goodmornin’ to them or nothin.’ There’s good people in this town, Joel. You can make friends if you—”

Joel cut him off with a low scoff under his breath. “Lighten up? I already told you, Tommy. It’s hard for me to go and adjust to..how I used to live because it ain’t even been all that long, and I still sleep with a goddamn shotgun under my bed, for Christ sakes. Sorry that your town folks don’t like the fact that I ain’t sayin’ goodmornin’ back. Didn’t realize it was such a crime.” He muttered the last bit with a heavy sigh.

Tommy reached his hand over and gently grasped his brother's shoulder, giving it a firm yet gentle squeeze. “Joel, I’m sorry if it’s comin’ across like I’m lecturin’ you or anythin’, it’s jus’ that I want you to feel comfortable n’happy here. I know that you and Ellie went through a lot, but there’s so many opportunities for you to start off fresh here, okay? Look, you don’t gotta go if you don’t want to, but just stop by Beanie’s shop and have a cup of coffee. I promise that you won’t regret it, and have I ever been wrong?”

Joel begrudgingly looked in his brother's direction. His brows furrowed, then softened as a sigh slipped past his parted lips. “I know you ain’t lecturin’ me. It’s just—it’s hard, Tommy. It’s hard tryin’ to jump into havin’ a normal life again. Ellie’s doin’ a hell of a lot better job than I am. Also think she may be avoidin’ me, but that’s a topic for another conversation. I guess there isn’t much harm n’me goin’ to this coffee shop. Can’t promise that I’m gonna like it.” His tone was softer now, nearly above a whisper because these were the genre of conversations that he dreaded having. Anything that had to do with feelings and emotions, Joel avoided like they were the plague. He had a hard enough time expressing himself as it is.

“I get it, Joel. Believe me. It took me months to not wake up on edge, to sleep without a rifle under my pillow. Maria was a big help of course, but I had to do a lot of growin’ on my own too. Baby steps, alright? You got me, Maria, and Ellie to help guide ya through this next chapter. You’re still my big brother after all.” He replied with a genuine smile smile on his face, one that had his eyes crinkle in the corners.

Joel found himself gently dropping his horse's reins around the withers before he was reaching over and pulling his brother into a one arm hug. “Yeah, you’re damn right that I’m your big brother, and you best not forget it.” Joel had cracked a hairline of a smile when Tommy had playfully pushed him away. “So, Beanie is uh..she’s nice I take it? Who the hell gave her that nickname?”

Tommy had an undeniable knowing smirk on his face as he lightly chuckled. “You’re lookin’ at him.” He stated proudly.

Joel rolled his eyes with an unenthusiastic shake of his head.

For the next week, Joel continued to stop right outside your shop’s door. He’d kick at the snow covered ground with the tip of his boot, look up directly at your sign, mutter under his breath and continue on his way. It wasn’t until one afternoon after coming back from patrol did Joel Miller finally make a proper appearance.

The bells that were tied to the side of the door jingled excitedly as Joel stepped inside. The first thing he noticed was the string lights glittering above and the rows and rows of handmade mugs just waiting for a customer to grab and cherish. The fire crackled calmly as Joel slipped his gloves off and nervously rubbed his hands together. “Uh—hello? Anyone in today?”

He thought about turning around and walking straight out the door until he heard the sounds of someone putzing around in the back area behind a curtain.

“Just a second honey and I’ll be right with ya!” You called from the back room. You had gotten yourself into quite a pickle with attempting to lift an god awful heavy bag of sugar onto the shelf above.

Honey?

Must be a southern thing. Was the first thing that popped into Joel’s head. Why else would you be calling a total stranger a pet name? Unless everyone around here had just truly gone completely soft in the head.

“Oh for fuck sakes! Who the hell decided that sugar was supposed to be THIS heavy!” You let out a frustrated grunt as the sack of sugar nearly tumbled out of your grip once more.

Joel raised a brow at the sound of your struggle. He glanced around, as if there was anyone else in your cozy little shop to help. He let out a frustrated sigh knowing that he was going to have to be the gentleman and help you out himself. “Y’need a hand back there? I got an extra pair.” No shit Sherlock.

“Congratulations.” You deadpanned.

Joel let out a quiet snort before stepping around the counter and pulled back the curtain to find your body nearly being crushed by the sack of sugar. Despite this, you had one hand outstretched in his direction for him to shake as your cheek was pressed against the burlap material. “Thank goodness someone decided to stroll in today. Pleased to meet you, I’m Beanie. Now, can you please give me a hand? You did say that you had an extra pair after all.”

Joel opted out on not shaking your hand. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to, it just looked like you were seconds from passing out and being murdered by a sack of sugar; so much for introductions.

The first thing you noticed about Joel Miller were his hands and how effortlessly he grasped the bag of sugar and lifted it onto the shelf above like it weighed nothing. You may, or may not have caught the way his broad muscles flexed from the motion, or the little stray curl that just simply wouldn’t stay put. He was handsome. Anyone with two working eyes could make that statement.

“Thank you kindly. Would have been an awful way to go..getting smothered by a sack of sugar was not on my bingo card for the afternoon.” You brightly smiled at your figurative savior.

Joel thought your smile was pretty. There was a certain lightness that was held within your eyes and—what? He just met you, and so far you were..quirky. As he nicely put it to his brother later that evening.

“S’no problem. I agree, it woulda been an awful fuckin’ way to go. It’s a miracle I was here to save ya.” He stifled a warm chuckle.

You wiped your hands along the colorful apron that you always wore as you ushered him back around the counter as you rested your elbows along the wooden surface. “So, coffees on the house just this once. Go on and grab any mug that you like honey, and then what’ll you be having?”

“Do you call all your customers honey?” He couldn’t help but ask as he observed the rows of handmade mugs dangling above him.

“Yeah! It’s kinda like my trademark. I’ve also found it makes people’s day around here when you call them something sweet. Y’know?”

“Ahh so it’s not just for your favorites or anythin’ like that?” He reached for the largest mug that had a brown tinted rim with an intricately painted owl on the front of the mug. Despite the size of the mug, Joel’s hands dwarfed it down immensely. His hands completely engulfed it as he set it along the counter.

“Everyone is worthy of a sweet nickname in my eyes. Oh, this is one of my favorites” You softly spoke as he set the mug down along the counter. “Forgot to mention that you’ll get to keep the mug as well. Just another token of kindness around here.”

Joel looked confused by your statement at first because well, he was still adjusting to strangers being kind for no other reason other than they just wanted to. “Well…wouldn’t you run out of ‘em?”

“No, you silly goose. I make them myself, and there’s plenty to go around I promise. I let all my customers take a mug home in hopes that they come back again for another cup of coffee whenever they’d like. They’re good conversation starters as well. Take this one for example, I painted this guy after seeing an owl in the stables one evening. He sat still for me the entire time, and it was almost as if he wanted me to paint him. Isn’t that so cool?”

“You make these yourself? Wow, you’re uh—you’re really talented, Beanie. I am quite fond of owls..that’s why I picked that one..” he nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I make them all from scratch and then paint the details later. There’s one up there that I actually pressed flowers into the wet clay like a stencil and then painted in the petals and such after.”

“So, you’re like an artist then? I do a bit of wood workin’ myself. Ain’t all that good at it, but it’s a hobby that I guess I enjoy.” He wasn’t sure why he was finding it so easy to talk to you. The conversation just seemingly flowed between the two of you.

“Me? An artist? I suppose you could say that but I just do it for fun really..helps the time pass by and people seem to enjoy it so that’s just another bonus for me. I’m sure your wood sculptures are beautiful. It’s good to have a hobby like that.”

Joel nodded, clearing his throat. “Yeah, so uh—anyway I heard that this is the best..well, only place to get a cup of coffee in town. I’ve had a lot of coffee in my lifetime, so I am expectin’ the best. I’m a bit of a coffee snob, I'll admit it.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place because I am a bit of a coffee snob myself. So, what’ll you be having? I can make just about anything, which is pretty fucking incredible considering we’re living in a post apocalyptic world and all that. Least I can do is make a damn good cup of coffee.”

“As long as it’s better than that Starbucks crap that every goddamn person I knew used to eat up like it was fuckin’ gold or somethin.’” He chuckled. “Uh—just a latte would be good. I know, I don’t look like much of a latte man, but ya did say you could make jus’ about anythin’ so i’ll put that to the test.”

“I never understood the whole Starbucks hype myself. Not when there were perfectly good local coffee shops around but hey, to each their own right? Anyway, one latte coming right up!” You grabbed the mug from the counter gingerly before starting on his drink. He was of course naturally curious on where the hell you sourced your coffee beans. You must have been reading his mind or at that exact moment because you were answering his question before it ever left his brain.

“It’s amazing what you can find at old plant nurseries and greenhouses. You cannot believe the excitement on my face when I found a couple coffee plants at a nursery in Colorado. Maria lets me use part of the greenhouse for the plants and they surprisingly hold up pretty well in the winter.”

“Are you a mind reader now too?” He jokingly asked as he casually leaned against the countertop. “So, who gave you the nickname Beanie if you don’t mind me askin’? Does it stand for somethin’ or did it just stick?”

“Nah, I just have an incredible sense of intuition. Your brother Tommy so happened to have given me this nickname. It started off as the “latte girl” and then he started calling me Beanie because well, coffee beans. Then it just sorta stuck and now everyone that comes in here calls me that.”

“Ahh. Of course my brother gave you that nickname. Why am I not surprised? How long have you known him? I take it, you know who I am then? He’s got an awful big fuckin’ mouth that one.”

You had your back towards Joel as you were finishing up on his latte. Back before outbreak day, you owned a little coffee shop much like this one, in Austin Texas. The name of your shop was Cuppa Smiles, and it was like your baby. You were known for your cute little latte art that had your customers feeling extra special, even on the toughest days. Well, not every customer appreciated it…

“I’ve known your brother for a few years now Joel. I was found just on the outskirts of town in pretty rough shape. I thought I was toast when Tommy and Maria found me. Little did I know that I was about to be brought into this little slice of heaven. He actually told me a couple weeks ago that you’d probably be stopping in sometime. I’m glad that you did.” You had just finished your latte art that consisted of a heart with two eyes and a smiley face.

You presented the mug to him with a soft smile and as he looked down at the heart smiling up at him through a sea of cream colored foam, the realization suddenly dawned upon him that he had met you before. Back before the cordyceps took everything from him that he knew. Back before he slept with a rifle under his bed. Back before—

“You were the reason that I was always fuckin’ late to work!” He blurted out suddenly as if he was having an aha! Moment where the lightbulb was going off and yelling, ‘ding ding ding! We have a winner ladies and gentlemen!’

Confusion washed over your features at his sudden outburst as you looked between the mug and the broad man standing before you, trying to pinpoint if you had met Joel Miller before but how was that even possible…right?

“I’m..sorry? I don’t believe I understand what you’re talking about?” You looked at him as if he had suddenly sprouted five heads.

“I know you, I swear I know you because back in Austin there was this one fuckin’ barista that always was insisting on doin’ some silly little latte art on my coffee, and every goddamn time I was late to work, It was because of you!” He didn’t know whether to laugh or grow angry at his newfound realization. One thing was for sure, his mind was absolutely turned to dust.

You blinked and opened your mouth like a blubbering fish as Joel solidified the truth that you did in fact know one another in some capacity. You couldn’t help the feeling of your heart stinging a little at his comment about your silly latte art.

“Oh my god, you were that man always saying he was in a rush! I remember you’d fly into the shop with—”

“My daughter.” He finished the sentence for you with flushed cheeks that were rosy at the peaks of his cheekbones. His heart was nearly hammering out of his chest as the past he forced himself to let go of was suddenly coming rushing back to him.

“She liked the strawberry jelly filled donuts that we always had on display.” You tone lowered, sounding more like a soft whisper.

“She didn’t just like them, she loved those fuckin’ donuts.” His head dropped slightly as he took a deep breath. “M’sorry for yellin’ at you like that. It’s jus’ that you’re the first person I’m seein’ in over 20 years that’s from my past that isn’t my brother. It’s just—it’s a lot to process.”

“Joel, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize for reacting like that, okay? It was a normal human response. You did look familiar but I didn’t put two and two together till you brought up the latte art. I’m sorry I made you late for work all those times. I guess I just never picked up just how much in a rush you were..”

He was looking up at you now through thick lashes and warm espresso colored eyes that seemed to have flecks of gold in them, depending on the light they were in. “S’okay. I kept comin’ back because the coffee was that good, and cause Sarah loved those donuts..she thought your latte art was anythin’ but silly.”

“Well, I hope this cup lives up to what Cuppa Smiles used to deliver.”

“There’s only one way to find out.” Joel remarked as he wrapped his hands around the steaming mug. He took a small sip and instantly felt like he was back at home in Texas. It was an early Sunday morning, the mourning dove cooed outside the billowing curtains, Sarah called for her dad downstairs in the kitchen, stating that breakfast was ready. His favorite mug, and babygirl were waiting for him in the warm early morning light.

“Holy shit. This is delicious! How the hell did you get it to taste so good?” Joel asked as he took another sip.

“It just takes a bit of sugar, and lots and lots of love.” You responded with a soft smile gracing your features.

Tag List: @cupofjoel @morning-star-joy @thetriumphantpanda @sinsofsummers @dinsdjrn @cavillscurls @kirsteng42 @korynnekorynne @yazsos @amanitacowboy @ilovepedro @pedrostories

Please comment if you’d like to be added to the tag-list! ♡

Chapter 2:

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lincolndjarin · 1 year ago

Text

my sister lives in the attic.

main masterlist

joel miller x reader

warnings : angst, death, child loss, grieving, denial

a/n : i've never written something like this but i'm in a weird place and this idea has been following me for quite some time now so i decided to take a few minutes and write it, i'd love some feedback on it since this style is kinda new to me !!

He didn’t like to talk about his children.

“Do you have kids?”

“Two daughters.” Was all he said.

That’s what he had told you on your first date. He was so abrupt about it that you didn’t ask about them again, instead opting to wait until he told you on his own terms.

On your fifth date he told you that Ellie got in trouble for cursing in gym class that day.

On your seventh date he told you Sarah was away at college, and that he missed her terribly and wished she would visit.

On your eighth date he told you that Ellie made him a card for his birthday. He even brought it over to your house to show you. It was a drawing of the two of them floating through space. The inside said:

i love our family to the moon and back!

You didn’t ask why Sarah wasn’t included in the crayon family portrait.

On your ninth date he showed you the photos in his wallet. A baby girl with her curly dark hair up in two little buns sitting in the sand. The one below it was a girl who looked to be about five, giving the camera a toothy grin, standing next to Joel in a courthouse, holding up her adoption papers.

On your twelfth date he finally invited you over for dinner, you happily accepted.

Joel introduced you to an extremely energetic seven year old. He gave you a tour of the house (only the first floor.) and you smiled at every family photo hung on the walls.

“I invited Sarah but she couldn’t make it, she’s got midterms but I’m sure you’ll meet her soon.” He tells you before leaving you with Ellie, going to pick up a pizza for the three of you.

Ellie tells you about school, about her best friend Riley, and about playing soccer in the backyard with her father.

And then she says the strangest thing.

“My sister lives in the attic.”

“Excuse me?” You had given her a confused smile but she carried on as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“My sister, Sarah, lives in the attic.” She said it so plainly. Taking your hand and dragging you up the stairs, pointing up at a staircase on the second story that led to a singular door, pink paint peeling from it with little wooden letters spelling out SARAH, the sight of it put you on edge.

“We shouldn’t go up there honey, let’s wait until your father gets back.” You had put up a bit of resistance but she ran ahead of you, you watched helplessly from the bottom of the stairs as Ellie pushed open the door and ran inside.

“It’s okay, dad says I can talk to Sarah whenever I want as long as I don’t touch her stuff.” She had shouted, already inside. Despite every nerve in your body singing for you to go back downstairs and wait, you knew better than to leave a child alone so you climbed the steps and entered the room.

Nothing strange, nothing frightening, no secret nightmare.

When you look around all you see is a room, albeit a child's room but a room nonetheless.

Ellie sits in a love seat, suddenly repeating everything she told you about her day to seemingly no one as she stares at Sarah’s bookshelf. You walk around, trying to recall when Joel said she left for college. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust but strangest of all this is clearly not a teenager's room.

This is a childs room, for a girl about Ellie’s age. Every photo on her desk doesn’t show her older than what looks to be twelve.

“Ellie, honey, when you said your sister lived in the atti-'' She doesn’t stop talking from behind you, ignoring you entirely but her words stop you dead in your tracks.

“Dad keeps saying you’re coming home for Christmas but he also said you’d be home for his birthday, he keeps telling me how much we’re gonna get along but I just tell him we already get along fine.”

It sends a chill up your spine, you aren’t superstitious but in a moment of weakness when you turn a part of you almost expects to see a ghost.

Of course that isn’t the case.

When you look Ellie remains in the loveseat, seemingly the only thing that isn’t covered in dust up here. Her eyes trained on the highest shelf, when you follow her line of sight all of it starts to make sense. The shelf is covered in books and toys and trinkets, all of which are showing signs of age and disuse but the top shelf is neat and tidy, it even looks recently dusted.

Only two things are on the top shelf.

A beer bottle with the label ripped off, a lilac sits within it, a few stray petals lay in a halo around the makeshift vase.

And a dark purple urn.

You struggle to swallow the lump in your throat, unable to tear your eyes from it.

“One time Uncle Tommy told me she was an angel.” She whispers when you stare in silence for far too long. “Dad got so mad we didn’t see Tommy for like a month after that and when we did see him again everything went back to normal.”

“What happened to her?” You can’t stop yourself from asking, she only shrugs in response.

“It was before I lived here, I never ask, I’m worried he’ll send me to live with Uncle Tommy if I do.”

“Oh, honey.” You crouch down beside her, she hugs her knees to her chest. “He wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m still not gonna ask. He doesn’t talk about her that much, only when someone else brings it up or if I ask to come up here to see her.” You nod slowly before holding your arms out to her, she wraps herself around you and you carry her to the door, eager to leave the tomb you’ve stumbled upon. “Bye Sarah.” She mumbled against your shoulder as you closed the door, the sentiment sent shivers down your spine.

When Joel returns with the food it’s as if you never were in the attic at all.

Ellie runs to him, wrapping herself around his leg as he laughs, trying to kick her loose.

When the three of you sit down for dinner she never says a thing to him about any of it.

She asks if she can go to her friends house after dinner, their mom is going to take them to the arcade, Joel grins at you, asking if she was good while he was gone and you put on a smile, nodding.

“Then you can go.” He ruffled her hair before she ran off to get her backpack. When it was just the two of you he took your hand, mentioning something about catching a movie while she’s gone, you nodded absentmindedly when he gave your hand a gentle squeeze you finally looked him in the eye.

You’d never noticed it before but there is a permanent sorrow behind the dark expanse of his irises, as if he’s never really happy, he’s sometimes just less sad. “Everything okay?” He asked.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

You don’t bring up the attic at the dinner table.

Or in the car.

Or at the movies.

He just needs time, you tell yourself. Maybe he’ll tell you on your thirteenth date, maybe it won’t be until your hundredth date. Until then you won’t tell him that you know who lives in the attic and you’ll nod with faux disappointment when he says that his eldest won’t be home for the holidays this year.

And you’ll take extra care of him on days when he comes home with fresh lilacs.

a/n : yeah so uhhhhhhhhhh tell me how y'all liked this haha idk if i'll write anything like this again it was just sort of something for me to vent with, hope everyones having a good day and thank y'all for reading <3

#lincolndjarin #one shot #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller x reader #tlou joel #joel tlou #the last of us hbo #the last of us #tlou #joel the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel and ellie #sarah miller

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cowgurrrl · 1 year ago

Note

Hi! Love the writing. Could I please request Joel with teenage twins. I just think him being caught in the middle of two teenagers fighting about who stole who’s shirt and being scared for his life is hilarious and kind of sweet.

Holy shit i love this

Salad Days

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader

Author's note: you know that video of Dave Grohl where he's talking about being a dad and the best part and he goes, "Having children that don't fucking care that you're a rockstar. My kids don't give a shit if I'm in the Foo Fighters. They're like 'Daddy, I need a smoothie 🙄 NOW." That's what this gives.

Summary: The T-Shirt Coup [1.2k]

Warnings: the girls are sixteen in this, that's literally it

"Sophia Parker and Violet Isabelle Miller! If you're not down here in five minutes, I'm leavin' without you!" You yell up the stairs. Joel chuckles from his place at the kitchen counter, shoveling cereal into his mouth like it's his last meal, and you give him a look. "What?"

"You had an accent when you yelled at them." He says. You scoff and walk over to him, stealing a sip of coffee from his mug.

"I did not."

"You totally did."

"Even if I did, which I didn't, you should take it as a compliment." You say, busying yourself with some mail left on the counter. You feel him raise his eyebrows before you see it, and he puts down his bowl to wrap an arm around your waist and pull you into his chest until your shoulder presses into his sternum. You ignore him and his stupid Laker's shirt he knows you love and read the same letter from the girls' school over and over again.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"I've been married to you for twenty-two years, and you're just now finally rubbing off on me. It's something to celebrate, really." You snark, and he laughs. It's one of his big, full laughs that makes him throw his head back. The sight makes your heart shine.

"You're an asshole." He says lovingly, taking the mail he knows you don't care about out of your hand and turning you so he can have your full attention.

"Yeah, yeah," you laugh as you lock your arms around his shoulders. "What do you have planned for today, Mr. Miller?" You ask, and he sighs.

"I gotta go into the studio. We just signed a new band, and we're havin' a meeting to talk about the next album," he says. Despite the annoyed tone he's adopted, you can see how excited he is about this new venture. He loves allowing new, young bands to make something fresh. He says it keeps him young. You know it's what he was meant to do all along. "What bout you? What're you doin' today, Mrs. Miller?"

"One of my old students has a project they want to pitch for me to produce. She's brilliant and an amazing writer, so I'm sure I'll say yes and shell out all our money."

"For the children," he says dramatically, and you laugh. "She's lucky to have you in her corner. I'm sure it'll be great." His words hit right where they need to, and you press yourself closer to him.

"You're a sap." Your words ghost over his lips, and his hand slides into your back pocket like always.

"Yeah, yeah." He breathes. You're less than an inch apart, and it wouldn't take much movement to actually kiss him, but you like being this close to him. You like counting all his freckles and watching him try to decide who will be the first to break. His lips barely graze yours when suddenly stomping feet and a loud argument make their way down the stairs and into the kitchen. You take a deep breath as you and Joel turn to look at the girls, who barely acknowledge how you're wrapped up in each other because they always see you being affectionate with each other. Joel Miller has not gotten more subtle about his PDA in his old age.

"Mom, please tell Violet this is my shirt!" Sophia demands, tugging on the fabric of a worn UT shirt.

"I literally wore it last week! You commented on it and everything!" Violet looks to you. "Do you remember, Mom? I was wearing it when we went to Trader Joe's on Thursday."

"That's true. You were," you say, making Sophia's jaw drop. Of the two, Sophia has always had a little more flair for the dramatics, something she definitely gets from you. On more than one occasion, Sophia has done or said something ridiculous, and Joel bursts out laughing because he thinks it's something you would do or say. "But Vi, I told you last week that you stole my shirt from my closet, and I wanted it back. I thought you were gonna, at least, wash it first."

"Ew! You didn't wash it?!" Sophia screeches.

"Of course, I did, dipshit! I just... forgot Mom wanted it back."

"Wait a second," Joel says, finally catching up with the argument. He looks between the shirt and the three of you before tilting his head to give you an are-you-fucking-serious-right-now look. "I've been lookin' for that for weeks! That's my shirt." He says. Suddenly, it all connects. You stole it from Joel. Violet stole it from you. Sophia stole it from Violet. As the realization settles over the room, Sophia walks over to Joel, puts her hand on his shoulder, and squeezes like a disappointed teacher.

"Our shirt."

"Communism shirt!" Violet yells, making you laugh so hard that you stumble against Joel.

"You can't just yell 'communism shirt' and expect me to not want my shirt back." He tries to argue.

"Dad! You're not listening. It's a community shirt. Get with the times, old man."

"Old man?!"

"Hey, I happen to think he's a very hot and sexy old man." You jump in, and the girls groan.

"Thank you, baby," Joel says as he kisses you firmly. The girls boo and pretend to cover their eyes in disgust, making you all laugh. You pull away from Joel, but he chases your lips for a few quick kisses until he finally lets you go.

"We're gonna be late if we keep talking about the communism shirt. Girls get in the car, please," you say, stealing one more sip of coffee from Joel's cup, and the girls groan in protest as they slip on their backpacks and walk to the front door. You smile as you look at Joel, alone again for just a second. "You gotta start hiding your shirts better otherwise, they're all gonna become Marxist property."

"This is somethin' they should really put in the parenting books," he says, and you laugh. He grabs your purse from the kitchen table for you and kisses you again as he slides it up your arm. "Love you."

"Love you, too. Let me know how the album meeting goes."

"Let me know how the pitch goes." He echoes. This is how much of your life has been together: letting each other go and make creative decisions while supporting them no matter how they play out. Many Hollywood couples get divorced because they can't learn how to give their partner the support and patience they need to create art. You and Joel have always been good about making sure the other feels supported and heard but not weighed down by differing artistic opinions or thoughts. He has his work, and you have yours, and you make it work. It's one of the reasons you love him so much. That and the fact that he still walks you to your car and opens the door for you after more than twenty years together. Granted, he smacks your ass in front of your daughters while you're climbing into the car, but that's par for the course.

He blows kisses to his teenage daughters in the backseat and waves as you roll down the driveway, standing there until you disappear around the corner. His cologne is imprinted on your shirt collar, and you can still feel his lips on yours when Sophia sits up in her seat.

"I can't believe Dad didn't know about communism shirt."

#rockstar!joel miller x actress!reader #one for the money two for the show #one for the money two for the show request #rockstar!joel #rockstar!joel was built to be a dad/husband #the last of us au #tlou au #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #joel miller the last of us #joel miller x reader #joel miller series #tlou fluff #the last of us fluff

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agxxb · 10 months ago

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Girl Problems .𖥔 ݁ ˖

joel miller x f!reader (x adopted daughter!ellie)

summary: when ellie faces some girl problems, she needs reassurance. luckily, you’re always there for her.

warnings: fluff. use of pet names (sweetheart, els). talks/mentions of periods. [391]

When Joel had mentioned about Ellie wanting to speak to you privately, your first thought was she wanted to gossip. Having you as someone she classed as both a mother figure and a best friend, Ellie often came to you when she wanted to talk shit or get something off her chest.

However, once you saw her, you knew that wasn’t the case. She seemed nervous, which was rare for the young girl. You were stood in the kitchen, making a hot chocolate for Ellie and a tea for yourself.

“You okay, Els?” you asked in a soft tone, turning around and placing the hot drink in front of her.

“Yeah, I just…” The teenager took a deep breath, eyes focused on the swirls of the cream that sat atop the hot chocolate. “It is natural, to miss a… period?”

The last word was spoken a lot quieter, your ears only just picking up on it. You smiled gently, bringing your own drink to your lips for a quick sip.

“It is natural. Why, is that what’s happened?”

Ellie nodded in reply. “I got it the month before, but it never came last month.”

“Sometimes, our cycle can get a bit messed up because of our hormones being disrupted. Like, stress or too much exercise.”

Ellie nodded again, taking a deep breath. “I just got worried… it’s never happened before and I didn’t know what to do.”

“You can always come to me, Sweetheart. No matter what it is.” You reached a crossed the table and placed your hand on top of hers, a comforting gesture.

“Thanks. Joel can be a bit awkward sometimes, it’s nice to have you here.”

You almost teared up at her words. You had always wanted a daughter, someone to care for and love with your entire being. When you had met Joel, it wasn’t long after the outbreak; He was still heartbroken by the loss of Sarah and was adamant on never having another kid.

Then you met Ellie.

Sure, she was a little troublemaker, but you cared for her the moment you were introduced. A young girl with no family, no one to trust, and nowhere to call home. Ellie made you feel like you truly had that family you had always dreamed of: you, her, and Joel.

“And I’m always gonna be here.”

#agxxb #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction #ellie williams blurb #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams x reader #ellie the last of us #ellie williams #ellie tlou #fluff #the last of us fluff #tlou fluff #tlou blurb #the last of us blurb

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lady-bess · 8 months ago

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Birthday Wishes

Joel Miller x F!Reader Teen/ 13+ (References to sex - all implied) 1.7k words Notable tags: Fluff, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Surprise, Kisses, Soft Joel, Reader is Joel's wife, Use of Pet Names.

A/N: For my dear friend, Mrs. Miller herself, @joels-darlin 💕 I hope you have a wonderful birthday 🥰 Consider this just a small thank you for putting up with me!

Lots of love,

LadyBess xox

Tumblr Masterlist | A03 Link

“Darlin’?” Joel called out into your bedroom, the light from the hallway shining through as he gently cracked open the door.

You stirred in bed, rousing yourself from slumber slowly, letting the warm glow from the hallway lamp gently seep in behind heavy eyelids. Inhaling sharply, you grunted softly as you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand, ridding them of sleep.

“Joel?” you questioned, not awake enough to know if you were actually conscious, or if you were just dreaming about your husband. But the chuckle that emanated from the tall, broad figure which strode towards you helped you see that you were very much awake.

“It’s only me, sweet thing. Woke you from quite a slumber here, haven’t I?” he said, heading towards the bed so that he could perch on the edge of it. You smiled up at him, your vision now focusing in on him at last. His dark brown hair, curled towards the end of his locks, was still mussed up from sleep. His facial hair, patchy in parts, was slowly starting to grow back in and take form as a proper beard rather than the usual scruff he donned. But his eyes - warm, golden brown, and shining in the light - they were what you focused on the most.

“Yeah, I was out cold,” you chuckled, “What time is it, anyway?”.

“Time the birthday girl woke up,” Joel teased, leaning forward and catching your lips in a tender kiss. You smiled against his lips as you kissed him back, but whined playfully when he pulled away.

“Joel, you know I said I don’t want you making a fuss about my birthday,” you said. You’d hated your birthday for years, seeing it as nothing more than a reminder that you were getting older, and that it had been another year since the world went to shit. But, in spite of all what could get you down if you chose to lament on it, Joel was one bright spark in everything. Life in Jackson was entirely different with him by your side - and for all the best reasons.

“Yeah, I know whatcha said; but that don’t mean I’m gonna listen now, does it?” he said, chuckling to himself as he got to his feet. He turned on his heels, facing you to lean down, his arm outstretched towards you. With a hand open, you grinned, and decided you’d indulge in whatever Joel had insisted on spoiling you with.

“Fine,” you giggled, taking his hand and letting him guide you out of bed.

“Good girl,” he said, squeezing your hand as you rose to stand by his side. You shuddered slightly at the praise, the phrase usually being something only reserved for when the two of you would get caught up with each other in the sheets - something that did not pass Joel by, as he smirked at the visible redness you felt creep onto your cheeks.

“Come on now,” he said, and with that he led you out the bedroom and downstairs towards your lounge.

“Where’s Ellie?” you asked, somewhat suspicious that there was a distinct silence in the house. She’d inadvertently become your adopted daughter since you and Joel had begun dating, but you took to each other almost overnight. For as much as you’d curse her the mornings she had you up early even after a late night on patrol, you loved her to the end of the earth, and with a single sweet smile she could undo any annoyance you held.

“Never you mind that,” Joel chuckled, “Gosh darn it, you are just so impatient aren’t ya?” he asked.

“It’s not that! I’m just not used to a quiet house,” you giggled.

“Alright, you got me there. I ain’t never met a teenager who can be so rowdy,” he said, still clutching your hand as the two of you reached the bottom of your staircase.

“Should have met me in my hay-day,” you teased, smirking at Joel. His eyes went wide at you, a childish grin creeping onto his face.

“Oh, sugar, I can imagine you causing all sortsa trouble,” he said, stopping in his tracks briefly to pull you in for a kiss. You smiled as you wrapped your arms around his torso, holding his broad frame close to yours, enveloping yourself in his warmth as your lips melded together. His tongue gently lapped at the seam of your lips, almost begging for entry. But before you could grant it, he pulled away.

“How about you be on your best behaviour today, and as a little birthday treat I’ll let you misbehave with me tonight, yeah?” he murmured between your lips, his breath hot against your skin, his words sending another shiver down your spine. All you could do was purse your lips together, nodding slowly as arousal surged through you.

“Atta girl,” he said, landing a gentle spank to your ass before going back to take your hand.

This man, you thought to yourself.

“Come on, onwards we go!” he said, starting to walk you along the hallway and down towards the lounge.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” you said, ignoring the playful eyebrow raise Joel gave you for the euphemism.

You both reached the door to your lounge, and Joel stopped in his tracks. He let go of your hand but turned to face you.

“Okay, close your eyes,” he said.

“What?” you asked.

“I said close your eyes, fool!” he chuckled, then moved to stand behind you. He pulled your body flush into his, his hands landing on your hips and a kiss planted itself on your earlobe.

“What if I don’t want to?” you teased. Joel groaned to himself, squeezing your hips gently as he rested his head on your shoulder.

“It’s a good job I love you some days,” he chuckled, then raised his hands up towards your head by skimming them up your body. The rough pads of calloused fingers, evidence of a life lived hard, now gently caressed the material of your nightwear, a stark contrast to the man you first met. What was once a stoic, rough outer shell, had given way to a soft and tender core.

“I’m gonna cover your eyes, sugar. Got a surprise waiting for you in there,” he said. You were about to protest, tell him how unnecessary this all was, and that you could just walk straight in. But it was like Joel somehow knew those cogs were whirring away in your head, and with a soft kiss to your jaw, the thoughts ceased entirely.

“And I won’t take no for an answer. Got it?” he asked. You nodded, deciding you were going to allow him this one.

Joel raised his hands and gently covered your eyes with the palms of his hands. You smiled as he did, reaching up to hold his wrists for a little stability now that you were essentially blinded.

“Okay, take two steps forward, then the door handle is on the left,” he said, and the two of you shuffled forward closer to the door. You reached forward to find the cold metal of the handle, smiling to yourself as you did.

“I know where the handle is to my own lounge door, Joel,” you teased, sarcasm laced in your voice. But before he could quip back, the metal clunk of the handle sounded, and slowly the door began to creak open in front of you.

“Alright, smart ass, just a few more steps for me,” Joel said, and you both continued to gently step forward, his body still firmly pressing into yours. Even without sight, Joel’s presence behind you gave you a stability you so adored - something he had provided since your first meeting, without even realising it.

“Okay, I’m gonna take my hands off now. Are you ready?” he asked.

“I’m ready,” you said, letting go of Joel’s wrists.

“Alright. Three, two, one,” he began, and light flooded through behind your eyes as Joel’s hands lifted off your eyes. You opened them slowly, only to be greeted with a sea of smiling faces.

“Happy birthday!” was cheered from the voices of all those in Jackson you loved the most. Joel, Tommy, and Ellie were the loudest, as to be expected. But there were also your friends and neighbours, notably Elizabeth and Brianna, whom you’d worked alongside since arriving in Jackson.

Your heart swelled with love and adoration as you looked out at everyone in the room, all happily together in a room filled with handmade presents wrapped in brown paper, and platters of delicious looking food out on the table in front of you. A small tear crept into the corner of your eye, taken back by the kindness and selflessness of all these people you loved so dearly. Joel’s hands on your waist was the only thing that brought you hurtling back to reality.

“You alright, doll?” he said. You nodded, smiling out at everyone before turning to him.

“I am, yes,” you said. “Thank you for this, Joel.”

“Don’t thank me. You’ve got Ellie, Bess, and Bri to thank for this,” he said, “I was just the ring leader who told everyone what time you slept in until,” he chuckled.

“Hey, no fair! This was my idea!” Ellie proudly exclaimed, folding her arms over her puffed out chest, pleased as punch for how this morning had turned out. You laughed with her, stepping away from Joel and heading over to her, pulling her in for a hug.

“Thank you, Ellie. Thank you, everyone,” you said.

The day was spent unwrapping delicately made gifts, eating an ungodly amount of food, and laughing and joking with everyone you loved most in the world. You’d had such a good time that you’d almost forgotten that today was meant to be for your birthday, a day you often resented. But, just as with most things in your life, Joel had found a way to bring some sunshine into it.

Even at the end of the world, there was hope littered throughout, in moments like these. On days like today, it was easy to forget the torment you’d all endured, and that you’d had to fight tooth and nail just to survive for this long. In a way, this felt like a well deserved reward for making it so long.

But for you, the real prize was the man who took you to bed that night, keeping to his promise to let you misbehave, and keeping you up until the early morning seeing stars.

Tumblr Masterlist | A03 Profile

#pedro pascal #fanfiction #fanfic #joel miller #joel #the last of us #tlou #post outbreak #soft joel #married joel #domestic joel #birthday #birthday gift #joel being a sweet little menace #fluff #implied sex

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pagesfromthevoid · 2 years ago

Text

Safe & Sound | j.m. | 4

Joel Miller x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Canon levels of violence. Murder.

Author's Note: Listen. All I want is a man who is soft for me and our adopted child, but is also willing to straight up murder someone for me.

Series Masterlist | Talk to Me!

Something shifted between the two of them after Joel admitted what he’d really done to the man beyond the fence. It was an unspoken change; something that she didn’t quite understand because she realized she didn’t quite understand Joel overall. But it was within this change that she realized he cared.

Joel Miller cared about her.

He always had.

The cold, jaded smuggler —who made it clear to her the second time he’d kissed her, for her 25th birthday, that what they were doing was a favor and nothing more. Who told her that he wouldn’t touch her beyond hands in her hair or on her hips. Who insisted that every kiss was careless and simply to give her some semblance of experience. To experience intimacy without strings attached —fucking cared about her. Enough so that he did terrible things to the man that tricked her and got her to leave the safety of her uncle’s fence.

It wasn’t that she thought he didn’t. She always assumed he kind of cared, just a little bit. If anything, she hoped he had simply because it made kissing him feel less impersonal. But after what happened, with the man from the QZ, she had stopped stealing kisses from Joel. Stopped wanting to feel any kind of intimacy, because it had been ripped away from her.

But now that she knew what he’d done —for her —things had shifted. Frank had always warned her that Joel was not a good person; neither was Tess for that matter. She always knew that neither of them were good people. But knowing that Joel did something genuinely sadistic because someone had hurt her…

It excited her. Made her feel desired, and looked after. But it made her excited to think that Joel —who had insisted that kissing her meant nothing. That he didn’t care if she talked to anyone else because they weren’t anything —hurt someone for her.

Killed someone for her.

The end of the world really fucked a person’s perspective up.

The shift in their behavior wasn’t all that noticeable –not really, at least. Joel was still stubborn and annoyed with both her and Ellie whenever they spoke too much. And there was still a semi-permanent scowl on his face as they drove. But occasionally –when he thought she wasn’t looking –he’d glance at her. Glance at her lips, then her hands. And just barely –she could see the tug at the corner of his lips. And it made her heart pound in her ears.

But any moment of normalcy was stripped away when they stopped in the middle of a graveyard of cars, just outside Kansas City.

“We’re gonna have to go through the city,” Joel huffed, hands on his hips as they looked up at the blocked highway tunnel.

She climbed on top of a car, peering through the rubble the best she could. “It’s clear on the other side. Isn’t there another exit we could go back to?”

Joel glanced at Ellie, who held the map in her hands. “Don’t look at me,” Ellie started, putting her hands up. “FEDRA didn’t teach me to read maps, remember?”

“God, you’re lucky you’re funny,” she teased, hopping off the car she stood on and walking back to the teenager to take the map from her. “Because you’re kind of useless otherwise.”

“Wow, fuck you too.”

“I’m only joking,” she reassured, elbowing Ellie with a grin. The girl still mumbled under her breath, but peered over her shoulder. “There’s an exit like two miles back we can go back to.”

“Might still be quicker to get through the city,” Joel argued, taking the map from her to look it over himself. Their fingers brushed against one another, and she glanced up to see if he even noticed.

“And run the risk of infected? Or raiders?”

“Runnin’ that risk regardless,” he reminded her, giving her a pointed look as he returned the map to her and made his way back to the truck.

Ellie and her shared a look, before following after him. The teenager peered into cars, but she grabbed Ellie’s backpack and tugged her along. There were plenty of dead bodies in these cars, and she wasn’t sure what Ellie had seen in her life –but she would rather the teenager not see more than necessary.

“Okay mom,” Ellie groaned, pulling her arms out of her backpack straps and letting the weight drop.

“We need one of those leashes parents used to put on their kids,” she mused, adjusting her hold on the backpack before she tossed it into the backseat of the truck. “You remember those?”

Joel chuckled, earning a smile from her as she looked up at him. “Oh, I remember. Had one for my –,”

But he stopped, and the smile he had given her dropped. For a moment, she considered reassuring him –telling him that it was okay to talk about his kid. But she knew better than to try; not right now anyway. Her brow furrowed as Ellie climbed into the backseat, not noticing the sudden shift in Joel. As far as Ellie was concerned, Joel was always like that –it didn’t mean much.

She hopped into the front seat, keeping her eyes on the road in front of them as Joel backed away and moved to find them a better route.

*****

“Where the fuck is the highway?” Joel snapped, looking around the streets. “It’s gotta be right –it’s gotta be –,”

“Joel!” Ellie exclaimed, hitting both her and Joel to point out the window. “Isn’t that the QZ?”

“Where’s FEDRA?” She asked, looking up at Joel in confusion.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, realizing what had happened there. As he was about to explain, however, someone started crying out for help. She turned to face the cries, reaching out to grab his arm but he pushed her away.

“Put your seatbelts on,” he ordered, looking back at Ellie to make sure she was following orders.

“Aren’t we going to help him?” Ellie asked, but Joel shook his head as the tires squealed against the pavement and he took off.

The man cursed at them, jumping out of the way, but she grabbed his arm and yelled out, pointing just too late as a cinder block crashed into the windshield. Ellie ducked behind him, and she dug through her bag to pull out her gun as shots rang out around them. Joel cursed angrily, whipping around a turn –only to have nails tear apart the tires. She held the gun out the window, shooting blindly at their attackers, as a barrage of bullets ripped through the windows. He pushed her down, forcing her to duck, as he drove into a storefront.

Gunfire rang out around them, but he turned to look over Ellie, making sure she was okay. Confirming she was, he turned to the passenger seat, where she was holding a bloody hand covered in glass. But she didn’t seem phased, shoving the door open and sliding to the ground. Ellie followed close behind and she wrapped her arms around the teenager, keeping her close, as Joel joined them outside the truck.

“You see that hole?” He demanded, pulling his shotgun from the backseat and cocking it. Ellie nodded, breathing heavily as a shot shattered another window of the truck. “When I tell you, both of you, get through that hole. Do not come out ‘til I tell you to –understand me?”

Ellie nodded frantically, trying to pull away from her to get closer to Joel. She, however, shook her head. “You’re not taking them on alone,” she snapped at him, reloading her gun and cocking it.

“Yes, I fuckin’ am,” he snapped at her, pushing her towards Ellie. “You’re hurt, and I need someone to –go,”

The gunfire ceased, just momentarily, and Joel shoved her towards the hole in the wall. Ellie was ahead of her, slipping through the drywall with ease. She hesitated, looking back at him with weary eyes, before finally squeezing through with a bit more effort. He kept his eyes on that spot for a moment, before finally moving to take aim at their attackers.

One shot hit, and silence followed for a moment before the other shooter started screaming at him. Joel moved to reload, ducking back down against the truck, only for the gun to jam in his hands. He made a sound of anger, trying to fix it. Just in time, the other hostile came after him —but a gunshot rang out and his would-be attacker dropped.

He looked to the hole in the wall, where she was perched with her aim at the hostile on the floor. Chest tightening at the sight, he took a breath as she pulled back, no doubt to check on Ellie. When he went to retrieve his gun, however, someone grabbed him from behind and threw him to the ground.

Joel kicked out, trying to pry the gun from his throat, to catch his breath. But he couldn’t get a firm grip, and could feel the oxygen rapidly leaving his lungs. Vaguely, he could hear Ellie’s voice, arguing with her about something, before his vision started to get spotty.

But another gunshot rang through his ears, and the air flooded Joel’s lungs again as he watched through blurry eyes as his attacker was swung at with a pipe and dropped to the ground. Ellie clutched the gun in her hands as she gripped the bloody pipe like a lifeline.

She stood there, grasping the lead pipe in her hands like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Blood dripped off the end of the weapon, and a closer eye would notice it was trembling. Joel was pushing onto his hands and knees, trying to regain his breath, though his eyes were glued to her. When he managed to push himself from the ground, he turned to both of his girls.

“Why did that feel so much worse than shooting him?” She whispered, as Joel pried the pipe from her grip.

“Because it was more violent,” he explained softly, though his voice was hoarse from being choked out. Ellie held the gun out to him to take, but he just stared at her for a moment before tossing the pipe to the side.

“Oh, yeah,” she managed to say, and he could hear the shock that laced her voice. “That…that makes sense.”

“We need to get outta here before more come,” he commanded, taking Ellie’s arm in his hand to haul her with him. “We need to get higher up; find out how to get outta here.”

Ellie nodded once, reaching out to take her hand. The touch seemed to bring her back to reality, and Joel watched as she turned to look down at the teenager with a glassy eyed stare. Joel let Ellie go, letting the two cling to one another as he motioned them forward and towards the back door of the store.

*****

It took several hours, but they did eventually get to the tallest building they could find. Joel had spent several of those hours trying to apologize to both Ellie and her for having to shoot and kill people —but Ellie finally managed to get him to stop by telling him it wasn’t the first time she’d killed someone.

The admission seemed to surprise both her and Joel, but Ellie blew off the concerns and started trekking up the stairs of the building. Ellie, in trying to avoid talking about her first time killing someone, asked if she had ever killed someone. To which she simply said no, and moved on to climb the stairs ahead of them. Ellie wondered if Joel was going to bug her later, when he thought the teenager was asleep.

In hindsight, having Joel climb forty something flights of stairs was stupid. However, it was his idea and Ellie was quick to remind him of that after they finally made it to the top and he fell against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

“Finally showing your age, cowboy,” she suddenly joked —the first thing she’d said in hours —as she leaned against the wall next to him.

Ellie waited for him to scold her for the cowboy comment but it never came. Pretending to not listen to them, Ellie peered into a handful of opened doors, looking around. However, she kept a close ear and eye on what they were saying and doing, even as she moved through the hallway.

“Guess we’re even now,” she was saying, looking down at Joel.

“Don’t say shit like that,” he warned, shaking his head as he ran his hands over his face. “You shouldn’t’ve —you didn’t need to —,”

“You were being strangled to death,” she reminded him, and her voice was suddenly shaking; Ellie could hear it clear as day as Joel finally stood up again. “I couldn’t —Ellie needs you, and I…I need you, Joel.”

Ellie’s hand froze on a door knob, listening closely as she realized what was happening. From the corner of her eye, Ellie could see her offering her hand to Joel, who was looking up at her with the nicest fucking look he's had ever and Ellie was genuinely just shocked. She was telling Joel she had a thing for him! In the middle of the fucking apocalypse, while they were being hunted down!

“Holy shit,” Ellie whispered to herself, and it must have caught their attention because they stepped away from one another and towards her.

“Find anything?” She asked, hauling her backpack over her shoulder as she joined Ellie at the door.

“Cleanest room I could find,” Ellie offered with a grin. “Must have been like, a honeymoon suite or something.”

She gave Ellie a weird look as Joel approached, pushing past them and into the room. Ellie gave her a thumbs up, smiling at her knowingly before following after Joel into the room.

From behind her, Ellie heard Frank’s niece simply ask herself, “What the fuck?”

———

Taglist (OPEN): @aheadfullofsteverogers @jasminedragoon @buzzing-honeybee @garbo-lesbo @pedr0swh0r3 @boofy1998 @taraiell @mymindfuckery @starkleila

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller imagine #joel miller tlou #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction

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