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shellshocklove · 7 months ago

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does anyone know where the love of god goes? | joel miller

pairing/AU: joel miller x female!reader – post breakout & no ellie AU

summary: crossing the country alone as he searches for his brother, joel stumbles on a farm. winter is closing in, and against his better judgement he's convinced to stay. as the frost covers the land like a blanket, a warmth ignites in his heart for the young woman who's home he finds himself in.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so minors dni!!! canon-typical violence, age gap (reader is mid to late twenties), swearing, dead animals, joel being a sad man, masturbation, no use of y/n

a/n: i soft launched this ao3 last month and it flopped lol so i'm gonna keep my expectations low for this series. anyways this has been a story i've been thinking about since probably october. this is the first part of what i'm hoping will be 3 parts. happy reading i guess

main masterlist / series masterlist / ao3 / playlist

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 this account stands with palestine. the creator of tlou is a zionist, and the second game is largly based on israel/palestine. please, everyone who interacts, educate yourself about the genocide happening right now, and support/donate.

The leaves rustled against Joel’s boots with every step he took. The sun had turned traitor cold, and he couldn’t feel its kiss against his cheek no more. The trees shivered above him in the wind – the only sound for miles except his heavy steps.

Did he still exist, with no one around? Joel had never minded being alone; after the breakout he’d found that he sometimes preferred it. People could be… well, when you’ve seen the worst of humanity, maybe it’s best to leave it behind.

And wasn’t he the worst of humanity? The things he’d done. The people he’d killed, and killed for. The people he’d lost.

But he had to keep going. For Tess. He promised.

Every night as he stared into the flames his thoughts would drift to her – the memories flickering in the fire. They should’ve never gone through that museum – it was supposed to have been empty – they should’ve never left Boston in the first place. Now Tess is gone because of him, him and his stupid plan to find his brother.

And for what? How is he ever gonna find Tommy?

Joel didn’t even know where he was. Nebraska? South-Dakota? Maybe he’d made it to Wyoming and just didn’t know it? Abe had told him ‘Cody Tower’, but Joel hadn’t seen anything other than mother nature for weeks.

Everything had started to look the same. Trees and more trees, a mountain in the distance, a grey and heavy sky above him. He’d been walking for forever. Slowly he moved west– or at least he thought he was. On the days where the sun hung high in the sky and wasn’t shielded behind a cloudy partition, he liked to watch it as it dipped below the earth. As the days turned shorter and shorter, the display of color had started to get more vivid. Joel would watch the light blue turn red and bloody, fiery tongues of flames licking over the horizon while the sharp edges of the mountains, and the triangular shapes of the trees faded into an intense black– like the shape of the mountain and the trees had been cut out with scissors. There wasn’t much to stay alive for anymore– but Joel lived for those few moments where nature painted with fire. Humanity might’ve gone to shit, but the cyclical regularity of mother nature gave Joel a small sense of peace.

But he missed the kiss of the sun against his cheek now. He’d moved into a large forest a few days ago. Tall trees hovered over him like giants and cast shadows down at him. It was colder here than out in the open country, but at least he’d been somewhat shaded from the rain pouring from the grey cover above his head the last few days.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound stopped Joel in his tracks. Muscle memory worked on its own, gripping the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He listened for the sound again, to the steady rhythm echoing through the forest.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

With slow calculated steps Joel walked in the direction of the sound with the shotgun held tightly to his chest, his finger hovered over the trigger. The chopping sound got louder as he closed in on a man. He couldn’t tell his age with the man’s back turned – but he was strong – Joel could tell from how hard the man’s axe hit the tree trunk.

Taking another silent step, Joel got in position, “How ‘bout you slowly turn around and place that axe on the ground.”

Joel’s voice was hoarse after no use, but still cold and calculated as he spoke his order. He could see he’d startled the man, probably thinking he was alone, just like Joel had thought mere minutes ago.

The man obeyed, turning around slowly. He was older than Joel, maybe mid-seventies, maybe older if the wrinkles and creases around his eyes and nose were to be believed. His hair was white as snow matching his unkempt beard. Joel caught his eye. Strong and steady, no trace of fear one would think a man would feel while having a gun pointed at them.

Joel’s grip around the gun tightened. He wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if that’s where this was headed. The man watched him calmly before he bent his knees, throwing the axe haphazardly on the ground.

“Kick it over here,” Joel commanded again, and the man obeyed, kicking the axe clumsily towards Joel.

Slowly Joel crept closer, gun still pointed at the man. He locked the heel of his shoe against the shaft, dragging the axe behind him and out of the way.

“Hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Are you going to kill me, son?”

The man’s question puzzled Joel. He said it so calmly, like how you’d ask someone to pass the salt.

“That depends on you.” Joel’s answer pulled at the old man’s lips, a small huff of a laugh escaping them.

“Well, you’re the one with the gun. I think it depends on you.”

Joel tightened his grip on the shotgun again – he didn’t know why –to frighten the man? He didn’t seem very frightened.

“Are you alone?” Joel asked.

“Not anymore,” the man answered.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Joel gritted through his teeth, “who you travelin’ with?”

“No one,” the man’s eyes never left Joel, “I live at a farm about a mile away.”

“Take me to it.”

The man walked with a limp Joel noticed. It was barely there, you wouldn’t see it if you didn’t pay attention, but it was there. The man acted tough enough, but his body revealed his weaknesses. It would be easy to kill him, Joel thought, if it came to that.

He followed the man through the trees with his gun pointed at his back. When they reached the end of the forest a clearing revealed itself. They followed a path through a field of, tall but wilted, brown grass until they reached an overgrown gravel road with a fence running along it. Looking out in the distance, Joel could see small spots of white and black wool. The gravel moaned under their feet as they closed in on a small farm. A two-story house sat in the middle of the barnyard where it was surrounded by a barn who’d seen better days, a silo, and a smaller farmhouse – a stable – Joel noticed as they walked closer.

The man trudged up the front stairs of the main farmhouse, a hand on the handrail keeping him steady.

“Put that gun away would you, son? I don’t want you frightening my wife.” The man broke the silence between them, speaking for the first time since they left the woods.

Joel’s grip on his shotgun didn’t loosen. How could he be sure that this man’s ‘wife’ wasn’t some gang of raiders hiding behind the front door? A question he asked the man through gritted teeth when he turned around to look at Joel.

“There’s nothing of the sort around here,” the man said, “we don’t even see any infected.”

When Joel didn’t say anything, and didn’t lower the gun, the man spoke again, “Who are you?”

“Just someone passin’ through,” Joel answered, making the man chuckle.

“You’re something else, passer-througher,” the old man smiled before he turned around again and stepped inside, leaving Joel on the porch alone.

Abandoned outside he lowered his gun slightly. Inside he could hear muffled voices, a deeper one, definitely the old man, and a brighter one, a woman’s voice. He listened, trying to make out their words with no prevail. The man seemed to have spoken the truth up until now. He most definitely lived on this farm – a seemingly normal farm. This man was just someone making an honest living – even after the apocalypse.

Lowering the gun completely, Joel put the safety on before he slung it over his shoulder. Taking a hollowed step towards the front door, movement in the window to the right of him caught his eye. It was there and then it was gone – just a ruffle of blonde curtains. Then, the door opened revealing an elderly woman.

The man’s wife.

“Welcome, traveler,” she greeted, stepping aside to let Joel in.

He passed through the doorway with a “Thank you, ma’am,” never forgetting his manners even after pointing a gun at her husband.

Inside it looked like a picture taken straight out of a Homes & Gardens magazine. The house was cozy, but it was small. He’d been welcomed into what probably used to be a parlor, but now served its purpose as their living room. It was hard to get a read on the house. Not like those open-floor plan houses he’d built too many of back before the outbreak – this was old, maybe hundreds of years old. The floorboard creaked under his shoes as he walked deeper into the living room, the rest of the house locked away like a secret behind three closed doors. The man was seated in a lounge chair by the fireplace, watching Joel with an expression Joel found it hard to decipher.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked, “It’s peppermint from our garden.”

Joel turned his head to the woman. She must be around the same age as the old man, Joel thought. He cleared his throat before he answered with a nod, “Thank you, ma’am.”

She pointed to the sofa, urging him to sit down with a smile before she disappeared through one of the doors to what Joel thought must be the kitchen. He felt the old man watching him as he slid his backpack off his shoulders, placing it on the creaky wooden floor behind the sofa. Joel hesitated for just a second when placing the shotgun up against the back, but decided he wasn’t in any imminent danger.

Joel almost groaned as he sat down. He’d been walking for so long, slept on the hard ground for months, he’d almost forgotten what a comfortable chair was. It almost felt surreal, being invited in for tea, like the outbreak had never happened. Here, it was like the time had stood still.

“So,” the man started, “where are you heading to if you’re just ‘passin’ through’?”

Joel cleared his throat again, “I’m lookin’ for my brother,” he answered truthfully, “last I heard he was somewhere in Wyoming.”

“If you’re going to Wyoming, then what you’re doing all the way up here?” The man queried with a chuckle.

Annoyed, Joel grinded his teeth, “Not many signs in the fuckin’ woods are there?” He huffed.

“I guess not,” the man shrugged, “but you’ve made a heck of a detour… where did you come from? Texas? You sound it.”

“Boston.”

“Boston?” the man didn’t hide his surprise, breathing out chuckles in disbelief, “I’ll give it to you, that’s one long trip.”

Joel only huffed in agreement, turning his head from the man to the window overlooking the barnyard.

“Well,” the man broke the growing silence between the two men, “you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner and for the night– you look like you could need a hot meal and a warm bed.”

Joel’s instinct was to say no, but before he could the front door opened, revealing a young woman. You.

You stopped dead in your tracks as you laid your eyes on Joel, “Oh!”.

The door slammed behind you. Under your arm you were carrying a metal bucket filled with apples. You were beautiful, young, but still beautiful – Joel couldn’t deny it.

“This is…” The man paused.

“Joel.” He cleared his throat, introducing himself, “Joel Miller.”

“Mr. Miller is just passing through– he’s looking for his brother,” the old man explained to you.

You nodded at the information, sat the bucket down before you reached out a hand for Joel to take, introducing yourself. Your hand in his was warm and soft while his own dwarfed yours, rough and calloused. He couldn’t help but think about what his hands had done, the people they’d killed. He shouldn’t be tainting yours, painting them red. Joel quickly drew his hand back, balling it into a fist at his side.

Joel looked over at the old man, “Your daughter?” he asked with a tilt of his head in your direction.

“Oh, no,” the man answered with a playful smile, “You’re not the first person ‘passin’ through’ who’s shown up on our doorstep.”

The door to the kitchen opened to reveal the old woman with a teapot in her hand, and a stacked tower of teacups in the other.

“Let me help you Alma,” you said, taking the teacups from the old woman’s hand before placing them on the table; one in front of Joel, a second in front of the old man, “Here you go Arthur,” and a third next to Joel.

“Did you also want some tea, sweetie?” Alma asked you as she placed the steaming teapot on the table.

“Yes, please, but I can grab a cup myself– sit down,” you smiled and padded the old woman’s shoulder, then you grabbed the bucket of apples and disappeared into the kitchen.

Alma started pouring the tea as a silence fell over the room. A small, “Thank you, ma’am,” left Joel’s lips as she moved on to pouring tea for her husband.

“So,” the man started before taking a sip of his tea, “what do you say Mr. Miller? You staying for the night?”

That night as he laid in a real bed for the first time in months, Joel had trouble falling asleep. He wasn’t used to this. Hadn’t been used to it for a while. His belly full, soft fabric against his skin, feeling warm, and clean. The old couple had offered him one of the two bedrooms on the first floor, the two mystery doors in the living room now revealed. Laying in his new bed he tried not to think about who he was sharing a wall with.

You.

You were something else, helpful and kind. Everything Joel hadn’t seen since the outbreak. At the dinner table you’d asked him questions and listened intently – even when his answers were short and brisk. There was a glimmer in your eye, and it touched something inside him he hadn’t felt in a long time. But you were young, mid to late twenties he reckoned, maybe a little older– anyways, he shouldn’t be harboring anything for you, it wouldn’t be right. Especially now, now that he’d agreed to stay.

After the dinner plates had been cleared, Arthur had folded a big map out on the table. “Here are we now,” he’d pointed a finger at the map. Montana. Southern Montana to be precise. “I’ll give it to you Mr. Miller, if you’ve made it this far on your own you probably won’t have any trouble making your way down south to Wyoming.”

“But?” Joel watched the grimace pulling at the old man’s face.

“But,” Arthur had said, “Winter is just around the corner and… well, going back out there in the wilderness alone during our winters is a dead trap, I’ll tell you that much.”

Joel had let the man go on about the far below freezing temperatures, the heavy snow, and the tough wind, but Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew the winters up here were harsh. It wasn’t even winter yet, but every day he’d felt the temperature drop lower and lower, and the last few of nights he’d even had to get a fire going, against his better judgement.

So– the deal was: Joel would stay over the winter. Just for the winter, he’d been adamant on not staying longer. He’d get a place to stay, a warm bed to sleep in, and food in his belly on one condition – he’d help out on the farm.

The fire crackled loudly, red tongues licking up the chimney as Joel fed it another log. He watched as the fire caught in the new log, devouring it quickly and with no mercy. It was really starting to heat up now. A small flicker of pride sparked in Joel chest. He’d always been good at building a fire. It was one of those things, Joel had come to learn, where you needed to pay attention, to have patience.

When he was younger, he’d take Tommy out camping sometimes, just the two of them. Mostly they’d go during the summer; Tommy wasn’t a fan of sleeping outside in the cold, though cold had meant something different back then in Texas. But Joel remembered one time he’d managed to convince him to go with him. It was right after he’d gotten his driver’s license, and his parents had given him a beat-up truck for his birthday – for sharing – they’d told him, “You need to give your little brother a ride when he needs it!” Joel wasn’t exactly thrilled about his future as Tommy’s private driver, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love his brother.

A few weeks into October he’d managed to convince Tommy to go camping. They’d packed the truck with their tents, sleeping bags, and fishing equipment, before they’d gotten on the road, driving to a lake where they knew there were fish to catch. Finding a place to camp was always difficult with Tommy. They’d parked Joel’s truck at the edge of the forest before they’d followed a hiking trail. Joel was convinced they’d walked at least three quarters of the way around the lake before they found a spot good enough for Tommy.

It had to be flat, but also shielded. There couldn’t be too many rocks, but there also had to be enough rocks to build a hearth. Tommy wanted it to be private, but he also wanted it to be open enough that he could see if someone would stumble upon their camp. Joel knew not to argue with him when he got like that, opting instead for a defeated, “Whatever.”

Setting up camp went relatively easy. They’d worked together building the tents, collecting rocks for their fireplace, and even managed to find a fallen tree to use as a bench. When the night slowly started to cover them in darkness, Tommy decided to get the fire going. Joel watched him work the logs into a pile as he started on filleting the fish they’d just caught.

“You’re doin’ it wrong,” he’d told his brother, “You’re suffocatin’ it.” He’d washed his hands in the lake, ridding himself of the slimy smell of fish, before crouching down next to Tommy.

The fire was one big bowl of smoke, and Joel caught himself wondering what messages Tommy must’ve been sending to the heavens. He removed some of the heavier logs, and the fire could breathe.

“See?” he’d looked at Tommy, “It just needed air.” Joel had shifted the smaller pieces of wood around and not long after the fire was alive.

That Joel, that green boy who liked to take his little brother camping, that Joel didn’t know how much those skills would come in handy in a few years when the world would get turned upside down.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?”

Your question pulled Joel from his memories. He turned his head slightly, meeting your gaze from where you were huddled up in the corner of the couch. You looked cozy, but he knew you weren’t. The house was cold this morning, outside a thin layer of frost had stuck to the grass during the night. It was early too, the sun not having climbed high enough yet to peek over the mountains. You looked tired where you sat, clad in a wool sweater with a blanket pulled over your knees. Under the blanket Joel remembered you were still wearing your pajama pants, and in your hand you held a steaming cup of tea, peppermint, Joel knew, his own cup abandoned on the coffee table.

“What?” Joel answered, eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?” you repeated softly, like the way people tended to speak in the mornings, like they were afraid they’d wake up the world.

His calves were starting to burn from the strain of being crouched in front of the fireplace for a moment too long, and he tried his best to hide his groan, biting his teeth together as he stood to his feet, knees cracking loudly.

“Um, no,” he said, confused about your question.

“I’ll knit you a pair then,” you smiled before putting your cup down next to his.

“That’s… that ain’t necessary,” Joel hurried, but you waved him off.

“Sure it is,” you smiled again, much to Joel’s annoyance. He didn’t deserve your kindness, but you gave it away like it cost nothing. “If you’re gonna be helping Arthur out in the woods this winter, you need some mittens.”

Joel watched as you got up from your home on the couch and vanished into your bedroom. A moment later you appeared in the doorway with a basket under your arm.

“Also…” you gave him another smile as you sat back down again, placing the basket in your lap. It was close to overflowing with yarn, balls of black and white in varying sizes peeking over the top, the homespun ends fraying against the rough edges of the basket. “I’ll have something to do during the evenings,” you winked before you rummaged through the basket and fished out a measuring tape.

Joel shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he watched you. Mittens? Joel can’t remember if he’s ever owned a pair of mittens. Gloves, sure, but mittens?

You patted the cushion next to you, urging him to sit down, kind smile hanging off your lips like always. Sitting down, he folded his hands in his lap, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. It wasn’t like he hadn’t sat next to you before; he’d been here a few weeks now, and he was starting to know you, but for some reason, this felt different. Maybe it was the early morning, the quiet house, or the fact that Alma and Arthur were still sleeping upstairs, but it felt like it was just the two of you, alone, and Joel didn’t know how to feel about it.

You shifted towards him, the blanket slipping slightly off the couch with your movement, in your hands you held the measuring tape while you looked at him expectantly.

When Joel didn’t move, a smile quirked at the corner of your mouth before you grabbed one of his hands resting in his lap. You uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one, making Joel hold his breath.

“I need to see how big I need to make them,” you whispered, holding his hand very gently.

Joel’s heart hammered in his chest. Your hand was warm and soft, like the last time he’d touched you as you’d introduced yourself to him. Joel didn’t dare look at your face, or he’d say something stupid, so he didn’t. He looked at your joined hands, his brain trying to remember the last time someone had held his hand as gently as you did, your thumb running over the back of it soothingly.

He can’t remember. His hands are always empty.

With your other hand, a finger curled around the measuring tape, you slipped it around his wrist before leaning closer to look at the numbers.

“Is this too tight you think, or do you want them to be looser?” You asked through your lashes, eyes sparkling in the low morning light.

Joel cleared his throat, “No, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” you nodded, slipping the measuring tape from his wrist to write down the measurement. He hadn’t noticed your notebook until now. It was a little rough around the edges from use, the spined cracked and the paper a little yellow. Placing the pen in the seam, you grabbed the measuring tape again.

Loosening your grip on his hand you placed it over the thick of your thigh. Joel drew a quick breath, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, under his hand he could feel the warmth of you through the soft flannel.

You continued taking your measurements. You didn’t say anything, so neither did Joel, but you looked up at him through your lashes sometimes, and Joel thought that maybe the most useful thing one can do with empty hands, is hold on.

The creak of the stair made Joel jump, and like he’d been burned his hand retracted on reflex, as Arthur’s heavy steps got closer.

“Morning,” Arthur greeted as he ducked his head through the door to the living room.

“Mornin’,” Joel mumbled, head lowered as he gathered his hands in his lap.

“Good morning!” you smiled, always with that kind smile, “Did you sleep well, Arthur?” you got up from your seat before grabbing your teacup to follow Arthur into the kitchen, leaving the yarn and Joel.

Taking a deep breath, Joel pinched the top of his nose. He needed to get it together. You were just being your regular kind self; your soft touch was nothing more than that. Standing to his feet, Joel grabbed his own cup, trudging into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Arthur sat in his usual spot at the dining table, the chair closest to the window. “I need to get on with this barn soon,” Joel heard him say as he sat down opposite him. “It’s gonna fall apart come spring if we get as much snow as we did last year.”

Joel tried his best not to look at you as he heard you hum. You were stood at the kitchen counter slicing the bread Alma had baked yesterday, readying breakfast. Instead, Joel opted to gaze down into his teacup, where the peppermint leaves had all gathered at the bottom.

“Um,” Joel cleared his throat, “what needs fixin’?”

“What doesn’t need fixing in that barn?” Arthur sighed, peeling his eyes from out the window to Joel.

“I can uh,” Joel eyes shifted quickly to you before he cleared his throat again, “I can take a look at it, if ya want?”

Arthur’s eyebrows met in a furrow as he looked at Joel.

“I used to be a contractor,” Joel explained with a shrug, before taking a last cold sip of his tea.

“So, you know a thing or two about buildings I reckon?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, well I used to,” Joel leaned back in his chair.

“Well, that would be very helpful Joel– I’d appreciated it!” Arthur smiled before leaning back in his chair making room for you as you started setting the table. Joel gave him a short nod in return, trying to fight the urge to look at you as you placed the food on the table.

Arthur had downplayed the state of the barn – it was a mess – it was dangerous, and had Joel told him as much. But it was nothing Joel couldn’t fix, as long as he had the right supplies, fortunately for him the forest would provide them with what they needed.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The axe dug a deep wound into the bark with every swing. Joel’s breath was heavy, and his arms ached, but it was a welcomed form of tiredness. A month into it, he was starting to get used to the work. There was something so satisfying about manual labor, of using his hands, of making something – he’d almost forgotten.

The routine of the work felt good. Waking up at dawn, then breakfast, he could use his body for something useful for the first time in twenty years and end the day with a warm meal for supper. This new temporary life was simple, but it was strangely normal.

Originally, Joel was only helping Arthur out in the woods for firewood through the winter– but now with the barn, they’d changed course. The last few days they’d started to become more selective with the trees; looking for the tallest and straightest ones that would fall safely.

A frozen sky hovered over the men as they worked. This morning when Joel had woken up, the thinnest layer of snow had fallen like powdered sugar during the night, turning the world bright with winter. Earlier in the week the frost had perched on the farm, and Joel had known winter was closing in. He’d lost count of the days and months passing while on his own, but Arthur had told him it was late October.

“It will start snowing properly soon,” Arthur said, breaking the silence between them.

Joel hummed before taking a bite of his packed lunch. They’d worked all morning – Joel felling the trees and Arthur cleaning them up and removing the branches. Now they were sat on a fresh tree stump each, their first break of the day.

“I have an old logging sled in the barn– used to be my father’s,” Arthur explained, “I think we should leave the trees here until the snow gets deep enough for the sled and have the horses pull them back to the farm.”

“Fine by me,” Joel took another bite of his lunch.

“The logs will have to dry out over the winter,” Arthur mused, “Then come spring we can start the repairs on the barn.”

Spring. If everything goes according to plan, Joel won’t be here come spring. He needed to find Tommy– he couldn’t, and he wasn’t gonna stay on the farm for any longer than necessary. He’d already decided– when the snow finally started to melt, Joel was gone.

Joel hummed, a non-committed answer. It was easier that way, to not get Arthur’s hopes up. He liked Arthur, he was a good man, a hard worker even in his old age, and silent when Joel wanted him to be. Joel liked Alma too, but her age shined through more easily than Arthur’s. Joel couldn’t help but notice her repeating herself more often and forgetting where she put things. It made life harder for you, Joel could see it. Your responsibilities were already a lot to handle as you took care of the animals mostly by yourself, but as Joel had discovered Alma starting to struggle with the housework, he’d noticed you starting to help her more often. In Joel’s mind it was unfair to you, but it wasn’t like he could blame Alma for growing older, in this world it was a feat.

Still, he’d try his best to help you when he could, like doing the dishes after dinner as you dried them off and put them away. The first few times you were both quiet, it was strangely intimate, only the sound of splashing water filling the space between you. One night he'd gotten brave, breaking the comfortable silence and asked you ‘What you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?’ You’d looked at him with big eyes, searching his own for something, but before he could figure out what it was, you’d answered him with a shrug. It was unlike you, unlike you to be this silent, but Joel didn’t push. The next night the silence persisted, and he’d thought adding ‘Sweetheart’ had been too much, but then the next night you’d sighed quietly and whispered, “I’m worried about Alma.”

Looking down at the mittens in his lap, the guilt gnawed at him. The look of worry in your eyes, Arthur’s hopeful wishes, and Alma’s aging. Joel couldn’t have anything tying him to this place. He was supposed to find his brother.

Suddenly, a black and orange butterfly landed on Joel’s knee. Joel stopped breathing, body going rigid as he tried not to move. How the hell was this butterfly still alive? It sat quiet on his knee, wings slowly retracting and widening behind it. Memories pushed its way to the forefront of Joel’s mind then.

Sarah. Another year had gone by, and the thought made his chest tighten.

“That’s quite a sight at this time of year,” he heard Arthur say, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Y-yeah,” Joel stammered out an answer, afraid his voice would scare it away.

The longer Joel watched the butterfly he found his guilt started to slowly melt away. It’s okay, dad. It was like the rustling of the trees carried her voice with them. You’re on the right path.

“I can do that f’you want, sweetheart.”

Joel’s boots creaked under him as he walked across the barnyard. You looked up at the sound of his voice, smile blossoming across your face as you tightened your grip on the shovel.

“It’s alright,” you said with a grunt as you picked up more snow, adding it to the growing pile, “Good for me to get some physical work in.”

Joel nodded as you straightened up, hand going to your hip while the other leaned on the shovel, your heavy breath curled in small plumes out of your mouth. You took him in for a second, eyes flickering over his form before they fell on the rabbits hanging over Joel’s shoulder.

“Where’d you get those?” you asked, and Joel shrugged.

“Shot ‘em,” he said simply, “they walked right by me as I was choppin’– seemed too good to pass up.”

“Not for the rabbits,” you muttered, and Joel had to fight the urge to smile.

“You a vegetarian or somethin’?” he asked with a single raised eyebrow, and you waved him off.

“No,” you said pointedly, but a teasing lilt lingered, “Just stating a fact... we don’t eat a lot of rabbit around here, is all.”

Joel nodded slightly; it made sense. He knew there was a gun in the house, but it was a revolver– too small to do any real hunting, and Joel didn’t even know if there were bullets for it. So, Joel didn't ask further. Lucky for him, you did.

“So, you just shot those?” you asked, a frown pulling at your eyebrows, “Aren’t they fast?”

Joel made a nonchalant sort of face. “Ain’t that hard when you can aim straight.”

“Well, how do you aim straight?”

“You learn to shoot.”

You let out a small laugh, one that pulled at Joel’s lips. “And how did you go about learning that?”

Joel felt his smile drop, the leather strap of his shotgun weighing heavy on his shoulder, “Practice.”

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his demeanor as you dug the shovel into the snow, so it stood by itself like a watchman. “Can you teach me?” you asked, the snow creaking under your shoes as you took a few steps closer.

His lips pulled at the corner, “No.”

Your eyes widened with disappointment, eyebrows pulling together in a frown as you asked, “Why?”

“Nothin’ good ever comes from it,” Joel shrugged.

“Okay,” you huffed a laugh, “that’s sinister.” Then you narrowed your eyes at him, gearing up for an argument no doubt with the way you rested your hand on your hip. “What if I also wanted to go hunting?” you posed, and Joel shook his head.

“That ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

“Okay, but now you’ve brought us rabbits– and what if I end up really liking rabbit?” you bit down on your bottom lip, unconsciously showing off you own rabbit teeth.

Cute.

“Then I’ll shoot as many rabbits as you want,” Joel countered with a teasing smile before tightening his hold on the rope slung over his other shoulder (the one he’d tied the rabbits to), and walked towards the kitchen door at the back of the farmhouse.

He heard you huff in defeat behind him, your creaky steps following him up the stairs and inside. Walking into the kitchen Joel placed the rabbits on the table before he pulled at his mittens, stripped off his jacket, and hung it neatly over the back of one of the dining chairs. Grabbing one of the rabbits he brought it to the kitchen counter to start dressing it, fighting the urge to turn his head as he heard you enter the room.

“Come on, Joel,” you whined, “Why won’t you teach me?”

“Told you already,” Joel replied, “Nothin’ good comes from learnin’ to shoot things.”

Shifting the rabbit around on the counter he reached for the butcher knife in the knife block.

“You know, that’s a really stupid way of saying you don’t want to spend the time,” you told him, your voice closer now as you leaned against the kitchen counter.

“When exactly did ya hear me sayin’ I don't wanna spend time with you?” Joel asked, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“You won’t teach me to shoot,” you teased, and Joel could hear the smile in your voice.

Joel huffed out a laugh, “Damn right I won’t.”

He heard you let out a whiney huff, before you turned on your heel, muttering out a curse under your breath when you accidently bumped your hip into the counter and Joel couldn’t help the smile teasing at his lips. You sat down with an overdramatic sigh, and Joel still didn’t look at you – he knew he’d cave eventually if he did, say yes against his better judgement – so he kept his eyes on the knife in his hand.

“How’s Arthur?” Joel asked as he worked.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, “The same I think– Alma was up there looking after him last time I checked.”

This time Joel allowed himself to look at you. You sat sideways on the wooden chair, legs crossed and tucked under your chair with your head hanging, eyes glued to your lap. Gone were the teasing, and gone were the smiles.

“He’ll be fine,” Joel said, his eyes back on the rabbit, “it’s just a cold.”

“Yeah… but he’s been getting sick a lot more often,” your voice was low, like you didn’t want them to hear you upstairs, “you can’t help but think the worst you know?”

Joel put the knife down and moved over to the sink. He quickly washed his hands before grabbing a towel to dry off, twisting it in his hands as he approached you. Placing the towel on the counter, he hesitated for a moment as he watched you, watched the way you twisted your hands in your lap with no sense of purpose or intent. It was like the worry dripped down your body. Pushing off the counter Joel knelt in front of you, a grunt escaped him as his knees clicked loudly, his balance slightly off on his haunches.

“Shit,” Joel huffed out a laugh, and you followed. Your palms landed on his knees to keep him steady, warmth spreading like jolting electricity.

“Sweetheart, I’ll tell you what–” he stopped himself when you looked at him through your lashes, trying to ignore the way your eyes focused on his mouth as he spoke. “’s just a cold, he’ll be up ‘n walkin’ tomorrow– man’s got gumption.”

“Yeah?” your eyes flickered upwards, meeting his.

Suddenly, under your gaze Joel felt brave. His hand moved on its own accord, cupping your cheek in his hand. He let his thumb ghost over your skin, still cold under his fingertips from being outside, but warming under his touch.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, you only watched him with glimmering eyes, like you were under a spell. Maybe he was too.

“Still,” you sighed, “Would be better if I could pick up more of the slack around here... Arthur does a lot, and I wish I could do more to support them.”

“Like what? You take care of the animals all by yourself– that’s more than enough.”

“Well, I could learn to shoot rabbits,” you told him, before the corners of your mouth pulled into a pleased smirk as he rolled his eyes at you.

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, making a move to stand when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“I’m kidding, Joel,” you smiled, before a more serious look washed over your features. “I mean it’s… It’s gonna be empty here without you,” you said, “I’m starting to really like having you here, Joel.”

Joel turned his hand to rest the back of it on your thigh, your hand fitting in his.

“I uh,” his eyes fixated on your joined hands, then he cleared his throat, “I’ll stay as long as you need me to. I’m not leavin’ you alone, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lit up at his words, smile growing large across your face. Joel’s heart drummed in his chest as your eyes flickered down to his mouth again.

“Thank you,” you said in a low voice, and then you did something Joel thought was gonna make his heart stop beating. You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. It bloomed against his skin, and made wings flutter against the walls of his stomach.

“You’re a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered before you pulled away, looking at him with kindness in your eyes.

If only you knew, Joel thought, if only you knew the blood on his hands.

He couldn’t look at you when you looked at him like that. Like you believed your own words. So, he cleared his throat awkwardly and stood to his feet, his knees clicking as your hand slipped from his movement. He walked back to the counter, fingers grabbing the towel with no other purpose than to calm himself down.

After placing the towel back where it usually hung, he grabbed the knife again, turning his attention back to the rabbit, allowing himself to steal a few glances at you where you sat looking out the kitchen window.

“Hey, uh,” Joel broke the growing silence after a few minutes, “how ‘bout rabbit stew for lunch?”

Your head snapped to look at him as he spoke, a smile ghosting over your lips as you said, “I’ll go get some vegetables from the cellar.”

Joel wouldn’t necessarily call himself a good cook – he wouldn’t even call himself a cook in the first place. Back before the outbreak he’d been forced to learn the basics as a fresh single dad, but he’d never been able to provide Sarah with gourmet meals very often, and when Sarah had gotten older, he’d been embarrassed to say that her food was always better than his – eggshells and all. One summer he’d bought himself a nice grill– one of those way too expensive gas grills with too many fancy accessories for Joel to regularly use. He’d had a job that ended up paying well, some rich guy’s mansion that needed renovating, and decided to treat himself for once. That summer all their meals had come from that grill, well mostly, and afterwards Joel looked at himself as a pretty good griller, if nothing else.

You on the other hand, you knew what you were doing, it was clear in the effortlessly way you moved beside him as you got the vegetables ready for the stew. Joel seared the meat to the best of his abilities, making sure it was properly browned on both sides before setting it aside. After that, it was clear that you were in charge, and Joel let you boss him around and tell him what to do. It made his heart warm around the edges, watching how you put so much love and care into everything you did.

An hour later you finally sat down to eat; two hearty bowls of stew each as light snowflakes covered the world outside. You’d let the pot simmer on low over the heat as you’d wanted to bring up a bowl for Arthur and Alma later.

“So…” you started, watching as Joel dug into his bowl, “How’s the stew?”

“’s good!” Joel nodded through a mouthful, and he wasn’t lying. It was good, really good in fact.

“Yeah?” you bubbled through a smile, before you dug into your own bowl to see if he’d spoken the truth. He watched as you face brightened as you chewed, nodding your head to confirm his verdict.

“I think I really like rabbit, Joel,” you said through a teasing smile, and Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle from spilling.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, teasing smile not going anywhere, “So… when are you teaching me to shoot?”

“Shut up.”

The living room was quiet, safe for the cracking of the fire. It had almost died out when Joel had stepped out of his room. He’d been twisting and turning again, counting sheep, but nothing had been able to pull him under the blanket of sleep. He was plumb tired too, that was the worst part. The embers hummed with a low light, and with a small stick Joel had spread them out before placing a small piece of wood on top. No less than a minute later the fire fed on the log.

Taking a seat and leaning back in the lounge chair, Joel looked out the window with tired eyes. The moon looked down on him, big and bright, it shone its white light over the barnyard like a spotlight. His thoughts were clouded over as he gazed up. A billion little lights turning into bright spheres in the sky.

On nights like this, Joel felt like he was barely breathing at all.

His thoughts didn’t stray for long before they found you again. Lately, you were always on his mind. He thought about how you’d looked mere hours ago, when he’d sat in this same exact chair, only this time it was facing towards the sofa and not the window.

You’d been sat curled up in the corner, blanket thrown over your lap with a book in hand. You’d told him you’d read all the books in the house already, but it didn’t stop you from coming back to your favorites. Joel had been reading his own book, an old western he’d found in the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway a few days ago. It was entertaining, but not enough to hold his attention. He found his eyes had a mind of their own, slipping over the top to steal a peek at you as you read, feeling a smile tug at his lips at the barely there furrow of concentration between your eyebrows.

“Joel.”

Joel perked up at the whisper of his name, the memories fading like ripples in still water. He looked around the room –nothing. He sat quietly in his chair for a moment, listening, as his heartbeat quickened in his chest. It had been your voice, hadn’t it? Or was he starting to lose it? His eyes fell to the door of your bedroom. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but he could see it was slightly ajar.

“Joel.”

The voice was louder this time, almost strained, but it was yours. A thousand scenarios flashed before his eyes then at your tone. Was there someone in your room? Were you in danger? Seconds later Joel crossed the room, a mix of fear and protectiveness overcoming him.

Leaning up against your door he listened for the intruder as he readied himself. The soft crinkling of your sheets combined with your strained whimpers was all it took for him to push the door open, fearing the worst.

And…

It was empty, your room, you were alone. Joel immediately felt stupid– the only intruder here was him.

He was about to step out, embarrassed at his actions, when he heard it again, his name falling from your lips. It was all Joel needed to finally take in your body, squirming under your sheets, still asleep. The realization of what he’d just walked in on made Joel’s eyes widen.

Laying on your back, the duvet had slipped down your torso from your movements to reveal the thin t-shirt you wore to bed. Like this he could see your perked nipples through the fabric, as your chest quickly rose and fell, making Joel’s imagination start to run wild.

“Joel.”

In his pajama pants, Joel could feel his cock come alive from the soft whimper that left your lips along with his name. He couldn’t move, like some farm elf had glued his feet to the floor while he wasn’t looking. He watched as you scrunched your face together in pleasure, another whimper falling from your lips, and all the blood in Joel’s body rushed down south.

As if the soundwaves from your voice had broken against him, he took a step backwards, and then another, and another until he crossed the threshold of your door. He tried his best to be quiet, to not wake you and have you catch him in your room in the middle of the night.

The image of you squirming under your sheets, dreaming of him, didn’t leave him as he closed the door to his own room. With a sigh his head fell against the door, a strong hand gliding down his front to hover over his aching cock.

Joel Miller was no saint, but what he was doing– what he was about to do, was bad.

“Shit,” he quietly hissed, running his hand up his clothed cock. He hadn’t touched himself properly in a long time, not since he left Boston.

His cock reacted to his touch, growing harder and harder until he couldn’t take it anymore. He hooked his finger around the hem of his pajama pants, pulling them down to the thick of his thigh, freeing himself. He hissed at the cold air hitting his length, as it bopped with the movement of being freed. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Joel spat, before he wrapped his spit-soaked hand around himself.

His mind found you again as he started stroking himself, slowly at first, pumping himself with a practiced hand, squeezing himself at the base before bringing his hand up to thumb at the tip. Joel couldn’t get the way you sounded out of his mind. Couldn’t forget how you were squirming in your bed, dreaming of him. Couldn’t shake the thought of pulling those moans and whimpers from you with his hands, and his mouth, and with his cock.

“Fuck.”

Joel tried to be quiet, but he couldn’t fight the moan from slipping from his lips. Fuck, he wanted you. He wanted his hands all over you. Closing his eyes his mouth dropped open as he imagined what he was dying to do to you.

How much he’d wanted to help you out of your t-shirt, run his hands over your breasts and tease your nipples. Take his time to pull those moans and whimpers from your soft lips as he teased you with kisses down your body, down the valley of your breasts, your tummy, down to you to your–

Another low moan fell from Joel’s lips. He squeezed himself tighter as he jerked himself off, precum pearling at the tip, and slipping down his length, mixing with his spit.

The sound of the slick rhythm of his hand filled his bedroom as he increased the pace of his strokes. He had to bite down on his lip to strangle a groan when thoughts of getting between your legs, spreading them open and getting his mouth on you filled his head. He fantasized about how you’d taste falling apart on his tongue–Fuck, how you’d sound falling apart around his cock.

His eyes fell shut as he fisted himself faster. Joel could feel his orgasm quickly building, coiling tight in his tummy. With his free hand he cupped his balls, and then he couldn’t help but imagine it was you, a picture of you on your knees before him flashed behind his eyelids, your tongue lapping at his balls while your hand pumped his cock.

“Shit.”

With a strained groan, thick ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles and down his length, coating him in his release. His breath came out ragged, as he continued his strokes, milking himself of the rest of his release.

Fuck.

His cock softened in his hand as he calmed down from his high. With a quiet groan he pushed himself off the door, looking around his room for something to clean himself up with.

The guilt of what he’d done washed over him quickly, settling in his chest like a heavy weight. You were so young, and beautiful, and Joel just an old man. He shouldn’t want you like this, shouldn’t want you this much.

Climbing under the covers, Joel couldn’t shake his thoughts of you, of you dreaming about him in your bed, about your smiles, and your touch. A supercut of you rolling like a tape in his minds eye. A supercut of you bundled up under a blanket on the sofa, knitting him his mittens. Of you, your own knitted hat pulled tightly down over your ears as you stepped out into the snow to check on the animals. Of the way you’d looked at him for the first time, with the bucket of apples under your arm, and the sweet taste of them as you’d offered him one later, after dinner.

Finally, Joel could breathe.

next part -> here! i hope someone liked this? if you did a comment, reply or an ask is always welcome and they make me super happy <3 other than that thank you for reading!!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #tlou smut #tlou fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal

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gcdschoscn · 5 days ago

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as tessa announced her intention to take a nap, she could feel her heart racing, a mixture of excitement and guilt coursing through her. it felt like a game of chess, each move calculated—each word chosen carefully to avoid suspicion. she caught his eye briefly from across the room, the way he watched her setting her skin alight, and it was all she could do to maintain her composure as she walked away. the moment the door to her room closed behind her, she pressed her back against the wall, letting the adrenaline seep in. she shouldn’t have felt this way, shouldn’t be caught up in this whirlwind of desire when she had someone who loved her outside of these stolen moments. but then again, that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

completely unbothered by the ache of her conscience, her heart raced as she watched him walk into the room. tessa could hardly help the rush of heat. his question pulled her back to reality and made her mind whir for a moment. “yeah, it’s shut,” she replied softly, trying to keep her voice steady, but the slight quiver belied her calm demeanor. she stole a quick glance toward it, imagining the thrill of being caught. “but you know, it wouldn't be so bad if someone could see us,” she teased. tess walked forward, closing the space between them, heart threatening to reach out of her chest as she reached for him. “so, what are we waiting for?” she whispered, leaning into him.

open to: females.

plot: river and your muse have been in a secret relationship and are now away at a family reunion for the holidays, where things have to be kept cute and quiet in front of his/her/their relatives. inspo vid, maybe?

suggested connection: sister, niece, mom, aunt, cousin, step-relative, relative's girlfriend or wife, wife or girlfriend's relative, and anything else.

do not like my starters + please read my rules.

AFTER SHE ANNOUNCED SHE'D BE GOING FOR A NAP, river mentally counted all 300 seconds before he stood up from the water and made his own excuse to depart from the jovial family hangout. not even taking the time to towel himself off, it was a christmas miracle he didn't slip as he raced through the rented ski lodge, flying up the stairs to her room before anybody could intercept his plans. "we don't have long," gruffed as he burst through the door, yanking at his shorts as blue stare rushed over the form he'd been hungering for all morning. "is the balcony door shut?" the last thing the pair needed was for the other guests still gathered in the hot tub below to play accidental audience to their performance, even if the idea of it did give the male an extra fucked up thrill.

#muse ﹕teresa bloom .#dynamics ﹕teresa ♡ river .#user ﹕slutstarring .#/hope this is okay love if you wish me to change anything just lmk #was thinking they could be step-sibs? or tess could be married to river's dad?

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sunflowersteves · 2 years ago

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only for you || j.m.

pairing || joel miller x fem!reader

summary || there was one routine that you and Joel never broke, not even when the world goes up in flames.

author's note || a part two to singing in the shower! but also can be read as a stand alone. this was supposed to be posted two sunday’s ago but um procrastination kicked in. hope you enjoy <3

warnings || angst, some fluff, mentions of death, canon typical violence mentions, reader is five years younger, soft!joel, hurt/comfort, joel with wet hair, SMUT, vaginal sex, praise kink, soft sex, creampie, soft dom!joel, [18+ only]

Joel wasn’t as soft as he used to be.

His calm, gentle smile that shined when you and Sarah danced around in the kitchen, listening to Johnny Cash, had faded into hard lines and gray stubble. His movements were brash and jarring, almost threatening with his hard-set glare that bore into everyone around him.

He never smiled anymore, not really.

His lips would quirk slightly upwards in amusement from your insults to other people in the QZ that deserved it, or his lips would curl in delight from the safe haven of his apartment, but that was all you really got. You didn’t complain much, though. It wasn't like you smiled that often either.

Only with him. Only with each other.

Instead, Joel tended to show his affection toward you in ways of touch.

He was protective—that much is true. Any time you had to leave the albeit protection of Boston for whatever reason, he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. He would have his hand guiding you by the small of your back. His arm would reach out to stop you from walking any further to the dangerous depths of the unknown.

He always squeezed your wrist in anticipation of what was to come. He never lets you walk behind him, ever. You are always first. He would make hard-set rules with you on outing trips, despite the grit of your teeth from irritation.

It wasn’t that he thought you couldn’t handle yourself. No, he knew that. He has watched you decapitate a shambler or two over the years. He has seen you take on about five men at a time and make it out with only a couple of stab wounds. He knows you can handle yourself just fine.

He just couldn't bear to lose you. Not on his watch. He has lost a fuck ton in his life, and the thought of losing something that is keeping him on his last thread and something so pure and good to him—well, it terrifies him.

You are the only thing that matters to him.

So, his only way of truly showing affection, to know nothing has changed with how he truly feels about you, was through his feather-light touches and protective manner.

It was endearing, really. You knew he still loves, and fuck, did you still love too.

There was one guarantee, though, through all of his overbearing protectiveness and crinkled wrinkles of menacingly deadly eyes that you knew Joel was still enamored by you. There was one constant—a routine that never changed. If there was one thing he could look forward to, it was that constant. It was you that he could rely on.

It was simple, really. It almost seemed stupid that there was one moment in time every single day that the two of you could count on one another.

You both always showered together. Always.

It didn’t matter if the water was cold or if there was barely even any water, to begin with. It didn’t even matter if you weren’t in the QZ. Overgrown hot springs and vastly green rivers still counted as getting clean. The shower walls of your shared apartment weren't the biggest, either, but the two of you made it work.

But that one constant that he could always look forward to was holding you in the shower and pressing gentle kisses against the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

He craved it.

Joel would always walk through the front door with a grunt after getting home from smuggling Oxy to some FEDRA soldier with Tess. He was tired, absolutely exhausted. He was like that pretty much every day, and he could feel his age catching up with him.

You were sitting criss crossed on the beat-up couch, reading Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. He could feel something beat and sprout across his chest at the sight. You have read that book probably about ten times by now, and yet you read it all the same with an immersed furrowed brow.

He had gotten the book for your birthday a couple of years ago. He watched you unwrap the shitty old newspaper with animated eyes as you stared at the cover.

He could’ve sworn he saw tears on your lash line. You enveloped him into a hug—hands pressing tightly against his back to keep him close and you kept him there. You both sat like that for a long time.

He always loved watching you read. He didn’t pay that much attention before everything went to shit, but now, it was his favorite pastime.

Your lips would lick the corner of your mouth in concentration, and your eyes rapidly scanned each individual page as if you were hanging on the edge of your seat. It was always a heartfelt reminder for him of you—of how much he truly cherishes you.

Before the outbreak, you had been a philosophy professor at UT Austin. It’s how you met, actually. You were grading papers in a coffee shop when you saw the two of them walk in. Sarah had begged him for a chocolate chip muffin, and since it was a special occasion to be in the heart of the city, he couldn’t resist saying yes. He had accidentally bumped into your table, causing the three of you to have a lengthy conversation as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Long day, handsome?”

His eyes focus back on you. It was like his thoughts had put him in a trance until your soft voice punctured the air.

You were peering through the dusty book, and a ghost of a smile wrapped around your lips. He nodded, stretching out his hand for you to take it. You dog-eared the book and placed it face down on the couch. You took his hand—feeling the dry calluses and rough skin.

“Long fuckin’ day.”

He guided you to the cramped bathroom, and you squeezed his hand. He turned on the shower head while you took off your shirt and pants. A shiver ran through your body from the lack of isolated heat. He did the same, unbuttoning his plaid shirt and tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

He stepped into the shower to place his hand under the water to test it as if he didn’t know that the water was barely even warm. He did it every single time you two bathed. Every time. It was all routine.

You let him guide you into the shower, eyes noticing his own trailing down your figure. Every single day, he couldn’t help but look at your beautiful curves and supple skin.

He wanted to admire you for the rest of his days. He wanted the scene of you washing your body of dirt and grime to be seared into his brain like a farmer branding some cattle. You close the curtain behind you and watch as his eyes never leave you.

“Pretty girl.” He whispered into your ear. You felt yourself softly smile—something you hadn’t done in hours, not since Joel woke you up with a kiss on your cheek.

You let the feeling of him wash over your body and soul, his arms wrapping around your torso and pulling you close. He smelled earthy and bold, with a hint of cedar from his own musk. You could feel his chest fall and rise against your shoulder blades, and his chin dug into your shoulder—endearingly.

You let out a hum before untangling his arms. As much as you love these moments, you know you shouldn't waste too much water. You rubbed a shampoo bar into your hands and lathered them together to create a sudsy mess. Joel felt his eyes flutter close in anticipation for your hands to dig into his hair.

He lets out a soft moan when your hands finally grab hold of his hair. His jaw slacks open, and you try to suppress a smile from his relaxed state. Your hands scratched against his scalp to clean all of the dirt and oil off of him. Joel’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head from the euphoric emotions that sunk deep within his chest.

His eyes snap open in disbelief when he feels your hands leave his hair, and you almost laughed aloud. He could see the amused expression radiate off of you, and he felt himself heat up—you never failed to make him feel a certain way.

You gasped as you felt his hand harshly grip your hips, but you saw a bright smile wrapping around his face that almost made you freeze. His smile. It punctured the air and made your head feel dizzy with delight. Your eyes rake over his pearly teeth and deep wrinkled lines on his cheeks. It was ethereal. He was ethereal.

“What you starin’ at, pretty girl?”

You pressed your thumb into the crevasse of his dimple, and his eyes fluttered back closed. “I think you’re the pretty one.”

He lets out a small snort. “Not a day in hell.” His Texas accent was gruff against the planes of your ear. His hand trailed itself up to rest on your cheek, thumb swiping so soft and caring that it brought a bigger smile to your lips. “Ain’t pretty at all.”

“I beg to differ, Miller.” His eyes crinkled in a smile at the use of his last name—knowing you were super serious now. But the teasing gleam of your eyes told him otherwise. “You’re too pretty.”

He clicks his tongue. “Too pretty, huh? Think I’m takin’ a run for your money?”

You shake your head in bubbled-up laughter—adoration spreading from your shoulders to your toes. Throughout all of the tragedy and suffering this world has put the two of you through, you are so elated to have each other.

“Oh, handsome, you took it and buried it deep.” He rolled his eyes and gently pinched your cheek to get you to stop teasing. Although, if there’s one dynamic that never changed, it was giving each other shit.

He lets out a huff. “Whatever you say.”

You gently guided him under the stream of water and rinsed out all of the shampoo. You cupped a hand over his eyes to avoid any product from stinging his eyes. You turn to pump some expired conditioner in your hands, but his rough fingertips halt you to a stop.

“Your turn, darlin’.”

═ ∘◦❦◦∘ ═

After Joel relaxed in the lukewarm shower with you, he always got a little soft. Even if the shower was no less than five minutes, you could always tell how much he enjoyed it.

It reminded him of home. It reminded him a little bit of what once was or what could be.

He always stares—lovingly—at your newly clean body. He watched your chest rise and fall so gently from the calm atmosphere of your apartment.

His soft brown eyes skated across your figure with such love—such hope and elation. He felt like he was in pure bliss just from the exhilarated feeling of the thrill of your gentle touches caressing his skin.

He felt whole in these moments with you.

He watched you gently rub expired lotion onto your skin. Boston was always humid and lacked the airy feel of dry Texas winters, but the frigid cold of light snowfall always broke out your skin. Joel loved to feel your soft curves, and his hands would spread across your legs to relish in the feeling. He was obsessed with your thighs, too, gripping and nipping at them until you had to tug his hands away.

You stood near the bed to find that his eyes were already on you—his naked form sitting on the uncomfortable mattress. His wet hair glistened underneath the yellow glow of the overhead light. He looked so handsome like that. The gray hairs poked loudly against his soft brown ones, and you watched as the water dripped down his neck.

“C’mere.” You didn’t need to be told twice before taking your seat onto his legs—straddling his waist and your hands gripping his shoulder. His thighs were tense and hard, muscles flexing underneath your own.

“Y’smell so sweet—” He whispered into the frizz of your hair. His hands rested on your hips, while his fingertips squeezed around your love handles. “Could eat you right up.”

You looked into those grumpy brown eyes, and pure adoration sprouted from your chest and into your lungs. He was intoxicating in each and every way, from his rough exterior to his soft lingering touches that send love aches into your bones.

“Joel.” You whispered.

You pressed your lips against him, tasting burnt coffee and of him, that lingered in your mouth. Your lips were molding together with each open-mouthed kiss and teeth clashing to be closer and closer. You could feel yourself start to squirm in his lap, and he had to have a tight grip just to keep you somewhat still.

Your hands pushed themselves into his damp hair, spreading your fingers across each strand. You pulled gently at the base of his neck, and a moan vibrated against your lips.

He pulled away from you—much to your dismay—to reach and pull down your underwear. The material pooled around your ankles, and you anticipatingly shrugged them off.

“Gonna take care of you, sweet girl.”

You shivered from the suspense of what was to come, but you wanted to stop him from taking control. He deserved to be loved on too. He deserved to feel the euphoric dance that pooled in his stomach just like you did.

You shook your head. “W-Wanna ride you, Joel. Please.” He let out a shaky breath because god, he could never say no to you. You could ask for all the stars in the sky, and he would give them to you in a heartbeat.

He finally nodded after gaining composure and re-adjusted his hands to rest more gently on your torso. You could tell your wetness dripped from your lips and spread to your hood. Your walls ache and plead for the sweet stretch of his cock.

You watched his cock twitch from your glistening cunt. He knew you were wet. He always knew. He could practically taste it on his tongue if he thought hard enough, but his brain couldn’t catch up. Not when you take your hand to position his length and slowly sink down onto him.

He let out a groan as he listened to your sweet whimpers. “S-Shit.”

You both stayed still for a moment while you caught your breath from the long stretch of his cock. No matter the twenty or so years you have been together, you could never get used to his thick cock filling you up to the brim.

“Fuck, baby, feel so fuckin’ tight.” And you always did. You always hugged him completely and squeezed until your juices ran down his thighs. You were always fucking heaven.

The gentlest of moans left your throat, and as if he wanted to capture them, Joel started pressing kisses up and down your neck. “Y’take me so well, darlin’.”

You grind up and sink your way back down, a whine escaping you. His eyes are glued to watching himself disappear inside of you—hands tightening once again around your love handles. “Goddamn, baby—”

“Fuck, Joel. Yes—”

Your thighs spread even wider as you snapped back down his length—the soft cushion of the bedspread flushed against your knees. “You like this hmm? Like bein’ in control?” His words slurred together, and he took in every snap and roll of your hips.

You nodded. “Love when you’re a mess for me, Joel.” Your head lulled back, and he groaned—sultry and deep as it hit your ears. “Yeah, Joel, Yes—”

Your hand moved to cup his cheek in the softest of ways and it made Joel’s brain short-circuit. He whimpered at the contact of your skin and the simultaneous rock of your hips. You could barely make out the next sentence he says because you squeezed his cock, and Joel became too drunk off of you.

“Fuck, d-darlin’, baby—shit—” He gasped and puffed—chest heaving from the pure sensation of your spongey walls. You started to feel that familiar coil wrap against your stomach, pushing yourself to find that angle.

You started to lean more toward the side to grind and swirl your hips as fast as you could. You could tell the angle wasn’t quite right, so you tried again—gasping and moaning in the process. You almost wanted to groan in frustration alone when you still couldn’t find it.

Joel just watched in amusement as you tried to find the spot he was always able to find. He almost didn’t say anything from your adorable expression until he saw the frown across your face.

“You want me to help, darlin’?” You looked down to see a small smirk in the corner of his mouth. You almost wanted to say no, but you ground your hips again, causing the two of you to moan, and you gave in.

You mewled out. “Please, Joel. I-I need you.”

In one swift movement, Joel flipped you over so that your back was pressed up against the mattress. He presses a kiss to your calf as if it gave you any warning. He swung your leg right over his shoulder and thrust so deep inside you; you had to hold onto the bedroom wall behind you. “Fuck! Joel!”

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so good.” His cock pounded into you, and he hit that spot over and over and over. You screamed into the night air and chanted his name as if it was the only thing on your mind—and it was. All you could think about was Joel.

“Joel! P-Please! Oh, Fuck—”

“Yeah? Gonna cum, sweet girl?” You couldn't even respond back to him because his thumb presses up against your clit, and your jaw slacks in a silent scream. “Cum for me. Please, pretty girl. Cum.”

With a “JoelJoelJoel” and a clench of your walls, your juices flood around yours and his own thighs. Your eyes rolled back into your head as he thrusts through your climax. “Yeah. That’s it, darlin’. Look at you. Pretty thing.” He almost coos. He could watch you cum around his cock until it was the only thing he thought about.

One, two, three thrusts into your sweet ecstasy, and Joel sighs out your name as he spills inside of you. Thick ropes of his cum filled your walls, and it caused you to clench once more. He pumped his cock to feel the sticky mess of his cum and yours as they swirled together inside of you.

“So good for takin’ care of me, huh?” He joked, breathless. He pressed a sweet kiss to your temple.

You fought the urge to punch his arm. Instead, you rolled over so your back was facing him.

“Shut the fuck up, Miller.”

He pulled you close and wrapped his arm around your torso. You reach around to squeeze his hand, causing a shadow of a smile to stretch his cheeks. You both always cuddled silently before having to take another, very cold, shower.

“Yes, ma’am.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou show #the last of us smut #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #joel miller

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holdmytesseract · 21 days ago

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moodboard by @chennqingg | divider by @fictive-sl0th

Biker!Daryl Dixon x fem!Reader | No Outbreak AU

Warnings for this Chapter: alcohol, smoking, thirst, flirting? Daryl (yes, he's a warning and OOC), suggestive smut? brief mention of an accident and loss of parents

Word Count: almost 2.5k

a/n: Enjoy the kick-off into my new series! 🍾 I hope you're gonna love this as much as I do! 🙏🏼

Also, we got a few guest appearances of some familiar faces...

《M a s t e r l i s t》

《 Chapter Two 》

Chapter One...

... in which you stumble upon a handsome biker - twice - and discover a new side of yourself.

《 musical inspiration 》

I recommend listening to this song before you read this chapter - if you wish.

Get your motor runnin'

Head out on the highway

Lookin' for adventure

'Born To Be Wild' by Steppenwolf

Life on a ranch wasn't always easy.

Life on a ranch a day after a storm, which caused a lot of damage, was even less easy. It honestly sucked – at least that was what you thought. The whole day after was only spent with getting things right again, cleaning up, clearing fallen trees out of the way, mostly fixing fences, and catching eloped cattle and horses. It was exhausting and incredibly tiring. But once all the work was done, you often found yourself on a ride out with your palomino Mustang stallion Arrow in order to take some time off and relax. Just like on this pleasant Saturday in spring...

The surprisingly pleasant warm Montana sun was shining down on you, as you rode down the mostly untrafficked road; past endless meadows and fields - always following the Yellowstone River. It was quiet and peaceful; all you could hear were the sounds of nature and the click-clacking of Arrow's hooves - until a rather disturbing... noise cut through the air and urging to your ears.

Motorcycles.

It was a rare thing that even cars drove down that road; trucks even less and now bikes? You scrunched your nose and gently guided Arrow to leave the road and continue the journey through the meadow.

The sounds of engines got closer and closer, until you saw about five or six bikes pulling up beside you in the corner of your eyes.

Must be a biker group or something...

They slowed down; almost coming to an halt beside you. "Hey!" A voice called suddenly out, causing you to stop Arrow in his movements and look to your left. One of the bikers had pulled off his sunglasses and was looking up at you; both feet planted firmly on the ground beneath him. Muscular arms led to gloved hands, which held on tightly to the handle grip; sunglasses dangling between deft fingers.

You adjusted the cowboy hat on your head; looking down to meet the man's - admittedly - stunning blue-grey eyes.

"Uh, hey," you called back. "Can I help you guys out?" The biker nodded. "Hope so. We got a lil' lost on our way," he explained in a very thick southern accent; voice a little muffled by his black helmet. You shrugged your shoulders; smiling. "Well, I can try. Where were you guys heading?" "Planned ta go to Billings, but kinda landed 'ere." You nodded; still smiling. "Ah, I see. Should've took route 94. This one won't lead you to much. You need to circle back and drive past Miles City."

The man - most likely leader of the biker group nodded. "How far from 'ere ta Billings?" "About 140 miles. If you're lucky, you can make it in two and a half hours." "A'right," the man nodded and put on his sunglasses again. "Thank ya." You gave him another smile. "No problem."

He gave you a last look, before he revved the engine of his bike and signalled his group to circle back. They followed his command and off they went. Your gaze followed them for a moment, before you gently nudged Arrow's sides. "C'mon, buddy. Let's head home. It's almost time for dinner."

You and Arrow made your way back to the Willow Creek ranch - owned and run by your aunt and uncle. Having lost both your parents when you were small due to a car accident, you and your older sister - Tess grew up on the ranch and were working there. Well, Tess longer than you; given the fact that you finished college not that long ago.

After taking care of your animal best friend, you joined your family for dinner.

"You coming later with me, sis?" You swallowed down the remaining food in your mouth and looked over to your big sister. "Where to?" She rolled her eyes in return, but smiled. "You know where, Y/N..." You sighed; poking around in your peas. "Tess... How often have I told you that-" "This isn't your thing, I know... But you have to try it first, right? How can you say you don't like it, if you never tried?"

You grumbled under your breath. Unfortunately, was Tess right.

"Yes, you should really accompany your sister, Y/N," acknowledged your aunt suddenly; agreeing with her. "You barely leave the ranch, honey. It will do you good." You sighed, but for the first time gave in; tired of all the constant discussions. "Alright, fine. I'll go with you - but if I don't like it, I'll leave immediately!" "Yess!" Your sister cheered. "You'll love it, I promise - but yeah, fine." You scoffed. "We'll see about that."

Partying and alcohol had never been one of your high interests and certainly not on your bucket list - yet, here you were standing now in front of the best bar in Miles City - according to your sister; located at the outskirts of the city... 'The Rowdy Racoon'.

You sighed; eyes directed at the building, while Tess just giggled. "I can't believe I'm doing this..." You moaned; already regretting your decision. Your sister was quick to grab your hand, "C'mon, sis... Loosen up a little and have some fun! It's Saturday night, for God's sake!" before you were able to cop out. You groaned again, but let yourself get dragged towards the entrance of the bar; past several vehicles and over the large porch, on which several men and women stood with drinks and cigarettes in hands; talking, laughing and having fun.

Loud music urged to your ears as you stepped inside. 'Born To Be Wild' by Steppenwolf - and just in that very moment, you felt like there wasn't a more fitting song on this whole planet for the scenery you walked in...

The bar was almost filled to the brim with people. Some of them were sitting at the large counter in the middle. Others were seated on some tables all around the big room. The rest of them was dancing, playing pool or tried their luck at the Pinball machines. It was loud, wild and crazy.

You hadn't even the chance to look fully around, since your sister dragged you further on to the bar counter. "Time for a drink, sis!" She announced in a sing-song voice; ordering two Whiskey Cola's. "We'll start slow," Tess said with a smirk; handing you the glass. You gave her a small smile. "Thanks." She clinked her glass against yours and took a sip. "Here's to an awesome night!"

Your sister's so-called 'awesome' night started surprisingly good - like you had to admit. Sure, you had to get a little comfortable first and getting used to being at a bar; warm up a little, but at some point it was really okay. Unfortunately, though, the tables turned after an mere hour. Friends of Tess had decided to come around as well and in the end, you sat alone at the counter on the bar stool; staring at your almost empty glass of Whiskey Cola.

This definitely wasn't how it was supposed to go... Not at all. It caused your mood to drop, of course; feeling alone and kinda betrayed. Tess invited you; took you here and now she had run off with her friends. You couldn't even leave, because you took Tess' car and she had the keys and certainly wouldn't let you drive. Great...

You sighed; turning the now empty glass in front of you in a circle, until...

"Thought I wouldn't see ya again, 'n certainly not 'ere," a familiar voice suddenly urged to your ears from behind you. You frowned and turned in your bar stool, only to meet the same blue-grey eyes you gazed into earlier this evening. It was the biker - but this time, he wasn't wearing a helmet. Chestnut brown hair reached in soft waves his shoulders; paired with a black baseball cap he wore backwards on his head. His chin and a little bit of his cheeks were covered in a slightly grey goatee, which fitted him perfectly.

You swallowed; couldn't help but to stare at him for a moment. He was downright attractive.

"Y-Yeah, uh, same," you stammered out, but quickly got your shit together again. "Didn't find your way to Billings yet?" The stranger chuckled and shook his head. "Nah. We decided ta spend the night in Miles City 'n head for Billings tomorrow." You nodded; smiling politely. "Wise decision." "Yeah," the man said and lifted his hand to scratch his beardy chin as if in a thinking manner. You noticed the tattoo on the back of his hand... A skull and... stars? Then he nodded at your empty glass. "You gonna let me buy ya a drink? Some credit fer ya help earlier. 'S the least I can do. 'Nother Whiskey Cola?"

You felt a slight blush on your cheeks. "Um, yeah, thanks." He gave the bartender a sign, who immediately worked to replace your empty glass with a full glass. "I have ta thank you," he answered; then looked behind at a bar table to where a few other people sat. His group, you thought. "Wanna join us? Ya seem a lil' lonely." You giggled dryly. "Yeah, my sister dumped me for her friends." You gestured at the dance floor; the biker's eyes following. "Kinda rude if ya ask me... C'mon, join us."

You swallowed; hesitating for a moment. You were a cautious person. After all you didn't know these people.

The man could seemingly read your mind. "They ain't bitin', I swear. All of 'em are very nice." "I-I, uh... I don't even know your name." He smiled crookedly, "'M Daryl." and walked towards his group again. Only now did you notice what he was wearing... Dark, slightly ragged jeans with a red rug stuffed in the left back pocket, a black, washed-out shirt and a angel-winged vest. Leather, as it seemed. Admittedly, you had a really hard time not to stare.

You hesitated for another few seconds and threw a look over to your sister again as well; noticing that she was still completely ignoring you and instead partied with her friends. Therefore, was your decision made. You slid off the bar stool and made your way over to Daryl and his gang.

An hour and another Whiskey Cola later, you had learned that they were indeed a biker group - from Georgia - making a road trip through America. You got to know the whole group as well, of course. There was Rick and Carol, which were Daryl's best friends. Glenn and Maggie - a young, kind couple living on a farm had joined the gang as well, just like Negan - a slightly annoying, but funny gym teacher. It was a crazy, but also perfect mix - and they all shared one passion... Motorcycles.

For an absolute non-expert in this new territory, you were absolutely fascinated. The stories they told you; the things you learned - it was fun and exciting.

Daryl and Negan invited you to a round of pool then; Rick and Maggie joining in as well. It was the best evening you had in a long while - but when the alcohol you had consumed slowly started to course through your veins and the music and chatter of the people became suddenly so very loud, you knew you needed a break. You were definitely not quite used to this, after all.

Stepping out of the bar and onto the porch, you took a deep breath; inhaling the fresh, chilly night air.

Yeah, the alcohol was present. You definitely felt a bit tipsy, but you were still fully aware of your words and actions, which was a good thing - and a stop sign you didn't plan to ignore.

"Ya good?" There it was again. That voice out of nowhere. His voice.

You looked to your left; seeing Daryl casually leaning against the railing with a cigarette dangling between his lips.

You nodded. "Yeah, just needed a break and some fresh air." The man took a deep drag; puffing out a cloud of smoke mere seconds later. Your eyes were still fixated on him - and you swallowed.

Hot... Why was that so hot? Him smoking?

"Me too. Needed a smoke." Daryl took another drag and stepped closer; hand fumbling in his trouser pocket. "Want one?" He asked then; fishing out a slightly squashed box of cigarettes and holding it out to you. "Um, I, uh..." You stammered; cheeks already turning red. "I dunno." "Ya ever had one?" You shook your head; biting your lip. The biker stepped even closer to you then; his body barely inches away from touching yours. "Ya wanna try?" Daryl took another drag, then held his cigarette in front of your face.

Hesitatingly, you leaned forward and took the little mouthpiece between your lips to take a drag. Feeling the smoke fill your lungs, you immediately started to cough and back up. A small smirk tugged at the corners of Daryl's mouth as he watched you; taking the cigarette back between his lips. "'S a normal reaction. Once you'll get used ta it, it won't happen again."

A short moment of silence passed, while you replaced the smoke in your lungs with fresh air and Daryl's eyes travelling up and down your body.

"Hey, uh, ya wanna get outta 'ere?" The man opposite you boldly asked with a charming smile; hands grasping the wooden beam above him. It caused the black shirt he wore to ride up and reveal some skin of his stomach; alongside a dark patch of fine silken hair.

For the second time this evening, you had a hard time not to stare and instead to focus on his question - which left you just as breathless; given the fact that you knew exactly what he insisted.

Before your brain was even able to ponder thoroughly over his question, your mouth answered with a quick, determined 'Yes' - which kinda shocked you yourself. Usually you weren't the one who gave in so easily and willingly to a one-night-stand with a 'stranger'; and yet here you were. Was the way he made you feel the reason? Or was it his kind, flirty and charming personality? Perhaps it even was his good looks. You didn't know; couldn't put a finger on it. All you knew was that he attracted you like a damn magnet. You weren't thinking about your sister or the others in that moment. The tall, handsome biker with his rough redneck edges was all you had in mind.

Daryl's smile widened at your consent. He took a last drag of his cigarette, before he stubbed it out in the little ashtray on the railing. "C'mon." The man walked past you, down the few steps and towards his bike.

Elegantly swinging one leg over to sit down on the vehicle, he replaced his baseball cap with his helmet. His fingers worked to start the engine. "You comin' or wha'?"

Tags: @dixons-sunshine @angelwings-crossbowstrings @bigbaldheadname @making-the-most-0f-it @rh1nestonecowg1rl @mischief-dream @noldorinlady @imadisneyprincessiswear @fictive-sl0th @jbbsizzler @loz-3 @erebus-et-eigengrau @i93jjk @belitoxx @charlottewatkinsblog @coleigh-1205-blog @li-da-savage @chaoticevilbakugo

Tagging you other guys from my Daryl taglist as well, just in case you missed the teaser...

@marvelcasey05 @whore4romance @stitchintimefan @km-ffluv @0-aubrie0 @sweetz1919 @mikaela-granger @secretsicanthideanymore @dilfdixon @txtttttttttttttt @stiveroon @mayday2007 @cakesandtom

If you want to be removed or added from/to the taglist, please let me know! 🤗

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guiltyasdave · 8 months ago

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another week, another round of fic recs :)

as always, if you read any of these and enjoy them, please remember to show the writers some love with comments or reblogs!

for a list of all my recs ever, go here!

i'll sort the fics by character and add emojis to indicate the contents a little. still, please look at the tags/warnings and decide for yourself if something might not be your cup of tea.

💘= fluff • ❤️‍🔥= smut • 🤍= angst • 🖤= dark

dave york

unveiled by @punkshort ❤️‍🔥🤍

riddles by @yxtkiwiyxt 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

dave york & marcus pike

playdate by @daddy-dins-girl 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

dieter bravo

fruiton drabble (don’t ask lmao) by @ozarkthedog 💘

din djarin

take me to church by @frannyzooey 💘❤️‍🔥

frankie morales

date night by @artsy-girl-76 💘

do me yourself by @undercoverpena 💘❤️‍🔥

joel miller

what matters by @pedroshotwifey ❤️‍🔥

soil in the lines of their palms by @5oh5 💘❤️‍🔥

whatever you want by @ace-turned-confused ❤️‍🔥

not in rivers, but in drops by @sin-djarin 💘🤍

high infidelity by @dancingtotuyo 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

woman by @dancingtotuyo 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

like real people do by @mrsmando 💘❤️‍🔥🤍

you’re gonna go far by @mrsmando 💘

chokehold by @hellishjoel ❤️‍🔥

july by @psychedelic-ink (featuring tess) ❤️‍🔥

flesh and metal by @swiftispunk ❤️‍🔥

ruined! by @gutsby ❤️‍🔥

daddy’s girl by @fungal-rot 💘

helen by @kiwisbell 💘❤️‍🔥🤍🖤

marcus pike

raining in baltimore by @schnarfer 💘🤍

my own writing

delicate - modern!oberyn martell x f!reader 💘❤️‍🔥

#weekly fic recs #pedro pascal #joel miller #din djarin #frankie morales #dave york #dieter bravo #marcus pike #oberyn martell

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noxturnalnymph · 7 months ago

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Devotion 🖤 III. Path to the Future (Ch 9)

CultLeader!Joel x OFC!Reader

Series Summary: When is it enough? When is it too much? When does Devotion become Obsession?

Visit the Series Masterlist for series warnings, cult info, timeline info, and HCs on ages. Reader has a nickname and some minor physical descriptions - is an OFC from Reader POV.

*This series is 18+ MDNI. I will not be listing individual chapter warnings as I don't want to spoil the plot of each chapter. Please see the series masterlist for entire series warnings to decide if this is for you.*

III. Path to the Future

CH 9 (6k) “She left.”

The words ring in his ears, drowning out the cacophony of multiple things happening all at once. He’s trying to throw a jacket and shoes on while Tess is grabbing at him and begging him to wait until first light. He’s grabbing at Danny and demanding to know everything while Diego wails, apologizing that they didn’t look after you enough. The noise brings the other women downstairs and they all shout over each other, some arguing Joel should wait for a search party to be formed and some saying they’ll go with him and should leave right now.

In the end, Joel acquiesces to Tess, not wanting to ignore her heartfelt pleading after the hours they just spent commiserating together. He waits until first light to leave with Danny, Diego, and Sasha in tow. He orders Danny and Diego to ride their mounts to the east and west, climbing opposite peaks on either side of the valley to look for any sign of you. He sends Sasha north along the valley to look for the same and orders everyone to send up smoke signals if they see anything and to meet back at the house no later than sundown. But he knows all of those efforts will be fruitless.

He already knows that you wouldn’t bother coming back through the town when your goal was clearly to get as far away from him as possible. You would have left the farm and continued south, which is the direction he goes. As Sasha stuffs snacks and canteens in everyone’s packs before they split up, she repeats Joel’s words back to him several times, meet back here by sundown, but by the look on her face she already knows what he does, that he won’t be back until he’s found you.

---

Joel watched for smoke signals behind him all day until the sun began to sink below the treeline, making it impossible for him to see anything short of flares, which he knew they didn’t have. He figured he’d be the first one to see signs of you anyways, which he did eventually. The next town south in the valley was about a four hour walk and while he knew you’d probably never been through there, it was well picked over by his people and had been free of infected every time he’d been there.

He thought you’d be cautious and avoid the town, his hunch confirmed when he made his way up the gentle slope just north of the town and saw the footprints you’d left. The spring sun had melted the snow and left the ground muddy, and when you’d come through here late last night you most likely hadn’t even thought about covering your tracks. But now he knows he chose the right direction, and he pushes forward along the ridge, following the breadcrumbs you unknowingly left for him.

Joel follows your tracks along the river - just beside the interstate - noticing you keep to the treeline instead of traveling along the roadway, which has better footing but would leave you exposed. You also head east, which is the opposite direction of the bigger mountain range and also away from the state’s most populated city. You’re avoiding overexertion and big-cities. Maybe you do have some survival instincts after all.

He nearly loses your tracks mid-afternoon when you veer away from the river at another city but takes a gamble and catches signs of you again along the road leading towards the New Hampshire border. You’re not looking for populated areas here, there isn’t even any evidence you’ve stopped anywhere along the way. He assumes you’ve already got a destination in mind and are focused on heading there.

Long after sunset Joel finally decides to find a place to lie down for a while. He lays there in the dark and tries not to think about how worried Tess must be since he never came back, or how you’re somewhere out here too - all alone in the cold darkness. He knows this is all his fuckin’ fault. What a mess he’s made. He actually convinced himself that he was helping people, that he was saving them. He let himself believe them when they told him what a good man he was, a protector and a provider.

He falls into a fitful sleep and when he awakes a short time later he decides to forgo any further attempts at rest and continue on your trail. He hopes you spent more time with your eyes closed than he did and he can make up some ground on the head start you got. He follows your winding trail along the woods’ edge, through overgrown fields, around a quarry, and over creeks, all avoiding any majorly populated areas.

The only time you leave yourself exposed is through an hours-long stretch going through a wooded valley, where walking the roadway is your solitary option to avoid climbing up and down the rocky hills on either side of the pavement. By his calculations you probably traveled this section last night while he attempted sleep, which would have made your trek along the road a more protected position than he is currently in, trudging though the early morning hours and into the rising sun.

He hikes on through the morning, thinking over and over in his head what he’ll say to you when he finds you, and eats the last of his packed food around noon. He knows he can refill his canteen in the river just ahead, which creates the border of Vermont and New Hampshire. He also knows there’s a major city if he continues on his path and knows that’s the reason your tracks start to head south into what his map tells him is a wide forest.

This might be good he thinks, since he’s been hiking for nearly 30 hours and only slept a handful of them. He knows he could use a shady and secure place to take a nap. He waits until he’s about an hour’s hike from the last farm he passed before he walks off the trail to find somewhere to rest. Keeping the road just in sight, he walks straight through the woods and over a brook, finding a soft collection of last autumn's fallen leaves on which to rest his head. With the bird songs in his ear and the soft rustle of trees above him, sleep quickly overtakes him.

He jolts awake, a sound skimming his senses and alerting him to danger. He lies there, statue-still, and tries to listen past the woosh of the pumping blood in his ears, taking deep breaths to slow his thumping heartbeat. It’s dark here in the thick trees and the sun is low in the sky. He must have slept most of the afternoon away but he can tell it’s not evening yet. Suddenly Joel realizes it’s not a sound that woke him but the lack of sound. There are no birds singing, no insects buzzing, just the eerie sound of the branches creaking and the new spring leaves dancing on their boughs.

He slowly sits up - weapon in hand and his head on a swivel - trying to listen for the clues that nature around him has already picked up on. A predator is nearby. Infected wouldn’t be this quiet, they’re mindless and insatiable and only care about one thing. This is either a large animal or a human. He actually finds himself hoping to catch sight of a black bear as opposed to the alternative.

Before he can get up from his sleeping position he hears quick footsteps behind him and a blunt crack to the back of his head, the pain radiating across his skull. He slumps forward and groans in pain, his hands loosening around his gun. He hears footsteps move around the front of him and feels his rifle being snatched out of his slackened grasp. A foot kicks at his torso and he groans again.

“He’s not out, you gotta hit him again,” he hears you say above him.

No, it can’t be you. There’s no way.

“I’m not getting near him again, you said he was dangerous,” he hears a male voice behind him say.

You’re goddamn right he’s dangerous, and as soon as his head stops pounding he’s going to-

A second thump, this time on the side of his head, is the last thing he feels before everything goes black.

---

Joel doesn’t gain consciousness quickly, like coming up for air after being underwater. Instead it comes back in waves, just a few words here and there, a musty smell, the familiar sound of your voice, the beam of a flashlight hitting his eyelids. He’s trying to make sense of it but it’s all jumbled up and he’s not sure how to put the pieces together. He tries to sort out his thoughts bit by bit, every time he’s conscious he tries to figure one thing out and hold it in his mind, to remember it before he passes out again.

He knows he’s in a chair, he can hear murmured echos so he imagines the room is large, but the soft sounds of crickets outside tell him there's at least one window nearby. He knows he’s tied up, he can feel bindings wrapped around him and his arms are pinned behind his back. He knows he’s been relieved of his guns, the usual weights at his hip and ankle not present. When he’s finally able to stay awake for long enough to string a coherent thought together, he decides to open one eye for a peek at his surroundings.

He’s in a very large and long room - wooden tables and chairs scattered around - creating a maze of objects between him and five figures standing on the opposite end of the room. It’s dark - he’s been out for a while - and he can’t make out their faces or their conversations but he can see that two are tall and three are shorter. He thinks at least one of them is a woman. Could it be you? He thought he’d heard your voice.

Unable to hear any actual words amidst the murmur of conversation, Joel looks around again, trying not to move his head so he still appears unconscious. Divided windows line both sides of the building, moonlight pouring in from what he imagines is the south side and reflecting off the stark white rafters above him. He takes in the amount of chairs and tables in front of him and although he can’t turn his head, he would wager money there’s a kitchen behind him. If he had to guess where he was he’d say this was probably an old summer camp’s dining hall, the craftsman style construction pointing to a mid-century build.

He hears shuffling and sees two of the figures crossing the room towards him so he shuts his eyes and pretends to be unconscious again. Around tables and chairs he hears their soft footsteps, he’s still out muttered by a deep, gruff voice. He hears the footsteps stop just in front of him and feels a couple pokes to his chest. He does his best to play possum until he hears your voice - definitely your voice - shouting from across the room.

“You better make sure you double check him for weapons.”

“You already told us that three fuckin’ times,” a nasally voice with a southern twang shouts back.

A different, deeper voice says to quit hollerin’, then there’s a short back and forth between the two men in front of him filled with curse words while he hears stomping feet making their way over from the other side of the room. He hears your voice again but this time all three of you are cussing in hissed whispers, the most prominent phrase being fuck you, and he can’t take it anymore. He lifts his head up and stares right into your eyes.

“Oh fuck,” a tall asshole with the deep voice says, raising a pistol in front of him aimed right at Joel’s face.

“I told you,” you say.

Even in the dark Joel can see purple bruising around your left eye and a split in your lip, still oozing wetness. That’s a fresh wound.

“Shut up, whore,” a nasally twat that might weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet barks at you.

Okay, Joel thinks, he’s gonna snap this rude twig in half first for talking to you like that. Did he give you those marks on your face?

“Quit fuckin’ callin’ her that,” the tall one elbows the twig and then pulls you into his grasp.

He watches you break eye contact with him as you wrap your arms around the giant’s middle - seriously, this guy must be nearly seven feet tall - burying your face in the center of his torso. He hears your muffled voice say I told you he’d come for me into his dirty sweatshirt as his free hand moves down your side and squeezes your hip. Change of plans. The big fucker dies first.

The other two people make their way across the room as String Bean grabs a knife off his hip, which Joel recognizes as the knife he put on his own hip when he left the house yesterday morning. He watches this idiot flick it around in front of him like some kind of hillbilly ninja, the knife glinting in the moonlight. It’s pathetic but it’s the only thing keeping him from boring holes into the back of your head as you remain clutched to that big oaf like a goddamn koala bear. He subtly tests the ropes used to tie him to the chair.

The two that join the group are a chubby guy maybe five and half feet tall, and a girl just a bit shorter than him, both of whom look to be teenagers. The tall one tucks the gun into his waistband and they all engage in a terrible exercise of whispering, pointing back and forth. Joel knows he’s half-deaf in one ear but they know they’re talking about him right in front of him, right? From what he can surmise, the two younger ones are a couple, and the girl’s big brother is the tall guy you’re climbing like a tree. He’s not sure how the scrawny one fits into the equation or how you got mixed up in this. Do you know these people?

“So are we gonna get rid of him, or what?” Skinny asks.

“That’s not part of the plan,” you snap, pointing your finger in his face.

Joel watches him slap your finger away and then get pushed by the big guy before all of you devolve into loud whispers again, cursing and hissing. This is getting very old very quickly. He tests the ropes again, flexing his arms and chest against them. He’s tied pretty tight with more than one length of rope. Jesus, what did you tell them, that he was Houdini? The bickering still hasn’t stopped so Joel clears his throat and the noise finally ceases, everyone turning to stare at him. Except you. You won’t meet his eyes.

Just like old times.

“You ready to get the fuck outta here, baby?” he says, looking right at you.

He watches everyone else’s face swivel to look at you. You tilt your head slightly and meet his eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, asshole,” you twist your last word like a knife into his gut.

He watches Big Guy snake his arms around your middle from behind, drawing you back to his chest. Who the fuck does this jerkoff think he is putting his hands on you? And why don’t you seem to mind? Skinny points at Joel and starts to get mouthy but Big Guy lets you go and drags Skinny and Chubby away from the group and behind Joel, leaving you and the girl alone in front of him. He figures this is as good an opportunity as ever.

“PJ, I’m sorry-”

“Fuckin’ save it, Joel,” you hiss.

“Seriously though, what are we gonna do now?” Girl asks you, side-eyeing him.

“What do you mean? This doesn’t change the plan at all,” you say with confidence.

“You said he’d kill us,” Girl whispers loudly.

He watches your face as you pull her away from him but you don’t look back to meet his eyes. Your face is passive, giving nothing away. You told these people he would kill them? Why would you say that? You’ve never seen him kill anyone. You’ve probably never even heard about the terrible things he’s done. Of course he’s killed people, but so has everyone. He thinks you might have even had to do your fair share to survive. But why would you tell these people he’s a killer?

All three boys come around from behind Joel, Skinny stomping around with a large folded up paper in his hand. He shoves it in Joel’s face and points to it forcefully.

“Show us where you came from,” Skinny says.

Joel sees the paper is the map of the state of Vermont he’d been traveling with. Luckily nothing on it is marked, so there’s no indication where the Valley might be.

“He’s not gonna-” you start.

“Slut,” Skinny snarls. “You really need to learn when to shut the fuck up.”

“No she’s right,” Joel says, drawing Skinny’s attention back to him. “I’m not gonna tell you shit.”

Skinny opens his mouth to protest but you speak first.

“I told you I know how to get there, we don’t need a map,” you sigh.

“I don’t fuckin’ trust you!” Skinny whines, turning around to throw a mock punch in your face. You wince.

“You need to calm down,” Big Guy hums at his rageful companion, pulling you towards him again and away from Skinny’s reach. “She told us she’d get us there and it’s in her best interest not to fuck us over.”

Joel doesn’t miss the way Big Guy’s hand tightens around your arm when he says it’s in your best interest to cooperate.

“We been on the road for nearly two fuckin’ weeks and I’m gonna be real fuckin’ pissed if this little whore is jerkin’ us around,” Skinny hisses.

“I’m not,” you say, looking up at Big Guy.

“I hope not, ‘cause we’re really hungry,” Girl says.

“Yeah,” Chubby agrees.

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Skinny snaps, pointing a crooked finger in the girl’s face. “You ate your weight in pickles this morning. Besides, your fat ass could go another week without food.”

This time Big Guy has had enough. He yanks you to his left by your arm and steps towards Skinny, right arm pulled back and threatening a punch. Skinny jumps back, arms in front protecting his face and starts muttering apologies, saying he was just kidding, avoiding the punch Joel isn’t sure Big Guy even intended to throw. Maybe he’s more bark than he is bite. However, he thinks Skinny is exactly as much bite as he seems to be, no impulse control and a violent streak, and most likely the one who gave you those bruises. Joel can’t wait to kill these idiots and save you from them, then bring you back home where you belong.

“It’s late and it’s been a long day, we all need some rest if we’re gonna make the long trek tomorrow,” Big Guy says.

Joel thinks that it seems like Big Guy is the brains of this little operation, watching as he orders the young couple to sleep on the opposite side of the room where they can guard the doors. He tells Skinny to take first watch of Joel - who he refers to as the old guy - and then mumbles something to you about keeping you close before dragging you back into the kitchen behind Joel’s back.

---

It’s a muffled sound Joel hears at first but he’d know it anywhere, your soft sighs. He never thought when he heard you making those sounds again that he’d be so fucking pissed off. What is that fucker doing to you? He tests the ropes a third time, wishing he could reach into the back of his pants where he keeps a second knife tucked away, a small one clipped to his boxers for emergencies. Emergencies like this.

Skinny sits in a chair just across from Joel, about five feet away, watching him with a shit-eating grin on his face. If this idiot closes his eyes for a few minutes Joel thinks he can try and go for his knife. He’d be able to cut his bindings and start eliminating these morons one-by-one. But Skinny hasn’t closed his eyes. And you’re behind him with Big Guy right now, making gentle moaning noises. He needs to get free now.

“Ya hear that?” Skinny asks, smiling. Joel doesn’t answer. “He’s gonna dick your girl down real good.”

Joel feels his face heat, his ears burning while he clenches his teeth to avoid letting go of the growl that wants to escape his throat.

“She told us all about you, ya know?” Skinny sneers.

“Oh, did she?” Joel scoffs.

“She sure did,” He whistles. “She sang quite the song. Said you have the biggest stockpile of shit she’s ever seen, and you have all these fuckin’ people doin’ your bidding.”

Joel tries not to let surprise paint his features. You little shit. You told this jerkoff about the town, about all the food and supplies, about him and his flock? What did he do to you to make you confess all that? It’s fine, he’ll just play dumb, convince him you lied.

“That sounds pretty nice,” Joel muses, nodding his head slowly.

“Yeah, that’s what we thought,” Skinny laughs.

“Almost sounds too good to be true.”

“Does it?”

“Come on kid, it’s been ten years since the fuckin’ world ended,” Joel drawls, a smile on his face. “No one is livin’ like that. We’re all just scrounging for our next meal.”

“Yeah… she said you’d say that.”

“One thing you should know about her?” Joel’s smile disappears. “She’s a lying little bitch.”

“Well she’s certainly a bitch,” Skinny huffs. “...’cept I’m starting to think maybe she ain’t lyin’. She told us you’d follow her, and you did.”

“Oh? What else did she say?”

“She told us you’d have a hidden gun on your ankle, and you did.”

“Interesting,” Joel hums, the reminder that they took all his guns creating a renewed anger at his current situation.

“And she told us you’d lie your ass off to keep us from raiding your shit,” Skinny laughs. “And here you are, tryin’ to lie to me.”

“I thought you didn’t trust her,” Joel mocks.

“I trust you even less, old man.”

Joel settles back in his chair, flexing to test the bindings again as he hears wet noises coming from behind him. He hears a low grunting, what he assumes to be that tall fucker getting off with his fucking woman. He lets the growl rumble in his chest now, hoping it’ll drown out the sounds behind him and quell his murderous rage. Skinny makes a grating noise that could be a laugh. Joel stares at a dark knot in the hardwood floor and imagines wrapping his hands around Skinny’s stick neck.

“Sounds like yer girl isn’t yer girl anymore, don’t it?”

---

12 hours earlier…

You knew that you’d been hiking for over a day, although there was no real way for you to keep time. You left the farm at sunset and now the sun was rising on your second day. You tried to do a lot of your walking at night, pushing aside the childlike notion that the dark was scary while also trying to ignore the very real threat of actual monsters. Scary as it was, you knew that logically, you would at least hear clickers coming. It's more dangerous to be quietly stalked if seen by humans in the daylight. Still, you kept to the trees for most of your trek and even climbed one for a quick nap the first afternoon.

You weren’t sure if anyone was after you but figured there was a pretty good chance Joel would send out a search party once he heard, so keeping a steady pace and stopping as infrequently as possible were your main priorities. You thought you would outsmart him by heading away from the populated areas or outrun him by walking almost non-stop until you hit the ocean. You didn’t risk stealing a map from Hank’s shelves but you stared at it for long enough to memorize the route numbers you’d need to take, even making up a song to fit them into so they’d stick in your mind.

So now you were just next to Highway ninety one, which - according to your rhyming song - takes you south to Lebanon. You spot the sun shining off ripples of water through a brief clearing in the trees and decide to fill your canteen away from the more exposed river, heading to what ends up being a serene lake surrounded by a thick forest. It’s gorgeous here. The sun is shining and keeping you warmer than the crisp spring air would otherwise allow. The landscape glows green, finally coming back to life after a long winter.

This place reminds you of the lake you’d swam in during the summer camp you went to five years in a row as a child. Grab a swimming buddy, plug your nose, and jump in. God, you were fearless in those days. It's too cold to swim now but you wouldn’t anyways, not all by yourself. You walk the perimeter until you find a dock that will take you far enough away from shore to get some clear water without vegetation mixed in. Not that eating a little grass would kill you, but you’d prefer your water to just be water and not a salad.

God, you could go for a salad right now. Rosie made the best salads with a homemade vinaigrette that rivaled any dressing you’d had before the world ended. Why were you thinking of that now, of Joel’s house? You shouldn’t be thinking of that. Or of him. Fuck him. You were far away from him now, having finally escaped. You were staring out over the gentle ripples of a beautiful lake on a peaceful morning all alone. Enjoy this moment, you earned it, you tell yourself. You stand up and twist the lid closed on your canteen, stuff it into your pack and turn around.

Only you’re not alone.

There is a man at the end of the dock blocking your path.

Shit.

The fear starts to grip you, its icy tendrils shooting up your limbs and threatening to seize your rapidly beating heart in its grasp. No, you can’t freeze now, you have to keep your wits about you, you have to get yourself out of this situation. Making mental calculations as quickly as you can, you take off running down the old wooden dock, towards the shore, towards him.

Surprised by your sudden movement, the man takes a couple steps forwards on the dock, planning to take up even more space on your path. A few more steps and you’re within spitting distance from him. You see his arms come out in front of him to grab you. You quickly turn and leap off the dock, landing in the shallow water by the shore several feet away. You use your paltry headstart to your advantage and take off running along the shore.

You turn your head to look back and you see him, stumbling over his own long legs, having tripped and fallen into the shallow water. Relief bubbles up inside you like a percolating kettle, warming your insides and making you feel almost buoyant. You’re still looking backwards which is why you don’t see the six-foot-plus wall of man in front of you. Not until you smash into him and turn your head back, finding that his chest fills your entire field of vision. The pungent smell of his body odor stings your nose, nausea washing over you.

He twists you around so your back is to his chest and two anaconda arms wrap around your torso, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe. You see the other man coming closer, soaking wet but laughing his fuckin’ head off, a mouth half-full of crooked, rotting teeth. He’s more of a boy than a man, now that you can see him closer. Probably early 20’s and around six feet tall. With his clothes soaking wet you can see how skinny he is, hardly any meat on his lanky frame. A nasal twang comes out of his voice between sputters and chuckles.

“You- You thought you were real slick back there, didn’t ya, bitch?”

“She gave you the fuckin’ slip, Roy,” a deep voice huffs above your head. “She woulda gotten away if I wasn’t here.”

“Whatever,” Roy mutters. “Shut up.”

---

You were practically carried around the lake until you arrived at an old summer camp, a worn wooden sign calling “Aloha” to its campers. Pulled inside a small white building, you’re tied to a chair by Roy - still dripping wet - in what looks like a space once used for arts and crafts. You see the really tall smelly guy and two shorter kids - one boy and one girl - going through your backpack, pulling out the food you’d stolen from the Mansfield’s root cellar. They’ve already eaten half of a jar of pickles by the time the ropes are secured around you tightly.

Roy strips off his wet coat and joins the group, prying open a container of applesauce and greedily drinking it straight from the mouth of the jar. You hear the girl offer the tall guy a wrapped up parcel and she calls him Mike. You watch Mike open your package of homemade smoked jerky that you were saving for later on your trip and his eyes nearly bulge out of his head. He looks over at you, catching you watching them, and holds it up above everyone’s heads.

“Where’d you get this?” he asks.

“I found it,” you whisper, your voice hoarse due to your too-tight restraints.

You don’t even have time to process the fist that Roy throws at your face until after it lands. You feel his knuckles hit the edge of your left orbital bone and slide into your eyeball, sharp pain shooting around your skull and straight back through your eye. You cry out and tears spring to your eyes, pouring even harder out of your left eye, which you can’t open. Your chest tries to heave with sobs as you hiccup, struggling to take deep breaths against the bindings. You hear Roy’s piercing voice over you.

“...so stop lying if you don’t want another one,” he finishes, flecks of applesauce flying out of his mouth to hit your face.

“I- I ca-, I can’t-,” you feel a tightness in your chest and you worry you’re going to start panicking, the blinding pain and the reality of your current situation hitting you simultaneously. This is bad. You’re sputtering. “I c- can’t b- b- breathe.”

Roy completely ignores your tears and your pleading, tipping the applesauce jar to his face and drinking down more of it.

Pain spreads across your chest like a white hot heat, quickly becoming all you can think about, even pushing the throbbing in your eye to the back of your mind. You continue to gasp and choke, breathlessly begging anyone who’ll listen, but unable to focus on any faces. It feels like your body is being crushed, like you’ve been buried alive, every breath you can’t take in fully is another bucket of dirt thrown on top of you. The bindings across your chest seem to get tighter and tighter, the ringing in your ears growing louder.

Finally relief is delivered when you realize the young girl is at your side, her hand on your shoulder and a knife in her hand. The pressure is gone. She’s cut the ropes away from you, leaving you to take the deep lungfuls of the air you need to calm yourself down.

She pats your shoulder to reassure you before Roy - realizing what she’s done - drops the jar of applesauce to the floor. Ignoring the shatter of the glass jar and the splatter of the rest of the applesauce all over the floor, Roy grabs her by her hair, causing her to yelp in pain. He begins to scream in her face, calling her every name in the book before a massive hand is pushing a pistol into his temple. The tall guy, Mike, shoves the gun so forcefully into Roy’s head that it pushes him to the side, away from the girl. He lets go of her and stumbles back a few feet.

“Don’t you ever put your hands on my fucking sister,” Mike says.

Sister? This is good. This is very good. If Mike is willing to protect his sister from Roy then he could be willing to protect you too. You watch the girl run to the third young man’s arms, his face still covered in baby fat. You watch as he kisses her cheeks, petting her hair and telling her everything is okay as tears spring from her eyes. Once Roy has calmed down Mike lowers the gun, uncocking the hammer, and looks to you. He raises his other hand, still holding the package of jerky.

“Where’d you get this?” he asks again.

You look around, surveying the faces of his companions, each of them looking at you expectantly. They look weary. They look hungry. Looking in Mike’s eyes last, you see his deep blue eyes under heavy lids looking at you. They look like kind eyes. His floppy haircut curls up at his ears, giving him a youthful appearance but you’d guess his age was close to thirty. He seems quiet. He seems safe. You hope you’re not fucking wrong about this one.

“I can take you there,” you squeak, sounding as meek as possible. “There’s a lot more where that came from. They’d let us stay as long as we wanted. We’d be safe there, well fed... I can help you.”

“He asked you where, cunt” Roy snaps as he moves forward, his rage restored.

“I know how to get there, it’s a day’s hike away from here. I can take-”

You feel a whoosh of air right before the crack of his bony palm hits your face. Unrestrained, you fly off the chair and land crumpled on the floor, barely catching yourself. Roy has slapped you. God, it fucking hurts. Roy steps up to you and bends over your folded frame, shouting obscenities down at you before he’s elbowed out of the way by Mike. He must have put down the jerky because he reaches out to you with both hands, practically picking you up off the floor like a child. Instinctively you grab onto his arms and once on your feet, wrap yourself around him, drawing your face into his chest.

Ignoring the pungent smell wafting off him, you lick at the wetness on your face, salty tears and metallic blood. Blood? Fuck, your lip is throbbing. You touch your tongue to your lip and the source seems to be a split in your bottom lip. That fucker has hit you twice now. You wish he’d fucking choked on that applesauce he guzzled down like he owned it. You cling to Mike even after you’ve calmed down, raising your eyes to meet his, hoping your gamble pays off.

“If you help me, Mike, I can help you,” you whisper - just loud enough so only he can hear you.

His ocean eyes scan your face, no doubt looking for hints of deception. It’s hard to trust others in this world, you know that better than anyone. He looks for long enough that you hear Roy call out ‘what’s she sayin’?’ over his shoulder. He looks back at Roy, then over to his sister, and then back at you. He nods his head.

🖤

I miss you Iris 💐 Thank you for helping with this series. Thank you so much to my bestie Bug for helping me edit this. ILYSM.

🚨GOING FORWARD I WILL NOT BE USING TAG LISTS - THEY DON'T EVEN WORK HALF THE TIME. PLEASE FOLLOW AND TURN ON NOTIFS FOR @nox-notifs AS I WILL POST *FIC UPDATES ONLY* THERE.🚨

TAGLIST (lmk if you wanna be added or removed) @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @covetyou @iamasaddie @sr-lrn @clawdee @theywhowriteandknowthings @beefrobeefcal @merz-8 @speckledemerald @alltheseperfectimperfections @survivingandenduring @afraidtofear @millennial-teenybopper @missladym1981 @xdaddysprincessxx @lumoverheaven @ghoulettesinspace @brittmb115 @wintersquirrel @obscurexsorrows @littlevenicebitch69 @lulawantmula @pedroswife69 @joeldjarin @heimtathurss @untamedheart81 @pixielou5 @feel1n-h1gh @elegantduckturtle @koshkaj-blog @vickie5446 @lilipads @blvckmvgicwoman

#devotion series #cult leader joel miller #noxturnalpascal #ofc!reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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thelastofhyde · 3 months ago

Text

the likeability complex.

chapter 3. the butterfly theory.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. two seasons pass before joel’s very eyes and, without the presence of his sol, neither the spring nor the summer seem to heat his aching bones. what’s meant to be a simple drop off at bill and frank’s becomes a whirlwind of events that send you barrelling right back into joel’s arms, and all it takes is one horrified shriek: otis is missing!

warnings. no use of y/n ( reader has the nickname of sol ), grumpy x sunshine dynamic, unspecified age-gap ( but i personally picture the reader to be mid-20s at this point in the story ), pining, love as obsession, mention of previous s.a. & miscarriage, death, reader is implied to have had a good relationship with her mom, smut ( handjobs, male masturbation, dry humping, joel is desperate and begging, fantasies of piv, oral sex, and anal sex, mentions of virginity loss/younger joel having been a milf lover )

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. instead of addressing the reasons it took so long for this part to come out, let me address this instead: joel miller is a man who loves himself some prone bone! nothing gets that old man off quite like fucking his lover down into the mattress, the carpet, the dirt-floor, full body weight pressed against them, head buried in the crook of their necks as he literally smothers them with his love. in this essay i will...

read on ao3. series masterlist. previous chapter. following chapter

Time, as a matter of fact, does not fly.

At some point, Joel may have claimed it ticked, from one minute to another, until the hours passed by and another day’s work was done. He can no longer agree with this sentiment, for a multitude of reasons. For starters — and perhaps the most obvious — a broken clock may be right twice a day, but it is eternally silent. The dials on his wrist stopped ticking long ago and, with it, so did time.

So maybe time crawls. Slow as a newborn finds its feet, over carpeted floors and through cramped spaces. It seems to do so in spring, the tease of the impending heat of a summer’s sun on his back while the fading chill of winter in the breeze messes his overgrown hair. Joel can almost feel himself bending to match it’s slow crawl, his knees aching, a few of his fingers breaking — the consequence of a sloppy punch, thumb trapped beneath his four curled fingers, thrown without a second thought at the sight of one of Robert’s lowlifes placing a filthy hand on Tess. At the very least, the asshole’s nose burst with a bloody red, a reminder of the roses in Frank’s garden.

The trading is kept to the boundaries of their gates this season and, no matter how hard he twists his neck, nor how far lets his eyes run off ahead of him, there is no glimpse of a skirt billowing in the wind, nor the sound of smile-woven words. Just Bill, face as scrunched up as a constipated hole, gruffing out the bare-minimum of words to let Tess know one of his generators is starting to fail, before handing over a list of things they’ll need to bring with their next visit.

Joel cranes his neck one last time before departing and, still, there’s no sight of you.

Summer brings a whole new meaning to things and, thus, time begins to flow, like a river swimming towards the sanction of the ocean. The days wash away, sleepless nights slip into hellish mornings. The couch is being used so much that Joel’s indent has become stained into its very fabric.

This time, they are let in. Bill needs the help, in over his head with how easily he’d be able to fix the failing generator, and so they wind up being pulled through the gates and presented with the dying power source. Bill still wears a frown, even as he thanks Joel for fixing the damned thing. The four sit and break bread at a table, that seat which sits directly across from his empty in a way that he can’t avoid or ignore. The nerves to ask why you aren’t around never quite work themselves up.

What, or better said who, he does see is Otis. And what a relief it is to be sent near stumbling to his feet, the fully grown beast’s size a laughable contrast to its excited whines and wagging tail. He lets himself be tricked into taking the dog for a walk, in which every kick of Otis’ legs reminds Joel that his sol is still here, hiding in plain sight, not a single hope in hell that you’d leave your fur-friend behind.

In Autumn, the leaves begin to fall.

Joel’s dwindling hope seems to follow.

Time has become a threat. A jagged rock clasped in the hands of a volatile assailant. It is the impending feeling of bracing for impact, only for it to never hit. Because a threat can no longer be a threat once it is enacted, and time is no longer quite time once it passes by.

In between the pause of the present and the future, that is where time sits.

And, on either side of it, Joel and Bill occupy a seat.

“‘S quiet,” Joel’s not talking about the tense silence that has blanketed the past ten or so minutes, however long it’s been since the two were left in no company but one another’s.

Bill, aware of his implications or not, shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

Joel shakes his head, and swallows down that lump he gets in his throat every time he lies. He’s been doing that more often than he’d like recently, lying.

To Tess, whenever she’d ask him where he disappears to, slipping out of their shared bed in the middle of the night. She’d not enjoy the truth of him pacing the living room and lamenting upon the cracked leather of their couch.

To FEDRA, when a group of so-called soldiers ambushed him in demands to know why he’d been spotted attempting to smuggle a dress. They’d not believed the tale he spun of it belonging to Tess.

And, to himself, when he’s searching for answers of what’s been keeping him awake at night. Between the cries of whom he lost, and the moans of who he desires, he’s a sleepless wreck.

Laughter comes from another room. The distant duo of Tess and Frank bring more life to this deadly atmosphere than either of the two tense men. Theirs is a complicated relationship. No smiles exchanged, no warmth shared. Respect seems to be the glue that holds them together, a mutual understanding between natural protectors. Just as Joel snaps his bones without hesitation on behalf of Tess, Bill double-locks the doors and secures the perimeter each night as Frank and you lay sound asleep.

With this in mind, Joel treads with care as he descends further into the topic at hand. He decides to treat his own self the same way he’d once taught a stubborn curly haired girl to swim: throwing himself into the deep end.

“Ain’t seen much of your...” He pauses, considers what word best suits Bill’s affections for you. He finds himself at a loss. “The girl. She doin’ alright?”

That’s it, he’ll keep it casual.

Passive, hardly-caring.

Totally not headache-inducing each time a new tally is added to how many days it’s been since he’d last seen you — two hundred and four, but who’s keeping count?

“She’s fine,” the answer is curt. A coughed out sort of thing, heaved out of Bill like it aches to even speak. He’s not entertaining Joel’s longing.

“That’s... good, yeah,” he’s not sure he believes his answer. Good has never sounded so distasteful. “I’ll let Tess know, give ‘er some peace of mind. She’s been wonderin’-”

“Cut the shit,” Bill barks over at him. “You aren’t asking for Tess.”

He could try lie, again. Play the innocent, shrug his shoulders or furrow his brows, an image to mock what could be confusion. But the other man would see right through him, each and every time. Joel has no choice but to surrender. “Where’s she been? Can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

“Didn’t realise you were keeping count.” Is it that obvious? Perhaps he needs to adopt a new method of going about the ways in which he approaches the subject of you. Does Bill know he’d gone back to your room that night, instead of the toilet? The man has a fondness for cameras, perhaps he set one up in your room, or all over the house. Joel’s heart-rate spikes as he wonders if there’s one in the kitchen. “She’s out.”

Out.

A simple enough word, yet it crashes down on Joel like a ten-ton bag of dynamite, imploding his thoughts and reality. Because out to Bill means something far different than merely being out of this house. Out means beyond the electrified gates. Out means danger, someplace Joel can’t stomach the thought of you being, much less if it’s without him.

“You sure that’s the right thing to do?”

“I don’t need your opinion on how I raise-” Bill cuts himself off with a deep breath. He clears his throat. “I don’t need your opinion on how I take care of my people. She’s a smart girl, and it’s not her first time. She’s been going on solo runs since the end of winter.”

An act you’d never have been able to achieve, had he not taught you how to hold your own behind the wheel. That fact alone is enough to send bile burning to the back of his throat. He’s scorned you with the ability to put yourself in harm’s way.

A question of why seems to slip past his lips as his own thoughts abuse his heart, the word sounding far too pathetic and pleading for a man of Joel’s stature, reputation and morals.

“We’re old, she isn’t. There’s gonna come a day where she’s alone and needs to choose if she wants to stay here or move on.” The other man’s risen from his seat, paying no mind to the way the legs of it screech against the hardwood floor. He speaks passively, as though he’s merely reciting the weather as opposed to speaking of the approaching closing of the curtains on his life, and where that would leave the most valuable possession Joel could only ever dream to smuggle: alone, defenceless, in need of a new home. He too could use a new home these days. “And if she doesn’t get a choice and has to run, she needs to be able to adapt. She needs to know how to survive out in that shit-hole of a world.”

Ask me, the words crack like thunder in his head and shake his very core. Ask it of me, and I’ll make sure she’s never alone.

Bill never asks.

The floorboards creak behind Bill as he makes his way to retrieve his partner, leaving Joel to his solitude without the sparing of another word.

Scanning the room, Joel lets himself indulge in the freedom to be curious, to let his eyes wander for more than a few threatened seconds in which he runs the risk of a frowning Bill ringing his neck for snooping.

The place is homey, that has never been in doubt.

The first time he ventured inside nearly left him retching on their bathroom floor, skin chilled and eyes burning as that uncanny-valley feeling overtook his guts. Playin’ house, that’s what he’d proclaimed to Tess on that first journey back to the QZ. Rest ‘f us are out here fightin’ for the right to exist, and these two assholes are playin’ house.

The misplaced anger was truly Joel’s green eyed envy.

And his own self-hatred.

Maybe if he’d been prepared like Bill, he’d have less blood on his hands. Maybe if he’d foreseen the day that shit would hit the fan, he’d never have felt how thick her blood ran, through his fingers and down his arms. Maybe if he thought smarter, worked harder, all his losses would have been nothing but a whisper in passing winds, brushing past him and taking the impending storm they promised over to the next unfortunate bastard.

A polaroid picture captures his attention, pulling him away from the edge of his mountain of self-loathing thoughts.

It lures him out from the safety of the dining table and over towards a cabinet. Meaningless memorabilia and porcelain trinkets decorate the ageing furniture, a blob of motionless browns, tans and beiges that seem to match the colourless feeling in his chest. Among it, a burst of red. Joel has it in his grasp in a matter of seconds, calloused hands likely tainting the image with his fingerprints, and blinks in an attempt to focus his ageing eyes.

When the haze settles, you greet him.

You look young, younger than you are now. Your hair seems just that tad lighter with the sun’s rays shining a spotlight somewhere off-camera to the right. There’s a cheek-splitting grin across your lips, while bags puff out from beneath your closed eyes, lines to match his own crow’s feet forming under the pressure of your radiant joy. The image cuts off just below your shoulders and captures how your two hands sit parallel at either side of your chin, the source of the red gripped in each of them: strawberries. One for each hand. The left has a chunk bitten out of it, a perfect match to the shape of your mouth and the red tint at the corner of your lips. But it’s the right hand that holds his attention, it’s grip on him as powerful as your hand on the strawberry. He imagines you were excited, buzzing with too much energy and with no place to put it, your nimble fingers resorting to burying it in the layers of the fruit, the tips of your nails stabbing into the surface of the berry.

As his gaze traces the grainy image of berry-blood pouring down your fingers and over the back of your hand, he pictures his heart in the place of the red fruit. He’d want you to squeeze tighter, dig your nails in until you’re knuckles deep and his blood paints you, dripping off your elbow.

The thought of whether you washed your hand after the image was taken, or merely shrugged and licked the juice off yourself sparks his curiosity.

He snuffs the flame out before it can make itself too comfortable.

Getting the polaroid back into place feels an impossible task, with Joel’s shaky hands and prone-to-overthinking brain not willing to work together to get it back to where it originally sat, to where Bill won’t immediately notice it’s been tampered with the next time he so much as walks past it.

His eyes catch onto the faded black marker at the bottom of the picture. Baby’s first harvest, ‘13.

It sparks a memory in him, one of hearing your overexcited whispers over the radio-com at an hour far too late to justify being awake, Tess’ figure scooted down to the bottom of the mattress in an attempt to not waken him. Strawberries, Tess, you’d gushed in excitement, voice so pure he could feel it cleansing away all the sins stained within his fingerprints. We grew strawberries! You need to come visit soon! Do you think Joel likes strawberry jam?

He does like strawberry jam.

And he’d been afraid you’d never give him another batch after his dismissive acceptance of it the first time. The growing collection of empty jars he keeps are evidence of the truth, the yearly harvest of the berries bringing him the promise of something to feed his sweet-tooth.

With a baritone growl from his stomach, Joel’s attention carries him off into the kitchen, eyes struggling to look past the spot of the counter he’d had you pressed up against. Only now, standing within the room, does he realise he’d not been in it since that night.

His mouth runs dry at the memory.

This time, it is not through messy scoops of water that he chooses to quench this thirst. Instead, he zeroes in on the large bowl of ripened strawberries that sit atop the counter and digs, till his fingers wrap around the largest, reddest, juiciest looking one of the bunch.

Heaven makes a home on his taste buds with just one bite.

Tangy, fruity, fresh. Wet on his tongue, delicious in his mouth. It paints him memories of you, hand grasping the hem of your own skirt, hips tilting ever-so-slightly back and thighs shaking under the stress of his teasing tongue.

A second bite, a whole new wave of sensations.

His body, with a mind of its own, awakens the pumping of blood down to his crotch. Replaying the sound of your knife falling from your grasp, his cock hardens within the confines of worn-out jeans.

If he were to disappear off into the bathroom to rub one out, would the others even notice?

Perhaps he could take a detour, get lost on his way to that familiar toilet. The third door. It would creak upon opening, but maybe he could cover it with a cough, or simply pray the other three remain too far away to notice. From what he can remember, he’d be able to reach your bed with four steps. Sit on your sheets, bask in their warmth, their softness, their smell of you. Wind his hand down beneath his belt, grip his aching cock as he bathes in your unpresent presence. Stain your sheets in the thick, creamy white poison that shoots out his tip. How long would it take you to notice it painted on the back of your pillowcase? Would it happen instantly, or would it be late into the night, nothing but a lamp to light up the room, as you sleepily flip it over in search of the cold side, only to lay your face back down and be met with the sticky substance against your cheek? Would you lick it clean, drag the tip of your nail through it before caressing that very same finger over your pretty clit and-

“Ok, so I didn’t manage to get, like, anything you guys asked for! But, guess what I did find?”

Joel nearly chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

That voice.

Too kind to be Bill, too lively to be Tess, too feminine to be Frank.

It’s all you, rambling over excited breaths and stumbling around your words. He can’t see you yet, and it nearly kills him to not run off in search of the sound. He needs to sit and wait, and pray the tent being pitched in his trousers deflates by the time you reach him.

You’re getting closer by the second and life grants him no relief. If anything, the pulsating ache that sits between his thighs grows stronger as your footsteps get louder. This is it, he’s really about to see you. Finally, after so long.

What will you say? Will you say anything? Will you smile at the sight of him? Have you noted the lack of him in your days, just as he’d lamented it through his nights? Have you missed him?

Mind a frenzy of questions, it steals away the joy of watching you step into the room.

Instead, you seem to almost manifest before his eyes, two steps through the door and two hands behind your back. Scanning you from head to toe — and confirming a lack of bumps, cuts or bruises — his shoulders fall slack as he reaches your face at last.

You are smiling.

At him.

“Howdy, stranger!” Normally, he’d find your attempt to mimic some poor stereotype of his accent irritating at best, infuriating at worst. Right now, however, still riddled in withdrawals of you, Joel allows a corner of his mouth to quirk up. “Long time no see!”

There’s a million things Joel thinks to say to you.

Like how your absence has been painfully noted. Or tips on the proper ways to throw a punch, lest you wind up like him, bruised fingers and all. Or like the way he’s missed tasting your cooking, and the way you standing there, lit up in the doorway, radiant smile and electric eyes, seems to be healing a little piece of his fragmented heart, yet shaking his nerve-stricken hands. None of these thoughts manage to reach the surface.

Instead, Joel inhales.

And chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

“Oh my god, Joel!” You’re quick to react, shrugging off the bag from your shoulder and rushing over to him. You clap your hand over his back several times, and perhaps it’s the heat of feeling you touch some part of him at last, that final piece of confirmation that you’re real, and breathing, and standing so close to him in this kitchen, but he continues to feign choking even moments after he rids himself of the blockage. “You okay there, big guy? Don’t go dying in this kitchen or else Bill’s gonna lose his shit!”

Big guy. That’s new. Joel’s indecisive as to how he feels about such a name.

He means to say he’s fine, but then your hand is soothing over his back in comforting rubs. And when he works up the nerve to tell you he’s okay, you’re holding a glass up to his lips and feeding him water down his burning throat.

It’s nice to be comforted.

It’s even nicer to be comforted by you.

Catching himself moments away from leaning into your touch, Joel stumbles a single step back, colliding with the very same counter edge he’d tasted you against, and looks past you. Because he can’t look at you, not when the unfocused version of you that takes up space in his peripheral seems so tangible, bright, touchable. If Joel wanted to, he’s mere inches away from being able to sink his teeth in and eat you alive.

It’s dangerous, how much he wants to.

He spies your backpack, discarded on the ground, contents from it spilling out across the tiled flooring. Most of its junk — some nuts and bolts he’s sure Bill will find a place for, scraps of papers and faded movie posters that reminisce on what the world once was, a miscellaneous cloth stained in the red ink of death that has Joel questioning just who exactly had been bleeding — but there’s something else capturing his attention.

It’s not fully out of the bag, merely a corner of it peeking out the pulled-back zipper and gifting him the view of a worn-down box he’s sure was once a colour more akin to yellow than its current rotting brown.

“‘S that ya got?” He slips past you, hands reaching out and heading straight for the obscure item. The cardboard welts under the pressure of his grip, the top of the box popping open with an uncomfortable ease.

“Oh, that’s what I wanted to show Frank-” The moment Joel’s eyes read over the faded slogan, he has no time to wait on a real answer, flipping the lid to a trash can open and dangling the box over the top. “Hey, what are you doing?!”

“Throwin’ this shit out-” You’re near him. No, next to him, body heat mingling with his own as you shoot forward and try your luck at prying your treasure out of his grip. But Joel is stronger, larger, quicker, arm stretching up above his head and holding the box out of your reach.

He doesn’t comment on the fact the little jump you give as you try to reach only invites him to ogle the bounce of your tits under your shirt.

“Why? It’s harmless,” you plead against him, with your tone of voice and your eyes of sorrow, pitiful in the way they twist up his insides and leave him craving your blinding smile. Still, he’s an immovable force, grip tightened on the box as his other hand clamps down around your wrists, prying your hands away from him. “It’s literally just cake mix!”

You fight back, wriggling and squirming, trying your best to slip through his fingers. Joel squeezes tighter, ignoring the bile that burns the back of his throat as he pictures you come sunrise, bruises of his fingerprints burnt into your flesh. A new wave of nausea follows as the familiar heat returns to his loins, a feral part of him preening at the fact you’ll own some part of him, even as he’s miles away and crawling back through the gutters of the QZ.

“Ain’t no way in hell I'm lettin’ you eat that.” He says it for your own good, your own safety.

All the same, the eerie calm that comes over you makes him feel dirty and immoral for letting such words slip out.

“Letting me?” You parrot his words. With frozen features, you seize all fighting, all resistance, hands going slack in his hold. An unsettling smile overcomes you, something malevolent lurking beneath the surface of your typical kindness. “Joel, you’re no one to let me do anything. You have no say, no control, whatsoever. Understand?”

It’s a kick in the guts.

And not because he wants to control you. Or, maybe, if he’s honest with himself, a part of him does want to. Wants to keep you wrapped under his arm where no threat can approach you, longs to spend his working days awaiting the return to safety in the shape of a bed warmed by you, him and all the delicate sins you could share. But, more-so, because it makes him feel powerless, unable to put distance between you and harm’s way.

He’d felt true powerlessness years back, blood on his hands and a lifeless daughter in his arms. A shot missed and a whole lot of sobbing later, he’d vowed to never put himself in a position to feel that again. He kept Tommy close, to an obsessive degree. And when Tess came along and he eventually let himself give into the feeling of accepting another pair of lungs into his family, he kept her closer, living a life of keeping a watchful eye and a ready hand for any moment of violence. He’d do the same with you, if you’d just let him pull you into his circle, a space freed up ever since Tommy left him with nothing but a string of curses and an I don’t ever wanna see your face again to remember him by.

Of course, Joel doesn’t tell you that.

Instead, he gives in to the irrational anger your fighting back awakens in him.

“The flour, you stupid girl, ‘s what started all this shit.” He spits the words out, mind barely registering the way you flinch back when his face inches closer to yours. “But if you wanna turn yourself into some mushroomed freak, then go ‘head and be my guest.”

It’s like a fog clears and, suddenly, your calmness feels less threatening and that tinge of whatever it was — violence, disobedience, assertiveness? — in your eyes slips away and makes space for amusement. Only, the amusement will not sit still, seeping out of you in bright eyes and poorly held-back giggles.

He’s so caught up in it, caught up in you, that he fails to register you stepping closer. It’s only when he feels the brush of your breath against his cheek, and the bump of his nose against your own as he leans down into you, that the lack of space between you sinks in.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Joel.” The biggest lie of the century. He’s well aware of your prone-to-accident self, losing count of the amount of times he’s spotted bruises all over you and listened to Frank recount tale after tale of how you’d walked into a door, and stumbled down some stairs, and tripped over your laces. If anything, you’re the only thing Joel has to worry about. Especially with how much closer you’re getting, your own breath starting where his ends, chest pulling in to inhale and make space for his exhale. Perfect sync, a flowing motion, just begging to be ruined by locked lips and urgent kisses, feaverish passion that’ll leave him at a loss of both words and breath. “Besides, this batch is harmless...”

God, you��re so close. All he can smell is you — sweat, and wilted flowers, and vanilla, and a trickle of gunpowder. He can feel you, breasts pressing against his chest, hand pressing down on his aching shoulders, mouth taunting him a hair’s breadth away from his own. What he sees of you is far more torturous, bathing him in the impurity of coy looks, and teasing smiles, and soft skin yet to be marked by time and the torture of living. If Joel could just taste you, for just a second, then all those two hundred and four brutal days and sleepless nights would suddenly feel worth it.

Your eyes level with his own as the hand on his shoulder pushes him further down. It’s going to happen, he knows this, he’s accepted this. You’re going to kiss him, and he’s going to let you, and then he’s going to spend the rest of however long it takes for you to kiss him again thinking of how your lips feel.

Just a little closer...

That’s it. Kiss him.

Kiss him.

God, please. Kiss me.

“Check the production date for yourself!” Like whiplash, you pull back and send him reeling, muscles stiffening in a rapid attempt to keep him from keening over at the loss of your supportive hold. The disappointment that follows robs him of the horror of realising he’s now empty-handed, the withered box of artificial flavours and powdery evils secured tightly in your own grip.

You’re holding it out to him, finger pointing at a faded black ink. He squints his eyes and, sure enough, there it is: Mfg. 2001.

“Still don’t mean you should eat it,” Joel’s stubborn, despite all, and can’t seem to tamper down the burning in his loins that warns him against you eating such a thing. “‘S gonna be long past its sell-by.”

“Please,” you scoff, a snark-filled smile upon your face. You seem to be enjoying this act of defiance, or perhaps it’s the helplessness upon Joel’s face you find amusement in, torturing the older man with his inability to take care of you. “Sell-bys are just recommendations for the weak-stomached.”

A disturbance comes in the sound of thundering steps. The door behind you slams open, handle leaving its indent in the wall with a brutal force.

There stands Tess, a shine of sweat on her forehead and nervous twitching in her fingers.

Something is wrong.

Joel feels sick.

Merely a moment passes before the two owners of the home join the scene, Frank’s hand nervously tugging back on Bill’s arm the moment the man notices you, Joel and the nonexistent space that lives between you both.

“Tess!” Bless, you seem unaware of the heavy atmosphere settling within the kitchen, throwing your arms out and darting forward to wrap them around the older woman. She halts you, holds you just that bit out of reach, and Joel nearly scolds her for leaving you looking like a lost puppy, deflated as your hands come to rest at your sides once more, cake-mix forgotten in your newfound disillusion and hitting the floor with a muted thud as it slips out your sweaty palms. “What’s wrong? Why are you breathing so heavily?”

“Me and Frank... we were walking...” She keeps pausing to heave in breaths. The grip she’s got on you loosens and her hands slowly come to rest on her knees as she haunches over. Joel steps a little closer to you, hackles rising at the thought of danger. “A hole... Under the fence...”

Red alert. Loud, angry, threatening thoughts invade his mind, blaring at him like a siren refusing to go ignored. He’s got his fingers wrapped around the holster that houses his revolver in a matter of seconds. The safety’s on, he’ll need to remember that before he dares use it.

“How many?” He mumbles out, in true Joel fashion, and watches Tess meet his face at last. Confusion flashes through her features. “Raiders, infected, or whatever. How many of ‘em got in?”

He can’t help the anger that rises in him, teeth grinding down to hold back the curses aimed towards Bill. He warned him, that first time they’d met, to upgrade those damn fences.

“No,” Tess struggles in another breath. Frank seems worried, but that’s not what makes Joel sick to his stomach. It’s Bill, who’s pale as a ghost and uncomfortably quiet, eyes locked on the ground, that scares him half to death. “Nothing’s got in. It’s out, something got-”

“I swear I turned my back for one second, kid,” as if everything else wasn’t enough, Bill makes himself gentle and cautious, approaching you like you’re a wounded fawn and Joel’s some menacing stag behind you, ready to stab his horns into the heart of any who mean you harm.

“What-” you start.

“The hell are you lot talkin’ about?” Joel finishes.

They exchange looks among the three of them, each one more pressing in the way they plead the other to speak up, explain the situation.

Frank takes the fall.

“It’s Otis,” he’s exasperated, exclaiming it like it’s the heaviest of burdens. Joel can’t quite see your face but he imagines whatever expression you’re wearing must be heart-wrenching, so much so that Bill can not bring himself to meet your eyes. “Otis is missing!”

There’s a sharp silence that takes over the room, scratching at everyone’s eyes and burrowing itself down your throats, making a nest that gets in the way of what’s spoken aloud.

Joel watches your head sluggishly nod. You stumble a few steps back, catching his boots beneath the heel of your own. His hands make haste with supporting you, physically and emotionally.

“He was with me this morning,” Bill picks up again, tension thick in the air as his words slice through it. He’s explaining himself, voice layered with guilt and other emotions Joel’s never imagined the man capable of. “Out in the chicken coop. Started barking at something past the fence and... none of us have seen him since.”

The revelation has Joel retracing his own steps and, indeed, no four-legged creature had launched itself at him earlier, as he and Tess entered the gates. Nor had any paw-prints followed his footsteps through the mud, and no ball had been dropped before him, followed by a demanding bark that was guaranteed to get him to give in and throw the damned thing, if only to shut the dog up. Otis has not crossed his path once, a realisation he never imagined would bring him desperation.

A deep gasp cuts through the tension.

A few deep breaths. Four, to be exact. As you attempt a fifth, you waver and your exhale grows shaky. You pull air in deeper and it doesn’t seem to be enough, forcing your mouth open. The descent into hyperventilating is quick, a path Joel’s all-too familiar with, and the panic swells through your heart before anyone can try to stop it.

Joel acts fast, instinct leading his actions. He turns you to face him, grip firm on your shoulders as he holds your attention on him, big hands on your soft cheeks and tilting your head back to find your eyes. Glassy, wide, panicked. It's the hopelessness behind them that gets the best of him though.

“He’s fine, alright? Probably just saw some rabbit he wanted to chase.'' It's hard for a man like him to sound optimistic. Were you anyone else, he’d be telling you how dumb you were to keep a pet in the first place, nothing more than another mouth to feed and another life to watch out for in an age where safety is a luxury. But you aren’t anyone else, and Joel Miller will always be partial to his Sol. “Hey, hey, listen t’me. He’s gonna be okay. Bet he’s out there right now tryna find his way back, we just gotta meet him halfway.”

You nod along to his words, as though you’re listening, but your thousand-yard-stare says otherwise, eyes gazing past his wide shoulders. Unblinking, unmoving, you seem lost in a daze of emotions Joel's never prepared himself to see on your features. It twists at his guts to watch your figure attempt to follow him in the first steps he takes away from you, halted only by his own hands clasping down on your frame, coaxing you backwards until you find grip upon the kitchen counter.

After a cautious step back, eyeing you like you’re a wounded bunny two seconds from bolting, he turns to Bill. “Give me a few hours. I’ll track the dog and bring him home, alright?”

A half hour, a packed bag, and a rifle slung over his shoulder later, Joel finds himself at the scene of the crime, chicken shit on his shoes and his usual scowl on his face. Not having even stepped a foot out of the gated paradise and he’s already encountered his first obstacle: Otis has not clawed his way out of the fence but, instead, dug his way under it.

Fresh mud lays ahead, faint yet visible paw-prints lead off into the array of woods. He grabs a hold of the fence’s newly exposed bottom and justifies the way he further destroys it, bending the metal to his will and proning his way under it, with his faith in Bill's ability to fix the hole up in the time it takes him to find the creature.

Moving to a crouch, and ignoring the crunch of his bent knees, he eyes up the prints in the mud. The sight of only one set of tracks gives him a fleeting moment of comfort, until the thought of Otis having chased after something already so far in the distance pops into his head.

Your voice calls out his name from behind.

Sweat slicked skin, your fingers grab at the wiry fence, ripping the thing up with far less care Joel had given it. Bill will still find a way to blame him for the extended damage.

“I'm coming with you,” you speak with such determination behind your voice, Joel nearly forgets to actually pay attention to what you’re saying.

His reaction is instinctual, shooting back to hold the fence down, struggling to keep you within its confines, gritting out a firm no. “You sure as hell ain’t.”

“Yes, I am.” You tug uselessly at the fence. The wires stretch a third time, until a few snap.

“No.”

He holds his ground.

“Yes.”

You wriggle a hand under the fence, an action that forces him to loosen his grip. He can’t risk harming you, not even for your own good.

“No, you are-”

“Joel, please,” there’s exhaustion in your plea. A hint of desperation, too. He catches how you glimpse over your shoulder and observes the only item you carry — a distressed looking stuffed bunny with an ear missing. You glance over your shoulder again and it hits Joel. You’re nervous, in a rush. You’re here without anyone’s knowledge, that same look of panic in your eye as a teenager sneaking out of their window. “Just- I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. I want to find Otis.”

Talking is limited.

Instead, what fills its place is the sound of crunching leaves beneath heavy boots, and birds cawing and cooing in the trees above, and your incessant need to hum along to some melody playing in your head, distracting Joel to a dangerous degree.

This distraction leads to a close encounter, one where it’s only your swallowed scream as you stumble closer to him in fear, body seeking out some form of protection — he can’t tell if you view him as a mere shield or a sworn knight prepared to draw his weapons and, frankly, he winds up too caught up in your hands grabbing at his sides and your shaken figure melting against his own to care — that clears the haze in his eyes and sets his sights straight, gun drawn and aimed directly at the infected creature running towards you both.

He misses his first shot — shaky hands, one he partially blames on your proximity and the adrenaline it brings — but makes up for it in his second one, shooting point blank range and sending the creature crumbling to the ground, a bullet-hole in its forehead.

You both wait a few minutes, listening out for anymore rustling, before Joel deems things safe enough to continue and motions you with his head to follow.

From then on, you stick closer, alternating between walking a step or two ahead or behind him. He keeps a grip on the gun, unwilling to reholster it, and wordlessly hands you a shiv he has, ignoring the way you seem to perfectly curl your fingers around the weapon and practise a swinging motion, stabbing at the air with a deadly confidence Joel's never imagined to associate you with.

It forces him to rethink everything he’s come to believe about you over the years, and requestion just how exactly you’d wound up under Bill’s roof.

You interrupt his thoughts, the first to speak as always.

“If you don’t mind me asking-”

“I do.”

Undeterred, you smile and push through with your probing. “Who taught you to shoot?”

“My old man,” it takes him a few minutes to gruff it out. Or maybe it’s a bit longer than a few minutes, the sun’s shine seeming a lot less dim from when you’d asked. You say nothing, however, don’t even gasp in surprise at his eventual answering. “Dragged me out back to where he’d tied up our dog, poor thing had been sick for a while. Told me we weren’t goin’ back in till I shot it. Must’a stood there for hours.”

And that was that.

As much as Joel had felt you wanting to say more, you’d dropped the subject — maybe you’d noticed the dullness in his voice or the way his grip on his gun had tightened — and he’d never been more grateful for your ability to read him, without him even needing to open his pages for you.

You make camp by nightfall.

A clearing amongst the wooden areas, small enough to keep you hidden yet big enough to stretch out your legs. you ask for a campfire, and Joel denies you of it. ‘S too risky, he’d explained the instant he caught you deflating his objection. Don’t need no smoke signals bringing us any unwanted visitors.

He’d given you the coat off his back instead, a token to heat yourself up with as the pair of you quietly ate away at the tin-can meal Joel had been saving for the journey back to the QZ.

Chef Boyardee has never tasted better, however, after watching you place the can up to your lips and tilt your head back, swallowing down the artificial flavouring.

You don’t seem to agree, grimacing at the taste. “I don’t know how you can eat that.”

“If you think that’s bad, you don’t wanna know what they’re feedin’ us in the QZ.” It’s a privilege you’ll never understand, this sheltered life you lead among Bill’s traps and fences. You eat fresh eggs, and cook red meat, and nurture food out of the ground, while Joel fights tooth and nail to scrape up some measly ration cards. Oddly enough, he's not angry at your lack of understanding. He’s glad, happy you have a quality of life far better than his own.

“I'm surprised they feed you at all,” for all your grimacing, you’ve yet to stop taking mouthful after mouthful of the canned food. You must not have eaten much out on your run, Joel concludes. “Considering you eat Bill out of his whole stock each time you visit.”

He wants to defend himself, tell you it’s not true. Tell you it’s only the food prepared by your gentle hands and caring soul that he devours, in chase of satisfying another hunger he should not dare place upon you. That it is nothing more than Joel settling for a piece of your love, hoping that if he takes enough bites and chews enough times, it’ll seep into his skin, his bones, his bloodstream. It’s the only way he figures he can hold a piece of your heart next to his, until it stops beating.

But that is a burden a man like him does not place on a woman like you, so he bites his tongue and swallows down the rest of his dinner.

“The hell are we, middle-schoolers?”

A squawk of birds fly from their perch in the trees above, spooked by the unexpected boom of Joel’s voice. It’s an accident, flying out of him before he can really stop it and consider the dangers of loudly proclaiming your whereabouts to anything — living or dead — within a ten mile radius to hear. But you’re being ridiculous.

Your suggestion is ridiculous.

And you’re shushing him, a giggle behind the index finger you press to your lips, eyes shooting up to where the birds have fled, catching the reflection of the stars in your pupils and knocking the wind out of his chest, momentarily, with how bright they seem to shine.

“No, we’re two adults about to engage in a serious game of 21 Questions,” you speak like you live: much softer than Joel. No creature seems to hurry away at the sound of it and, in the fading memories he possesses, he can almost picture your voice drawing in all the critters of the forest, like that Disney princess she’d loved so much. “And that counts as one of your questions, by the way."

He has no plans on entertaining your childish play. He’ll sit there, he’ll watch out for any suspicious shadow lurking about in the dark, he’ll listen to whatever ridiculous questions you throw at him, and he’ll let you talk yourself silly, going in circles as he remains mute, and observant, and completely unwilling to answer to any of your-

“Which means,” you drag out the word, a sing-songy melody to your voice. “It’s my turn to ask you something, mister.” Mister. A warmth blooms in the pits of his stomach, one that threatens to creep lower, beneath the waistband of his blood-stained jeans. “What’s your favourite colour?”

If looks could kill, you’d likely still be alive.

Perhaps a little bruised, but it’s the worst stare Joel can will himself to pin you with. No doubt, it feels more threatening to you that it truly is, splashed across his stoic face.

“What?” You question, and somehow have the nerve to laugh. “It’s like… The most common question people ask in this game. That, or who took your virginity, and I really don’t think you want to tell me-”

“I’d just gotten my first job as a pool-boy. Pay was shit, but it covered my gas and left me enough to buy a six pack and a tub of wings,” the words fly out of him with an ease they never have before. Somehow, this feels easier, less intimate than matters like his favourite colour. When he thinks that answer is enough, he finds your face, expectations written across it. You’re waiting to know more. “I ended up with a few shifts working for one of our neighbours. She was a friend of my mom’s, recently divorced, and with a whole new body she’d bought with the divorce settlements.”

A spark of amusement flares in your eyes, that pretty smile stretching over your lips. He purses his own, trying not to think of pressing them against your mouth. You’d still taste of the canned food you — reluctantly — devoured and, somehow, the thought messes his head up even more, the potential taste of the food, of the care he had been the one to provide you with.

“That sounds like the beginning to a really bad porno,” you muse. Joel watches how you sit up a little straighter, legs tucking themselves up against your chest, chin resting atop your knees, arms engulfing yourself in their warmth, nose turning to take a quick inhale of his coat. He hopes he’ll smell you on it, too, next time he does the same.

“Surprised you even know what that word means,” he regrets it the moment he says it, that sickening reminder of your youth against his own ageing disgrace. He doesn’t know the exact years, but he know the difference would surely be enough to disgust a younger version of himself, the young father who once scowled at the sight of grey-haired men trailing their eyes down the bodies of wide-eyed girls, giggling by the bar as they flashed their fake-ids and sipped their first taste of — horrifically overpriced — alcohol.

“Porno?” You cut through his train of thoughts, unknowingly saving him from the downward spiral into memories best left behind, before the world went to shit. “You’d be surprised what a little bit of courage and a whole load of ration cards gets you past FEDRA.”

That word, that name, that organisation, it sets off an alarm in Joel’s brain, red-alert and siren sounding. And it pulls forth a question, echoing in the woods before he even realises he’s speaking his thoughts aloud.

“You were in a QZ? You weren’t always with Bill?”

“Pittsburg QZ, if you want to get technical. And then Hartford. No, I wasn’t always with Bill.” He tries to picture it: you, confined to the horrors of city living, bargaining things for survival, facing the harshness of the power-tripping FEDRA officers. The thought proves too disconcerting, so out of line with the you who exists only within the confines of safety and comfort in his mind, that Joel has to stop himself from imagining more, imagining worse. You and pain do not, should not ever exist in the same space, not if Joel can do anything about it. “And those count as two separate questions, so now I get to do the same.”

He hadn’t even meant to play into it, entertain your silly game. He’d just needed reassurance, answers, to know no scars litter your skin and no wound has fractured your psyche. But you’ve given him none of that. No comfort for his ailing soul, more questions for his troubled mind.

“Was it a one time thing,” unaware, or simply desensitised to his ways, you continue on with your questions, despite the frown he feels wrinkling at his forehead. “With your neighbour?” He’s glad to see you bring the conversation back to his own debauchery.

“No.”

“Ooh, scandalous! Joel Miller, local pool-boy turned toy-boy.” If he wasn’t so busy fighting off images of you, young and scared, standing before armed FEDRA soldiers, Joel might have found it in him to crack a half smile at the amusement the sexual endeavours of his youth seem to gift you. “Did you fuck any other of your clientele, or were you and Miss Recent-Divorcee exclusive?”

“No,” he says once more, then quickly clarifies. “I didn’t sleep with other clients. But also no, we weren’t exclusive.”

“Did your mom-”

“‘S my turn, darlin’,” Joel surprises even himself, cutting in before you can sneak a third question his way. It’s like it finally hits him, the way this game has handed him the opportunity of a lifetime to learn the answer to any question he’s ever pondered over you. But all other questions, topics, seem to slip out his conscience’s grasp, like sand slipping through fingers, as he feels himself dragged further into the fear you’ve awoke within him, a fresh layer of worry he now holds for a version of you he’d never known, a version of you he can barely stomach the idea of. “How did you meet Bill? Were you with Frank before?”

“God, you’re bad at this game! Two questions, again!” And, yet, you say it with more humour than chastisement. You turn your face, again, nose bumping against the collar of his jacket. “But no, I wasn’t with Frank. I met them both at the same time, after I spotted them through their fences. I passed out, dehydrated, and I probably wouldn’t have been brought in if it weren’t for Frank insisting they couldn’t just leave me out there to die.”

“You were alo-”

“Ah, my turn!” Your hand shoots out, index finger pointing across the space between you both. “Did your mum ever find out about you and her friend?”

“No, it ended before that could happen. She got herself a man her own age, and I…” Got someone pregnant. The words stick to his throat, refusing to come out.

Reading his closed off pages, like you always do, your voice cuts through the air before he can let himself slip too deep into the sorrow.

“I was alone, when I met Bill and Frank. But I wasn’t always.” Those four words are enough to make him ache. But I wasn’t always. Who had you lost? How long did they survive? Did you feel their blood on your skin? The questions fly by so quickly, he’s struggling to pin-point which one he wants to ask first, which ones he’s allowed to ask. “Have you ever been in love?”

That quiets his mind. For a moment, it’s a welcomed incident. Then his heartbeat fills his ears, and it’s pounding, skipping over beats of its own rhythm, threatening to spread too much of that fear, too quickly to every vessel under his skin, that Joel has no choice, he has to give you an answer he doesn’t want to, just to save himself from the impending tightness in his chest.

“Green,” the words are a struggle to get out but he manages it, watching the confusions bleed into your soft eyes. “I never answered. Before. When you asked my favourite colour. It’s green.” If you find his answer to be too late, or you’re disappointed at his clear avoidance towards your latest question, you don’t give it away. You just nod, smile softly, and wait for him to take his turn. “Why were you alone?”

“Everyone changed, got bit, or died. I didn’t want to be next.” Perhaps he’s a fool. Perhaps he underestimated the resilience you keep under warm sweaters and easy-going smiles. Because you sit there, not a tear welling in sight, and talk about the things you’ve lost like they don’t haunt you. Like you haven’t spent every waking moment since trying to find them, evidence that they were real, and that they’d mattered, and that they’d loved you. Like you haven’t drowned in grief, the way he has. You’ve swam, instead, against the current, crawled to the safety of shore. “Who’s your butterfly?”

The question catches him so off guard, so out of left field, so completely and utterly nonsensical, that he just can’t help himself. “My what now?”

"You know, the whole ‘if a butterfly flaps its wings’,” you trail off, hands curling tighter around yourself after performing air quotes. “Who's one person that changed the trajectory of your life?"

He cannot run.

He cannot repeat his earlier trick, deflecting with the answer to a previously spoken — and visibly ignored — question. Because, no matter which of your two questions he chooses to focus on, the answer remains the same. That little girl, with a smile like sunshine, sitting at the breakfast table, egg yolk on her cheek, ketchup all over her tiny, chubby, little fingers, an incoherent babble of excited squeals as he, once again, drives the choo-choo train — in truth, a fork-ful of food — towards her lips.

You’ve got him backed into a corner, no out, no escape. His mind, a cruel torturer that takes advantage of his own panic, thrusts yet another memory into the VHS of his mind, broadcasting it against the back of his eyelids, forcing him to see the granny pictures every time he blinks. Her first step. Her first day at school. Her first time trying a sip of his beer and absolutely hating it. Her. Her.

Suddenly, he’s angry. The only response he ever seems to conjure at the memory of her.

“‘S this what this whole things all about, huh?” It’s snarky, it’s cruel, and it's punctuated by a scoff. The fact you don’t even react, face unchanging beneath the shine of the moon, only seems to make him angrier, outrage for the fact you’re letting him speak to you like this, fury for allowing himself. “You want me to tell you somethin’ traumatic, somethin’ for you to pity me over? And then what, you gonna give me your own little sob story so we can have ourselves a lil’ pity party? Newshflash, princess, you ain’t special just cause your mama died and your daddy never wanted you.”

“Are you done?” You speak only after a silence has permeated the space between you for a few minutes, nothing but Joel’s laboured breaths filling the night air.

He’s not even sure when he started breathing so heavily. His heart is still working itself into a frenzy, his mind still off the rails. The eire calm that remains over your face seems to bring him momentary respite from the pain, if only to feel himself bracing for a new wave, a worse wave. One born from you. From your pain. And one that Joel’s entirely unprepared, and undeserving, to have wash over him.

"I didn't really notice it at first, you know?” You speak so softly, he almost doesn’t hear you. But he does, and it hurts. “Hell, it wasn't even really me that realised. Bill did. I’d only been staying with them three nights, just until I got back on my feet. Back then, he used to barricade my door at night, and he wouldn’t let me eat at the same table as them both, not even when Frank insisted. But, suddenly, Bill flipped the switch on me. He became apologetic, careful, asking me if I was feeling okay and actually sounding… interested in the answer.”

Much like the thought of you in a quarantine zone, the thought of Bill being anything but utterly protective and completely trusting of you does not seem plausible in Joel’s mind, no matter how much he believes you. The image, simply, will not conjure in his mind, too out of shape with the current reality he’s witnessed.

You continue talking after a pause for composure, those eyes that trap him so easily now frozen to the ground, staring at some smudge of mud on your boots.

“Frank was the first one to actually say it out loud, to ask me if I... Anyway, it was hard to tell but we all agreed, eventually, that I had to be around three or four months along. It made sense, timewise. There were some raiders, they found my camp a few weeks before I collapsed outside Bill’s gate. I… I don't even really know which one of them sealed the deal. All I know is all of them were on me, and none of them cared about how hard I could kick.”

He almost calls you by your name, then by the name he’s given you. Sol. But it’s too pretty a word, too undeserving of being tainted by the anger he feels coursing through his veins, a bloodlust like no other making home for itself in his loins.

“I didn't really care that much about it, as horrible as that makes me sound.” It doesn’t make you sound horrible, at all. Joel could show you horrible, if you just gave him a few faces and the permission to do with them, punish them as he pleased. “It was just a means to an end. A deal to keep myself safe. They'd let me live under their roof, and I'd give them the baby. We never… discussed what would happen to me, once I held up my end of the bargain. Never got the chance to, really.”

And suddenly, Joel Miller is the greatest asshole to ever walk the planet.

Not only the greatest asshole, but a hypocrite, too. You ain’t special. Well, neither is he, moping around life with a chip on his shoulder and baggage the weight of a dead daughter. He isn’t the first parent to outlive a child, to lose a child, and he won’t be the last. He’ll just be another name on the list, another poor soul.

The hoot of an owl. It’s somehow a reminder that you’re both out, huddled in the privacy of a few trees, waiting for night to pass and the search to continue.

Those tears in your eyes still haven’t fallen. My brave girl. But it feels condescending, and wrong. Not because you’re not brave. Because you’re not his girl. You’re the sun, and he’s just another planet that’s been sucked into your orbit. Dense, unfeeling, and miles away, forever circling you.

“One minute, it's just a burden weighing down on my whole body,” your voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper. Perhaps he’ll be the one who cries. It sure feels like it, if he has to continue watching you fidget with your fingers and look anywhere but him. “And the next minute, it's screaming torture and the heartbreak of holding her barely-there body in my arms. That guilt... of not even knowing how much I wanted her until I got the chance ripped away, that’s something that never really goes away. It lingers, it changes you, forever."

God, does it linger.

He’s tried to lose track. He’s tried to make himself forget the years that have gone by, all in the hopes of getting through that September day, completely unaware of it. But he can’t.

Just like how he can’t think of what to say right now.

He knows he should comfort you.

He thinks he should tell you his own story, his own loss. Let you know that the grief you feel is not a lonesome one. But then he’d be worse than a hypocrite. He would be a liar, and that’s one thing he’s getting tired of being, especially when it comes to you.

“What,” he pulls in a deep breath, eyes flickering off you for a moment to watch figures that move in the distance. Tree branches, swaying in the wind. The temperatures are dropping even more, and he’s got no other layers to keep you warm with. “What were you gonna name her?”

You’re gracious enough to utter a name, softly, and finally your eyes flicker up from the ground and meet his own. The tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth, the moon casting shadows down your face. You pull in a breath and stutter on its exhale, clearing your throat as if that’s enough to regain your composure.

“That’s her name. We buried her out back, under one of Frank’s flowerbeds,” there’s a sickening kind of envy that coils itself around his chest. Even if it visibly hurts, you’re talking about her, you’re honouring her enough to share something about her existence. Joel can’t do the same for his girl, a pain too harrowing, and, once more, he reminds himself that he’s the greatest asshole alive. “It’s silly but… I like to think it’s her whenever the snowdrops bloom.”

“'S a nice name," he’s a pathetic excuse of a man, no courage to pull you close and tell you it’s okay. Tell you he’s sorry, for your loss and for his earlier harsh words. Tell you about his own daughter. Would you think he’s trying to outshine you in the pity party, if he told you he doesn’t get to see what life blooms from atop his daughter’s grave?

"It was my mom's,” you snort over an unexpected laugh, as if you can’t believe you’re admitting this to him. Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s a sense of relief, a lightness coming over a heart previously weighed down by grief. If he could do that for you, even if just slightly, he’d feel as though the tears shining in your eyes are worth it. “She'd have hated to see me use it, she was never a fan of it, but I couldn't think of a better name for someone I love so much."

Something awful hits him, square in the jaw and deep in the gut.

He can’t remember why he called her Sarah.

You’re sleeping next to him.

He’s spent the better half of what feels like an hour trying to ignore this fact. Stared at the sky, just to count each freckled star that shines through in the dark. Closed his eyes and tried counting sheep. Rolled over, back facing you, and tried to just fall asleep, once and for all.

But it’s sisyphus. Each time he feels himself about to slip into the discomfort of sleep, you twitch a leg or mumble something incoherent, and he’s back to being far too aware of you, squeezed in beside him in what must be the world’s least spacious sleeping bag. The worst thing is, it had all been his idea.

You’d been yawning, eyes slipping shut just to be opened in defiance by your own stubborn self, unwilling to give into the sleep you so visibly needed. He’d told you to go to sleep, the words coming out soft for once yet, somehow, still a demand. When you nodded in agreement instead of standing your ground, Joel knew you must have been exhausted.

You told him that you hadn’t imagined the search would last overnight, that you hadn’t grabbed a single thing to sleep with. Not even a blanket. Which was fine, really, because Joel had no intention of closing his eyes. He’d rolled out his sleeping bag and told you to take it, he didn’t mind. It would be one more thing of his that smells like you.

But you wouldn’t stop tossing and turning. Restless, cold, and completely distracting to Joel as he tried to will himself to focus on what was important, any approaching threat, and not the shape of you wrapped in his belongings. A fruitless endeavour, that earns him nothing but a string of words rolling off his tongue: “Move over.”

And now he’s here, regretting ever thinking he could possibly lay next to you, exchange body heat, and somehow just will himself to fall asleep.

You squirm, hand fisting at the well-used material of his sleep roll. Laying on his back, he glances over at you. The itch to snake his arm beneath your head, offer a makeshift pillow to spare you from the hard floor, grows harder to ignore the more he looks at you.

It’s not the only thing that grows harder, however.

Maybe it’s because he can smell you, all over and around him, staining your memory into the fabric of the sleeping bag so he can lament how empty it feels the next time he sleeps it in. Maybe it's because he can feel you, scattered points where the heel of your foot rests against the slope of his ankle, and the swell of your ass presses into his upper thigh, and your back brushes against his arm with every slow breath you take. Maybe it's all more simple than that, like the mere knowledge that you’re actually here, in his presence, after so many months, and Joel Miller is just a man, susceptible to the pleasures of flesh and starved of you.

Whatever the reason is ultimately doesn’t matter. Lamenting over it won’t change the stiffness of his cock as it fights beneath denim confines, an uncomfortable throb that demands his attention. And he’s trying so hard to resist, trying so hard to pretend he’s not aware of his own body and the erection it’s bestowed upon him.

But you won’t stop moving, you won’t lay still. Deep in sleep, you taunt him, unawares to the way each soft sigh sends his mind barreling down into the depths of sinful thoughts, and each wriggle, squirm, repositioning of your hips serves no purpose other than to push you closer to him, deeper against the straining fabric.

He flirts with the idea of unbuckling his belt. It would be easy, his hand already resting stiff by his side, itching to shove down layers and feel the weight of his own cock. It barely even makes a sound, a soft clink muffled beneath the blanket, followed by the pop of a button, and the zing of a zipper sliding down. He glances at you, heart rate picking up, and confirms you’re just the same as moments ago: fast asleep.

As much as he wants to peel off his layers completely, he settles for the safer option of pulling down his jeans and briefs enough to free himself, full fist wrapping itself around his base. A swift tug, a tight-jawed hiss. The thrill of it runs right up his spine, a torture that he wants another taste of.

He wants to snake his hand up to his mouth and wet the palm with his spit, but he can’t, won’t, the risk of too much movement waking you. So he settles into his fate, a series of uncomfortably dry and unfluid strokes of his cock, nothing but the drops of his own precum to lubricate his movements.

Slow, steady, he runs his palm over his length in sync with your breathing. Your lungs expands, his fingers brush the tip, they deflate and he’s down at the base, trying hard not to brush against his heavy balls. Images of you, the same ones he plays on repeat when he’s working himself to an orgasm in the safety of his and Tess’ apartment, or balls-deep in some faceless stranger, hidden in the darkness of some back alley. Breathless in the kitchen, gripping a knife like your mind grips at its sanity as he bruises his knees from drinking between your thighs. Perched atop his lap, the metal of the truck’s hood creaking with each bounce you give, fuckin yourself further down his length, forcing him deeper and deeper.

His eyes slip shut as he lets the memories take over, replaying for his own viewing pleasure. He tries to match the tightness of his hand to the tightness of your cunt, but his own touch is cold, unfeeling, dry, nothing like the sweetness of you. The version of you that lives in his mind throws her head back lips parted in a cry of pleasure. Joel, she — you — moans, gripping him tighter, pert nipples straining through the thin fabric of a shirt. His shirt. God, you looked so good, so safe in his coat, he should’ve stripped you down to nothing but it, and taken you there against the dirty woodland floor, on all fours, ass in the air, face in the dirt, Joel all over you.

Joel, he can hear it, the way you’d sink down fully to the floor, forcing him to follow you, smother you in his whole weight, hips tilted up enough for him to keep drilling himself deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

“Joel,” he hears you. Real you, turning towards him in the tight squeeze of the sleeping bag. Sleepy eyes meet his own and he sees it, the recognition. You know what he’s doing beneath the surface of the sleeping bag. Before he can fully register this, the touch of another hand — far more delicate — envelopes his own, tightening his grip before he can dare to retreat. “You should be asleep.”

“Can’t,” he grits out, powerless to the sudden movement of your hand, the slow drag in which you guide him to jerk at his cock.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“I do,” you admit with a soft shrug, eyes glued to his own. “Still, I wanna hear you say it.”

One glance down and he sees the way you touch him beneath the blanket, wishing he could rip it all away and watch your fingers, intertwining with his own, smother over his leaking tip, staining your skin in his pleasure.

It’s embarrassing how much of a mess he’s becoming, all at the mercy of little old you, and your sparkly eyes, and your sleepy smile, and your guiding hands. It’s embarrassing how softly the confession parts from his lips.

“Because of you.”

“Me?” You question immediately, feigned innocence striked across those tired, doe-like eyes he likes so much. “All I’ve done is try to sleep. You’re the one who can’t keep his hands from wandering. Are you really that weak Joel?”

“Yes.”

“Do I make you weak?”

“Yes, fuck!” He feels like he’s gone back in time and you’re playing with him, twenty-something questions or whatever the fuck you’d called it. Feeling his balls tighten, an urgency to touch you, feel you, make you feel good takes hold of him. “I’m gonna- Ahh, baby, let me- Let me feel you.”

But you won’t let him. Tightening your hand around his cock, continuing those up and down motions, inching him closer and closer to the orgasm he’s trying so hard to stave off.

“No, I’m too tired,” even your little whine is enough to drive him mad, a sigh out your nose as he watches you snuggle into the width of his chest, a throbbing pain taking over his heart. How can you seem so sweet with your fingers sitting tight around his cock? “Let's just lay like this, feel me like this. Let me make you feel good.”

“Tell me you’re wet,” it becomes a need, a desperation, born in his heart and spreading all throughout the rest of him, to know you’re enjoying this torture as much as he is. To know you’re not simply touching him as a means to get him off, over and done with, mind silenced to sleep by the haziness of spilling his cum.

“I am,” you soothe his minor fear, and he feels the gentle roll of your hips into his thigh, leg tangled between both of his as you grind your clothed cunt against him. “So wet. Love touching you, Joel.”

“Yeah?” He croons back, voice teetering off into literal begging, his free hand perched on the tip of your chin and tilting your eyes up to meet his. “Then let me fuck you, please.”

“No, just…” You say, shaking your head, rolling your hips, teasing at the slit in his tip with the tip of your finger. He can’t help but hiss, a grunt catching in his throat. “Just wanna focus on you. Wanna see you cum for me, Joel.”

Never have seven words been enough to make his resolve snap.

With a pathetic cry of your name, Joel feels the first rope of cum spray against his knuckles. Sticky, hot, thick, it dribbles down the cracks of his fingers onto your own, making a mess out of both of you. You’re there, closed palm, sweet lips, soothing him with words of kindness as you carry him through the motions of his orgasm, no doubt working your wrist into a dull ache as you squeeze every last drop of cum out of his weeping tip. He doesn’t want to think of the mess that awaits him beneath the sleeping bag, sticky cum staining soft skin, and rough jeans, and nylon material.

What he wants is for you to keep going, stroke him until his cock regains its full stiffness, standing to attention and ready to feel you in the ways he’d pleaded moments earlier, like he felt you months earlier.

Maybe this time he’d try your other hole. He’s wondered, on lonely nights where nothing but his hand has kept him company, how much convincing it would take until you’d bend over and present him with the pretty little creases of your puckered hole. You’d protest, he knows. call him disgusting, degenerate, dirty. Shame him for even wishing to touch you in such a vile manner. Joel could handle it. He’d always had a preference for the chase, the thrill of wearing a pretty thing down off its high horse of holier-than-thou syndrome and onto their knees before him.

He’d not be kind. No, not when the time comes. He’d ease himself in, sure, but the true battle would begin once he’s sheathed inside and the tightness of your hole hugs his cock in the warmest of embraces. He’d push, and pull, and break you down into whatever surface he takes you against. His hands would join in, bringing an electrified pleasure to your neglected cunt while his hips piston into the plumpness of your cheeks. They’d move in sync, working to ensure no second passes where you’re not full of some part of him - be it his cock in your ass or his fingers in your cunt.

Exhausted and defiled, your poor body would have nowhere else to run than to the comfort of his embrace and the sweet serenity of peaceful sleep, once he’s through with you. And, should you wake to cry of a newfound pain in your rear, Joel would waste no time in snaking his way down between your legs to mouth at your cum-stained hole, laving his tongue over you and painting your thighs in apologetic kisses until you can no longer speak of pain, his name the only word you’ll ever need to know.

But, alas, time is catching up on him and the blood refuses to return to his cock.

Exhaustion wraps you both in its blanketing warmth, melting your head down against his chest with ease, hands still missing somewhere between his thighs. Every soft breath that leaves you hits the skin of his neck, a physical, timely reminder that you’re there, in his arms, closer than you’ve ever been.

The thought is frightening, enough to get his heart racing in his chest. He can only assume you hear it, feel it beating against your ear.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper, just when he feels himself teetering towards the edge of sleep.

“Hmm?” He hums back in lieu of a verbal response, eyes he’d not even notice close peering open to look down at you.

“I didn’t mean- I wasn’t trying to make you angrier with the questions.” Angrier. That word leaves a sour taste in Joel’s mouth. “It’s just… You’re a good man. You care about others. About Tess, and Bill, Frank too. About me. But you have this chip on your shoulder… I just wanted to try to understand you better, I wanted to make you feel better.”

With your soft voice echoing in his head, he feels himself sinking into a dreamless sleep, a reply caught on the tip of his tongue.

Something wet wakes Joel.

It’s a slow return from the land of sleep, the longest that it’s taken him in years to go from peacefully resting to wide-eyed and alert to every surrounding. The first thing he registers is how warm everything feels, how cosy. How much he enjoys the weight of something in his arms, breathing softly into his chest.

Then, that something wet itches at his skin, drags across his cheek. He tries to open his eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut, the bright burn of the morning sun nearly blinding him. A few birds sing from the trees above, exchanging their good-mornings with the rest of nature’s critters.

A groan comes from his left, muffled against the flannel of his wrinkled shirt. He readjusts himself, pulling the weight even closer, and finds out he was right: your smell already lingers in his sleeping-bag. A third lick of wet, this one from chin to eyebrow, a cringe overcomes his tired face.

Lick.

His eyes snap open, fight against the burning of the light, and there he sees him. Otis, to the right, mouth panting, tongue dangling out his mouth, tail wagging somewhere in the background. Joel tries to move as slowly as possible, fearful of spooking the dog, and even more fearful of spooking you, eyes still shut and hand nestled atop his groin, fingers tangled in coarse hair and poking beneath the layers of his top.

“Sunshine,” he whispers, shaking gently at your shoulder, and nearly apologising as you crack an eye open and pin him with a deadly stare. You’re not much of a morning person, a fact Joel fools himself into thinking he’ll need to remember for the future. He gives your shoulder another shake, a gentle squeeze too, for extra measure. “C’mon now, gotta open those eyes properly for me. Got someone here who’s mighty excited to see you.”

That seems to entice you, eyes peering fully open and giving him a once-over before mumbling a soft, “what’re you talking abo- My baby-boy!”

No sooner than you’ve shot up straight, arms wide and reaching for the furry creature, Otis has bounded over, trampling over the mess of limbs you and Joel make up beneath the nylon. Pathetic whines fill the air, a tail that moves a hundred miles an hour, as the canine smothers his snout into you, his luscious mane shining beneath the sun’s rays.

You’re pressing kisses against the dog, tears brimming your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck and tell him, over and over, “don’t ever do that again! I was so scared!” The happiness is contagious, spreading with a small smile upon Joel’s lips as he peels himself off the floor, chest pressing into your back and hand stretching out over your shoulder, fingers tangling in the threads of Otis’ soft fur.

“Must’a caught scent of you, followed it all the way till it brought him to us,” Joel musses, feeling you laugh as the dog licks a kiss over your cheek. “He’s a good boy. Aren’t’cha, boy?”

Neither of you mention the sticky dilemma between Joel’s thighs as you pack up. You roll up the sleeping bag while he wipes himself clean with a dirty shirt, quietly passing it your way as he slips off his belt and loops it around Otis’ collar, becoming a makeshift lead to guide the dog home with.

Though, as the four-legged creature sniffs on ahead, with the occasional pull that tests Joel’s grip on the belt, he almost seems to need no guide, leading you all in the direction of home. Your home, not Joel’s. But, what a wonderful thought that would be, if he were just a man, and you were just a woman, and you were both taking an early morning walk around the woods with your dog, catching the first rays of sun, together.

As if hearing his thoughts, Otis turns his head, looking at Joel over his shoulder, tail wagging as he lets out an excited bark. Up ahead, closer than he’d like it to be, stands the borders to Bill’s sanctuary. Up ahead, sooner than he’d like it to be, the place where you’ll part ways.

He finds himself slowing his pace. You do the same, no question, happy to simply have your fur-friend safe, by your side, the occasional brush of his snout against your upper thigh, searching for the affectionate stroke of your hand.

He needs to speak soon, act now, before it’s too late and the chance slips through his fingers. Joel clears his throat.

“My, uh,” a lump catches the words as they try to leave him. He swallows it down in a gulp, and tries again. “My daughter.”

Your face turns so quickly from the trail ahead to Joel, that he swears he hears a snap of something in your neck. Silence settles in like fog, mist on the horizon, a pause pregnant with so many questions he can see running through your pupils. You don’t speak them, however, and it strangely eases his nerves, taking away the feeling of demand to reveal his pain, leaving him to peel off the band-aid at his own pace.

“She was my… Whatever you called it, last night.” He sees you nod along, in the corner of his eye. You’ve both slowed to a mere shuffle, unaware of the three figures manifesting ahead, crowding on the other side of the fences. “The one that changed my life. She was so… bright, I used to worry one day she’d blind someone with her smile.”

In his memories, she’s always a beacon of light. Shining, even in darkness. Joel’s almost convinced glitter, or starlight must have been weaved into her skin, her eyes, her smile.

“She was everything good about me,” he says, and finds he can’t help the small laugh that claws its way up his throat, scratching as it goes. “None of the bad.”

“Can’t imagine there’s much on that list.”

“I know, ‘s hard to believe there’s even one good thing about m-”

“No, Joel,” he swears he feels his heart still at how you say his name, firm, and with conviction, like you’re trying to drill the sound into his head, remind him that he has a name, has a heart. “The bad, it must be a short list.”

Three of you — man, woman, dog — find another similar trio waiting by an open gate. Frank, Tess, Bill, each more relieved than the last to see Otis nearly pulling Joel’s feet from under him as the animal surges forward, pulling against the belt-lead with all his might. You release both man and dog from the tug of war, unbuckling the belt from the German Shepherd’s collar and freeing him to pounce on Bill who, despite the frown embedded in his forehead at the dog’s incessant licking, claps a hand over its back.

Joel feels a hand clap down on his own back, snaking its way up to squeeze at his shoulder.

"C'mon, Texas,” Tess proclaims loud enough for all eyes to fall on them. Yours included, kind and questioning, making him wish he could stay. “We're gonna be in shit if we're not back by sundown."

Bag already on his shoulder, Joel can’t feign a reason to linger a little longer.

“Wait!” You call out, parting from Frank’s side, fingers scratching at Otis’ head as you pass. Without warning, you throw yourself at Joel, arms wrapping around him and holding him close in the gentlest of embraces. “Thank you, Joel.” It’s just a whisper. He’s not even sure exactly what you’re thanking him for. Still, he lays a hand against your back and pulls you a little tighter, one last rush of your shampoo hitting his nose before you’re stepping back and parting ways. You, heading back into the safety of Bill’s gates, and Joel, walking off towards the desecrated city, back to the cold of his apartment.

When he wakes the next morning, beneath a roof and upon an uncomfortable couch, he feels time reset itself.

One day since he last seen you, who knows how many more days to go.

#joel miller smut #pedro pascal smut #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller series #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller fic #pedro pascal fic

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alocon · 10 months ago

Text

Business As Usual - Lance Stroll

written by alocon

Summary: Lance meets a lovely business woman and decides to drop some game with the help from the community

Before you read: Fluff, Lance being nice, Lance is underrated - I do not want Lance Stroll hate here pls, Quickly written, not edited so sorry if it isn't great x, This is basically some backstory just in case I decide to turn it into a SMAU series!!

Genre: Fluff, some social media at the end

fc: Tess Holloway for profile picture, faceless blondes from Pinterest

[The Masterlist]

Business as Usual - LS18

You walked through the woods, heading towards the isolated little river that you sat by whenever you felt overwhelmed. As you approached the opening in the trees, you saw a figure, someone sat down on the rock next to the one that you normally say at. You shrugged to yourself, not really caring if someone else was there, he seemed quiet and you could still unwind. As if he could sense a presence, he turned, looking at you. You sent him a gentle smile, walking over and sitting on the rock that sat beside the one he was on.

“Do you mind? This is my spot,” he said, sounding rather frustrated at the new presence.

“Well it's my spot too, so I'm going to quietly enjoy it,” you responded, not really in the mood for another argument that day. He seemed to accept that, groaning rather dramatically before accepting it and going quiet.

You watched as the river flowed gently, the crystal-clear water meandering gracefully between rocks. You could see the pebbles below the water, laying contently on the river bed, some adorned with moss which had slowly covered more and more pebbles over time. The sound of running water and gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze subdued the loud sounds in your brain, allowing you to shut everything that you were feeling out. The fragrant scent of wildflowers and mud filled your senses as you breathed in, causing a sigh of content to leave your mouth. The natural canopy provided by the trees above allowed you to sit there calmly, shading the sun from your face and body as you watched the ripples of the water.

You heard a gasp and sudden movement from the man sat beside you. You looked in his direction, looking into his eyes and following his eyesight to the creature that had landed by him and startled him so much. You started laughing softly. “It's not funny, don't laugh.”

“You're scared of a tiny little frog?” You asked, leaning over to pick it up. “Hi little buddy.” You spoke gently to the frog as it sat contently in your hand, bringing it up to eye level with you and looking at it. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the man sit back down. “Do you want to hold him?”

He was silent, so you looked up at him, seeing the anxious look in his eyes. “What if I hurt it? I don't want to do that.”

You smiled softly. “You trust me?”

He thought for a moment before gently nodding. “I guess, why?”

You signalled for him to hold out his hand, which he did, before gently moving your hand over so the frog could move onto him. You watched as his brown eyes softened, his mouth turning into a grin as he held the tiny creature in his hand. “It’s kind of cute…”

“I hope this doesn't sound weird but may I take a photo of it in your hand? Your face won't be in the picture, of course, but I like infodumping about animals, plants, buildings and history on my Instagram pages that I'm an admin on.”

“Pages, plural?”

“Yes, I have 2. One for nature and history and I have one where I post personal stuff.” He nodded, before allowing you to take some photos. You did, answering his questions about the type of frog as you took photos, him offering to take one of you holding it afterwards, which you gladly accepted. Placing your camera back in your bag after turning it off, you looked back at him as he spoke again. You placed the frog on your knee, luckily having chosen to wear shorts so your clothes weren't getting dirty from the little creature that rested contently on you.

“Why do you come here?”

“It's… an escape.” He looked at you, his expression unreadable so you continued talking. “When everything gets too loud, when family gets overwhelming, when work is stressful, it's nice to be able to escape here and just listen to the breeze and the water, the trees. It's all just so calming. What about you?”

He nodded, understanding exactly where you came from. “Same.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

He pondered your question for a moment before he decided to explain. “Where I work… people can be quite harsh sometimes. It's like I can never do anything without people hating me. They call me a nepo baby.” He paused, chuckling bitterly. “I know that it sounds stupid, getting frustrated over it, but people always say I don't deserve my job, that the only reason I'm here is because of nepotism. It's mental.” He sighed, looking in your direction, eyes scanning you. “What about you? What's going on with you?”

“My dad, well, step dad's trying to convince me to give him my business now that it's successful. Just like handing it over to him willingly. He invited me over to ask me to willingly give up the thing I built from the ground up.”

“Really? Why would he do that?”

You lifted your hands up, making quotation marks with your hands. “Women shouldn't run businesses, they should marry, have kids and stay at home doing housework.” He snorted, thinking you were joking. “I'm serious.”

“People still think like that?” He looked confused, watching as you nodded, sighing in response to that. Unfortunately, some people were still like that. And it pissed you off a lot.

“Unfortunately, I always wondered why mama willingly gave up working despite absolutely loving her job after they got married.” You shrugged. “He won’t be getting my company though. No way in hell. He only wants it for the money.” You paused, checking your phone. “Speaking of my business. I’ve got a business meeting party thing tonight so I will have to go.”

“It was lovely meeting you.” He smiled at you as you placed the frog on the rock, picking up your tote bag and heading out.

You went straight home, thinking that he looked familiar but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. Sat in your hotel room, you decided to paint a bit before you headed for the business event. You wore quite a basic smart casual outfit - some white pants with a green shirt and matching blazer. Your hair was left down and you wore some basic makeup, not feeling like going over the top.

Stepping into the venue, you sighed. This was something you didn’t love about running a business. Sure, you enjoyed the small delicacies and the free wine you got all evening, but you couldn’t stand the large handful of males who decided that you, a woman, couldn’t understand basic terminology so would spend the entire time mansplaining to you. Usually, you’d bring a friend, but being in Canada, away from your main place of residence, you didn’t really have anyone to bring. So you wandered around the venue quietly, other than stopping to say hi to people as you passed them, champagne in hand. That was until you saw a white-haired man approach you.

He smiled, seeming rather friendly. He held out his hand. “Hi. Miss Martins, yes?” You nodded. “It's lovely to meet you, I'm Lawrence Stroll.” You shook his hand, smiling back. “Your step-father said that you're here on behalf of his business?”

You shook your head. “Martins Associates?”

“That's my business, not Anthony's,” you said, leading to a look of confusion on his face. “He's been trying to convince me to hand over my business to him willingly now it's doing well.”

“Oh, well I am very sorry if I insulted you there, dear. I genuinely had no idea.”

“No, it's perfectly fine. Has he been telling everyone this?”

Lawrence nodded. “Want me to go have words with the owner of this?”

“I’m meant to be talking later, so I’ll just bring it up then.”

You and Lawrence continued to talk, making friendly conversation. He talked a lot about his son, you realised. You didn’t mind, though. You didn’t usually know what to talk about. He explained about how his son is a Formula One driver and how he was super proud of him and how far he’s come over the years. He then looked around before waving somebody over. Your eyes turned from Lawrence to the person who was being waved over. When you glanced at the familiar man who you had spent time with earlier that day, you smiled. His face twisted from a look of boredom to one of relief, likely at someone he had noticed, someone who wasn’t an old man. “Y/N, this is my son, Lance Stroll. Lance, this is Miss Martins, she runs Martins Associates.”

“Miss Martins. It is very lovely to see you again.” Lance lifted your hand gently, placing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Please, call me Y/N, Mr Stroll.”

“Alright, and you can call me Lance, of course.” His dad excused himself so he turned back to you, a gentle smile on his face. “May I get you a drink?”

The rest of the night went by pretty quickly. You had done your little talk, making it very clear at the start that you owned your business, not your step-father. You then spent the rest of your evening with your new Canadian friend, who you found out also lived in Switzerland, relatively close to you as well. However, eventually, your conversation wrapped up and you had to head home to catch your plane back.

----

instagram

youruser

liked by lance_stroll and others

youruser Canada was lovely, home time now x

-view all comments-

mickschumacher: Hello???? The painting??????

mickschumacher: You're so talented PLEASE youruser: THANK YOU MICK!!

yourbff: You beautiful, beautiful woman. I miss you, hurry back to Switzerland xx

youruser: Of course, my love. Will come and see you as soon as I land yourbff: Thank you, darling youruser: ofc, anything for my wife x

lance_stroll: Safe travels back!! Maybe we could meet up when you're next free?

user1: Hey Lance! Thank you for fixing world hunger! user2: Lance, you amazing man, remember when you picked up that bus with your bare hands to stop it from hitting me? Thanks for that, buddy, you're a real one user3: Lance, thank you for landing my airplane safely that one time. estebanocon: Bonjour Lance, thank you for saving my cat from being abducted by aliens that one time!!! -175 more comments-

youruser: Oh my lord what is going on in my comments 😭

youruser: also @ lance_stroll, message me and we will plan something.

lance_stroll: Yes ma'am, will do x user1: HE DID IT! OUR BOY ACTUALLY DID IT landonorris: LETSGOOOO

youruser added to her story!

-and 8 more-

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habitatsandhistory

📍 Montreal, Canada

liked by lance_stroll and others

habitatsandhistory: Today, we stumbled across a pseudacris crucifer, known more commonly as a Spring Peeper! These small tree frogs from the Hylidae family are found in woodland areas of the Eastern states of the USA and Canada. They are usually grey, tan or olive brown with an x-shaped, often irregular, brown mark on it's back. They grow to a length of between 2.5 and 3 cm in size!

This little guy was found by the river on slide 5, when it jumped up onto a nearby rock and I couldn't resist getting a photo of it! Feel free to follow for more history and nature facts!

-view all comments-

lance_stroll: Wowwww who's hand is that in the second photo? Must be someone pretty cool

youruser: They were alright, I guess. Not as cool as the person in the first photo

-Word Count: Around 1.5k not including socials-

Hi All, Next chapter of MV1 will hopefully be out in the next week, I have had some writers block though so my apologies for that. Hope you're all well. Here is a Lance story, it is unedited tho so pls give feedback. I used tweetgen for the tweets and used canva to make the instagram page and post Have a lovely day x Alocon

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familyvideostevie · 1 year ago

Text

living high until that fatal day

a/n: i never do this. literally, never. when i'm not here i'm writing stuff that's not x reader for ao3 and this is a fic i posted over there. it's a time loop story about joel and ellie. @bageldaddy told me i had to post it here. without her this fic would not exist. thank you so much, bea. so, here we go. if you read it, thank you. let me know what you think. joel miller & ellie williams gen fic. 7.5k words warnings: Time Loop, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, kind of???, it resolves, Suicide, only in one of the loops!, Canon-Typical Violence, joel gets stuck and has to figure it out, Father-Daughter Relationship, thoughts about sacrifice and love, POV Joel, mostly, this one is kind of intense folks, major character death tag is cause well the loop ends one way or another, gonna diverge at the end, but it ends well!!! i promise, also this is pretty firmly game but hbo folks should be okay!

summary: joel finds himself stuck in a time loop of that day in salt lake city.

Joel lies to her.

He's got dried blood under his fingernails and his shoulder aches from the kick of the rifle and he's so, so tired.

But he lies to her.

If he was a smarter man he'd have thought of something better. Told her that the hospital got raided or they had a FEDRA mole, how the whole thing was a sham from the start. He doesn't know if she was awake for any of it. If the last thing she remembers is him reaching for her and failing to save her. If she remembers what it feels like to drown.

It's hard to look at her in the mirror but he manages. Just keep driving, hands tight on the wheel. Don't white knuckle, don't spook her. She's in the car. She's safe. He did it.

"We found the Fireflies," he says. She doesn't look at him. "Turns out there's a...a whole lot more like you, Ellie. People that're immune. It's dozens, actually."

There's a strange pull in his gut, a pull that he's felt a few times before in the moments before everything went south. When the soldier pointed his gun by the river, when Tess looked at him on her last day, when he fell off the ledge in Colorado. But he ignores it.

"Ain't done a damn bit of good, either. They've actually st--" Ellie closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. She doesn't look at him. "They've stopped looking for a cure. I'm takin' us home. I'm sorry."

She turns her back to him and the pull becomes a burn, becomes a black hole under his ribcage taking everything with him. He blinks once, twice, wonders if he got shot and didn't notice, if he cracked a rib and it punctured his lung, if --

The road in front of him disappears.

He can't see a damn thing -- not like the lights went out, like there is nothing to see. There is nothing in front of him at all.

Then, Joel wakes up yesterday.

___

He jolts awake with a strangled yell. Ellie kneels over him, the rifle he taught her to hold slung over her shoulder. It's just past dawn based on the color of the sky and how he can make out most of her face, her withdrawing hand and her unimpressed but slightly concerned frown.

"You were talking again," Ellie says. "Nightmares?"

Joel tears his eyes from her and thunks his head back down on his crumpled up jacket. The trees stretch high above him and he tries to get it together so he doesn't spook her.

They’re camped within sight of the highway. Salt Lake City has been looming for days now and Joel doesn't want to take any chances. The ring-road is almost clear, dotted here and there with cars and a fair amount of supplies, enough that Joel suspects people haven't been here for some time. If this is another Colorado State situation, he's going to have to put Ellie in a car and take them back to Jackson before she does something stupid.

She's fine. Well, no, not quite. Things aren't the same and they never will be but he can tell she's doing her best and he won't ask more than that. Their pace has slowed this week and he's having a hard time figuring out if she's sliding back into some sort of post-Colorado haze or if she's nervous about actually arriving in Salt Lake.

God knows he's nervous as hell.

But every day she'll walk as far as he tells her to and won't complain. He knows she wants to get there. They have to get there and it has to work -- because he doesn't know what they're going to do otherwise.

She asked him a question. Nightmares. Joel sits up and drags his hand down his face.

"Somethin' like that."

Ellie shrugs and starts to clean up their camp now that he's awake. He still hates letting her take watch, but she needs to feel in control of things, so they split it most nights. She hums a little bit as she works and he has hopes that today might be a good day.

But that dream... It comes back in flashes: the giraffes, the tunnel. Ellie hanging from the side of the bus because she jumped to save him, her small frame sinking slowly, just out of reach. The crack of her ribs underneath his hands. The hospital. The Fireflies.

Joel gets up, rolls his shoulder at a phantom pain and looks down at his hands. Crusted with dirt and nothing more.

Jesus Christ. He's losing it.

They set off.

The blue hospital sign seems to shine in the spring sun all too soon.

"This is where we get off. Let's go, kiddo."

Joel talks even though he knows she's not listening. He talks to take his mind off of the echo that sits at the base of his neck with every step. Has he told her he'll teach her guitar before? He's been thinking it for months.

Ellie trails behind him, kicking rocks and half-heartedly searching cars when he asks her to. She heads for a faded blue sedan but he stops her.

"Blue one won't open, don't bother."

The look she gives him makes him think about what he just said. "How do you know that?"

He blinks. How does he know that? Before he can explain it, Ellie shrugs and keeps walking.

The disinterest is new and it doesn't sit well with him. She's been through a lot, more than any kid deserves, and they're almost there. He figures it's worse today because of that.

"I dreamt about flying the other night."

Joel's stomach twists. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Go on, tell me about it."

She tells him about her dream, about how it felt to fly and then fall, and he is dizzy with deja vu.

"I've never been on a plane." Ellie looks at him like he can tell her what it means. Like he has any damn answers at all. "Isn't that weird?"

Joel hums and swallows the lump in his throat. The bus terminal. Ellie, drowning. Firefly after Firefly in his path. His hands flex around a gun that isn't there.

"Well, you know. Dreams are weird." It tastes like a lie in his mouth but he can't figure out why.

It gets worse when they find the bus station, when she runs off in search of something that's got her smiling. Her small hand reaches for the giraffe, her eyes bright, but Joel feels like he's watching it through a fog. He knows what she's going to say before she says it.

"So fucking cool."

Joel has seen a lot of weird shit in his life but whatever is happening here is leagues above the rest. It bumps up against something in his brain, like the answer is just out of reach but he can't fucking get there. Always a step behind when it counts.

Ellie hands him a picture of his dead daughter and something in him comes dangerously close to snapping. Instead of gratitude or sorrow or anything that would make sense, he's terrified.

He's fucking terrified because this happened. Which means he knows what comes next.

But there's no time to worry about it. They pick their way through the tunnel, through the runners and the clickers and the fucking bloaters. The pressure on his neck gets heavier, gets almost unbearable. He's strung tighter than he's been in years, like the walls are closing in on him and there's a timer he can't see.

When they get to the rapids, he waits for Ellie to get to the other side of the bus until he jumps on it but it dislodges. The dam in his head breaks and he yells, screams at her to run, to leave him, but she jumps on the bus anyway.

She drowns.

Joel doesn't doubt that the Fireflies are coming -- he hears them -- but he doesn't take his eyes off of her, doesn't stop the chest compressions until he's knocked out.

The rest of it is a blur, his sense of reality already warped by his need to get to the operating room. To save her.

Joel picks them off one by one, floor by floor, hardly taking note of how familiar it all feels. He doesn't even give the surgeon a chance to speak before he's dead, a bullet between the eyes. He knows they'll make it to the elevator. He kills Marlene. He drives them away.

He lies.

He wakes up yesterday again.

___

It takes a few days before Joel purposely deviates from what he's thinking of as the script. His head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds when he wakes in the clearing, Ellie's eyes on him.

He thinks about it as they pack up camp. Can he get them out of here? Would that be allowed? The rules of this aren't clear to him but he figures it can't hurt to try. They could turn around right now and make it back to Jackson in a week or so.

He watches Ellie carefully arrange her things in her bag, watches her stop to admire a butterfly in the branches above. He watches her and tries to see her alive and not pale on an operating table.

"Ellie," he says. "I got a bad feelin' about this."

She loves to tell him he's overreacting but today she crosses her arms and sits back on her heels. "What do you mean?"

Her scream as she falls into the water. Her ribs cracking beneath his hands. The piercing alarm in the hospital, her body warm but limp in his arms.

"What if we waited?" She frowns but he keeps going. "Went back to Jackson, rested up. Took a break. Come back in a few months with a bit of a crew. Tommy'll give us some guys, hell, I bet he'll come with if you want --"

"No," Ellie says sharply. There's an edge to her voice he hasn't heard in a long time. "Joel, shut up."

"Ellie --"

She stands abruptly, takes a few steps back. "I said no." The look on her face tells Joel he's already lost. "Are you -- are you fucking kidding me? You want to go back? Now?"

He sighs. "Just to rest up. We don't know what we're walking into --"

Ellie throws her hands around in disbelief. Her eyes look wet. Christ, he's made her cry again. He promised himself he wouldn't do that.

"We don't know if they'll still be there."

"We don't know if they are there."

"And we won't find out if we fucking run away like cowards!"

Joel stands. "I don't want another Colorado State situation, Ellie --" Her face shutters. Mistake.

"Don't bring up Colorado," she growls. "You don't know what that was like."

Damn right he doesn't. He knows by now what happened but he'll never know how hard it was for her to survive when he was busy dying on that mattress. But he has to try something or they'll just end up here again tomorrow. Yesterday. Whatever.

The idea of her suffering makes his hackles rise, makes his blood run cold

"Can I finish a god damned sentence?" he snaps. Ellie is undeterred and snaps back.

"Not if it's going to be about leaving. We-- I -- we're not fucking leaving. Not after everything. We can't."

Joel sighs and drags a hand down his face. This girl. He's trying to save her and she can't see it. There's no way to make her see it and it's his fault. She should know by now that he'd do anything, anything, for her. He lost that battle a long time ago, probably longer ago than he'd like to admit.

"I know," he tells her. "Just...if you want to give it all up, to go back, we can. We don't have to go through with this."

Ellie's eyes are blazing and her tone is disappointed. It cuts deep. "Yes we do. I thought you'd understand that, Joel."

He follows her this time as she stalks down the highway towards the hospital. No mention of six strings, no dreams about planes. They catch the giraffes but she doesn't stick around to watch them for as long. It's a different kind of loss to be without her smile, her laughter. Joel wishes he'd never opened his god damned mouth.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For earlier." Ellie pauses on the stairs and half turns to look up at him. "I know it's important to you."

She sighs. "I know you mean well." Joel closes his eyes. He knows what comes next. "But there's no halfway with this. Once we're done, we'll go wherever you want, okay?"

He plays his part for the rest of the day, just to get it over with.

___

Next time, Joel waits until they're watching the giraffes to try something different.

"So," he says. "This everything you were hoping for?"

Ellie gives him her half-smile. "It's got its ups and downs, but...you can't deny that view, though."

He seizes his chance. "Wanna go down there?"

She perks up. "Really? Do you think they'll let us get close?"

"They might. Let's try."

They manage to backtrack a little bit and end up on the field. It smells like a zoo but Ellie is thrilled to be so close so they post up on the roof of a rusty FEDRA Jeep. Two of the giraffes end up eating out of the tree right above them. Ellie holds her breath.

"They just...don't care, do they?" she whispers. "How long do you think they've been here?"

She leans into his side and cranes her neck to watch one of them use its tongue.

"Don't know," he says. "Big ones could've been from before. But the tiny one s'probably younger than you."

"So cool," she says again. "They're from a zoo, right? I wonder if anything else lives in the city."

They've been sitting here long enough that the sun has started to set. Joel allows himself to hope.

"Might be. What do you say we spend the night here and look on the way to the hospital tomorrow? Daylight'll do us better."

Ellie chews on his suggestion. "I guess," she says. "Are we safe here?"

"Should be." Joel has no idea, frankly. He sure as hell wants them to wake up here in the morning. He wants to make good on this idea, wants to show her something else that'll make her smile. He wants this to be a bizarre, unexplainable day that he'll forget about with time.

"I'll keep watch."

They set up camp crowded against the fence so Joel can see the whole field. The giraffes leave them alone and Ellie falls asleep quickly after they eat.

In the quiet open air the dread in his gut returns full-force and he knows he's wrong. Again.

A branch cracks and he whirls around, rifle in hand to find three men pointing their guns at him through the wire. They might be wearing Firefly jackets but he can't tell. He doesn't care. Joel dares to look at Ellie for a second and sees she's still asleep.

It's a mistake.

One of them follows his gaze and his eyes widen.

"Holy shit," he whispers. "She looks like who Marlene said --"

"Shut up," the second one hisses. "On the ground, old man."

"How are you gonna get around that fence, hotshot?" he says. "Ellie. Ellie, wake up."

She blinks a few times and sees his stance. scrambling to her feet with her knife in hand.

"Holy shit. What the fuck?"

"Get behind me."

One of the soldiers points his gun at her.

"Don't move."

It's chaos after that. The guys shout at each other.

"Don't point it at her! Don't you remember the fucking briefing?"

"You hadn't even joined when we got here, you don't know. We've been looking for her for months --"

"If you shoot her we're all dead --"

Joel locks eyes with Ellie.

"When I say run, you run. Okay?"

The fear in her eyes turns to determination. Brave girl, he thinks. I'm sorry. He waits for the idiot pointing at her to look away and takes a deep breath. What's one more day?

"Run!"

Joel doesn't check to see if she obeys before firing through the fence. The rifle is incredibly powerful at such a short range and where there was once a head there's only mist. Joel clears the chamber as fast as he can and gets the second one in the shoulder but he's not fast enough for a third and before he realizes it he's on his back in the grass.

The Firefly's assault rifle litters Joel's chest with bullets but he doesn't feel it until he tries to take a breath and nothing comes. It's like he's underwater.

At least he didn't make her cry this time.

Joel isn't much of a believer in anything but he decides fairly quickly that he's in Hell or something close. God knows he deserves it.

His sins are countless, his ledger dripping with red just like his hands. They will never be clean. What he can't figure out is how he got here. Did he die somewhere in St. Mary's? Is the real world somewhere else beyond his reach, now? If he died then what happened to Ellie?

He tries to make tallies in the bark of a tree on the edge of camp but they disappear every time he wakes up. He makes do with his own slowly unspooling brain. Two, five, ten.

Ellie is much the same every time but somewhere around day twenty she asks him about it. "How do you know where everything is?"

They're in the bus depot before the tunnel. He's taking them quickly around the tents, putting off Ellie handing him a photo of his dead daughter. It's muscle memory at this point. A pair of pliers here, some rags there. A half-empty but uncracked bottle of hooch behind that blood-stained bed, some bullets under that overturned partition.

"Just payin' attention."

"I pay attention!"

Joel uses the excuse to grin at her. It's hard sometimes to remember that she has no idea what's coming, that he can and should be good to her every chance he gets. The violence has already started to blur together in his mind. Killing everyone in the hospital is by far the easiest part of this fucking loop. These parts are harder.

"Didn't say you don't."

"I feel like that was a double negative."

She's still energized from the giraffes and he knows she's working up the courage to talk about Sarah, but right now he wants to spend time with her. He spots the Firefly medal tangled in the shattered floodlight and points it out.

"Ellie," he says. She's at his side in seconds, looking up at him with eyes brighter than he's seen in weeks. "Wanna get that down?"

She gives him her classic why are you like this look. "Are you going to be weird and pick it up?"

Joel shrugs and leans on the rotting tank nearby. "Just want to check your aim."

"My aim is really fucking good and you know it!" Even so, she picks up a brick from her feet and palms it, eyeing the silver circle before winding her arm back and hurling the brick towards it.

She misses. Maybe three hundred miles and a trail of dead bodies ago she'd have stormed off, embarrassed and pissed. But she just makes a face at the still-swinging medal and then looks at him. "How did I miss that?"

He pushes off the tank and scoops up a glass bottle. "Sun s'probably in your eyes." Joel stands next to her and eyes the target, trying to compensate in his mind for her height. "Stand here." Ellie moves over in front of him and he hovers his arm over her. "Can I?"

She nods. Joel presses the bottle into her hand and she takes it as he maneuvers her with a hand on her elbow until she's got the trajectory he thinks will work.

"Now?" she asks. "Feels pretty fucking similar to what I was doing."

"Just trust me. Throw a little lighter than last time. And higher."

Ellie sighs, but once he steps back she does as he says and nails the medal hard enough that it drops to the ground. She whoops and turns around, hands high in the air and a wide smile on her face. Joel tries to breathe through how easily she puts her faith in him.

"Fuck yeah! Did you see that?" She holds both hands out for a high five and he obliges.

"Sure did. Nice job, kiddo."

When Ellie hands him the picture of Sarah, he pulls her in for a hug. He half expects her to shove him off but instead she allows it, twisting her hands in his shirt as he cups the back of her head.

"Thank you," Joel says quietly, thickly.

Later, when he finds her on the operating table, he presses his lips to her forehead for an extra moment before picking her up and heading for the elevator.

He messes with the order of things a little bit. Tries to make their morning last longer, tries to stay watching the giraffes for an hour or so.

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes it doesn't.

Watching Ellie drown over and over fucks with his head more than the hospital does because he can't stop it. At least while he's leaving behind corpse after corpse he knows that she's asleep upstairs, waiting for him. In the tunnel, he knows that the only way out is through, but she has to fucking drown first.

He gets sloppy.

He forgets about the runners in the side rooms when he ducks in to avoid a clicker and takes a step too close. Ellie is behind him as always and he shoves her back blindly as three runners slam him against the metal railing of the stairs before he can reach for his gun. He's too surprised to feel anything, but their breath smells like rotting meat and something worse, something that makes his eyes water.

Joel searches the room for her and finds her -- pale-faced and terrified, already reaching for her knife. He tries to say her name but it comes out as a scream when one of the runners goes for his shoulder, jagged teeth ripping through his shirt in an instant.

"Ellie -- run, Ellie -- GO --" He begs her to leave him but his voice stops working as his throat is ripped out. The last thing he sees is her horrified face as she raises her pistol.

And then he wakes up yesterday.

___

It occurs to him on day 30 -- if he's keeping track accurately -- that he's got one of the smartest people he knows at his disposal. Kid's got an encyclopedic knowledge of space as well as science fiction stories. He asks her while they're still on the highway, stalling though he can see the blue H sign from here.

"Y'ever read stuff about time?" No reply. "Ellie?" She's staring at that deer again. "Ellie."

"What?"

"You read any stories about time back in school?"

"Uh, sure," she says. She tugs her sleeves over her hands and catches up to him, eyes on the ground. "Why?"

"Saw a weird movie 'bout it once. Somethin' reminded me of it this mornin'. Guy gets stuck in a...shit, what did they call it?" Joel peeks inside an RV and smells rot so he leaves it be. "He lives the same day over and over."

"A time loop!" Ellie sounds more excited about this than anything they've talked about for days. "Those are so fucking cool. Scary, though. I feel like I'd go crazy."

Joel drags a hand down his face. "Yeah," he says. "How do you think you get outta one?"

"Well, how did the guy in the movie do it?"

"He stopped bein' an asshole," he says. Ellie laughs.

"Well, we know that's not possible for you. Guess you're fucked."

"Guess so," he mutters.

The H sign is close enough that she'll see it any minute. He wishes for the hundredth time that they could just stay out here all day, just talking. If he had a guitar he'd play for her. If he had a fucking car he'd put her in it and turn around, even though it wouldn't do any good. They'd just end up right back here because he can't fucking figure out how to get out of this.

"I think you just have to change, right?" Ellie says. She's looking at the photo of an airplane on the bus. This time she doesn't tell him about her dream. Is he losing pieces of her, already? "I guess it doesn't have to be about yourself. Maybe something you do, or something you say. It's the universe telling you to make a different choice, right?"

That's the fucking thing. The choice isn't an option. It's not even a choice.

The one thing he hasn't tried and will not try is leaving the hospital when Marlene tells him to. He'd rather die a thousand times, rather live this shit show over and over for the rest of eternity than let them cut her brain out. They will not touch her while there is still breath in his body.

He'd do it all over again. He will.

Joel tries a hundred things and they don't work.

After his conversation with Ellie he decides to really fuck with the day. Doesn't matter, right? So long as she's not put in any extra danger he considers it. He begs her to walk away, get on his knees and pleads with her throughout the day. Doesn't work. She just gets pissed at him like that first time and he doesn't push it because he can't bear to see her cry. He lengthens their morning in the clearing, fakes sick or says the rifle is jammed and needs cleaning. That goes south, too, when a pack of runners wanders through the woods and straight into them. They make it to the highway and have to miss the giraffes because they're running.

One time Joel spends all day zig-zagging them around the city to avoid the tunnel. The Fireflies find them much the same way except they shoot him on sight and grab Ellie right out of his arms as he bleeds out on the cracked asphalt, her screams echoing in his ears.

Another time, he ties them together in the tunnel with some fraying rope and they both drown.

Killing Marlene early gets him a bullet in the head and not killing her at all gets him back where he started, no change.

Joel even begs the doctor to run more tests first, to try blood, to try anything, but it takes too long and the alarm sounds and he's cornered in the operating room before he can grab Ellie and go.

Nothing fucking works.

But what is there left to change?

His mind starts to fray. He loses count of the loops and it becomes hard to detach himself from the slaughter. Not even the good moments -- Ellie's laughter, the awe in her face when she sees the giraffes, her jokes and her muted but still sharp sarcasm -- keep him afloat. He's lost, adrift in a sea of blood and bullets and it starts to eat away any humanity that was left in him.

The blood of hundreds, thousands maybe, is on his hands and he feels nothing.

Once and only once does he get there too late. Everything else goes like it always does but maybe he took too long on the first floor, maybe he took too long picking the guys one by one instead of using the assault rifle, maybe maybe maybe.

When Joel gets to the pediatric ward he knows something is different -- he can hear a buzzing sound, something loud and unnatural. The stale air is thick with something metallic, tinged with death. The buzzing stops and he finds his feet glued to the floor outside the operating room. Voices on the other side of it, murmuring and the clink of metal on a tray. Joel's hand shakes when he reaches for the knob because he knows whatever he finds on the other side is going to kill him.

But he opens it because he has to. The doctor is at the sink this time, the nurses nowhere to be found. Ellie's body is covered in a sheet, blood seeping through the fabric. Joel looks away. He just stands there, his heartbeat loud in his ears as the world ends.

The first time his daughter died, Joel thought he could will it not to be so. He held her as long as he could, whispered her name with her blood drying on his hands until Tommy begged him to get moving.

This time, he knows it's true and he knows there's only one ending.

He raises his gun at the doctor who is now leaning on the edge of the sink. The door swings open and the nurses return, eyes wide and vibrating with the energy of a job well done. He swings over to them and kills them both with quick headshots. The doctor has barely turned around when he's dead, too.

Joel breathes, ears ringing. He manages one step closer to the operating table but his knees buckle and he goes down hard on the cool tile. His vision is blurry. Is he crying?

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so fucking sorry, baby." He angles himself so he won't get any blood on her and then presses the barrel of his gun to his temple and pulls the trigger.

If Joel was on the edge of losing his mind before, now he's laser focused. He doesn't pull any more shit. He settles back into the loop, savoring Ellie's laughter with the giraffe and gunning down every sorry motherfucker in his way at the hospital. He will not get there late ever again.

So when Marlene says something different the next time around and he almost misses it.

Ellie is dead weight in his arms but she's warm and he can see the rise and fall of her chest. The hospital was messier than usual because he rushed this time, cutting down the Fireflies like it was his last stand. There's blood in his hair and crusted under his fingernails and his shirt is beyond ruined.

"Are you going to tell her what happened here?" Marlene presses her hand into her side, blood leaking from around her crimson palm. "Are you going to tell her what you did?"

He lies to her.

Every time.

It's never occurred to him to try something else. Even though he's changed almost everything about this damn day except that.

Because Joel knows what happens if he tells the truth. He knows what that will cost him.

And he doesn't know if he'll survive it.

He's afraid. Joel doesn't want to lose her and if that makes him selfish then so be it. He wants to take her back to Jackson and give her a bedroom of her own and as many stupid comics as she wants and three meals a day for the rest of her long, peaceful life. He wants her to grow up and grow old.

He'd kill a thousand more Fireflies to make it happen.

He'd damn the whole world.

Because he loves her and it fucking hurts.

This girl and her puns and her comics and her god damned bravery and her bleeding heart. He doesn't want to lose her.

But is this, whatever this endless hell is, is it fair to her?

If it's breakable, if he has the ability to get them to tomorrow, to get them to Jackson, to get them home, shouldn't he? If he loves her shouldn't he give her a life even if he's not in it?

Joel gently arranges Ellie in the backseat and shoots Marlene in the head.

For a few seconds Ellie thinks she's in the car on the way into Pittsburgh. The hum of the old engine, the rocking motion of the truck. But -- wait. She's lying down. The car smells...musty. And she's cold like she's wearing a dress and --

"What the hell am I wearing?"

She flutters her eyes open. Different truck. Backseat. Is she in a...hospital gown? What the fuck? Where is she?

"Just take it easy," Joel says. Okay, so she's with Joel. Something in her chest settles. She must be safe. "Drugs are still wearin' off."

Drugs? Ellie pushes back into her memory and tries to find something, anything that'll give her a clue as to what's going on here. They were in the bus tunnel. The water was rushing, Joel jumped on the bus and it started moving and she...fell into the water?

It's a blur after that. More of a blank, really. Did they get to the hospital? Did they find the Fireflies? Based on her weird fucking outfit it sure seems like it.

"What happened?"

Joel's eyes flick up in the rearview mirror to look at her. "Let's get you into some clothes, first. Then we'll take a break and I'll tell you everythin'."

He sounds tired. More tired than he's ever sounded, frankly, but she can't imagine why. And he can't seem to stop looking at her like she's going to disappear. Like he hasn't seen her in ages.

"Okay," she says slowly. "Where the hell are we going to get those?"

"Your bag is on the floor by your feet." Joel veers off the highway down an exit ramp and Ellie sits up. Her head feels light for a second and then really heavy so she braces her hands on the seat in front of her and takes a few deep breaths. "You okay, kiddo?"

"Yeah. Fucking...drugs, I guess. What'd they do that for?"

"They ran some tests. We'll talk about it."

Normally she'd push him but something feels off. Ellie tries to get a good look at his face but she can't, not from this angle, and not with her head fucking pounding like it is. She's missing so much time. It makes her skin crawl, makes her heart race. Joel is here, she tells herself. He wouldn't let anything bad happen to her.

He parks them at the edge of a cemetery and gets out of the car to stand guard while she changes out of the gown. Her last pair of jeans, apparently, and a grey t-shirt with a few holes in the collar. She wishes she had a sweatshirt or something to wrap around herself, to pull over her hands and feel covered. But beggars can't be choosers. At least someone put her shoes in her backpack.

Joel doesn't turn around when she opens the door but she sees him stiffen.

"I'm done." He looks back at her and she finally sees his face. "Jesus Christ, Joel, what happened to you?"

It's not just the blood. Sure, he's got dried streaks of it on his neck and in his hair. Ellie glances at his hands and sees it crusted under his fingernails, too. But he looks wrecked. Older, somehow. He looks like something terrible happened, the way she remembers his face when he fell from the balcony in Colorado, when he found her in the burning restaurant. But somehow it's worse.

He's looking at her like he can't believe she's real.

"Alright." Joel lowers the rifle and ignores her question, clearly. "Didn't see anythin'. Should be fine to sit here for a bit."

"Are you going to tell me what the fuck happened?"

He moves like he's going to drag a hand down his face but thinks better of it. "Yeah," he says. "I am."

Ellie swings her legs so they're hanging out the door. Joel leans the rifle against the truck and crosses his arms. "You're making me kind of nervous, man."

"Just...promise me you'll hear me out to the end."

Yeah, something is going on. She doesn't like it.

"Uh, sure."

"What do you remember?"

Good fucking question. "The tunnel. The bus and -- water. I fell in, right?"

Joel nods, clears his throat. "Jumpin' on the bus was dumb. Don't do that again."

She snorts. "Yeah, okay. Point taken. But I was afraid you were going to drown!"

"You did." He delivers the news in a flat tone she doesn't like. She drowned?

"Are you serious?"

"I got us out of the water and tried to get you breathin' again." Ellie realizes her chest is sore. She imagines Joel doing compressions like they showered her in school, imagines his panicked face, his hoarse voice calling her name. Fuck.

"Did it work?"

"No," he says. "Fireflies found us first and knocked me out."

"That doesn't make sense." She frowns. "They knocked you out?"

Joel shrugs. "Just tellin' you what happened."

This isn't how she imagined it would go. She never told Joel, but for weeks she's been thinking about waltzing up to the hospital and telling them who she is. She pictured Joel telling her jokes while she got her blood drawn, pictured him staring down nurses and doctors while they made the cure. She figured it would take a few days, maybe a week, and then they'd be on their way back to Jackson. She had hoped Marlene might be there, too. She has so many questions about her mom.

"What did they do with me?"

Joel looks troubled. "I...don't exactly know. It was a while before I saw you again."

It makes her skin crawl. He must be able to tell because he keeps talking. "I'm sure they just ran some tests while you were out. They brought you back, made sure you were breathin' okay."

"Tests?"

"I'm gettin' there." She feels like he's having a hard time looking at her. Something close to but not quiet dread sits heavy in her stomach. What happened?

"Joel..."

"I woke up inside the hospital. Marlene was there. Told me they didn't know it was us, that they'd been waiting." He pauses, drags a hand down his face. "You didn't wake up or nothin'? You sure?"

Ellie shakes her head. She doesn't remember anything after the tunnel.

"Well, she told me they could do it. They had a doctor who could make the cure."

The air rushes out of Ellie all at once. "Are you fucking serious?"

"And then she said..." Joel chews on his words and looks away from her. He looks angry.

"What did she say?"

"Makin' a vaccine...would've killed you."

The bottom drops out of Ellie's world. It's like a hundred doors in her brain open at once.

It would have killed her? Are they sure? Did they do enough tests? Were they going to? Why didn't they wake her up? Were they going to ask her? How did they get out?

She swallows them all and manages just one in a broken whisper. "What did you do?"

Joel looks right at her. "I stopped them."

If Ellie wasn’t already sitting down she thinks her legs would give out. She knows that Joel meant what he said to her in Silver Lake. Knows that he'd do anything for her.

But this?

"What do you mean?" He shakes his head. "Joel. What do you mean, you stopped them?"

His shoulders slump. "They told me to leave and I refused. And I made sure no one can follow us to try again."

Static builds in her ears. She can read between the lines. She speaks Joel now. He killed them all, that much is clear to her. He killed them all, Marlene, too, probably, because she was supposed to die to save the world. Hot tears sting her nose and gather at the corner of her eyes.

"But I -- but we -- I was supposed to...I'm the cure!"

"You're a person. You're a kid. Don't matter what's in your brain, you ain't dyin' for --"

Ellie pushes out of the truck and to her feet. Joel steps back to give her room but she knows he probably wants to touch her, to reassure her. The anger fills her, makes her face hot and her heart race.

"Who said you get to make that choice? If they said I had to die maybe I should have? Then it would mean something --"

"Your immunity ain't the thing that matters most. You are. So I picked you," Joel yells.

She's really crying now, huge heaving sobs that make it hard to talk, make it hard to convey how angry she is. "Well, you picked wrong, asshole."

"I ain't gonna apologize for it. I'd do it all over again, the exact same way. Every time." Joel's expression is as serious as it gets. He used to look this way all the time. No nonsense, no room for argument.

She tries to find the words anyway but they don't come.

"Now, you've got some options here," he says. "I think the best one is for us to go back to Jackson. I know Tommy'll take you in, and --

She laughs, or tries to.

It sounds like something bitter and awful to her own ears. First he tells her she was supposed to die today and now he wants to leave her?

"Are you fucking serious, Joel? You want to leave me again?"

Joel's brows pinch together. He looks pained. Good. It feels like her chest is caving in, like her lungs aren't working right anymore. This must be what it felt like to drown in the bus terminal, to sink slowly, to fade away entirely. She read once that drowning was supposed to be peaceful. This hurts.

"I want you to be safe," he says. "Jackson is the best place for that. I don't have to be there if you don't want me there --"

"I didn't fucking say that!" she yells. "I -- Jesus, give me a fucking second, okay?"

He stands by the door as she paces back and forth, tugging her hands through her hair.

She was supposed to die. But she didn't. There's no cure. And it sure fucking sounds like Joel didn't leave any option to try again.

He traded saving the world for her.

It's too much.

"What do you want, Ellie?" Joel sounds like he's been awake for days. Like he's in pain, like he's being hollowed out. He sounds like how she feels.

She digs the heels of her hands into her eyes.

"I want none of this to have happened! I want us to go back to this morning and I want us to not have gone into the bus tunnel and I want you to have asked for tests first, I want them to try something else. I want Marlene to tell me why they didn't wake me up. I want to do it again but differently, I want things to be different, I --"

Her words break off into a sob. "Ellie..." She opens her eyes and finds him reaching for her. His shirt is stained with dried blood but she steps into his hold and his arm wraps around her.

"I don't know what to do, now," she whispers.

Joel exhales a shaky breath. "I know you wish things were different. I wish things were different. But they ain't."

They stand there, his hand dragging up and down her back. She listens to his heartbeat and remembers those nights in the basement when she thought it would stop any minute.

"Fuck," she whispers, then pulls away. He lets her go. "Fuck, Joel."

He sighs. "Yeah, kiddo. Fuck."

He told her the truth and that means something. It hurts, it hurts so bad, and it doesn't absolve him of anything, but that matters.

"I'm so angry with you," she says. "I don't know how to forgive you for...for...saving me."

It sounds stupid as she says it but Joel nods solemnly.

"That's alright."

"But I..." She wants to get this part right. "Let's go back. To Jackson. We'll figure it out there. But you...you have to swear to tell me the truth. Just like this. We have to be honest with each other."

Joel meets her gaze without blinking. "I swear."

Ellie takes a deep breath. The anger, the horror, the disbelief at what he's done settle a little bit. She has no clue what comes next, but this is a start.

"Okay."

Joel wakes up.

His back hurts and his shoulder aches. It's dark, darker than it should be, darker than it's been for hundreds of days.

Ellie is asleep in the backseat of the truck.

It's tomorrow.

thank you for reading. let me know what you thought!

#the last of us fanfiction #i dont know how to tag this #the last of us #bea this is your fault!

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