#tommy had a sign wall and love it sm | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thedgeoftheuniverse · 1 year ago

Text

FOOL. | joel miller

pairing: post outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

word count: 3.9k

warnings: mentions of alcohol and trauma (non-specific but implied), enemies to lovers, slightly shaky timeline, defensive joel, light smut, sprinkle of a praise kink minors DNI!! (Photos are not mine! Pls dm for credit/removal)

requested by the lovely @marvelstarwars :3 i literally had so much fun writing this, thank you sm for requesting! i hope you enjoy !!

If you asked him, he would swear he only admired the flora adorning your porch; he simply paid no mind to you, nor how beautiful your hands looked as you poured water over the soil or the smile you flashed at a passerby on their nightly stroll. He did not care that it wasn't directed at him.

“Do you have any clue what an asshole you are?”

“You ain't too kind yourself, sweetheart.”

“You won't let me be! I tried time and time and time again to be nice to you, and you're just such a dick no matter what I do, and I’m fucking sick of it."

You were not prone to such outbursts—not anymore. Or so you believed. Eight years within the walls of Jackson, an almost haven in the midst of what you genuinely believed to be Hell, and the security such a place brought changed you (or perhaps reverted you back to who you were). Ample food supply, walls strong enough to keep Infected and humans alike out, community, friendship. It was a piece of the old world, frozen in time as the rest of the Earth fell farther and farther by the day. At times, you felt guilty; you could not recall a single action, decision, or thought you had to deserve such safety. Before your arrival at the community (arrival is a strong word; you were barely alive when Maria found you and thus had to be carried to the infirmary with no say in the matter), your hands were stained with blood, all the way down to the bone, and you had all but lost any semblance of the person you were before Outbreak Day.

It was the greatest blessing that had ever been given to you.

You remembered how to be gentle; you remembered how to entertain small talk; you remembered how to garden; and you remembered how the sun felt shining in from your bedroom window. You remembered how to smile. You remembered that there was a time you were kind, honest, and full of so much love that you had no choice but to share it with those around you, lest it threaten to consume you. You remembered how to connect with people and that those connections did not have to be purely beneficial. You found something you buried so deeply inside your chest that you believed it to have been long dead, snuffed out with the rest of the world.

You remembered how to be human.

The remnants of yourself that you pieced back together into a living, breathing person were respected and well known within the community. You befriended and loved even the most stubborn of newcomers; in a short time, you became a crucial part of fostering camaraderie and a sense of home, even for those who no longer believed it could exist. You owed your life to Maria and to Jackson, and you intended to pay the debt in full.

Joel Miller was a payment you somehow missed and a giant pain in your ass. He seemed determined to brush off every attempt you made at conversation, never bothering to look at you much less respond to your questions (“Hey! How're you settling in?” “Have you made it over to the Bison yet?” “How’s your daughter doing?") When conversation seemed fruitless, you brought freshly baked bread to leave on his doorstep with a note reading: Welcome in! Hope you're settling in alright. I’m just down the street if you need anything, and the door’s always open, with your name signed at the bottom. Three days later, you noticed the bread still sitting on his porch, the note nowhere to be seen. When smaller acts of kindness did not work—you tried many: more baked goods, offers of watching after Ellie while he went on patrol, bringing him what Tommy swore was his favorite drink, even offering a haircut after you noticed his visible irritation with the curls that relentlessly tickled his eyebrow—you settled for a wave or small smile when you passed him in town, which he only returned with a rotten scowl.

No matter what you did, he seemed to hate you. It well and truly pissed you off.

You were not prone to violent outbursts, but Joel Miller incited anger in you like no one else. This was not your first incident with him, and you doubted it would be the last.

“I never asked you for a damn thing.”

“Fuck you, Joel.” Your blood was practically boiling beneath your skin. “Enjoy being a miserable son of a bitch. I’m done.”

“Oh, I plan on it, sweetheart.” You would have hit him if it weren't for his pretty face. You thought for a moment that a blackened eye or broken nose might take him down a notch, but another moment of realization washed over you: Tommy would be absolutely furious if you laid a hand on his brother when he technically did not deserve it. He was already sick of your bickering; he said as much himself, and you dared not chance the repercussions of a right hook to the side of Joel’s face.

Instead, you turned on your heel and left him in the middle of the street. You could not see the pain that welled up in his eyes as you turned away from him.

You did not speak to nor look in the direction of Joel for three weeks, and he did not catch even a glance of you.

For the first three days, he felt relieved. Since his arrival, he had hardly gone a single day without seeing your face or being met with a conversation he had not the slightest clue how to engage in, and to finally be without your presence felt peaceful. His morning walk was no longer disturbed by your upbeat chatter; he went to the Tipsy Bison and had a drink in peace; he sat on his porch in the evenings, strumming his guitar and sipping on a glass of whiskey without you strolling by and listening to the sounds of the strings. He settled down in Jackson, along with Ellie, three months ago and had finally been left alone. Ellie quickly befriended the other teenagers in the commune and spent most evenings getting into what he chose to believe was harmless fun (his paternal instincts screamed at him otherwise, but he knew she deserved to be a kid. Trouble came with the territory), and for three consecutive nights, he was unbothered. Not to say he disliked Ellie or her company; she was the most important thing to him, his reason for drawing breath. He loved her dearly, but silence had become a rare and cherished treat.

On the fourth night, Joel caught a glimpse of you on your front porch. It was a warm night, though it was unusually cool to be in the middle of June. You donned a pair of shorts and a not quite fitted shirt as you watered flowers and trailing plants hanging from the banister. He took a moment to admire the luscious greenery—he could recall you boasting of your skills in gardening, having been able to save many plants from the brink of death, and offering your assistance to the farmers in Jackson when their crops began to struggle. He also recalled the fact that you refused payment in return. (If you asked him, he would swear he only admired the flora adorning your porch; he simply paid no mind to you, nor how beautiful your hands looked as you poured water over the soil or the smile you flashed at a passerby on their nightly stroll. He did not care that it wasn't directed at him.)

On the ninth night, Joel made a trip to the Tipsy Bison. He had spent far too many evenings inside the house, according to Ellie. He desperately needed a change in scenery, but more than that, he wanted a drink. He briefly recalled the last instance of you knocking on his front door, unannounced, with an old-fashioned in your hand and a wide smile on your face that quickly disappeared when he declined the drink. When he went out on his porch later that evening, he found the same drink sitting on the outdoor table with a note covering the mouth of the glass to prevent insects from contaminating the beverage. As he sat at the bar all these weeks later, listening to a cacophony of music, aimless chatter, chairs groaning, and ice clinking, he ordered the same zesty cocktail while the handwriting scrawled on that note burned behind his eyelids.

(Tommy told me this was your favorite. Gotta say, they're not half bad. Hope you get to it before the ants do. Enjoy your night, door’s always open if you need anything.

P.S – I stashed away some bourbon I found from before, it’s yours if you want it. Not much of a whiskey girl.)

He stashed it away, along with the other handful of notes you had gifted him, though he was unable to discern why. He was never a sentimental guy.

On the eleventh night, he saw you for the first time since your outburst (aside from the brief glimpse of your weekly plant watering). It was another cool-for-June night, and he reckoned an evening stroll was preferable to listening to Ellie and Dina giggling upstairs. The summer air was crisp, and a warm breeze danced across his face, making his overgrown hair tickle his eyes. He thought a haircut was perhaps in order, though part of him did not trust Maria so close to him with scissors in hand. During his struggle to keep his hair away from his line of sight, Joel managed to overlook you entirely until he was a mere four or five feet away from you.

“What're you doin’ out here? It’s late.” You turned to face him for the first time in nearly two weeks, and Joel’s heart caught in his throat. How had he never noticed? The setting sun flashed brightly across your skin, filling your face with warmth and flooding your irises, and Joel realized that you were perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Your hair blew freely in the breeze, though somehow more elegantly than his unkempt curls, which still seemed determined to obstruct his vision. He was unsure whether he saw a moment of sympathy on your face or if his mind played tricks on him, because you surely held no sympathy for him or his overgrown mane that he quite disrespectfully declined your assistance with.

“Don't see how that’s any of your concern.” You shot back, despite your eyes having softened.

“Just curious. Tryin’ to be friendly.”

“That's a first.” He sighed heavily at your statement, though he knew there was no denying it: “Sky looks pretty.” You were being far shorter with him than he was accustomed to. He could not blame you. Joel knew he had been cruel to you, though he could not explain why. Especially now, as you bask in the setting sun’s light dancing across your skin. You looked more peaceful than he had ever seen you, and guilt rips through his chest as he realizes this is the first time he’s seen you look so serene when conversing with him—it’s the first time he’s ever seen you so disinterested in speaking with him.

The guilt weighed heavier as he realized this was the first time he'd ever attempted a conversation with you.

“Yeah.” He agreed, though he could not draw his gaze from you to pay any mind to the sky.

On the fourteenth day, Joel realized he missed you. He missed your smile, the cadence of your voice, the melodiousness of your laughter; he missed the handwritten notes; the drinks he never asked for but you somehow knew he needed; the breads that he never bothered to bring in; he missed your attentiveness over Ellie; your inquiries about his day or if the house was cool enough for him. He missed you. Scraps of lined paper with blue ink were a poor substitute.

On the fifteenth day, Joel Miller realized what a pompous asshole he'd been.

On the sixteenth, he could do nothing but hate himself.

And the seventeenth.

And the eighteenth.

Straight through to the twentieth day.

On the morning of the twenty-first day, the self-hatred gave way to pure confusion. Why was he missing your attention so strongly? Why did he care that you were actively avoiding him? Why did he turn down Maria’s offer of a haircut, and why was he hoping he would open his door to a handwritten note ending with ‘The door’s always open’? Why did he turn down Tommy’s offer of whiskey? Why could he not get you off his mind?

“Dude, you have to talk to her.” Ellie stated as she shoved down her dinner (Joel tried to get her to eat slower and teach her table manners, but residual effects of food scarcity currently make such an intervention nearly impossible).

“What?” He snapped back.

She said your name as though it should have been entirely obvious from the start: “You’ve been a wreck for days. Just talk to her, man. Say you're sorry or something.”

“It ain't that simple,” he retorted.

“Why not?” Joel did not have an answer. He opted to glare at her, and Ellie took it as a victory, but not without a final say: “You didn't like me at first either, but look where we are now.” She said, gesturing to the kitchen. Before Joel could snap back a response, Ellie was darting from the table, yelling something he could hardly discern as she ran out the front door.

And on the afternoon of the twenty-first day, Joel found himself marching to your front door with two cups of coffee and a note with what he believed to be a poor excuse for handwriting in his back pocket. As he approached your porch, he stole a moment to observe your plants up close. He could not help but admire your dedication to something that would never be able to return the sentiment. His heart was in his stomach as he sat the cups down on your outdoor table and raised a hand to knock on your door. He thinks it stopped beating for a moment when you didn't answer.

Nevertheless, he left the note and coffee sitting for you outside.

Avoiding Joel Miller was a task easier said than done.

He had never been accused of being sociable, outgoing, or even particularly friendly, but something about him drew you in. His thick, southern drawl constantly played through your head, despite having rarely heard it directed at you. The messy curls, ever grayer by the day, adorning his head were never far from the front of your mind, nor were his soft brown eyes. It seemed the harder you steered yourself away from him, the more he consumed your thoughts.

In all actuality, you were done being angry with him within a few days. One conversation with Tommy shed much-needed light on the internal battle ever waging in his head, and you realized Joel Miller was far unlike any other member of the community (of course, he would be livid to learn that Tommy divulged such personal details to someone Joel considered to be a stranger). You also realized your best course of action would be to leave him alone; you came to see that Joel was no different from you upon your arrival in Jackson—confused, angry, and filled to the brim with trauma you felt hopeless to overcome, but above all, you were scared. After so long of living on the road, a house felt more like a grave; the walls felt like a prison cell, and the people may as well have been judge, jury, and executioner.

You had fully given up on whatever friendship you tried to strike up with him. Joel Miller wanted nothing to do with you, and it was something you were going to have to learn to live with, no matter how desperately your heart seemed to wish otherwise.

So when he knocked on your doorstep one afternoon, looking utterly disheveled and anxiety-ridden, you were completely taken aback, so much so that it took you a full two minutes to remember how to turn the doorknob and greet him. By the time you did, he had already turned away and was halfway back to his house. You noticed the mug he carried in his hand only moments before noticing another sitting on your table, with still steaming coffee and a note sitting underneath the ceramic.

Your heart raced as you read his endearingly messy handwriting:

‘I’ve been an ass. Sorry it took me this long to figure it out. Could I make it up to you over dinner?

P.S – that bourbon should mix well with the coffee. Give it a shot before you give it away.’

In a split second decision, you made your way over to his house with the coffee in hand, unfortunately losing a few splashes on the way due partially to uneven ground but mostly due to your nerves. You could not understand the effect he was having on you. Three weeks ago, you were ready to knock him into the dirt. Today, you anxiously run your fingers through your hair and smooth out the wrinkles in your shirt while cursing yourself for not taking the time to brush your teeth again before coming to his front door. However, there was no time to turn back or regroup because he opened the door almost immediately after you knocked.

You were wholly unprepared for the sight of him. His hair had grown noticeably longer, and perhaps grayer as well. It was messy; undefined curls spread all across his forehead, but somehow he managed to look nothing less than perfect. He adorned himself with a fitted black shirt that hugged his arms in all the right ways and only highlighted the broadness of his shoulders. His skin was beautifully tanned, a perfect bronze that looked as though the sun itself lived inside of him. You had never seen his eyes look so soft and unguarded. You were unsure if it was the prolonged lack of contact or if you were initially blinded by anger, but Joel was handsome. Rugged, chiseled, slightly older, and strong (you wondered if he was strong enough to perhaps carry you, pick you up as though you weighed nothing, or perhaps throw you around a bit).

He cleared his throat and broke you from your trance. “Oh, uh… hey. Sorry, hope I didn't bother ya by knocki–”

“How does lunch sound instead?” Your words came out rushed, and you hoped they didn't betray how flustered you were. “Like, now. As long as you're free, I mean, I know you don't really have company often, and you have Ellie too…”

“That, uh, that actually sounds real nice.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. C’mon in. Sorry for the mess.”

Six more weeks passed.

Six more weeks of spontaneous lunches, dinners, late-night drinks, heavy conversations as a result, and countless cups of coffee

Joel could not believe he had ever been so foolish as to refuse your companionship; he has spent so many days chastising himself over his stupidity. He wasted the better part of four months pushing you away at every turn. And despite it all, despite his thorniness, despite his brash personality and rusty conversational skills, despite believing he had nothing to offer you in return for your adoration aside from pain and tears, you never once made him feel like the monster he believed himself to be. He could not help but remember your plants and your willingness to love them despite them never reciprocating; they grew, they lived, and it was enough for you. You gave and gave and gave just a little more, and you never expected anything in return other than him, with all of his flaws, his traumas, and his burdens. He was all you wanted.

Joel knew he wasn't good with these things. He knew what he was beginning to feel for you—it was an emotion he hadn't felt in many years at this point, not entirely foreign to him but not his mother tongue. He did not know how to express his gratitude or adoration for you, certainly not in the way that you deserved.

What he did know was how to use your body—or, rather, his body—for your pleasure. Joel’s words often fell short, but his mouth and tongue still had a myriad of ways to tell you his affections: late at night when the town slept and Ellie was off with her friends, or in the early hours of dawn when the sun had barely begun to kiss the sky, or during midday when the heat was practically unbearable, Joel would show you just how special you were to him. With every flick of his skilled tongue, every movement of his hands, and every kiss he shared with you, he poured every ounce of his adoration into your body, and you responded with the sweetest moans his ears had ever been graced with.

And now, as you lay wrapped up in a thin gray sheet with your clothes scattered along his bedroom floor, Joel floods you with devotion. He took his time working you up; he made you earn it this time around and turned you into a beautiful little mess below him before he ever touched you where you so desperately needed him. A piece of him wanted to keep you like this—you looked so goddamn pretty underneath him, practically begging for him to do anything more than what he was—but he could only be so selfish when you were just so good for him, and he could not keep himself from telling you so.

Such a good girl.

You're doing so good for me, darlin’.

Look so pretty like this, baby.

And every time you come undone below him, Joel cannot help but look at you so ardently; you were a sight to rival sunsets, mountains, and entire oceans, and you were his. And every time he slides into your warmth, he swears he finds heaven—if not inside of you, then beside you. You cry out his name as your nails scrape down his back—a delicious burn that only adds to his pleasure—while your legs wrap around his hips, silently begging him to stay exactly where he is and to never go too far. Hot kisses pepper down the side of your neck, and you tug at his finally trimmed curls, eliciting deep moans from his chest, creating a cacophony of sounds that neither of you maintain the mental clarity to silence—not when you are so wrapped up in each other, nothing else exists outside of the walls of his bedroom.

And when he finishes, when his body goes rigid and he moans, practically whimpers, your name at a slightly higher pitch than his usual cadence, Joel finds serenity next to you in the after. As your eyes open and shut, and you fall in and out of sleep, and he traces featherlight patterns on the soft skin of your shoulder blade, Joel cannot help but believe he’s the luckiest man on Earth.

You murmured something almost indistinguishable into his chest, but a few sounds carried crystal clear through the air—enough that he thought he could understand your intentions.

He responded, “Me too.”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #the last of us #tlou #the last of us hbo #pedro pascal #joel tlou #tlou fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fic

196 notes · View notes