theinvisiblewoman73

[theinvisiblewoman73]

Something about Din sitting there, brooding...

[theinvisiblewoman73]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

pairing joel miller x female reader (18+) summary it wasn’t uncommon for you to seek each other’s presence after the sun was tucked away—for company, for comfort. but there’s something more consuming about tonight [post-outbreak, fluff, soft smut, 3.3k] a/n they're in love.

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There always had been something about the night. Something singular about its ability to take the most tightly wound days and coax them undone. Like the silken ribbon of a worn bow that had grown weary of holding its shape.

For quite some time now, your nights have belonged to each other. After years of going to bed alone, even Joel realized how good it felt to end the day next to someone who reminded him just how sweet life could be. 

Everyone's deserving of good company—you’d spoken those words to him in the face of his independence. Thankfully, with time, they’d worked their way into his spirit. Like vines, like air itself. He no longer feels wrong for craving care as tender as yours, even though his hands have made ghosts out of many men. 

Earlier tonight, it was you who came to him. 

Three muffled knocks had roused him from the beginning of a light sleep. Given he didn’t have to entertain Ellie tonight, he figured he’d turn in a little earlier than usual. He’d answered the door with fluffy hair and squinted eyes. There was an undeniable softness about his rumpled pajamas and the sight of his bare feet against the hardwood. Few words were needed between you as he helped you out of your coat and led you upstairs to his bedroom. 

It’s quiet where you lay now, tucked beneath sheets that smell faintly of earthen pine. You’ve draped one arm over Joel’s waist while your nose remains tucked between his shoulder blades like it belongs there. 

During the day, while out in the commune, you remained cordial and unassuming around each other. You weren’t exactly hiding from the attention of others but were protecting the bond forming between you. 

In due time, you’d allow the familiarity and intimacy of the night to bleed over into the day, but for now, this nighttime ritual is sacred in its newness. It had been a couple of months since your patrol partner didn’t show, and Joel stepped up to take his place. 

As it turns out, spending six hours with the right person in the cold can change your life. 

Joel holds his breath on an inhale when he feels your fingers begin to toy with the hem of his shirt. They slip beneath it a moment later, almost shy as they trail along his waistline and brush through the thin hair beneath his navel. Joel’s hips tilt just so. 

He swallows around a low sound as your hand ventures up his chest with featherlight curiosity. Exploring, cataloging. Past his ribs and to his chest to graze the pads of your fingers over his nipples, making something stir low in his gut. 

Your hand then drifts back down to splay over the small pudge of his stomach as if to center him again. 

“You’re so warm,” you murmur. 

If he were braver, he’d say it was by virtue of your touch alone. Your hands had wandered over each other's bodies, but never quite like this. This time, your touch doesn’t seek to soothe or ground but to evoke. 

Joel rests his hand over yours with a hum. It covers yours whole. 

“Your hands are so big.” Your voice dips into a purr. “And strong. Capable.”

Joel chuckles a low, flustered sound. He’s not sure what to do with these compliments or if that’s what they’re meant to be. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you then say. “Fix my mailbox.”

Of everything you could’ve mentioned, he wasn’t expecting that. It was an easy task he’d knocked out earlier this afternoon. It took him no more than fifteen minutes. 

“Nothing to it,” he assures in a low drawl. 

Except, there was something to it. The fix meant Joel had been listening when you mentioned it broke. This wasn’t the first time he’d done something for you without asking for permission. Joel Miller is a man of action. If he sees a problem or a need, he doesn't hesitate. That strong sense of initiative had yet to steer him wrong. 

It’s lovely to be seen and heard by someone like him, especially in a commune where it wasn’t hard to slip through the cracks at times.  

A half-restrained shiver rolls down Joel’s spine when you press a kiss to the nape of his neck. The hair curled there tickles the tip of your nose. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Welcome—” His voice catches when you pepper more kisses to his nape. His hand stills yours when he feels your attempt to trail your touch downward from his stomach. 

“Sweetheart,” Joel breathes, a little wary. 

“Yes?” you lilt. 

The sheets rustle as Joel turns over to face you. He can only make out a few of your features in the glow of the moonlight slipping into the room. The rest, his mind fills in. You cup his stubbled cheek with a gentle hand. 

“Makin’ me hot.” His voice is soft and honest, a little frayed around the edges. A pleasant buzz has settled beneath his skin. 

Maybe you wanted him to burn. 

You scoot that much closer to press your lips to his. When the initial surprise dissipates, they move, slow and easy, against your own. Almost tired if you didn’t know any better. But even in the shroud of the night, he’s wide awake. For this. For you. 

A low sound rises in his throat when you take his lower lip between your teeth and gently tug until you’ve fully pulled away. 

Joel hadn’t realized his hand had drifted to settle on your waist, but suddenly, it’s not enough. He needs to feel you entirely. A need rooted so deep he aches with it. There’s no more denying the swell in his pants, where the brunt of his desire has made itself known. 

Restraint looks good on Joel, but there always has been an air of allure around the notion of him surrendering. Of what it looked like for him to partake and be partaken of. It’d been some years since he’d allowed himself to open up in this way, and anyone he shared himself with in the past was long gone. You wanted to demystify it all and come to know that side of him for yourself. 

This time, when your hand begins to drift lower, he doesn’t stop you. Not when your fingers slip beneath both his waistbands. Or as you wrap them around the base of his warm, rigid length. A pleasured shudder courses through him as you pull upwards in a reverent tug. At the top, your thumb encircles the velveteen head to spread the small, wet bead of eagerness.  

Joel starts to move upright but trembles back into place when your loose grasp descends, mapping back down each snaking vein before gently massaging the rounded fullness that hangs beneath. 

“Love the feel of you already,” you murmur. Joel’s face warms as his arousal kicks up under your ministrations. 

In an unexpected display of agility, he repositions to hover above you, pushes down his pants and boxers, and braces himself as he kicks them away. His movements are so seamless that your touch isn’t disrupted for long. 

You spit into your hand as best you can and reach out for him in the dark, knowing exactly where to find him as he bobs towards his stomach. 

Joel’s more interested in gripping your pants, and you place your feet flat on the mattress to lift your hips for him to shuck them off. The cool air of the room registers against the slickness between your legs as you clench. Joel lowers a finger to trace along your entrance, spreading the moisture upwards as he circles your budded nerves. 

He continues paying careful attention to the spot, even as your hand distractedly falls from him to curl into the sheets. Your exhale is shaky when he stops. 

“Just a second,” Joel rasps. 

He braces himself further up your body, one large palm splayed near your head. As the mattress shifts, you realize he’s reaching toward the nightstand. You move your hand to play between your legs to ease the throbbing ache lazily. 

A faint click sounds, and a flame sparks to life, balanced on the crooked wick of a candle. The light casts a dim, golden radius in the room. 

“Can’t miss this,” he explains as he returns to his original position. 

“Need to see you.” In a testament to his words, his arousal kicks up on its own accord yet again. 

You selfishly take him in. His intense gaze. Broad shoulders. Thick thighs. The straining, desirous region of him that your hands had come to know before your eyes ever did. A thatch of unruly dark curls rests at the base of him. 

Joel pulls his shirt over his head to reveal his last covered portion. His arms are toned and firm. A thin dusting of hair spans over his impressive chest. New and old scars pepper the expanse of his torso. The faint indents of a v-line remain even with the pudge of his stomach from age and finally eating good meals again. 

Now it’s your turn. Joel helps you out of your shirt and tosses it aside with renewed urgency. As you finally lay bare, his dark eyes admire your chest as if this first chance is the last chance he’ll get. He extends a careful hand to cup one of your breasts, gaze flicking to your face to watch the way your brows furrow in approval. 

“Christ,” he grouses in an air of disbelief. 

You suck in a quick breath when he leans down to kiss along the side of your neck. Goosebumps arise in the wake of his lips as he continues downward like it’s a path he’s traveled before. Over your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, straying to gently peck a pebbled nipple before returning to the centerline of your torso. 

In the process, he shifts himself further down the mattress, your legs propped like two mountains along either side of him. 

His kisses turn into toothless nips when he reaches the lower portion of your stomach. That sensation, paired with the scratch of his beard, makes your abdomen twitch and flex. It isn’t until he makes it beneath your belly button and strays toward your hip bones that your chest finally shakes with a laugh as you squirm. 

Joel stills you with a steady hand and peeks up at you with a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. He’s cataloging every shift and sweet sound. 

As his shoulders force your thighs to splay a little wider, you bite your lip both out of anticipation and to keep your lingering smile at bay. In seconds, he’s made a live wire out of you. 

Every other breath you take catches. You find yourself swallowing more than you had all night. But suddenly, there’s no urgency about him at all. You’ve slipped into an unspoken purgatory where your release looms on hold. 

He’s drawing things out, taking his time, ignoring the throb of his own need as he tries to pick you apart. 

Joel bypasses where you’re spread open and pulsing and delivers a kiss to the inside of your thigh, mere inches from where you crave him. You shift, hoping he’ll reroute, but he pretends not to notice. 

You try again, attempting to twist and present your core as an alternative to the fluff of your thighs. 

An exasperated huff escapes you. “Just…”

You let your sentence trail off as you attempt to give him your best pleading look. It almost works. They’re the eyes he’d steal the moon for, but he wants to relish this moment a little longer. Wants to hold out on you while you’re both safe to be these needy versions of yourselves. 

“Just what, sweetheart?” he coaxes. 

Your mouth opens a couple of times. “Do something. Touch me,” you murmur, cheeks warm. 

“I am touchin’ you.” He smooths a calloused palm along your leg to prove it. 

“Like you were before,” you specify, voice smaller now. 

Your stomach flips when he starts to move back towards your hips, and flustered, premature giggles bubble up your throat because he’s got you so on edge, and you just know he’s about to do those maddening little kisses again. 

“Not that,” you whine. “C’mon Joel, I need you.” The earnestness of those words sends a jolt toward the apex of his thighs. 

You’ve got him now, so you press further. “Please? Wanna feel you.” You make your voice softer. “Been wanting to feel you all night.”

Joel caves and runs a heavy finger through your folds, then gently spreads you open to press a kiss to that small, swollen part of you. His lips are so delicate you’d think he was kissing a rose bud. A helpless mewl escapes as he replaces his lips with the firm press of his middle finger and begins drawing tight circles. 

The touch stirs faint, premature flutters that make you tilt your hips into his hand. “I gotcha,” he assures. 

He did have you, not just in this way, but in every sense of the word. He’d proven that from the day he met you, ready to be the supply to your demand when it came to all manners of your needs. Even the ones you didn’t realize you had. The thought alone makes pleasure knot in your stomach all the more. You clench around nothing but the idea of taking him alone. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

His eyes lift from your core to your gaze. Your eyes sparkle with candlelit desperation. Still taking his time, he runs his finger back down and just barely breaches your entrance with a curious probe. He’s wet with your slick and knows he’d slip right in. 

“Need you,” you murmur again. It’s different this time. 

Joel withdraws his touch and crawls back up your body, muscles shadowing as they shift. You open your legs wider so he can slot himself between you, bracing a forearm near your head. He’s close enough that your chests brush. That your breaths mingle.  

He takes himself in his hand and guides the tip to the warmth of your center. The gentle touch soon turns into a glide that bumps your clit with every upward pass. You place your hands on his shoulders because your fingers are shaking, and you don’t know what else to do. 

Like a locksmith with a key, he notches at your entrance with delicate intentionality. Both of you shudder, and he briefly touches his forehead to yours. The world stills as he slowly begins to push inside of you. You welcome each new inch with the same steady, heated snugness. Not once does your body flinch or hesitate. You welcome him in even through the dullest ache until he’s burrowed.   

Your joint groans just barely register on the outskirts of your consciousness as the blinding haze of pleasure becomes one with reality. 

Joel grants you a quiet moment of acclimation before he pulls out a little and eases himself back in. A hum vibrates through your chest. This time, he pulls back a little further, then finds his way back inside the encompassing warmth of you. 

“You’re the warm one,” he counters your earlier statement. “Taking me so well,” he praises. 

He withdraws a little more each time until his thrusts become fuller, and he finds an easy rhythm. You encourage his movements with the dig of your heels at the back of his thighs. 

He tucks his head down to place open-mouthed kisses along your neck. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders and graze down his back. 

“You feel so good,” you admit in a frantic sigh. “So so good.” 

Joel nearly comes from hearing that alone. 

There is no reprieve from the pleasure, no moment that allows you two to fully gather your bearings or muster up a semblance of composure. Every sound that slips past your lips is helpless, a little gone. They join the tiny squeaks of the mattress and the sticky, rhythmic contact of skin meeting dewy skin. 

“Faster,” you breathe. Joel listens in a heartbeat, continuing to meet that dense, tender place within you that has your toes curling. “Oh god—” you choke out, a mix between a moan and a whimper. 

Before you can find your breath again, Joel cups your breasts, switching from one to the other and running his thumb along your nipples. The sound that escapes you almost sounds pained, but your face scrunches in the prettiest, rawest way. Joel’s hips drive forward in an involuntary thrust of force.

One of his hands slips between your bodies to rub over that still-pulsing part of you. A dreamy sound falls past your lips as you writhe and arch. The tightness builds. The sea swells. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to keep it all at bay and prolong the moment. 

“Open your eyes, angel,” Joel encourages in a rasp. 

You don’t listen and silently pray that he gives up. 

“Lemme see those pretty eyes,” he tries again. 

You whimper as his finger rubs faster circles, his thrusts remaining intense. 

Joel’s voice takes on a waver, cracking around the edges with something fragile and desperate. “C’mon, baby, please?” 

You realize then that he needs it. 

When your eyes flutter open, a few rogue tears run down the apples of your cheeks towards your ears. Joel catches them. It’s too much. The newness of it all, the warm weight of his body moving above yours, making you his. There’s a glisten on his forehead, in the divot of his sternum. The way his muscles flex with his thrusts is living art. You’ve never met a more gorgeous man or had the pleasure of knowing and becoming one with someone who made you feel this whole.

“There she is,” Joel hums. 

In an instant, your body jolts against the mattress as you come undone beneath his frame. Your walls flutter around him in strong pulses of pleasure that radiate outward and leave you floating. If it were light instead, you’d be a shining star illuminating the room. 

Joel’s seen fewer sights that have struck him at his core. 

It takes every ounce of decency and strength within him to override the recklessness of pleasure, and pull out of you in a swift drag. Away from your swollen, pulsing warmth. Away from one of the few places he could confidently say he belonged in this fallen world.  

Through dazed eyes, you watch as Joel wraps a hand around himself and begins stroking. He’s slick with you, and the veins in his forearms pop. 

He spills onto your stomach in seconds with an earnest, shuddered groan. Each pulse of his release grows duller, resulting in shorter spurts until there’s nothing more than a pearly dribble running down the sides of him. 

You reach out with a weak hand to take over and coax him through the last few waves. Joel twitches in your grasp but lets you continue. Another shudder courses through him as he grows sensitive and begins to soften. 

“That’s all of me, baby,” he says, voice low and soft just for you.

You hum in a daze as you withdraw your touch. The last thing you remember is the kiss Joel presses to your forehead, the dip of the mattress as he gets out of bed, the gentleness of his hands, and the warm towel as he cleanses you.

There’s something special about the following morning. Something soft, aglow, and singular as pale sun rays slip into Joel’s room. They coat the cozy space like a seal. It’s as if the events of last night had carried over and been made manifest into something warm, and lovely, and beautiful. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

JOEL MASTERLIST 

ALL MASTERLISTS

[theinvisiblewoman73]

Din Djarin as Your Boyfriend would include– Headcanons

Summary: Dating The Mandalorian isn’t easy. He’s protective, stubborn, and doesn’t always know how to express himself—but once he loves you? You are his, completely.

The Silent Protector

Din isn’t the type to say he loves you—he shows it. Always keeping you close, shielding you from danger, making sure you’re safe before himself.

If a fight breaks out, you don’t lift a finger. He’s already handled it. No one touches what’s his.

He walks slightly ahead of you in crowded places, hand lightly on your back—silent, but protective.

If someone so much as looks at you wrong? He’s gripping your waist, voice low and dangerous. "Move along."

The Physical Affection

You get away with things no one else does.

Touching his beskar? Only you.

Kissing the part of his jaw just beneath his helmet? Only you.

Calling him "Mando" with a teasing lilt in your voice? He pretends to hate it—but his grip on you tightens.

He isn’t good at soft words, but his hands speak volumes.

A hand on your lower back, warm and firm.

A thumb brushing over your knuckles, even through his gloves.

The way he presses his forehead against yours in rare, vulnerable moments.

The Way He Worships You

He treats your body like a gift he’s unworthy of. He’s careful, reverent, as if you’ll disappear if he holds too tight.

But if you beg? If you whisper his name, soft and needy?

The restraint snaps.

Suddenly, his hands aren’t gentle—they’re gripping, pulling, claiming.

"You really want this, mesh’la? Don’t beg for something you can’t handle."

The Helmet – Intimacy & Trust

The first time he lets you touch his face, he’s shaking. You cup his jaw, run your thumb over the stubble, and he leans into it like he’s starved for touch.

The first time he removes his helmet in front of you, it’s slow, hesitant, intense. He holds your gaze the entire time, heart pounding.

You memorize every detail—the warmth of his skin, the way his brown eyes soften when he looks at you.

After that, he only removes it for you. Late at night, behind closed doors, when it’s just the two of you and no galaxy exists beyond your touch.

The Soft Moments

Din is rough with everyone—except you. With you, he’s gentle, careful, reverent.

You wake up tangled in warm sheets, his bare face pressed into your neck, his arm slung over your waist.

If Grogu crawls between you both in the morning? Din just sighs, mutters something about "no respect for personal space," and pulls you both closer.

The Bottom Line?

Din Djarin is yours. Completely, fully, without hesitation.

He may not say it often, but every look, every touch, every moment he fights to protect you? That’s love.

And in a galaxy full of danger, you are the only thing worth breaking the Creed for.

[theinvisiblewoman73]

🚫Please do not repost this ty～

[theinvisiblewoman73]

[theinvisiblewoman73]

I love this man so much

[theinvisiblewoman73]

seeing straight men be disgusted by booktok smut recommenders has actually radicalized me to the side of booktok smut recommenders. girls your taste may be atrocious but i will never disparage you for exposing mainstream discourse to the concept of soaking through your underwear. spent my whole life listening to men talk about penises it’s about time they get jumpscared by women talking about pussy in crude detail on social media. go forth and goon my warriors

[theinvisiblewoman73]

INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE dir. Steven Spielberg

[theinvisiblewoman73]

Yep

i love it when pedro pascal dad characters go to space

[theinvisiblewoman73]

Yes, all my spacemen 🩶🩶🩶

Pedro Pascal + space

The Fantastic Four : First Steps (2025) dir. Matt Shakman The Mandalorian (2019) Prospect (2018) dir. Zeek Earl, Chris Caldwell

[theinvisiblewoman73]

When they try to find problematic old tweets on Pedro Pascal.

[theinvisiblewoman73]

This could not be more true for me. Indiana Jones kick started my puberty, I swear. Hadn't been sexually aware before. I saw that movie and things just started😂

Hot nerds with chalk have always done it for me…

[theinvisiblewoman73]

Oh, your love is sunlight

Masterlist

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x female reader

Summary: When night terrors pull you from sleep, your patrol partner - Joel, just wants to take care of you. After a night of comfort and heartfelt confessions, tensions rise between you both, your nightmares left forgotten when you’re bent over the breakfast table. Who cares if you’re late for patrol, right?

Tags: Explicit* MDNI, mutual pining, comfort, insomnia, SMUT* fingering, unprotected p in v sex, bodily fluids

Wc: 7.3k (that wasn’t supposed to happen)

Authors note: reader’s got it made, all i do is sleep and dream abt fucking that old man and wake up to the nightmare that it wasn’t real. who gave me uno reverse. anyway, enjoy! as always pls give your feedback or reblog, you make my day better 🖤✨ dividers by @saradika-graphics

If anyone happened to be out at this late hour, they’d take one look at you and think you’d lost your mind.

It’s the heart of winter in Wyoming, the night sky a vast, unforgiving black after days of relentless snow. The cold night is the only witness to you sitting on the steps of your porch in your sleep wear, Joel’s thick jacket wrapped tightly around your shoulders.

And it’s not that you don’t feel the cold - you do, but that’s the point.

You deem sitting out here with your blood threatening to freeze in your veins the better option to writhing restlessly in your sheets, chasing sleep that never comes.

At least here, the wind that slices viciously at your cheeks is something you can feel, something that serves as distraction from the very thing that always drives you out here.

Fear.

It isn’t uncommon for your nights to end up this way.

Some nights, sleep finds you easily and the persistent torment of the terrors that plague your dreams are kept at bay, they don’t rip you from your much needed respite.

Other nights, much like tonight, the very idea of them silently prying their way into your head is enough to stop you from finding any state of rest to begin with.

So here you sit, numb fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the frost already beginning to form on the ageing wood of the porch steps. The howling of the bitter wind serves as the perfect distraction from your thoughts as you tune your ear to the way it whistles and groans. Comfortingly, it seems to understand exactly how you feel.

To your dismay, your quiet solace is shattered as the path in front of you is illuminated from behind, your shadow hovering in front of you like a ghost.

Fuck.

Most nights you’re successful at silently making your way out of the house, well practiced in stepping across any creaky floorboards that might alert your slumbering patrol partner.

Tonight, your efforts prove futile, your stomach sinking as you hear the low moan of the door open, fighting against the wind.

“The hell are you doin’ out here?” Joel’s voice calls, thick with sleep.

You turn quickly, taking in his dishevelled appearance as he stands in the doorway of your shared home. The warmth of the light inside illuminates him from behind, guilt pooling in your stomach as you capture the tired lines that paint his face with exhaustion.

“Joel.. shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you” you rush to apologise.

“It’s alright, I was barely even sleepin’,”he dismisses the look of concern on your face with a wave of his hand. “What are ya doin’ out in the cold at this hour?” he asks softly, as though he’s trying not to spook you.

You shrug your shoulders indifferently, focusing your attention on his feet. “Just couldn’t sleep I guess” you mumble.

Joel closes the door gently, crossing the small stretch of the porch to stand beside where you’re sitting. He gazes down at you with a look of understanding, one that soothes you yet makes your heart ache all at once.

“Bad dreams?” he asks, holding out a hand to urge you to stand.

A quiet huff passes your lips as you meet his eye. “There any other kind?” you half joke, grabbing his hand and hauling yourself to your feet.

Joel lets out a low chuckle, understanding better than anyone the difficulties that lie in finding a peaceful night's sleep.

“Guess you’re right” he says dryly, warm eyes scanning over your form.

The first thing he notes is that you’re wearing his jacket, a detail that tightens his chest with a pang of something warm, but he wills himself not to linger on the fact.

It’s cold after all.

The feeling is quickly replaced with one of unease as his eyes flick to the pistol tucked into your waistband.

“You uh... plannin’ on goin’ past the wall?” he asks carefully, nodding down at your weapon.

You panic as you look down at your gun, your hand quickly clamping around the grip at your waist.

“Oh - no, I just..” you blurt, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “I guess I just have a habit of keeping it with me. It keeps some of the fear away, y’know?” you end with a shrug.

Joel’s jaw tightens as he studies you, his silence enough proof that he knows the fear you speak of. The kind that claws its way into your bones and makes you feel like you’ll never know the luxury of safety again.

A particularly sharp gust of wind draws both of your attention, the shutters on the windows rattling loudly. Joel glances down the street, before bringing his eyes back to you.

“C’mon” he says softly, his hand settling at the small of your back. “Too damn cold out here, let’s get you back inside”

Reluctantly, you let him lead you back into the house.

The warmth that embraces you is jarring in contrast to the bitter cold, but you welcome it as Joel quietly closes the door behind you.

The heavy thunk of the lock echoes through the hallway, and for the first time tonight, you feel a small sense of safety wash away some of the fear still lingering in your stomach.

Joel is close beside you, his hand still resting on your lower back. You can feel the heat of his palm through the fabric of his jacket, his touch grounding you in a way you’d never dare to admit aloud.

“Go sit” he says, his voice low and tinged with concern. He nods in the direction of the living room, his eyes softening in a way that makes your heart flutter.

You hesitate, guilt blooming beneath your ribs yet again for waking him in the middle of the night.

The idea of being a burden doesn’t sit well with you, but you know Joel well enough now to understand that there’s no use arguing with him - particularly when his features are painted with a look that silently dares you to defy him.

With a resigned sigh, you pace your way over to the couch and sink gladly into its worn cushions, exhaustion prevailing over your stubbornness.

Joel disappears down the hall without a word.

As you wait for him to return, you glance down at your hands, fingers numb and stiff from the cold. You sigh as you flex them slowly, revelling in the feeling of warm blood returning to your fingertips, chasing away the frost.

Joel enters the room a few moments later, a steaming mug of something warm in one hand and a thick blanket draped over his arm. He sets the mug on the coffee table with a gentle thud before unfolding the blanket and draping it over your form silently.

As he sits beside you, the smell of chamomile wafts from the tea on the table. The gesture comforts you, but it’s the faint trace of Joel’s scent clinging to the blanket that sends flutters through your stomach and heat rushing to your cheeks.

“Thanks” you murmur, your voice barely audible.

Joel doesn’t reply right away. His eyes remain on you, steady and watchful. You feel the weight of his concern, the way it hangs between you in the silence.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks finally, his voice gruff yet gentle. “The dreams?”

You shake your head, your defence nothing but instinct as your gaze drops to the swirling steam rising from your mug. “There’s not all that much to say. They come and go” you shrug.

Joel’s lips press into a firm line, his jaw tightening just enough to betray the way he’s not satisfied with your answer.

“Ain’t just comin’ and goin’ if they’re drivin’ you outside in this kinda weather” he argues, his raised brow prompting you for honesty.

He’s not wrong. Annoyingly, he rarely is. You huff a quiet laugh, though it lacks any humor.

“I just..” you sigh as the words catch in your throat, your voice faltering. You drop your eyes to your hands again, twisting them nervously in your lap.

But Joel doesn’t push. He waits, his steady presence giving you the space you need to gather your thoughts.

“The cold helps” you manage after a moment, the words tumbling out quietly. “It takes my mind somewhere else”

It’s all you can offer, hoping he understands.

Joel nods, the lines of his face softening ever so slightly. The silence that follows stretches between you both, charged with a certain sense of understanding.

“I get it, y’know” he says finally.

You meet his gaze, confusion clouding your features.

“Get why you keep it close” he clarifies, nodding towards the weapon still secured at your hip. “Hell, there was a time I couldn’t even sleep without a damn knife in my hand. Even behind these walls” he admits freely.

The lump that forms in your throat is almost unbearable. Joel isn’t a man who shares much, even after all the time you’ve spent living under the same roof and patrolling together. But when he does speak, it always matters, has reason. The weight of his words sit heavy between you both.

You reach for your tea, clutching the mug tightly between two cold hands. It’s still too hot, the heat biting at your palms, but you take a sip anyway. The warmth spreads through your chest, soothing the ache that blooms there.

“Thanks, Joel” you say softly.

He waves his hand, brushing your gratitude aside. “Don’t gotta thank me” he insists, his expression hardening as he seems to hesitate. “But promise me one thing..”

You meet his eye curiously over the rim of your mug, mid sip of your tea. Your fingers curl tightly around the porcelain as you nod your head, apprehensive of what he’s going to ask.

“Next time,” he starts, punctuating his words with a hard stare. “You wake me”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You open your mouth to argue, instinctively pushing back. “Joel, I can’t - ”

“Wake me.” he cuts you off, the firmness in his voice leaving no room for negotiation.

You lower the mug from your lips slowly, feeling the force of his gaze pin you in place. His concern is both overwhelming yet undeniably comforting.

“It’s not fair to you” you whisper, more so to yourself, but of course, Joel hears.

“You think I care about that?” he replies without hesitation, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees.

The way he looks at you is enough to make your breath catch.

“What I care about, is you - out there freezin’ your ass off thinkin’ you gotta deal with this alone“ he sighs, dropping his eyes to his feet. “You don’t”

His forehead creases into a familiar frown, an expression that when directed at you, makes you feel like you’re the most infuriating yet important thing in his world. The integrity of his words is enough to make your throat tighten again.

You look away, dropping your eyes to your fingers as they toy with a loose thread on his blanket. You try not to dwell on the way it smells like him, warm and familiar, and how this alone settles the unrest inside your head.

Of course, Joel is attuned to your every move, watching the way you carefully play with the thread as though it might pull loose all the walls you’ve spent months building.

Ever stubborn, you try to summon some form of protest, but before you can, you feel it - the warmth of his hand at your knee. It’s a small gesture, but it grounds you enough to quiet the turbulent chaos of your mind and leave nothing but him.

“I’ll be here. Every damn time” he says softly. “All you gotta do, is wake me”

For a long moment, you don’t say anything.

Any words you want to say are stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat. What you want to say is that you’re grateful. That you take comfort in his presence, that he takes away the fear just by being next to you.

Instead, you let your hand drift to his, resting it lightly on top of his fingers.

“Okay” you finally whisper.

Joel’s mouth lifts into a faint smile. “Okay” he echoes, the word carrying a sense of relief. He shifts slightly, his hand slipping from your knee, though his warmth lingers on your skin.

He clears his throat, glancing towards the window where the darkness of the night looms behind the glass.

“We should get some rest” he says quietly, cautious of breaking the fragile calm that has settled between you. “Patrol in the mornin’. Gonna be a long day”

Your eyes shift to the clock on the wall and your face falls into a grimace. He’s right, you’re both going to feel the effects of your fear induced insomnia. But still, the idea of going back to your room, battling with demons you don’t have strength to fight, fills you with unease.

Joel stands with a soft groan, offering you his hand just as he did outside on the porch. You simply watch him for a moment, before slipping your hand into his, fingers curling around his strong grip.

He pulls you to your feet gently and your eyes meet. A silent understanding passes between you, something raw and unspoken that makes your heart pang. You release his hand reluctantly as you steady yourself, and for a moment, neither of you move.

Joel swallows, glancing down the hallway before nodding his head the same way. “C’mon. Let’s get you settled” he says softly.

As you make your way up the stairs, Joel follows behind you closely. You note how deafening the creaking of the floorboards seem during the eerie stillness of the night - it’s no wonder you woke him if he already sleeps so scarcely.

When you finally reach your room, you linger in the doorway, unsure of what to say. Joel stands behind you in the hallway, equally at a loss for what comes next as the tension seems to thicken in the space between you.

“Get some rest” he says gently.

You nod, reluctantly taking your eyes away from him as you step inside your room. The blanket he’d given you is still wrapped around your shoulders, a piece of him that you cling to like a lifeline.

But as Joel turns to leave, something inside you twists - a sudden, desperate urge to keep him close, to have him keep the darkness away for just a little longer.

“Joel?” you call, his name leaving your lips before you can even think the stupid idea through.

He stops in his tracks, his brow furrowed as he turns back to you. “What darlin’?”

Darlin’

That word alone is enough to make your heart race, and if you weren’t already falling, it sends you tumbling over the edge.

Your words almost catch in your throat, but you force them out before you lose your nerve.

“Stay.. please, just stay” you whisper, so quietly you’re not sure he’ll hear.

His expression softens, the hard lines of his face melting into something unreadable. He doesn’t move, and for one terrifying moment, you fret that you’ve pushed too far, misread his concern.

But then, he slowly steps over the threshold into your room. His footing is tentative, almost as if it’s crossing the physical line between you both, one that’s not so easy to step behind again. He closes the door softly, waiting cautiously.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice low.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest. “Im sure”

Joel swallows, mirroring the way you nod your head as if it’s confirmation to himself that you’ve really just asked for this.

“Right, uh.. you go ahead n’ get yourself comfortable” he mumbles awkwardly, scratching the back of his head as he turns to give you a moment of privacy.

Your lips pull into a small smile, one of endearment as you drop the blanket from your shoulders onto the bed and shrug Joel’s jacket from your form. You place it gently on the chair in the corner of your room, turning to slip into bed as you notice Joel’s eyes on you again, holding you with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

He crosses the room, his movements slow and deliberate, almost as if he’s giving you time to change your mind.

But you don’t. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to.

He sits on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He hesitates to make any move, silence stretching between you both as he appears to be lost in thought.

“Joel?” you call softly, masking a smile.

“Huh?” he answers, a little unfocused.

You bite your lip to stifle a laugh, pulling the sheets tight around your form.

“You can lay down with me” you whisper, patting the empty space next to you.

“Right, yeah” he mumbles, rushing to slip off his boots before shifting to lay beside you. He reaches to turn off the lamp, and the room is swallowed by darkness.

The bed feels smaller with his broad frame beside you, but the way he fills the vast space that always feels so empty brings you unexpected comfort. You revel in the way you can feel his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest beside you.

“Thank you, Joel” you murmur, your voice quiet in the darkness.

He hums in response, a low, soothing sound. “Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for. Get some sleep”

The room falls quiet again and you find yourself focusing on the small details that offer you a sense of calm in this moment - the way Joel’s scent clings to your skin, how his steady breathing keeps you present. You begin to relax, knowing that fear can’t make its way to you tonight. There’s no room with Joel here.

Just as exhaustion begins to win, you feel the gentlest brush of his hand against yours. You don’t dare to move, unsure whether he’s even awake, or aware of what he’s doing. But when his fingers curl around yours like your hand is their home, you don’t pull away.

When sleep finally finds you, it’s deep and undisturbed, sparing you from the shadows that usually loom in the corners of your mind.

The early hours of the morning greet you with a warm light filtering through your curtains, slowly stirring you awake.

You open your eyes reluctantly, but for the most part you feel rested and content, until you register an unfamiliar warmth pressed against you.

Your breath catches as you realise you’re laying in Joel’s arms. His body is curved around yours, his face nestled against your shoulder and his arm draped protectively over your waist.

Your first reaction is to panic, to move before he realises that your bodies have been drawn together and left you so intimately intertwined through the night.

But part of you can’t bear the thought of moving, unable to deny that this is the kind of solace you fear you’ve always needed but not allowed yourself to seek from him until now.

You work to slow your breathing, not wanting to wake him so you can revel in it for just a little longer. And for a quiet, perfect moment, you let yourself feel his warmth seep into your bones, let the gentle rhythm of his breathing slowly rock your body in time with his.

It’s a moment that’s so tender you wish you could stay in it forever. But eventually, your rationale prevails over the ache in your chest. You convince yourself to let the moment end, to not allow yourself to get used to the feeling.

You tell yourself that Joel would never mean to embrace you in such a way, that he wouldn’t want to cross a line that’s so hard to retreat from.

And so, you gently ease yourself from beneath the steady weight of his arm, your touch lingering on his warm skin as you ignore the cold emptiness that greets you without his body pressed against you.

He stirs slightly as you pull yourself out of bed. He almost looks peaceful, the ever present frown on his face somewhat less pronounced.

You watch him quietly and can’t help but wonder what this all means to him. The way he’s there for you without question, and with stubborn defiance at that. Whether his heart also races at the simplest of touches, or if the comfort you find in his presence is returned.

Quietly, you grab a fresh set of clothes, stealing one last glance at him before slipping out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you.

You head towards the bathroom, promptly switching on the shower, not waiting for the water to heat before you step inside, allowing the shock of the cold water to clear your head.

When you exit the bathroom, you notice your bedroom door is open and that your bed is made.

The faint sound of movement downstairs catches your ear, and as you tread your way down the steps, your nose is met with the enticing smell of something sweet.

When you reach the kitchen you pause in the doorway, watching as Joel stands at the stove flipping pancakes. Your chest tightens at the sight of something so simple yet domestic.

“Morning” you greet him softly, breaking through the quiet.

He glances over his shoulder, his face softening at the sight of you. “Mornin’. Hope you’re hungry” he replies, nodding towards the pan.

You take a seat at the table, resting your chin in your hand as you watch him work with a content smile at your lips.

“Never took you for a pancake guy” you tease.

He chuckles, the sound deep and warm as he pours the last batch of batter into the pan.

“Ain’t usually. Sarah loved ‘em though. Guess makin’ them just stuck with me” he says thoughtfully.

The mention of his daughter stills you. Joel rarely talks about her, his grief something he keeps firmly locked away. The way he mentions her so casually to you now feels like you’ve broken past a certain level of trust, gained access to a part of him that very few can truly see.

“Well, she had good taste” you offer warmly.

Joel glances at you, a small smile at his lips as he exhales a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

When he finally brings the pancakes to the table, he settles into the chair across from you, his eyes finding yours carefully.

“Wanted to make sure you’re alright before we go headin’ off on patrol” he broaches the subject tentatively. “Long day ahead, you’re sure you can manage it?”

“Yeah, I uhh… actually ended up sleeping pretty well” you reassure, but there’s something about the way your eyes linger on him that you both can’t ignore.

There’s something different this morning, an energy that wasn’t there before. The ease you once had feels fragile, like it’s teetering on the edge of something neither of you are ready to confront.

You drop your eyes to your pancakes and take a bite to serve as distraction. They’re warm and soft, but far from perfect. The edges are slightly burned, but for some reason, it only makes them better knowing they were an act of care from Joel.

“These are.. not bad” you tease, your mouth lifting into a smirk as you cut another piece with the side of your fork.

Joel chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Not bad?” he repeats with a shake of his head. “That’s what I get for slavin’ over a hot stove?”

Your smile widens upon hearing the warmth in his laughter. “I mean, the edges are a little crispy. Could use some work” you shrug, raising your brow playfully.

“Ain’t ever heard gratitude like it” he huffs with a laugh, his smile tugging at something deep inside you.

The room fills with your shared laughter, an easier rhythm falling back in place between you. The tension doesn’t dissipate, but shifts into something lighter, something you don’t feel the need to run from.

When your plates are finally empty, Joel rises from the table with a grunt, gathering the empty plates before you can object. He steps towards the sink, steam rising from the running water as he washes the dishes silently.

You watch him from your seat, your eyes trailing over the broad expanse of his shoulders. You admire the way his shirt stretches across his back, how his muscles flex as he moves. Your gaze shifts lower, to the strong lines of his forearms, his skin tanned and dusted with faint scars.

The heat that spreads through your veins catches you off guard, a sudden desire warming low in your stomach. You force yourself to look away, biting the inside of your cheek.

Once the dishes are finally clean, Joel dries his hands on a dish towel, turning to lean against the counter. His eyes soon find yours, and this time, what lies in his expression is something deep, something warm.

The kind of look that makes your pulse quicken and your heart trip over itself.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet.

You fidget in your seat, nervous under his watch. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

Joel shrugs, his eyes never leaving yours. “Just makin’ sure. You still hungry?”

His unwavering concern hits harder than it should. It’s yet another reminder of who he is, someone who cares deeply, even when he tries to hide it.

“I’m good, Joel. Really” you say softly. You offer him a smile, but your hands feel unsteady, your skin too warm under his careful scrutiny.

The silence that follows leaves no room to ignore the way the air between you feels charged, like a storm waiting to break. You notice the way his hands grip the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening under the strain.

Joel clears his throat, his voice rougher now as he pushes off the counter. “We should get movin’. Got a long route today”

“Yeah, sure” you nod, standing from your chair and slotting it back in place under the table. But neither of you make any further attempt to leave.

You glance in his direction, your eyes following the line of his tensed jaw. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something, his lips parting slightly before he stops himself, chest rising with a breath he doesn’t seem to release.

You can see the same torment in his eyes that mirrors the noise inside your head, a war waging between doing what he wants to do and just how much he’s holding back.

You can’t take it anymore.

“Joel-“ you whisper, your voice softer than you’d intended, but the weight of the moment makes you feel so small.

His name on your lips sounds like a quiet admission, and any resolve he’s clung to shatters in an instant.

Joel’s eyes darken, and before you can process what’s happening, he’s moving towards you.

“Goddamn it darlin’” he breathes.

He closes the distance with a sense of urgency, his hands quickly finding your face, fingers achingly gentle as he tilts your chin upwards.

Your breath catches in your throat, your stomach swirling with apprehension as he pauses for the briefest moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

But of course, he finds none.

The moment his lips touch yours, the noise in your head stops.

His kiss is slow, a quiet surrender to everything he’s been holding back. You sigh softly against his lips as your hands rest against his chest, fingers tightening around the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing that’ll keep you steady.

Joel deepens the kiss, his fingers combing through your hair before cradling the back of your neck as his mouth moves against yours with a tenderness that leaves you breathless.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead presses gently against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

“Been meanin’ to do that” he murmurs, eyes falling closed like it will prevent the moment from ending.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your hands still gripping his shirt, equally as unwilling to let go of him.

“Took you long enough” you tease, though your voice wavers.

His lips twitch into the faintest smile, a hand moving to brush lightly at your waist.

“Had to make sure I wasn’t imaginin’ this” he confesses, pulling back to meet your eyes. “You’ve got no idea how hard it’s been.. holdin’ back”

“Then don’t” you whisper, the words trembling as they leave your lips.

His eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flutter as he pulls you closer, the solid warmth of his body against yours seeming to set every nerve ending in your body alight.

Joel leans forward to capture your lips again, but this time it’s different. The kiss is more urgent, more desperate than before as his fingers tangle in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the connection with the slide of his tongue against yours.

A soft moan leaves your lips, a sound that Joel acknowledges with a gentle sweep of his thumb over your jaw.

His hand slips to your hip, steadying you as he guides you backwards to the kitchen table. Without breaking the kiss, his hands drop to wrap around your thighs, his grip strong and somewhat rougher as he effortlessly lifts you to sit on the table's edge.

Your breath hitches against his lips as your arms wrap around his shoulders to steady yourself, your fingers quickly finding the soft hair that drapes at the nape of his neck.

You part your knees to accommodate his broad frame, allowing him to slip between your legs and pull your bodies close once more.

Joel’s lips leave yours, giving you a chance to catch your breath as his mouth trails along your jaw. His lips find your neck, his breath warm against your skin as the soft scrape of his stubble sends a shiver through your limbs.

“Shit, Joel” you breathe, your voice wavering as your eyes fall closed.

He lets out a low hum in response to the sound of his name falling from your lips, the noise a soft vibration against the skin beneath your jaw.

The fire lit in your stomach only burns warmer when his hand falls between your bodies, his fingertips brushing lightly against the waistband of your jeans.

Your heart races as he slowly pulls his lips away from your neck, meeting your eye with a look filled with desperate need.

“We.. we need to get to patrol” you stammer breathlessly, though every fibre of your being feels set alight by an insatiable need to keep his hands on your body, his lips on your skin.

Joel rests his forehead against yours with a sigh, his breathing laboured as it fans against your face, the deep, guttural sound of each gasp for air sending your mind into a frenzy.

His eyes flicker to where his hand still hovers above the button of your jeans, the only obstacle between you both crossing into completely uncharted territory.

“Tell me to stop” he pleads, unable to tear himself away. The hand at your waist tightens, a bruising grip against your skin. “You tell me to stop darlin’, and I will”

You swallow apprehensively, then shake your head, your fingers threading back through his hair desperately. “Don’t stop” you whisper.

Joel exhales sharply, the control he’d been keeping under wraps slipping away as soon as the confirmation passes your lips that you want this too.

He makes quick work of undoing the button of your jeans, his fingers sinking below the fabric while bypassing your underwear to finally find themselves at the place you’re aching for him most.

Your mouth parts with a sharp gasp, his fingers trailing slowly towards the desire that sits waiting for him between your legs.

“Goddamn,” he groans. “Baby, you feel like heaven” he murmurs as his fingers glide through the wet mess at your centre, dragging up to rub agonisingly slow circles over your clit.

“Oh fuck, Joel” you moan quietly, your head falling forward against his shoulder as you feel heat begin to creep through your body.

His hand leaves your waist to tilt your chin, desperate to read the response in your eyes. “You sure about this?” he asks, his voice low as he searches for any sign of doubt on your features.

“Yes, yeah I’m sure… please Joel,” you whimper, your eyes pleading with him to touch you, to make you his.

His jaw hardens, his hand quickly falling from your face to grip the waistband of your jeans. He tugs at the material as you shuffle at the end of the table to allow him to pull them impatiently from your form, quickly discarding them to the floor.

Instinctively, your legs go to fall closed, feeling overly exposed to him now. His hand falls between your thighs before you can shut him out, prying you open for him as he steps back between your legs.

“I got you darlin’,” he breathes softly, his hand moving right back to your centre, teasing two thick digits at your aching hole.

The wait is agonising, your skin prickling with an uncomfortable heat, until finally, he pushes his fingers inside your warmth with a sharp intake of breath.

In one simple move you’re ruined. There’s no going back from this, no world you can face if you don’t get to feel him this way.

You moan against his chest as he draws his hand back torturously slowly, before curling his fingers back inside you with perfected skill.

“Jesus baby, you’re soaked” he whispers against your ear, his movements picking up a steady rhythm.

You writhe on the edge of the table, panting as you pathetically buck your hips to meet the thrust of his fingers in an attempt to feel him deeper, to take him harder.

“Easy darlin’,” he soothes. “”Gonna give you everythin’ you need”

Joel fucks you a little faster with his fingers, stilling only to add a third once your cunt is slick enough to take more.

You whimper in response to the stretch, squeezing gently around his fingers as he presses his thumb hard against your clit.

“That what ya needed, huh baby? For me to stretch this pretty hole so you can take my cock?” he murmurs.

“Fuck” you pant, a rush of heat surging to your cunt in response to his words.

Your face twists as he works you towards unravelling the warm, tight knot that pulses where his fingers meet.

“Need to hear you say it darlin’, tell me how you’re dyin’ to feel me” he pleads.

“Want it Joel, shit” you gasp, your head falling back as his fingers curl deeper, beckoning your impending orgasm closer and closer. “Thought about it for so long” you let slip, not even caring for the heat that warms your cheeks at the admission.

The sound that leaves his throat is deep and pained, a primal grunt as he pulls his fingers from your core. His hand wraps gently around your neck, your chin cupped over his thumb as he forces you to meet his eye, his expression tortured.

“Want me to show you, hmm?” he snarls. “Show ya what it’s like to be stuffed fulla my cock?”

Your head clouds as he punctuates his need with a squeeze of his hand, a sigh stifling its way past your lips.

“Please” you whisper. One simple word.

As if you’ve flicked a switch, his hold on your neck disappears. His hands drop to fumble impatiently with his belt buckle, tugging it free from his waist. He stares at you for a beat, a silent exchange that tells you he needs your hands on him, needs you to confirm exactly what you want.

You rush to find the zipper on his jeans, tugging it down with shaking hands before you shrug the stiff denim down to his thighs.

The sigh that leaves Joel’s lips is one of relief as his cock springs free, aching and needy to feel you.

He takes a tentative step forward, his hands forming a tight grip on the flesh of your hips, pulling you closer towards him as his hard length rests against your inner thigh.

That small contact alone is enough to send the most sinful flutter through your stomach, your arms finding home around his neck again as you lift yourself from the table slightly to grind your hips forward needily.

“Need you to fuck me, Joel” you whisper, peering up at him through hooded lids.

His jaw squares, exhaling sharply as he moves a hand to fist his cock, dragging his hand along his length before nudging it at your entrance.

He pushes his hips forward, slowly edging his way inside the wet, inviting warmth of your cunt. The way your breath hitches mirrors his, each of your mouths falling open at the feeling.

“Christ, baby. So fuckin’ tight” he hisses through clenched teeth, the hands that hold your hips tightening around your soft skin.

The stretch is enough to make you light-headed, a delicious sting at your centre that only serves as further fuel to the fire simmering in your belly.

Joel pulls his hips back with a low moan, his hands moving to cup under your ass, lifting you from the table to bounce you down onto his cock with a sharp thrust.

“Shit” you gasp, one hand slipping from his shoulder to brace the edge of the table as he bares your weight, fucking into you now with panted breath.

“Livin’ up to those dirty lil thoughts you've been havin’ darlin’?” he whispers against your neck, the way his breath tickles below your ear sending a carnal shiver down your spine.

You bite your lip, too turned on to be embarrassed by his knowledge of your long lived lust for him. You moan softly against his shoulder as he rolls his hips into you, his length nudging against the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach.

“Gotta know what that pretty head of yours has been thinkin’.. you think about takin’ my cock like this, huh?” he drawls, his eyes dark with a need that he meets with every unrelenting, forceful pull of your hips into his that buries his cock deep in your warmth.

“Fuck” you manage through a broken moan. “Been thinking about you bending me over this table the whole time we were eating breakfast” you confess, your eyes falling to his lips in an attempt to hide from the admission.

Joel’s hips abruptly come to a stop, a pained sigh leaving your lips at the lack of movement. You look at him questioningly, your brows pinching together as you roll your hips forward in a bid to feel some friction between your thighs.

He sets you back down on the edge of the table, his expression stern as his tight grip on your hips pins you in place, restricting the desperate writhing of your hips.

“Joel, why-”

The words on your lips are cut short as he pulls his cock from inside you without warning, pulling you down from the table with a sharp gasp. He spins you in place and in one quick movement has you bent over, your torso pressed to the cold wood, wrists captured behind your back in the tight grip of his hand.

Before you can even register the emptiness you feel without him inside you, his cock invades your hole again, pushing into you and resuming the quick pace of his thrusts.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl” he growls, the sound of his skin slapping against yours filling the room.

You whimper softly, the new angle providing you with everything you need to chase the release your body is burning for.

“Gettin’ what you wanted, sweet girl?” he grunts, the words rasped between short breaths. “This what you think about when you’re not sleepin’, wishin’ your fingers were my cock?”

You nod your head, your cheek pressed against the cool wood of the table. “Always.. always think about you” you breathe, the words tumbling out of you with a moan.

“Shit. You keep makin’ those pretty noises darlin’… that’s it, I gotcha” he groans, his hand slipping between your legs to press his rough fingers at your clit.

You feel yourself on the brink of coming undone, every stroke of Joel’s cock paired with the slow circling of his fingers pushing you closer to tumbling over the edge.

The fluttering tell of your cunt steals a moan deep from Joel’s chest. He picks up the pace of his thrusts with a steeled jaw, the table legs scraping noisily against the tiled floor as he rocks you against it unrelentingly.

“Goddamn it, if ya keep squeezin’ me like that baby, I ain’t gonna last” he murmurs.

All you can do is take what he has left to offer, your mind barely coherent to his words as you begin to feel the tight pressure deep in your core threatening to burst, your limbs slowly creeping with a heat that trickles all the way to your neck.

“Fuck - Joel, don’t stop, I’m gonna - ”

You’re cut off with a sob, your orgasm leaving you a whimpering mess beneath him. You fight to stay standing as your legs tremble, but Joel’s steady grip at your waist keeps you rooted on his cock, never missing a beat.

“Good girl, I gotcha. Shit, feel so fuckin’ tight” he groans, fighting to keep his pace steady as he nears his own high.

Your knees threaten to buckle, your limbs numb and lifeless after the waves of pleasure ebb away, your attention shifting back to the delicious friction between your legs.

Joel’s deep, ragged breathing sounds from behind you, his slowing thrusts telling you he’s close.

“Gonna come baby, fuck” he groans, gripping his length as he leaves you empty, unloading his spend over his fist.

You wish more than anything to be able to see him, the carnal sounds that leave his lips as he comes enough to warm your belly with another simmer of desire.

For a moment, it’s quiet, save for the way you both fight to catch your breath. You stand up when you hear Joel’s footsteps wander in the direction of the sink, rushing to redress.

You sit back against the table, your eyes on the floor as Joel returns to you, his hand dropping to part your legs, his frame slipping between them once more.

The air between you is cooler now, the tension dissipated, leaving room for something more gentle. His hands find your waist, his grip softer now as his fingers trace delicately over the skin below your shirt.

His forehead leans to rest against yours, the tenderness he holds you with now silencing the torment of your mind.

“You okay?” Joel asks, his voice quiet.

You nod, a soft smile pulling at your lips. “I’m okay” you whisper. “Are you?”

Joel exhales a short, breathy laugh, his hand lifting to brush your hair from your face. “More than okay, darlin’” he smiles.

Neither of you moves to pull away, your fingers smoothing the rumbled fabric of his collar. “We should probably - ”

“Patrol. Tommy’s gonna kick my ass” he groans, holding his palm out to help you down from the table.

You laugh softly as you regain your footing, the worry that knits Joel’s eyebrows together fixing an endeared smile to your face.

“Worth it though, right?” you smirk.

Joel’s eyes find yours, the warmth they hold unmistakable.

“Without a fuckin’ doubt”

@joeldjarin @bbyanarchist @cuteanimalmama @jovl-millvr @missladym1981 @mellymbee @picketniffler @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @pattwtf @ashleyfilm @goodvibesonly421 @justajoelsreader @pedritospunk

[theinvisiblewoman73]

Perfect.

TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ ﾟ. °🍂 ೃ࿔*

jackson! joel miller x fem! loner! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: Joel refuses to acknowledge the part of him that aches to be a protector. That is, until you come crashing into his life.

cw: canon-typical violence, reader had a rough go of things before Joel, nightmares, medical inaccuracies (oh the horror!) uhhh reader has a broken nose and it gets set, unspecified age gap, daddy issues but we all saw that coming and it’s vague, as an ellie lover and defender until the day i die, it pains me to say no ellie-au IM SORRY I COULDN’T MAKE IT WORK bella ramsey as ellie they could never make me hate you

tags/tropes: hurt/comfort as always, age gap, nightmare comfort, honestly just two messed up people loving each other

a/n: proof that i will find a way to write an eldest daughter fic for any fandom/universe

not officially writing for him !! just had this idea

another long(ish) fic. if you're here from my masterlist, now would be a good time to go pee, get some water, and maybe a snack or two :) same things for those of you scrolling. i see u

title taken from tongues and teeth by the crane wives (GO LISTEN TO THE CRANE WIVES !!)

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚🦴⋆｡°✩

Jackson living isn’t all Joel thought it would be cracked up to be.

Don’t get him wrong- objectively, it’s great. Running water, electricity, a clinic- three hallmarks Joel was sure he’d never see again. Not since the outbreak.

So by all means, he should be content. He goes out for hunting parties and patrols. Has his own house. Has a permanent place to keep his boots and his knives and guns and a bookshelf to make his way through. He has a bed. He has his brother.

But he’s restless.

Joel spent a long time walking. Searching. Surviving. You don’t quite slip back into easy civilian life just like that, no matter how perfect the conditions are.

At first, he solves this problem but going on more hunting parties, more patrols. He stays up late doing guard rotations and helps out his brother with projects when he can.

It doesn’t solve the itch, though. That sharp little thrumming, just beneath his skin: the need to protect. To have a job. To have something or someone to look after.

He denies this part of himself as much as he can, because he’s not that man anymore. Not after Sarah. He’s not. You don’t stay somebody dying to help and protect when you kill people. Because they’re still people, under the fungus. Under the parasite. Their brain’s still work. They still feel pain and anguish and fear.

He’s heard them cry before. Hunched over a corpse, body acting with somebody else at the reins, faces covered in blood and gore crying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

So Joel isn’t a protective guy anymore. Had to take out those parts. Replace them with solitary and meanness and a distinct lack of sympathy.

It’s turned him into an angry thing. Like a gaurd dog; snarling, circling an empty pedestal it refuses to acknowledge is there.

He knows Tommy see’s it. Try’s to involve him in things whenever he can, invites him over to dinner. Hangs out at his house. Makes sure Joel isn’t alone-alone.

So Joel really, really should’ve seen it coming when he and the scouting party find you in the woods.

You’re just as surprised to see them as they are to see you. They thought they were tracking a deer— although some of the tracks and patterns of disturbance in the underbrush didn’t add up.

They’d entered a clearing, guns poised, just to see you, handgun leveled at them, perched in a tree. Way higher up than Joel would’ve dared.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You’d hissed, voice carrying on the wind and rattling just like the leaves on the tree you’re in. How you managed to scale a tree that high in a busted pair of Doc Martens and lugging a backpack clearly full of supplies is beyond him.

But he doesn’t need medical credentials to know you’ve clearly had a rough go of things.

You’re young. Not young-young, but young. Dressed in clothes clearly pilfered, you’re wearing a thick brown jacket that probably would’ve belonged to a construction worker or something like that. It’s a few sizes too big, and the cuffs are frayed and there’s a hastily sewn patch on the elbow he can see. Your face and hair is littered with tree and other plant debris- though if this is a new addition from your tree climbing escapade, he’s not sure. Your nose has dried blood crusted under it, your lip is split, and there’s a cut above your eyebrow. Your knuckles and hands are equally torn and split, old and new scars and scrapes littering your skin.

In short: you look rough. And feral, in that way that cats that live outside a little too long and a little too far away from people end up looking.

“I said stay back!”

He remembers, abruptly, that you’re probably scared out of your mind and the rest of the scouting team is still pointing their weapons at you.

He makes the motion for them to lower their weapons, and he lowers his own, raising both hands in the universal “we come in peace” gesture.

You don’t lower yours, but your grip on it is looser.

“We’re from the Jackson settlement,” He shouts, hoping you don’t hear the gruff anger in his voice that Tommy always complains he needs to work on. “There’s running water and electricity.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” Your hands have begun to shake on the gun, ever so slightly. “So what’s your guys prerogative, huh? Cannablism? Religion? You planning on burning me at the stake? Or did you have something else in mind? I am a woman.”

Joel takes a step forward but stops when a bullet hits the ground right where his foot was about to be.

“If you take one more step you’re gonna find out exactly why I’ve survived alone this long.”

“Look,” He says, dropping his hands to his hips. “You can shoot us, and one of us will shoot you, and it’ll all be fine and dandy—“

There’s a chorus of whispers behind him.

“Or you can stay in that tree and not shoot us, and we won’t shoot you, and that’ll also be fine and dandy.”

He turns, jamming a finger in the direction of the settlement. “Jackson’s that way. Go or don’t go. I don’t really give a shit, but you look like you could use a bandaid.”

He jerks his head, and the rest of the party follows his lead, leaving the clearing —and you— behind.

—

A few hours after he returns, somewhere in the late evening when twilight is starting to set in and the crickets are chirping, Tommy knocks on his door.

“There’s a girl here for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone asked for me?”

“Well, not so much as for you. Her words exactly were “that gruff, mean looking asshole,” but I got the picture.”

He sighs, deep in his bones. A small part of him —the part that’s still connected to that dog, still circling— had hoped you would show up. However, it’s hopelessly overshadowed by the sheer exasperation of it all.

He’s silent save for non-committal grunts and hmm’s the way over to the front gates where the evening rotation’s guards have you standing between them.

You’re slightly worse for wear since the last time he saw you in that tree. Your jacket as a new rip in it, and your nose is sluggishly bleeding again. Up close, he notices it’s a bit crooked.

Gonna hurt like a bitch to set, He thinks absentmindedly.

He slows as he approaches you, hands in his pockets and shoulders back.

“See?” He huffs, gesturing with one hand behind him. “Not cannibals. Or whatever else you’re worried about.”

Your face is hard set as you look around. “That remains to be seen.”

“Hello!”

Joel looks back to see a pregnant Maria waddling over, a concerned Tommy at her side.

“I told you I’d handle it—“

“And I told you I’m fine. Now,” She props her hands on her hips. “Who’s this young lady now?”

You (hesitantly) stick out a hand to shake and introduce yourself.

She shakes your hand with a smile. Leave it to Maria to be able to read people with such ease. “I’m Maria Miller. I’m one of the settlement councilors. The golden retriever fussing next to me is my husband, Tommy, and the angry looking bear next to him is his brother, Joel. I understand a scouting party found you?”

You nod, eyes flicking this way and that, cataloguing the area.

“I’ve been on my own for… awhile. I don’t have any supplies to offer, but I’m smart and strong. I’m willing to work in exchange for a place to stay.”

Maria hums, assessing. “I’m sure we can work something out. You’ll need to come with me to speak to the rest of the council, for our safety and yours.”

You tighten your grip on your backpack but follow Maria and Tommy, only sparing one backward glance at Joel.

He spends the rest of the evening trying to forget the look in your eyes.

—

He fails spectacularly.

This doesn’t mean, however, that he’s anywhere near pleased when his nightly reading-as-a-poor-attempt-at-normalcy routine is interrupted by a knock on the door. One that sounds suspiciously like Tommy’s type of knock.

Only he hears two voices as he walks up to the door, and the other one isn’t Maria.

Joel opens the door with a glare already fixed on his face.

“There have to be other places.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “It’s only temporary. The council agreed to let her stay so long as she’s watched by a trusted Jackson member, and well. You vouched for her.”

“And when exactly did I do that?”

“In the woods, when you met. You told her where you were from and how to get there. Honestly, Joel, you’re getting off light here. Some of the council members were not happy you told a random loner —no offense— where to find us. Kind of defeats the whole point.”

You huff a quiet “None taken.”

He can’t help the way his body tenses. “So this is a punishment?”

“Yes and no.”

“I don’t—“

“Look,” you interject, clearly fed up with the conversation. “It’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to murder you in your sleep and I don’t leave dirty clothes lying around. It’s only for three weeks. Get over it.”

Another sigh threatens to release itself, but he stamps it down, figuring he’s hit his sigh quota for the day.

“Fine. But take her down to medical first. I don’t want her blood all over my house.”

Tommy shrugs. “No-can-do. Maria needs me back at the house. You know where medical is. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

And with that, Tommy leaves, abandoning Joel and you at the doorstep.

Joel scrubs a hand down his face. “Wait there. I’ll grab a jacket.”

The walk to the clinic is awkward and silent, and just when Joel thinks it can’t get any worse, one of the staff tells him that since he’s your assigned supervisor/watcher/whatever, he has to accompany you. To everything.

To your credit, you don’t look very happy about the arrangement either.

Still, you bear through all the exams, a grimace fixed firmly on your face. Apparently (and not surprisingly) you’re malnourished, dehydrated, running a small fever, deficient in several vitamins, have two cracked ribs (most likely, no x-ray machine) and some run of the mill scraps and bruises.

You’re cagey enough on the details of the cracked ribs and nose that the doctor eventually moves on to the fixing you stage of things.

It takes awhile. There are a lot of injuries to cover.

When it comes to resetting your nose, the second the woman pulls out a needle and syringe, you go rigid.

“No.”

The doctor blinks. “This is just lidocaine, it’ll numb the area so—“

“No.”

“You wanna feel all that?” Joel asks, the first time he’s spoken during your entire exam, “It ain’t gonna feel great. Crooked nose like that won’t set with one go.”

“No needles. No numbing.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “What, you got a pain thing or something?”

Your hands go white-knuckled on the exam table. “Fuck. Off.”

You’re shaking, he notes.

Ah, He says to himself. Not a pain thing.

Fear.

The doctor shrugs. “Not like I won’t take the chance to save what we have. You’ll want something to bite down on. Or squeeze.”

You wrap your fingers around your own hand, a pathetic attempt at self-soothing.

He decides annoyance is the emotion he feels at your small movement. Nothing else.

He rolls his eyes as he grabs your hand, maneuvering it in place of your own.

“Good luck breaking it.”

You don’t respond. He wasn’t really expecting you to.

He knows without looking the exact moment the doctor starts resetting things because your grip on his hand quickly turns from barely there to crushing. You make no sound.

The doctor, to her credit, works fairly quickly, though by the time she’s finished a single tear has carved a path through the blood and grime on your face.

He thinks about how someone learns to cry without sound.

The doctor moves on quickly, cleaning and bandaging the wounds that need it and telling you detailed instructions for how to take care of your nose and cracked ribs and what things you should be eating to avoid staying vitamin deficient. It’s all a lot of words Joel is glad he doesn’t have to memorize.

They stick in his head anyway.

You don’t let go of his hand. You’re no longer squeezing the life out of it, but you’re not holding its gently either. When you do finally let go (after the doctor’s left and you can leave) you practically tear your hand away, as if burned. Like you’d left your hand on a stove as it was heating up only you just now noticed it was hot.

He doesn't say anything about it. He figures you're liable to literally bite his head off, or some other violent action close to that.

Besides. This is all awkward enough.

The walk back to the house is just as silent and strained as the walk to the clinic. Only now your breath is just a little more labored. Steps a little shakier. Your hand's twitch at your sides like they're reaching for something, and you don't quite manage to hide the way you look around every now and then, a restless, nervous action.

He knows what you're doing. He was you, back when he first got to Jackson. Granted, he wasn't as twitchy as you are. He kept his distance, stayed mean and scary (as possible.)

He holds the door open for you when you arrive back to the house, because his mom raised him to be a gentleman no matter the circumstances.

You toss him a look of confusion and annoyance but step into the house, looking around the modest living room with something almost like wonder.

He toes off his shoes, sets them by the door, and takes off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. "Shower before you touch anything. You're filthy. And don't think I'm giving up my bed."

"I wouldn't have taken it even if you had," You sneer. "Where's the--"

"Down the hall on the left. You got clean clothes?"

"...I have less dirty ones."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."

He grumbles all the way upstairs, all the way through picking out clothes that'll fit you well enough until you either wash what you have or find something else.

He silently glowers as he comes down the stairs, thrusting the clothes out to you and turning on his heel when you take them.

"I'm going to bed. Don't wake me up."

When he lies in bed that night, he can't even pretend he's not thinking about you. In his defense, it's less about you and more about the new, strange, stand-offish person he's just supposed to live with for the foreseeable future. All because he had the bad luck of feeling bad for the battered, flighty, loner girl sitting in a tree.

He stares at his ceiling, internal clock (yes, he's old, he has an internal clock. Sue him) letting him know it is decidedly an hour he should be asleep. He refuses to go downstairs, on principle alone. He could get up and go find one of his books, but he knows that if you're anything like him, coming off of however long you spent alone, you're a light sleeper. You're probably awake now, listening to him toss and turn and being unnerved by the unusual silence of Jackson and the particular brand of night-noise it produces. That's what the first two weeks of Joel's life in Jackson consisted of, before he moved in here.

Maria had decided that Joel would stay with the two of them until he integrated in Jackson society. Perks of your brother marrying a council member, he guesses.

So he's not going downstairs. Not going to walk down there just to see a person, an entire person in his house looking like, looking like--

Fuck.

He throws his blankets off and angrily (but not loudly) marches downstairs to get himself a glass of water and the book he knows he left on the table by the couch when he was so rudely interrupted by you. This is his house, dammit, he refuses to be put out by a random girl.

Woman, his brain corrects.

The living room is completely dark when he makes his way down the stairs and he truly, honestly wishes he was surprised when there's a whoosh of air to his right and a knife embeds itself in the wall about a half inch away from the side of his face.

The living room is still and silent.

"I thought they took your weapons when you got here."

"I lied about what I had."

He scrubs a hand down his face, yanks the knife out of the wall, and tosses it back. If you can throw it, you can dodge it.

He doesn't hear any screams, yelps, or grunts of pain, so he assumes you caught it fine. Or at least dodged it.

He makes his way over to the kitchen, grabs the teapot, and takes down two mugs.

"You know they can kick you out for harboring weapons during your probationary stay."

He hears a rustle of blankets behind him. The sound of you stashing your knife, no doubt.

"Are you going to tell them?"

He snorts, filling up the teapot. "No. There's been a knife in my boot since the day I got here."

He hears more rustling, and decides against turning around. He's not quite sure what you've been doing down here all night since it's clear that you weren't sleeping.

He doesn't hear any footsteps, but when does turn around to set the mugs on the table, you're sitting at it, knees pulled up and head resting atop them, your cheek smushed. Now that his eye's have adjusted to the darkness of the living room, he can almost make out your features. They're easier to discern, now that you're not covered in blood and grime. You look... softer. Haloed in the glow of moonlight shining through the gaps in the curtains.

Your face isn't the only thing glowing. The tell-tale glint of a knife --a different, smaller knife than the one you'd thrown at him-- shines from it's spot, resting oh-so innocently on the table.

Joel just huffs.

"No weapons on the table."

He blinks, and it's gone.

He doesn't ask why you're still awake or what you've been doing instead of sleeping. You don't ask why he's down in the kitchen at all.

"What are you making?"

"Tea."

He gently places a teabag in each mug. He isn't really sure why he's doing this for you. You've done nothing but hiss and spit since he's met you.

But tonight, right now, blanketed in the not-quite calm of the night and the apparent unease you both drown in--

It's tolerable. You're tolerable.

So he takes the kettle off the stove and pours the water and places the steaming mug on the table in front of you.

To which you ignore, and snatch the mug out of his hands instead.

"Did you think I put that one," He points to the mug in front of you, "There for giggles?"

You cradle the mug in your hands, seemingly entranced with the warmth and steam. "You might've poisoned mine."

"Maybe I poisoned both."

You take a sip, then grimace when the too-hot liquid hits your tongue.

"You don't look like the kind of person to have built an immunity to poison."

"You also watched me make both beverages."

"So? It's dark. You could've slipped something in. Or maybe it was already in the teabags."

"What use would I even have for you dead?"

You shrug. "I don't know. You tell me."

“You’re a deeply mistrusting person.”

“And you’re not?”

Touché.

Joel remains in the kitchen, leaned against a cabinet sipping your tea, while you stay hunched at the table, sipping yours.

If he removes the irritability and the uncomfortable-ness of everything that involves you living with him, the moment is almost… companionable. Pleasant, even.

It… soothes that nervous part of him. Not the sad nervous. The angry nervous. That built up crack of anger.

There’s another person in his home that is neither attempting to perceive his problems nor actively attempting to kill him. Your belief that he might poison you aside, you still accepted the tea.

He firmly believes that Tommy isn’t right about the loneliness thing though. His brother being right is just a world Joel can’t live in.

Besides. It’s too early to tell anything anyway.

—

Unfortunately, the following few days do not go… terribly.

That isn’t to say they go well, though. Since he’s looking after you (read: making sure you’re not an axe-murderer or something) he’s not allowed to go out on scouting or hunting trips. Or solo guard rotations he’s come to covet.

It’s boring, and having you around is strange.

It’s interesting, when he gets bored enough, because if he focuses hard enough he can guess what events happened to you based on your reactions to certain things. He’s pretty sure you were drugged at some point based on your reaction to the doctor with the lidocaine. You’re general skittish and flighty nature can be easily attributed to the conditions in which everyone in the world is living in, but your particular brand of distrust and aggression says that humans, not the infected, have been the ones to hurt you the most. Your general unease in open areas or areas with not easily accessible exits leads him to believe that there have been several extremely close calls in several points of your survival.

He knows you’ve been shot before, but that one was an accident. He’d come downstairs, rubbing bleary sleep from his eyes and accidentally stumbled across you changing. Well, finishing changing. He’d quickly closed his eyes and turned around, and thankfully you hadn’t startled, but he had caught a glimpse of the stretch of skin not covered by the long sleeve undershirt you favored. On the left side, just above your hip and a few inches towards your bellybutton, there’s a jagged, raised, circular scar. Still pink.

He knows you have a very slight, very subtle limp. He’s not sure what causes it, but he knows you have one. It tends to act up when you do a lot of strenuous exercise for an extended period of time. Some days you wake up and it’s worse. On those days, you’re a little more mean, and a little more skittish.

He’s yet to see you actually, legitimately sleep.

He’s starting to think you haven’t, since arriving.

Which is insane, because it’s been four days.

The bags under your eyes are horrific, even to him. You’ve gotten clumsier and clumsier, your attention span and memory are terrible, and he thinks you might’ve started hallucinating, if the times he’s seen you staring off into space with concerned, fearful, or twisted expressions on your face and mumbled rambles he can’t make out are anything to go by.

On day five, when Joel comes downstairs in the morning and the knife you throw at him bounces harmlessly off the wall and clatters to the ground and you just stare at it, eyes foggy and unseeing, he decides to talk to Maria.

“I don’t really care,” He says, because he has a reputation to uphold dammit, “But I’m not sure how much longer she’s gonna last, and what she’s gonna do when she wakes up.”

“Mmm,” Maria hums, hands clasped on the table and staring at Joel with her best ‘I don’t believe you don’t care’ look. She’s really perfected it, “Well the truth is, she can’t go forever. It’s fear keeping her up now. Happens a lot with the loners that come in. Especially the women. She’s afraid that no one’s there to watch her back and terrified she won’t be strong enough to fend off any attackers.”

Maria looks at her hands. “The fear is exacerbated by the fact that the council took most of her weapons.”

“You knew—“

“She was lying? Of course I did. So did several of the other members, I’m sure. But she’s not a threat. She’s scared.”

He thumbs the thin scar on his cheek from the knife came just a little too close to hitting the mark when he sneezed in the kitchen. “She’s got a funny way of being scared.”

“Fight or flight, Joel. She knows flight isn’t an option.”

“Why are you lobbying so hard in her defense?”

“I’m not. I’m explaining her actions. Also,” She gives a knowing smile, “You’ve started to care. Otherwise you wouldn’t be coming to me about this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He grouses. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait for her to pass out?”

“You could. It’ll happen eventually. She very clearly doesn’t have that many hours left in her. That’s probably freaking her out more. Or, you could subtly show her that she can sleep around you. She needs to know that she’s safe from whatever it is she’s running from.”

Joel keeps his eyes locked on the kitchen table, tracing the grain in the wood with an absent-minded finger.

“I know you pushed for her to stay with me.”

“The council wanted a punishment that fit the crime.”

“Look, I appreciate the thought—“

Maria’s expression flattens. “Joel. Do not sit at my table and lie about how you don’t need anyone and you’re fine on your own. You need this.“

“I don’t need this,” He scoffs, “She’s practically half-feral. No one needs that.”

Maria stands, shrugging. “Then I guess you’ll have to file for a name change, No-One Miller. Until then, make sure she’s not alone when she wakes up.”

—

He did leave you alone for the duration of his conversation with Maria, because fuck if he was bringing you to that, and he figured you both could use some time away from each other. He knows he can.

He’s not very surprised to hear the familar whoosh of a small, sharp object sailing through the air that tends to accompany his arrival into rooms you’re occupying (he’s pretty sure it stopped being a fear response after the first two times and now you’re just messing with him) but he is suprised to see that this time, the knife doesn’t even make it head height. Or to the wall.

It clatters uselessly to the ground near his feet. He stares at the metal between his boots and then up at you—

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen counter?”

“I don’t remember.”

He leaves the knife on the ground and makes his way over to you, watching with mock disinterest at the several-seconds-delayed flinch you make when he stands in front of you.

You look up at him, eyes glassy and unfocused and you just look so, so tired.

There’s a curl of protectiveness in his chest that keeps trying to spread, keeps trying to grow. Here, in the kitchen, your legs dangling over the edge of the counter, bathed in the glow of the mid-day sun, it takes root. Right in the center.

He looks down at your feet. “What happened to your other shoe?”

You scrunch up your face. “I don’t… I was getting in bed, I think. But it wasn’t my bed. I forgot that things aren’t—“

That things aren’t the same anymore.

He crouches down, untying the laces of your boot and shucking it aside somewhere.

“Alright, come on.”

You slide off the counter, clumsy and uncoordinated. He takes your hand in his, leads you up to the bedroom.

The stairs are difficult for your tired, barely working brain. He has to stop multiple times to physically lift your legs or stop you from falling over and cracking your head open.

You finally make it up there, though, and he realizes that you probably won’t want to sleep in your everyday clothes.

“One last step.”

He can’t help but notice how intimate the moment is. Not intimate-intimate, but. He instructs you softly to lift your arms so he can tug your shirt over your head and replaces it with a soft shirt of his own.

Staring into your eyes is too charged and allowing his eyes to wander is bad for obvious reasons, so he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the junction of where your neck meets your shoulder.

He keeps his eyes there as he helps you out of your pants and into a pair of flannel pajama pants. The same ones he’d given you the first night you came. You’ve never slept and he’s never seen you go to any of the places he knows have extra clothes, so he’s almost positive you don’t have any pajamas at all.

His fingers work quickly to tie the drawstring on the pants, and even then, they hang low on your hips.

He doesn’t let his eyes linger.

“Come on,” He says taking your arm and tugging you toward the bed. “Time for sleep.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” You mumble, standing in place. “And I can’t, what if they—“

“I’ll be here the whole time. I’ll keep watch.”

You mull his words over in your head for a few moments before stumbling the final few steps into the bed. You practically collapse into it, shuffling for a just few seconds before your breath evens out.

You’re asleep.

He reaches over, adjusting the blankets a bit, before grabbing the book he’d left on the bedside table and settling down in the chair by the bed.

The hours tick by quietly, accompanied only by the quiet rustling of pages turning and your soft snores.

For the first time in awhile, he doesn’t feel restless.

—

You sleep for a full eighteen hours straight before you stir.

He’s a good portion of the way through his book before he see’s your body tense in the corner of his eye. Your breathes are still even and deep, so if he couldn’t see you, he probably wouldn’t notice you’re awake.

“You’ve been asleep for eighteen hours,” He says, voice rough and scratchy with disuse, “You got in bed voluntarily.”

“You changed my clothes.”

“You didn’t seem all that capable of doing so yourself and I didn’t think you wanted to sleep in jeans. You mind?”

“…No.”

“Good. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t just—“

“You didn’t sleep for five days. If we’re going by the eight hours a night average needed or whatever, that’s forty hours. You’ve still got twenty-two left to catch up on.”

You roll over to face him with a grumble. “I don’t like how good you are at mental math.”

“Get better, then.”

You shimmy out from under the blankets, tossing him an “I have to pee,” as you make your way out of the room.

It’s early morning now, weak sunlight behind to strain its way through the curtains. He figures it’s a good enough time to make some food (and coffee) if you’re going to be going to back sleep, so he meanders down to the kitchen and throws together a small breakfast.

“Did you make us breakfast?”

He never really gets used to how quietly you move through rooms.

“Jesus— yes. Here.”

He hands you a bowl with oatmeal and a small plate with a slice of toast— toasted in a pan, because electricity aside, he doesn’t own a toaster. Why waste time scavenging for an appliance when something else works just as fine?

He sets a jar of jam on the counter that he’d picked up awhile ago in exchange for fixing the hinge on somebody’s door.

“You got any allergies?”

“None that matter.”

He nods to the table. “Go eat. Then get back in bed.”

“You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re annoying. Eat.”

You eat quickly and quietly, then wordlessly follow him back upstairs, climbing back into bed.

“Joel?” You whisper.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He tucks the blanket up over your shoulder. “Go to sleep.”

You obey easily.

—

Things between the two of you… soften after that. He slowly sees more pieces of your personality than the wild thing he met that day in the woods.

He learns that you love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but miss peanut butter and nutella sandwiches more than anything. He learns that on good days, you like drinking coffee straight black, but on bad days, you like it with milk and sugar.

He learns that your limp is the result of one careless mistake you’d made when you first surviving on your own.

“I thought the house was abandoned. It wasn’t,” You’d rolled up your pant leg to show horrific, deep, jagged scars circling your ankle, “Guy had set out a bear trap to slow down some of the clickers in the area. It was dark. Didn’t notice it until too late.”

He learns that you, despite your snide remarks and sarcastic comments, like having him around. He feels a bit like earning the trust of a stray cat.

You begin to grow more comfortable with life in Jackson, though not by much. He’s sure you weren’t a people person before the outbreak, much less so now that he knows some of the horrors you’ve been through before you got here.

He’s even started getting used to how quietly you move.

It’s easy to fall into a rhythm, from there.

He wakes up, goes downstairs. Sometime’s there’s a knife thrown at him, sometimes there isn’t. You’re usually sprawled on the couch, drool coming out of your mouth and grumbling incoherently about “old men and their stupid early mornings.”

It’s almost endearing.

Since Joel spends a lot of time helping Maria and Tommy get ready for their baby, you, in turn, get to know the both of them by being stuck with Joel. Maria set you on edge at first, Tommy slightly less so, but through continuous interactions your prickly nature smoothed.

One night, you were all seated on their couch after enjoying a dinner together —not the first and definitely not the last— having quiet conversation. You’re totally passed out on Joel’s shoulder, dead-asleep and quite content to use him as a human teddy bear.

Maria smiles over her mug of tea. “She’s grown on you.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. She’s not all bad.”

“High praise coming from Joel Miller.”

You have grown on him. And in turn, your relationship has started to grow into… something else. Sometimes his eyes linger just a little too long, and the looks you share feel just a little too charged.

Tommy sends him a look full of words only true siblings can understand.

“No, Tommy.”

“Oh come on Joel! You both clearly—“

“We are not having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because—“

You fling an arm out wildly, smacking him in the side of his face and grasping around until your pointer finger finally finds his lips.

“Shhhh. M’ sleeping.”

He wraps his hand around your wrist, prying your fingers off his face. “You know that’s what bed’s are for. Or couches. Or any number of surfaces I’ve found you sleeping on.”

“You’re a surface I’m sleeping on.”

“I shouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a bed. Come on, up and at em’.”

You whine at the loss of warmth when he stands, scowling as you haul yourself to your feet. As he’s putting on his boots by the door, he hears you thanking Maria and Tommy for their hospitality, and he can’t help the little smile that twitches on his face. Seems like his parents weren’t the only ones who made sure he had manners.

You meet him at the door, hopping in place to put your boots on and getting frustrated when they don’t slide on immediately.

“You know, it would help if you untied the laces—“

“Fuck off.”

He blinks. That seems a little more mean than you usually say nowadays.

So Joel takes a step back. Watch’s your legs and your shoes and your hands—

There.

Your hands shake as you fumble with the laces, unable to get a good grip on the thin cords to untie and re-tie your shoes.

He shoos your hands away from the singular boot you haven’t managed to get on.

“Sit.”

He’s thankful that he built the shoe bench for Maria a few weeks after he got to Jackson. It serves Maria well for not having to stand while she attempts to put her shoes on while heavily pregnant, a feat she bemoaned a few times, and now it’s serving you.

You plop down on the bench with a huff, crossing your arms as Joel crouches, undoing the laces of your boot and sliding it on.

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.”

“Why’re you doing it?”

“Because.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He secures the tie on one boot and moves on to the next. “It is tonight.”

Once both shoes are on, you both bid Tommy and Maria good night, and make your way home.

If your hand find’s Joel’s, then that’s not anyone’s business.

—

He notices things after that.

You’ve started snapping at him more often. You’re not sleeping as much. You’ve started flat out refusing to go with him on daily chores as tasks, which either leads to an argument or the both of you staying at home all day.

It all comes to a head when you wake up screaming.

He thunders down the stairs, ducking on instinct for a knife that doesn’t come. You’re not on the couch. He whips his head around, the screaming stopped he can’t find you—

A thud. A panicked gasp.

He moves on slow, apprehensive feet towards the kitchen, crouching down to see you huddled under the table, knife clenched in your hand and pointed toward him.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?”

Your eyes are wide and shining with tears.

“You died.”

“I didn’t. I’m right here.”

You shake your head, breaths coming short and shallow.

He settles on the floor, crossing his legs. “Here, take my hand. Come on.”

He extends his hand into the space between you two. Achingly slowly, you put down the knife, and take his hand in yours.

“See? I’m still here.”

Eventually, your breathing slows, and the fear begins to leave your eyes. You drop his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, no it’s just—“ You break off with a strangled noise.

He waits. Lets a few minutes tick by.

“Does this have anything to do with the fact you’ve been avoidin’ me?”

You look down. “You noticed?”

“I do have eyes, sweetheart.”

You grab the knife again, twisting it this way and that in your hands.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.”

He tilts his head. “How come?”

You’re silent for a little while again.

“I feel… okay with you.”

“And that’s scary?”

“Yes,” You breathe, “You could leave, or die, and it scares me that I’m already attached to you. That having nightmare’s of you dying affects me so much. That they happen at all.”

He hums. “Seem’s were at an impasse.”

He taps a finger on his knee.

“It’s not all bad. To care.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Joel Miller?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “You know, against my better judgment, I’ve come to tolerate having you around.”

“Tolerate?”

“Mhm.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“So you’ve never thought about kissing me?”

Heat rushes to his face. “Is that really a question you want to be asking right now?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” He stands, “Well I don’t answer that kind of question at this hour. Come on.”

He reaches under the table and pulls you out.

You clamber to your feet, still a little shaky after your nightmare.

You turn to go back to the couch, but stops when he tugs on your arm.

“Mm-mm. No couch tonight.”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes he doesn’t know how to answer with words.

He steps forward, rough hands coming up to your face, thumb swiping the crest of your cheek.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss, soft and slow.

He pulls away after a few moments, searching your face for any sign of negativity or displeasure or disgust or, or—

You surge up, kissing him again, all the same fiery passion he saw the day you met.

“I suppose that answers my question.”

He chuckles. “You think?”

“I hope so.”

His hands slide down to your waist. and he can’t resist the little squeeze he gives the skin there.

“Alright. Back to bed, let’s go.”

“I forgot how tired old men get.”

“Please don’t call me an old man right after we kiss.”

He can hear your quiet snorting laughter as you climb the stairs, socked feet silent as always.

You climb into bed first, shoving yourself into the side by the wall and then making grabby motions for Joel.

“Am I just a pillow to you?”

“Yes. Come be a pillow.”

He rolls his eyes but slips into bed next to you and quietly relishes in the pleased hum you let out as you wrap your arms around his waist, practically smashing your face into his chest.

“You comfortable there?”

“Mhm.”

He curls one arm around you, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. This close, he feels the shudder run through your body at the motion, and curious, he gives your nape a little squeeze.

Your reaction is instantaneous. You go limp- completely boneless.

“I got you, I got you. Go to sleep, now.”

It doesn’t take you long. And with you asleep so soundly in his arms, he follows right behind you.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

[theinvisiblewoman73]

@pscentral Event 35: Parallels Joel Miller in The Last of Us Part 1 & The Last of Us Season 1

[theinvisiblewoman73]

#brown eyes in a brown jacket

[theinvisiblewoman73]

Rest in Peace David Lynch (1946–2025)