joelmillerlover123

[joelmillerlover123]

The Weight We Carry - Part One

Where The Grass Meets

Description : You meet two new strangers. Are they to be trusted?

Warnings/AN : F!Reader, mentions of illness and disability, descriptions of breakout day, mentions of death by starvation, post!outbreak, is the reader smart? Idk. 

Word count : almost 2k

Let me know if you like it!

  The grass crunches under your boots with each step. The only sounds you hear now are your own breathing and your feet hitting the ground. Your hair has grown long and you’ve started to detest it, but you can’t cut it. Not yet. You're reminded of why when the wind hits your face and you feel the bite of cold just beginning to sting your cheeks. 

  You remember winter before. Before all of this. Christmas trees. Presents. Baking with your sister.

  But none of that matters anymore. And now you need to find food. 

  Your sister got “sick” a while ago. Well, you don’t know if she’s sick or just simply exhausted. You are the oldest, you were always tougher, thicker skin, more maternal towards her. You took care of each other. But if you would want one of you to get sick, it would be her. 

  She wouldn’t be able to take care of both of you. Not with you incapacitated. 

  You guess that was your sick way of rationalizing what is happening. Why she can’t do anything for herself now.Because it’s your responsibility. It’s always been. 

  Breakout day, all those years ago, you and your sister were driving. You had just about gotten a mile from your house when the radio cut and gave the emergency announcement. You look over at Mary, your sister and see the color just about drain from her face. 

“What’s going on?” Mary looked around outside the car’s windows, frantically searching for something, anything out of the ordinary. 

“I don’t know,” You said with every ounce of calm you could muster. You turned the car around and headed back to the house. 

  Luckily, your dad was a true southern man and was an absolute hoarder of all things guns. Ammo, rifles, revolvers, pistols, even a few almost automatic weapons were fully at your disposal. So, you and your family had barricaded yourselves in your house. 

  You stayed like that for a couple months. Then, there wasn’t any more food. You still remember the look on your mom’s face when she realized she was dying of starvation. 

  You cried yourself to sleep every night for weeks after she died. You had begged your dad to go outside to find something. He just shook his head. Too scared of the government or the ‘rebels,’ as he called them, to actually go outside. 

  You counted down the days until he died, too. 

  Then it was just you and Mary. 

  She was only a year or so younger than you. Not much. When your dad died, you felt a giant weight lift off your shoulders. Now it’s time to do what needed to be done from the beginning; go outside. 

  That was almost twenty years ago. Gosh, twenty. You must be… what? Thirty-six or so, now? Hm. Weird how when you pictured thirty-six when you were younger it sure didn’t look like this. 

  You start making your way back to the little house you and Mary found a couple seasons ago. You’re both from the south, where there’s just about two seasons: hot and cold. Somehow, in all y’all’s walking, you made it somewhere with four whole seasons. Made it easier to track the years that passed. 

“Anything good?” Mary asks as the door creaks open, sitting on a chair and waiting patiently on your arrival. 

“Yeah,” You drop the rabbit from your trap on the table, “Dinner for a few days.” 

  Mary cracks a smile. 

“Thanks,” You can see the tears start forming in her eyes and before she can fully get too emotional you walk away from her, carrying the rabbit. 

  It wasn’t easy being sick. You could see that. You don’t know what happened or why it was happening but you didn’t care. She’s all you have. Of course you’re going to take care of her. And it really helps with how grateful she is. 

  You skinned and cleaned the rabbit, tossing the gross stuff off for the birds. You watch your hands meticulously work at the carcass, remembering what you’d watched your dad do all those years. He never taught you to do this. But you’re a great visual learner. 

  Dinner was silent that night. Mary blamed it on exhaustion. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You ask again, setting her down in her bed. 

“Yeah,” She nods and adjusts herself, “Just tired.” 

  You linger a bit longer, watching her carefully, looking for something that you can fix. 

“You do enough for me,” She rolls over, “Go to sleep.” 

  You reluctantly walk away and crawl into your own bed. You toss and turn for what feels like hours and then get up and go check on her again. 

  You do that for the rest of the night. 

  The sun rises with a slow creep up and over your window sill. You’ve been wide awake the entire night. You go in and check on Mary again and take a breath when you see her chest rising and falling. You get your favorite revolver and head out the front door, closing it quietly. 

  Luckily, with how smart you are and how scared your sister is, you haven’t used all of the ammo your dad left. But, you’ve used some. 

  Sometimes, when you do actually sleep, you dream about them. About the infected. About their lives before all of this. Who they were. Who they could’ve been. You wake up and shrug it off as sleep-induced psychosis, making stuff up. But that tiny, whimsical piece of you always says that it’s them communicating with you. That they’re always with you. And they aren’t angry. 

  You shake your head and focus. You’re trying to check your traps again. You set a new one yesterday but it doesn’t hurt to check them as often as possible. Especially with winter coming up. 

  Snap. 

  You spin around in the direction of the sound. Staying as silent as you can. The screech of an infected knocks your nervous system into fight or flight and luckily, you stay to fight. 

  You stay put, scanning the direction of the sound until suddenly, a gunshot rings through in the direction. 

  Now, your blood truly runs cold. 

  You’ve run into your fair share of people post-apocalypse. 9 times out of 10, they aren’t here to make friends. 

  Mary. 

  You don’t even care anymore if these people hear you. You take off running in the direction of your little house, praying no signs of life are visible from the outside. 

  You burst through the door to find an empty living room so you storm into Mary’s room and there she is, still fast asleep. 

  You breathe. Hard. Almost out of control. You feel your lungs start to move without you. You feel the room start to spin and your legs begin to fall from under you. 

  Mary. Mary could’ve died. Been killed. Or worse. Those people. They’re still out there. 

  Your lungs are still uncontrollably pumping for air and you hear your mouth gasping. 

  No. No. No. Not now. Not when there’s- there’s people. 

  Mary wakes up and looks at you, eyes foggy with sleep. She sees your pale face and wide eyes and faces you in the bed, using all her might to sit up. You see her mouth open and the worry on her face but her voice is a distant whisper. You can’t make out anything she’s saying. She’s not helping. 

  You throw up your hands to stop her and walk out of the room, feeling the tears start to spill. You need to breathe. 

  You use all of your manual will power and strength to slow your breathing. Your legs start feeling normal again and the room starts to slowly stop spinning. 

  You close your eyes and focus on one sense at a time. 

  Touch the table. 

  Smell the wood. 

  Hear the wind. 

  Taste the baking soda toothpaste from this morning. 

  See… you open your eyes… your makeshift kitchen. 

  Your breathing feels normal. And everything’s calmer now. 

  You walk into Mary’s room. 

“Sorry,” You say. 

“What was it this time?” She asks, sleep still coloring her features. 

  The people. 

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” You turn from her and turn back, “Please don’t try to go anywhere.” 

  She tries to protest but you’ve already left. 

  You make your way, much more quietly, back to where you were. 

  You find one of your traps and sure enough, these people are looking at it, assessing it. 

“Well,” The girl says, a little too loud, “Are we just gonna stare at it or are we gonna do something?” 

“I don’t know,” The man replies, hand on his hip as he eyes the trap, “It’s well set, so it could be old.” 

“Nuh-uh,” The girl points to the rope, a fresh, red stain on it where the rabbit was caught, “It’s been reset.” 

  The man huffs out of his nose and crosses his arms. 

“Well, if we keep going this way, we run the risk of running into whoever set this but if we go back…” He trails off. Clearly it’s a mutual understanding there’s no going back. 

“I say we just run the risk,” She girls shrugs, “Who's to say this person isn’t a kind hearted individual looking for friends?” She kind of laughs to herself and looks at him. 

  He hesitates and turns from her towards the direction of the house. 

“You stay near me,” He looks at her, and his tone dips, “Understand?” 

“Yes, Joel, yes,” She says with a sigh, “I get it.”

  What to do? You could just confront them. You have a gun. So do they. Hm. Think. Think. You could just let them keep walking. But they seem nice and clearly where they’re going is important. In a flash of impulsivity, maybe it was the adrenaline from running or the adrenaline from seeing a man for the first time in… who knows how long, you step out into their line of vision. You hold up a gun towards them as they freeze, the man stepping in front of the girl and holding up a gun towards you. 

“Look,” You say, breathing, “I’m not trying to hurt you but,” You trail off, mustering up your confidence, “You know, I don’t know y’all, don’t know what you could try.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t know you either,” The man says, his voice deepening and growing louder, trying to intimidate you.

“It’s my trap,” You say, lowering your gun slightly, “They’re all over this place and if you aren’t careful…” You don’t finish your sentence. 

  He doesn’t lower his gun and just kind of stares at you. 

“Y’all seem perfectly nice,” You interrupt the silence, “I, um, I have a house, just this way,” You point in the direction of your house sheepishly, lowering your gun completely, “And food.” 

  You see the girl’s ears perk up at the mention of food, her breathing slowing. 

  The man looks back at the girl and the girl nods, and he eventually lowers his gun, too. 

“I won’t hesitate to kill you,” He says gruffly, moving in your direction. 

  You smile, knowing you won’t hesitate to kill him either. 

“I have a sister,” You say, “She’s uh… at the house,” You figured they’d catch on when you would help her walk to and from. 

  The girl walks ahead of the man, closer to you and tells you her name. Ellie. And Joel.

[joelmillerlover123]

A Gentlemen’s Burden - A romantic regency era Joel Miller story - Part 3

Part One | Part Two

Description : Mr. Miller haunts your thoughts. Oh, and you have to attend a ball. 

Warnings : Um idek if this would be considered a pre/no outbreak AU but I guess it is?? Sarah is a pretty prominent character. Female reader. No use of y/n. Age gap (Joel is older and reader is pretty young). Regency!Joel? Tried to keep Joel's character pretty consistent but you know... creative liberties were taken for the point of story telling.

Word count : 3.3k

Let me know if you like it!

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You find yourself standing in the middle of the ballroom, a beautiful white dress adorning your body. Pearls drip from your neck and your hair. You feel the buzz of the ballroom and yet there is no one around you. Only Mr. Miller. Joel Miller. 

He turns to face you, his beautiful dark curls swishing slightly with the movement as his brown eyes meet yours. He reaches up a hand to join you together and the music starts. 

A swirling assortment of melodic notes fill the air around you as you two begin to twirl and move about the dancefloor. You feel no one’s presence as your senses are completely filled with him. The smell of him, an earthy, musky scent fills your nostrils. You feel his rough, callused hands, no doubt from years of working with lumber. You are overly aware of his hand on the small of your back, guiding you into perfect synchronization with him as he carries you as you both dance around the room. In his arms you feel safe, light as air, and perfectly happy. 

You allow yourself to drift farther into the moment, perfectly giving into him and the dance. 

You wake with a start. A thin sheen of sweat coating you. Your eyes, already flung open, adjust to the light spilling in through your window. The book you had retrieved from the library the night before lay open on your bed, surrounded by a ruffled blanket. 

Last night. 

The moments and embarrassment of the night before come rushing back to you. 

What have you done?

You flung your sheets back and stood, your feet hitting the wooden floor a little harder than you had intended. You begin to pace, reaching a hand up to place on your forehead, still sticky with sweat. 

The ball. The ball is today. 

Mr. Miller was here. Joel. 

How you so craved for it to be just moments ago, a beautiful dream feeling so real. 

But the dream was false, and with Mr. Miller. Why couldn’t you find anything wrong with him? Why did he interest you so? Why couldn’t you just forget about his eyes that haunted your thoughts? 

You heard a gentle knock at the door and moments later your dressing maids flooded in.

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“Hello, sister,” Julia said with a smile as you entered the dining room, the table full with an opulent breakfast assortment. 

You returned her greeting with a smile, your head still thick with fog and confusion from your dream. Even you could tell you looked tired. 

“Auntie, are you excited for this evening?” You could tell your precious niece was trying to pull you from your state by distracting you. However, you wanted to think of anything other than the ball. Or Mr. Miller, who was conveniently seated as far away from you as possible. 

“I’m excited for you,” You manage to say, sitting down at your chair next to Julia, “And your Mama.” 

Julia looks at you like you have three heads and places a gentle hand on your knee under the table, no doubt asking if you were alright. You give her a nod and a forced smile and pick up your fork. Your food feels a million miles away and you can’t even stomach the idea of eating right now. You use your fork to push your egg around, slumping into your chair. 

The table was silent as they all looked to you like an animal had come to breakfast. 

“What?” You finally looked up, addressing the table. 

They averted their eyes quickly, all except your sister. And Mr. Miller. Who just narrowed them at you, no doubt trying to figure you out. 

In truth, no, your interaction the night before had not caused all of this weary. What truly was causing you such exhaustion was the incessant thoughts of him. You were being driven quite mad. In two days, he had consumed your every waking thought. And now, he was haunting your dreams. Even in sleep you couldn’t escape those beautiful eyes and that broad frame, those dark curls, that-

“Sister,” Julia called to you, looking at you as if you’d just used the bathroom in her dining room, “What do you think?” 

You had been so consumed in your thoughts that you hadn’t even heard your sister’s prattling. 

“I’m sorry, excuse me,” You said, trying to wave some sleep from your head, “I’m just so consumed by thoughts of the ball, I can hardly focus on eating.” 

You look to your sister, silently begging her to take the sorry excuse. She just cuts her eyes at you and sighs, turning back toward the table. 

Breakfast trudges on, your sister babbling to the table about festivities and dances she hopes to dance. Your nieces and nephews and Sarah are quite excited. You can’t find anything in your body to be excited about what you would come to experience this evening. 

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The rest of the day it’s as if you’re waiting for Mr. Miller to come out from around the corner. You want to catch him and talk to him. But nothing. You even go to the library to just sit there and wait. You find yourself craving his presence and his conversation. You find yourself thinking of what the conversation may feel like and what his response may be to your honest feelings about the ball tonight. You just want to talk to him, desperately. You want to hear his opinions and his thoughts. 

But why?

Your mind drifts to your first season, your dance card had been full every ball. You remember the stench of boredom and exhaustion hanging over you at all times. You remember the tight dresses, the uncomfortable shoes, and the men circling you like wolves. 

You ached for a man who would make you feel safe, seen, and heard. Your mind drifts again to the one sided conversations you would have with bachelors, often rambling on about something that he himself brought up, leaving you to listen. 

The embarrassment, the shame of not having a husband after your first season was still a dark cloud that you carried with you in society’s eyes. You silently thanked your sister once more for rescuing you from society’s claws after your third unsuccessful season, still remembering all too well the sting of the disgusted looks on everyone’s faces when you had a dance card for a third year. 

If that is what love is, if that is what courting is, you never want any part of it. 

The estate is a flurry of activity and so when you all gather for dinner, you excuse his total absence from your day as a simple inconvenient coincidence. That is, until he is again sitting as far away from you as possible at the table. 

You sit, eyeing the table of people but no one seems to even notice the rigidity in your shoulders. Only your sister is the one to notice your strange behavior. 

“Sister,” Julia whispers to you, “What is going on with you today? I’m sorry I haven’t had ample opportunity to pull you aside, I’ve been quite busy,” Her face is colored with apology, her sincere and tender eyes capturing yours. Guilt washed over you. You and your sister may have had completely different lives and ideas of fun, but she was always going to take care of you. She was always going to solve your problems to the best of her ability. She reached a gentle hand to your knee under the table, comforting you. 

“It’s alright,” You offer a smile, “Any of my problems can wait until tomorrow,” You hold her hand in yours under the table, pressing your head to hers in an almost hug. 

Her forehead creases with worry and yet she still offers a small smile and nods, knowing she can’t pry at the table and certainly not as the evening nears. 

Mr. Miller looks at you once during dinner. Once. He practically refuses to look at you and when he does even speak in your general direction, it is extremely curt and short. You’ve got to be kidding. At one point during dinner, you become so frustrated with his standoffish behavior you feel yourself scoff. It escapes you and you feel yourself flush with embarrassment as your sister looks at you, no doubt you interrupted some point of the conversation. But, she is ever considerate and graceful as she just pats your knee and moves on with the conversation. 

Finally, you get to leave the dinner table, the drastic shift in energy between you and Mr. Miller pushing you out of the room quicker than you intended. 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding once you finally escaped the stuffy dining room, inhaling deep breaths and exhaling slowly. 

Mr. Miller’s cold presence loomed as the dressing maids prepared you, their chatter fading into the mirror’s reflection. You watch as they pin up your hair with pearls and adorned your neck with an amethyst necklace to match an amethyst bracelet clasped at your wrist. The dress itself was white with light purple embroidered details, just dusting over the skirts and bodice, perfectly matching the amethyst. You felt positively poked and prodded, a perfect contestant for the pageant. 

You couldn’t find an excited cell in your body. 

Even as you looked in the mirror and a smile naturally pulled at your lips, your gloved hands touching your hair. 

“You look beautiful, Miss,” One of the maids commented as they all started to file out.

“Thank you, ladies,” You call out to them, stopping them before they reach the door, “Well done. I look like a proper lady.”

The maids giggle at your joke and nod to you, curtsying and leaving the room. 

You take a minute to take a few deep breaths, pushing Mr. Miller out of your head. Soon, you join your family in the foyer, where Julia and your nieces are chattering away, squealing with excitement. 

The pins become all too sharp and the dress becomes all too tight when you spot Mr. Miller in the foyer with your family, talking to Matthew. 

“Sister,” Julia says in a breath, “You look,” Julia looks at you, taking in your appearance, struggling to find the words. 

“Breathtaking,” Mr. Miller’s deep voice called out, finishing Julia’s sentence. This garnered a pleased smile from Julia and a slightly shocked look from Mr. Miller, as if he hadn’t intended to say it. Nonetheless, he squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, regaining his confident composure. 

You saw red. 

He wants to practically ignore you all day, avoid you all day and then say you are ‘breathtaking’? How dare he? How could you be expected to respond to that? 

In an act of utter defiance, you locked eyes with Mr. Miller and kept your face as stony as possible and then muttered a small thank you in your sister’s direction, trying to keep your voice even. 

You turn on your heels out of the foyer and walk anywhere but in there, deciding to ready yourself for the ball by your lonesome. 

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The ball room is absolutely lush with life as couples swim about and people laugh, eating and drinking. 

You find yourself near the wall, your wrist free of a dance card, which was a small relief. You find it better to watch people from the wall, taking in all of the guests, observing them and laughing to yourself about things that you were the only one to notice. 

“Miss?” A deep voice enters your head and you don’t even have to look to know who it is. 

Should you be polite and turn and fake smile and offer up polite conversation or should you do what you feel and confront him about his odd behavior?

“I’m sorry,” He says, his words sliding from your ears straight to your heart, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You feel your whole body set ablaze, finally allowing yourself to revel in his all-consuming presence. You swear the ballroom’s colors brighten just a bit, the clouds of self pity parting above you. But he wasn’t going to get off that easily. 

“For what, pray tell?” You turn to him, looking up into those chocolate brown eyes that enchant your thoughts, still holding your arms over your chest and thus meeting his very open stance. He’s leaning down toward you, leaning on the wall a bit. If anyone noticed the two of you, rumors would surely swirl, but your sister is a master party planner and no one is bored enough to look toward you for entertainment. 

“For interrupting your moment in the library,” Shame colors his face, his cheeks turning pink with embarrassment, “I didn’t know you were in there.”

Oh. 

“You thought I was angry with you for that?” You feel the words slip out of your mouth. 

He stiffens, watching your reaction, calculating his next move, “Yes.”

“Well,” You turn back to the party, your back hitting the cool wall once more, “I wasn’t.”

“Miss?” He says again, his voice lowering, “Can I be frank?”

Your ears perk up, you craved his honesty. You turned your head to look at him, “Of course.” 

“I missed you today,” His voice lowered even more, “I missed our conversations. I was reading a sonnet and wanted to find you and talk to you about it,” He stopped himself from rambling and cleared his throat, his voice returning to its usual tone, “I’m sorry.”

What to do? What to do? 

You struggled to find a response. 

Should you just give in and be honest, admitting that you, too, missed him today? Or, should you play a game? 

“Mr. Miller,” You said, slowly, allowing the words to convey no emotion. “Joel,” He corrected. 

Your head began to spin. 

You turned to face him again, your face and his in perfect line. 

You began to remember all of the beautiful words you’ve read. 

Never have you ever been this enthralled with a man. You’ve never had one conversation with a man and then continued to want to speak to him at all. 

“Dance with me,” Not a question, a plea from his perfect lips. 

You face the ballroom again. 

“Can I be frank?” You say, echoing his words. 

“Always,” He says, his eyes still filled with desperation but his face was stoic as stone. 

“I don’t,” You feel the walls of the ballroom closing in on you, the words leaving your mouth. Is this really the place to have this conversation? You look around, immediately knowing the nearest exit and push yourself off the wall, “Come with me.” 

You lead him through the sea of people, out the back door and the cool air hits you like a wall. You feel your lungs expanding once more as your senses calm inside you. 

“I don’t do this,” You explain, looking to him and picking up your conversation from earlier, “I don’t court men,” You say, holding out a finger, “I don’t even really talk to men, I find them quite boring, in fact,” You feel yourself starting to ramble, those polite walls crashing down, “But,” You say, finally, “I have never met a man like you.”

“I think you are extraordinary,” The words left Joel’s lips in a breath, as if he didn’t mean to say them, “I want to know everything in your head, I want to hear every thought, every feeling, everything. I’ve never felt that, either, you must know.” 

“No,” You say, shaking the fog from your head, “I don’t know that, Mr. Miller,” You say, throwing your hands up, “I don’t know anything about you!”

“Joel,” He corrected, placing a hand on his hip, “And yes you do, you know plenty about me! More than most people know about each other when they are married!”

“Well,” You throw your hands in the air and look away from his beautiful face to give your mind a break, “I don’t care! I don’t do this! I don’t want to do this!”

“I don’t, either!” He kept his tone even but you could hear the emotion, “I’m a father, I haven’t been married or with a woman since Sarah’s mother died, I don’t want this!”

You’re taken aback, feeling the anger and assumptions you made about him leave your veins. 

Here you were, looking at this absolutely gorgeous man thinking that he was some sort of womanizer, that only makes sense, right? 

“You haven’t?” You ask, your tone softening. 

“No,” He says, breathless, letting his hands fall back to his sides, “Not one.”

“Why?” You ask, the question leaving your lips before you can catch it. 

The question takes him aback and he thinks for a moment, still looking at you, “Sarah was just a baby,” He says softly, “I couldn’t,” He thinks for a moment, “Wouldn’t,” He corrects himself, “Bring in a new woman just to bring in a new woman. People kept saying she needed a mother but she has a mother, just,” He hesitates, “I didn’t want to court or marry just to court or marry I wanted to do it because I loved the woman, I haven’t found one that I could love.”

His words leave you breathless, his honesty hitting you in the heart with force behind it. It is like he had stolen the words from your very soul.

You feel your feet moving to him and you reach out a hand to touch his jacket sleeve, feeling the hard muscle beneath, “That’s,” You falter, your words failing you, “That’s extremely admirable.”

His head turns to where your hand is lingering on his arm and he turns his face to you, “We don’t have to do whatever they do,” He motions to the ballroom, “We can do anything however we please. If we don’t do what society deems courting, we can do what we deem courting.”

You feel your lips pull up into a smile and you see him visibly relax, “Mr. Miller,” A coy smile playing on your lips, “Are you courting me?”

He returns your smile, “I pray for the day I hear my name leave your lips.” 

You pull your hand back from his arm and clasp your hands, “If I remember correctly,” You start, walking to the ballroom, “You owe me a dance.” 

“Oh,” He smiles, walking with you and offering his arm, which you take, “I better get on that, then.”

Your feet feel light as feathers as he whisks you around the dance floor, laughing and keeping perfect time. You feel the ballroom’s eyes on you and his lips lower to the shell of your ear, “You really do look absolutely breathtaking,” He smiles, noting the eyes watching you two. 

You smile, allowing him to dance with you as much as he wants, feeling the weight of the room’s social implications fall at your feet. 

Free. You feel free.

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Let me know if you like it!

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@gayfiretruck

[joelmillerlover123]

A Gentlemen’s Burden - A romantic regency era Joel Miller story - Part 2!!!!!

Read part one here!

Description : You and Mr. Miller have a few run ins.

Warnings : Um idek if this would be considered a pre/no outbreak AU but I guess it is?? Sarah is a pretty prominent character. Female reader. No use of y/n. Age gap (Joel is like 35ish and reader is like 23ish). Regency!Joel? Tried to keep Joel's character pretty consistent but you know... creative liberties were taken for the point of story telling.

Word count : almost 3k

Let me know if you like it!

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The soft grass of your sister’s gardens cushioned your steps as you wandered about the estate. Taking in the beautiful flowers and lush grass and of course, carrying a book you weren’t reading. You tried to, it’s just that the gardens offered much better entertainment. Even though literature was one of your passions, you’ve found yourself currently … uninspired.

The brief interactions with Joel still plagued your mind almost a good twenty hours later. You had shared breakfast together but he didn’t so much as look at you as he had in the library. His eyes continued to creep into your thoughts, rendering your brain mush. What is going on with you? You shook your head slightly and focused on some leaves sprawling out from under a tree. What kind of vine was it? You’d have to ask the head gardener next time you saw him.

“Auntie,” Katherine’s small voice called out behind you. You were so lost in thought you had forgotten you were walking with Katherine.

“Yes?” You turned around to face her, your skirts swishing with you.

“What is this?” She pointed to a big flower with pointed leaves and beautiful colors.

“That’s a lily,” You reply, stepping toward her, “It means it’s almost the end of summer,” You had read somewhere about lilies and their blooming patterns. You would have to ask which lily this was.

“And the end of the season,” She replies, still looking at the flower, “Is Mama’s ball the last of the season?” Your sister had trained her well.

“One of them,” You nod and place a hand on her back, “If not the last, then definitely the grandest,” You laugh to yourself and turn to walk again.

You were a chronic daydreamer. Your sister was your sponsor in your social seasons and consistently reminded you not to ‘whisk yourself off.’ You would become so consumed with your thoughts that you often startled easily and it was quite the burden. But, you didn’t mind. You enjoyed your daydreams. They often did whisk you away to beautiful places, beautiful times. You thought of places you had read about and returned to a few of the trips you and your sister had taken. You thought of France and then Mr. Miller. Mr. Miller had gone to France. Mr. Miller had the most beautiful brown eyes you have ever seen. You sighed out loud.

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“Mr. Miller I so hope that you will enjoy dinner tonight, tomorrow’s dinner will be much smaller,” She placed a small potato in her mouth and smiled and then swallowed, “Because of the ball.”

“Yes, darling, I think Mr. Miller and Miss Miller remember there will in fact be a ball tomorrow,” Matthew smiled and looked at his wife with adoration. Sometimes their love for each other genuinely made you swoon.

“I know Sarah is excited,” Mr. Miller’s voice pierced your ears. What was it about him? You caught yourself more than once staring at him, feeling the cool, calculating look on your face and then quickly snapped out of it. You silently begged that he didn’t notice.

“I am,” Sarah nodded and forked at her food, “It’s my last ball before next season.”

“Oh! Sarah, how exciting!” Your sister exclaimed with glee, but still keeping her voice a polite volume.

Sarah nods and you feel Mr. Miller’s gaze shift to you. Or maybe you don’t. Are you imagining things? You sneak a look over to Mr. Miller, keeping your eyes quick. Sure enough, he is looking at you, but he quickly opens his mouth to speak, not missing a beat.

“Miss,” Mr. Miller says, looking towards you, “Lady Langford says you’ve had your fair share of social seasons,” You nod in reply, keeping your eyes steady and connected with his, “Maybe you can offer Sarah some advice for when she enters society.”

“Oh,” You say, willfully keeping a focused look on your face, “I’m sure she wants a husband, she needs to take advice from Lady Langford, not me,” Your comment gains a laugh from your sister and her husband but Mr. Miller just looks at you and then smiles, looking down at his food.

Of course your joke probably wouldn’t land with Mr. Miller and Sarah, they don’t know that your spinsterhood is completely by choice. You mentally smack yourself on the head for making a joke not fitting for the crowd. But your sister, always three steps ahead, quickly picks up your slack.

“My sister is not easily impressed,” She says, still laughing, “She had plenty of suitors all three seasons but she was not interested in a single one, not even a little. I guess I was lucky with my Matthew,” She looks over to her husband and swoons, to which he smiles, “But no, she did not… fond of the men. And then, you grew bored, yes?” She looks to you, inviting you to interject.

“Yes,” You nod, keeping your tone bored, “I did grow quite bored of it.”

“Really?” Sarah looks up at you, her eyes wide, “I love parties and the dancing.”

“I don’t know,” You shrug, “Not really something I much enjoy.”

The table grows quiet, taking in your answer and then Mr. Miller opens his mouth to speak.

“What is it that bores you so?” His voice rings out clear over the dinner table.

You take a beat, stealing a look at your sister and then looking back to Mr. Miller, thinking which answer would be most appropriate to use.

“I guess it was the constant repetition after a while,” You say, not entirely hiding the true answer, “Three seasons is a lot for anyone, and after a while it all seems the same. Same gossip, same type of people getting married. No real shock value in society,” You fork your potatoes around, growing uncomfortable in the spotlight.

“I wonder, is it boredom or comfortability in repetition?” Mr. Miller casually says as he looks around the table and then lands his eyes on you. No one else truly notices the weight of his question, but you feel an answer bubbling up out of your throat.

“I don’t enjoy repetition,” You meet his gaze, holding your chin high in his presence for the first time, “I enjoy adventure and surprise. I guess the answer would vary from person to person.”

“I find routine quite boring as well,” Mr. Miller replies, taking your answer in stride, “You should be glad you aren’t an American,” He says, smiling and shedding the pressure of the interaction quickly, “That’s all it is over there. All the same.”

Your sister said something in reply but you felt your head spinning. The weight of his words and pressing sat on your shoulders. What was he trying to figure out? Why was he digging so much? What about you interested him so? Why did he make you so dizzy and nervous?

You divert your attention away from your food which is now making you nauseous and look out one of the many windows. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon. You can tell it was shaping up to be a beautiful sunset.

You asked to be excused from the table first, immediately walking towards the back exit towards the gardens. You heard your sister make some comment about how you ‘chased the wind’ and how it kept ‘life interesting,’ no doubt excusing your behavior to the Millers. You often excused yourself first to catch the sunset.

“Miss,” A deep voice called after you, “You’re going to watch the sunset?”

“Yes,” You turn and stop walking, your hair whipping with you, “Are you going to join me?”

“Yes, actually,” He said, sighing, “I’d, um, enjoy a break from all the polite conversation.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips and feel a joke on your tongue but keep it at bay, turning and walking towards the back exit. You still wonder why he was pressing you so at the dinner table and silently hoped he wouldn’t press you so hard in front of your sister again. It’s not that you didn’t want to answer, it’s just that your answers weren’t quite polite enough for a near stranger’s ears, especially in front of Julia. But… he had just said he was growing tired of polite conversation. Was that his covert way of asking you for your honest answers?

You both made your way in silence to the gardens, to which you led the two of you to a set of swings Matthew had put up for the children but you enjoyed sitting on them.

“Tell me about France,” You watch him sit down next to you, groaning slightly at the low placement on the swing. You notice his age for the first time, truly notice it. But instead of making you uncomfortable, you feel a cool whirl of feeling throughout your heart and stomach.

He is so strong, so capable, so mature. You find yourself staring and quickly snap out of it, darting your eyes away from him.

“It was wonderful,” He replies, “So much culture, so much art and music. Sarah really loved it.”

“Do you travel exclusively with her?” You ask, looking back to him to find him looking at you.

“Yes,” He nods, “Soaking up these final years with her.”

“That’s… quite endearing. My father didn’t feel that way,” You say, disclosing, “I’m sure you’ve heard how cold he can be.”

“I haven’t,” He said simply, “Not one for gossip.”

His answer took you by surprise so you looked out to the sunset, feeling the golden light and warmth on your skin.

You feel his eyes still on you, feeling their gaze flit across your face and skin and turn back to him.

“It was the men,” You said finally, “The men that bored me.”

“Ah,” He said, not missing a beat, “What about them?”

“A lot,” You smiled, laughing at yourself and then paused, “I had never felt the need to get married, so when the first man proposed I didn’t want to marry him so I didn’t. They all seem to blur and blend together after a while.”

“And will you ever marry?” Mr. Miller looked out to the sunset now and it was your turn to map the planes of his face, committing them to memory.

“Maybe,” You say, keeping your tone even, “Probably not.”

“Why not?” He asks simply, turning towards you again, meeting your eyes and making your heart skip a beat.

“Most men are not… what I want,” You say honestly. It was the complete truth, even though you typically do not share what you honestly think, unless you’re talking to your sister.

“And what is it that you want?” His voice tensed, almost as if he was preparing himself for something.

“Kindness, and tenderness. I want him to love me in the same way Lord and Lady Langford love each other. And I want him to be interesting. He cannot bore me,” You say, and then add, “If he is even out there. And I’d rather be here with my family than out there attached to a man who bores me or is unkind or both.”

Mr. Miller nods and you swear you see him relax just a bit. You wanted to ask if what you saw was true or just your eyes playing tricks on you. You wanted to ask why he wanted to know your honest answer and how he knew you weren’t being honest.

“Why did you not say that at dinner?” He asks, knocking the wind out of you just slightly and you look to him quickly, no doubt seeming offended. Which he answers, “I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, no,” You shake your head, “Please, pry. I tire of polite conversation.”

He smiles and waits for you to answer.

“Hiding one’s true self for the sake of etiquette tends to be quite tiring,” You finally say, avoiding his gaze, “But, after a while it becomes a habit. My sister is quite the etiquette minded missus. So, I must mind myself, at least while we have guests.”

“Ah,” He says, nodding, “Well, I deeply appreciate your candor. Truly. I feel so much more comfortable when people are honest about their distaste for polite society. Trust me, my dear, it is much more common than you think.”

My dear. The words echoed around in your mind and you tucked them away for later, keeping them safe in a small part of your brain that you only access for your most beautiful daydreams.

“Not according to my sister,” You wave off, hopefully waving away the dizziness his term of endearment had swirling around your head, “But she accepts me. She loves me. So does Lord Langford.”

“She often laughs it off, I’ve noticed,” He observes, looking at you.

“Yes,” You nod, smiling and blushing at his observation, “If she laughs, others will laugh instead of gossip.”

“Ah,” He nods knowingly, “She’s very smart.”

You stand, ending the conversation as the sunset turns to night.

“Thank you Mr. Miller for such riveting conversation,” You say, turning towards the house.

“Of course,” He stands, too, starting to walk with you, “I hope to have more conversations of this nature.”

The weight of his claim hangs heavy in the air and you hope it's not just you who noticed it. Was he asking to spend more time with you? Did he find you interesting? You walk in time with him back to the estate and part in the hallway, you to your room and him to his room with Sarah.

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Again, that night you lie awake and allow your mind to drift to different scenarios in which you and Mr. Miller are the epicenter. You smile to yourself as you roll over and drift off to sleep, still smiling.

You wake sometime in the night, it is still dark outside with no sign of the sun peeking up over the horizon. You try to fall back asleep but can’t, tossing and turning until you grow extremely frustrated with yourself. Finally, you throw back the blankets and stand in your room, walking over to your bookshelf. You keep a small bookshelf in your room for this exact reason. On any occasion, it’s nice to have a selection of your favorites to pick from. You scan the titles and rescan them two more times. Now, it is becoming extremely frustrating. Your body was completely awake! And you are bored.

You creep out into the hallway, checking and listening if anyone is walking about. Sometimes the staff like to recheck a few things here and there and you couldn’t risk being seen in your nightgown. Just to be safe, you throw on a dressing gown and then venture out into the hallway.

You quickly find your way to the library’s doors but they are already open. Funny. You must’ve left them open when you were in here earlier and guess no one had come by to close them. You slip inside and immediately find your way to the book you wanted. It was a larger book with a collection of some of Shakespeare’s best sonnets. You wrap your fingers around the familiar navy spine and pluck it from the shelf.

You turn on your heels to walk out of the library when a man standing facing the shelves stops you dead in your tracts.

It seems Mr. Miller had, too, found himself unable to sleep and he, too, thought to escape to the library.

Your mind goes completely blank as you try to think of what exactly to do. Of course, you could always dart out silently and hope that he doesn’t notice. Or, you could just stand very still and wait until he leaves. Or you could-

“Oh,” He turns around suddenly, taking in your sight. No doubt it’s completely compromising and quite embarrassing, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was in here,” He bashfully rubs the back of his neck and you swear, even in the dark, you see a blush fan over his cheeks. You rush to say something, anything, that may smooth over this situation even slightly.

“Please tell me you can’t see very much in the dark,” You wrap your dressing gown around you tighter and use the book to shield anything unsavory.

“Oh, no!” He rushes to comfort you, looking away from your figure, “No, I can’t see anything. Really. Promise.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Miller,” You manage to force out, still frozen to the spot, “Truly, sorry.”

“It’s alright,” He still avoids looking at your figure and starts to steadily ease towards the library’s doors, “And it’s Joel.”

You pause, the random words entering your ears quite clumsily and you fumble, your mouth getting away from you.

“What?” You ask, calling after him just a bit.

“My name is Joel,” He nods and slips out of the library’s doors, “You can call me Joel.”

Joel.

Joel Miller.

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Part Three!

[joelmillerlover123]

A Gentlemen's Burden - A romantic regency era Joel Miller story - Part 1

This is going to be a series!!!! Yay!!!!

Description : Your typical life with your sister is thrown upside down as a handsome visitor catches your eye.

Warnings : Um idek if this would be considered a pre/no outbreak AU but I guess it is?? Sarah is a pretty prominent character. Female reader. No use of y/n. Age gap (Joel is like 35ish and reader is like 23ish). Regency!Joel? Tried to keep Joel's character pretty consistent but you know... creative liberties were taken for the point of story telling.

Word count : 3.2k

Let me know if you like it!

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You had grown up in rural England, your father’s sprawling fortune overshadowed by his ‘tragic’ lack of sons. Not that he hadn’t tried, though. After your mother died in childbirth with you, he had married a sleuth of eager, young women, all waiting and wanting to give him that son he so craved. And yet, none of them ever fell pregnant. After his fourth wife and divorce, your father gave up, retreating to his office to manage the estate and figure out who would inherit his fortune. 

That was when you were around thirteen. 

This left you and your sister, Julia, to practically raise yourselves. However, your sister was sixteen and entering the marriage mart. Her beauty and wit earned her a husband in a short time and in her first season. Your father was absolutely overjoyed, because now he may have an heir in a few short years. 

That was almost ten years ago, and your sister has popped out a male heir. In fact, she’s popped out about four children. Your nieces and nephews. They are wonderful. 

Your sister married an extremely rich man and she likes to spend her days traveling and meeting interesting people. Good thing she has an exceptionally soft heart for you, her perpetual spinster of a sister. 

You had entered the marriage mart, sure. Your first season came and went with nothing but uninteresting and shallow men at your door. 

“Not even one of them?” Julia had said, pressing you to take at least one visitor. 

“No,” You had replied, turning back out the window, “Send them away.”

“I’ll tell them,” Your sister had said sorrowfully. 

It’s not that you didn’t want to marry. Sure you did. Marriage between Julia and her husband, Matthew, was quite beautiful. He doted on her and she on him. He gave her anything and everything she wanted. She wanted to come stay with you and your father during your social seasons, and he allowed her. She wanted you to move in with them after your third season and he allowed it. She wants to go and see the world and leave the children with you and the staff for months on end and he goes with her. She lives a good life and you are so grateful to be able to peek in. 

Your sister often left you with her children and estate as she and Matthew went off to far lands and expensive travels. But you didn’t mind at all. Her children were delightful. You absolutely adored them. In order, it was Benjamin and then George and then Katherine and then the youngest, Ella. 

All of them were delightful and you loved them as if they were your own. Ben and George favored Matthew but Katherine and Ella were copies of you and Julia. They even had the same age gap. 

Julia was happy with her family and her husband, even if you find Matthew quite dull.

That’s the problem, you think. The men you’ve met have been quite dull. Conversations are all the same. Ranging from if you can play the pianoforte or if you can draw, nothing about your actual interests. You had grown bored of the marriage mart by your third season and stopped attending the balls and parties. Soon, the invitations stopped coming. 

You and Julia were sitting in the drawing room. Your nieces and nephews were all playing around the two of you, causing you and your sister to sit in the eye of the storm. You were reading a book, something by Shakespeare but you weren’t quite paying attention. Your niece, Katherine, was sitting at the pianoforte, trying desperately to play something pleasant and failing miserably. Your sister had just returned from a month long trip to Italy, having left you with the children and estate, as usual. 

“I think I’m going to host a ball,” Your sister’s voice pulled your attention from the empty words on the page. 

“What?” You said, placing the book face down on your lap. 

“Yes,” She said, her voice taking a thoughtful tone and her eyes growing wistful, “My time in Italy truly inspired me. They’re so free there, truly. They dance all night and wake up in the morning ready to do it all again,” She stopped to think and then turned back to you, “Yes. I’m going to host a ball, and there will be sprays of roses and begonias and lots of greenery, to transport me and all of us to Italy,” She clapped her hands together and stood, “Perfect. I was already growing quite bored.”

“Here?” You stood with her, your skirts ruffling and catching from standing so quickly. 

“Well, where else would I have it?” She asked you the question as if you were dumb. She started walking out of the drawing room, her heels clicking on the tile of the hallway, “Come, come, you will help me plan it!” She waved you on, moving you from your spot on the floor. 

“Julia, what about me? I don’t go to balls, I’m not a debutante anymore,” You said, silently begging her to not insist you come because if she insisted, you would go. 

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Julia waved a hand in the air, poking a head into the staff kitchen, no doubt looking for her housekeeper, Margaret, “Matthew and I will be the hosts and I am inviting you. You must come. And, since you are not a debutante, you will not be badgered by the men you so despise. I’m sure they will scurry away from you just fine, no avoidance needed,” Your sister had a way of saying things that made perfect sense and convincing you quite quickly. 

But a ball? That was the last thing you wanted to do. You have avoided them so successfully that people have stopped inviting you completely. That was the goal. It was perfect. You lived the great life of a pampered house cat and your nieces and nephews kept you sharp and entertained. You didn’t have to have painfully dull and long conversations with painfully unhandsome and dull men. 

However, now that you have been deemed a spinster by society, maybe the single bachelors would look the other way. You definitely didn’t look like a debutante anymore, you are more mature and grown than the young women chasing after young bachelors. You often dressed differently than the young women as well, your sister embracing your independence and desires to be comfortable. What would you wear? 

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The week that followed was a frenzy of glitter and colors and flowers. Your sister was absolutely in her element. She adored planning and being in charge. It was perfect for her. 

“Oh, Matthew!” Your sister came barreling into the drawing room, screaming and holding a piece of paper to her chest, “Your friend, Mr. Miller is coming into town, just in time for our ball!”

“Mr. Miller?” Matthew stood from his place on the couch next to George, “Oh, I haven’t heard from him in ages. What a treat.”

“It says right here he will be arriving tomorrow, if all goes perfectly well. Oh, I am positively overjoyed! Not only are we going to have a ball, but one of our most interesting friends is coming to visit!” She spun around with a smile on her face and Matthew smiled with her, as did you. Her joy was infectious. 

You had heard the two of them talk about Mr. Miller. A widowed father that lived on the opposite side of London. He was a successful businessman, owning multiple lumber companies and having fleets of ships to do his bidding. He hails all the way from America. Very interesting that he would want to settle here, especially since his daughter is also American, from what you hear. Hm. Maybe this ball wouldn’t be so dreadful, at least you could ask Mr. Miller questions about his life. 

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You wake the next morning with the estate abuzz. Even the staff dressing you can’t stop talking about your sister’s visitor from America. Don’t they know he’s not coming all the way from America? Anyway, you don’t stop their chittering or gossiping, you like to hear the rumors the staff start to, more entertaining to report to your sister and laugh about later. 

That is, until they insist your hair must be up for the new visitor. Wearing your hair up was positively dreadful as the pins poked and prodded your scalp. You refused and one of the younger maids frowned. 

“Pray tell,” You say, startling the maids, “Why must I wear my hair up for any old visitor? My hair is never put up in pins. Did Matthew or my sister have anything to do with you requesting this?” You scan each of their faces in the mirror, waiting for something to flash across any of them. 

“No, Miss,” They hung their heads in shame and you narrowed your eyes. 

“Then what is the point of dressing me so… well,” You peered down at the beautiful gown they dressed you in. This was not your typical everyday dress. 

“He’s a bachelor,” One of the younger maids blurted out. 

“Ah,” You smile in recognition. They wanted you and Mr. Miller to hit it off. “I will not wear my hair in any particular way just because the visitor is a bachelor, alright? I enjoy my hair being down and so I will leave it down. Besides, I’m not even truly available to men anymore, ladies. No need to impress them.”

The maids continued their work and you watched in the mirror as the shock at your refusal never quite left their eyes until they all filed out of the room. 

You look in the mirror before joining your sister and her family for breakfast and laugh slightly. Makeup was not something you wore regularly and this morning, your dressing maids had taken the liberty of putting some on you. How kind. 

You were still laughing when you entered the dining room for breakfast. 

“Oh my,” Julia watched you as you sat down next to her, “You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” You laughed again, “The staff wants me to marry this Mr. Miller.” 

“Oh,” Julia said, realization coloring her face, “Oh, makes more sense.” 

“Yes,” Matthew chimed in, digging into his breakfast and not particularly noticing you, “I heard some chatter about how you refused to put your hair up, yes?” 

“Yes,” You laugh again, taking a fork in your hand, “Oh, I guess good news travels fast.” 

You and Julia laugh together as you recount what you had heard them say about Mr. Miller and Julia took breakfast as an opportunity to gossip with the children about how rich Mr. Miller was. She even mentioned that Mr. Miller had a daughter that was to enter the marriage mart soon. Sarah, was her name. You listen as you eat your breakfast and soon find yourself floating from room to room, watching the staff flit about, still preparing for a ball and now a visitor. 

You wonder downstairs to where everything is coated in romantic flowers and greenery. You had to say, your sister had quite the eye for a ball. It was still your home and yet you felt as if you had been transported. She had done a truly wonderful job. You must remember to compliment her and Margaret. 

“Come now,” Julia’s hand slotted into your own, pulling you, “A carriage has pulled up and we must greet Mr. Miller.” 

Oh. 

The pressure of meeting this Mr. Miller slid off of you but you couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous. You’ve never met an American. 

You lined up with the rest of the family, standing between Margaret and Ella, your rightful place as the lady of the house’s sister. 

You cock your head as the most handsome man you’ve ever seen climbs out of the carriage. As he steps onto the ground, he smiles a warm smile towards Matthew and then turns again reaching a hand out to the carriage door to which a young girl allows him to help her out. She’s precious. Her dark curls framing her face and bouncing with her movements. 

“Mr. Miller,” Matthew announces, extending his arms. 

“Oh, no need for such formalities, old friend,” Mr. Miller rushes to Matthew and shakes his hand and then hugs him, laughing. His voice is deep and gravelly, but the smile on his face shoos away any sort of intimidation he might emit. 

“Mr. Miller,” Julia says fondly, “How wonderful to see you again.” “Lady Langford,” He extends a handshake to your sister, “You’ve added another one,” She looks to Ella, who’s standing proudly, smoothing her skirt a little. You smile, looking at her. Then, Mr. Miller looks at you and cocks his head slightly. “This,” Julia steps out of line and starts walking towards you, “Is my sister,” She takes your shoulders in her hands. “Hello,” You curtsy as best you can and smile at him, “Lovely to meet you.” 

The confidence Mr. Miller has falters slightly as he looks at you and he smiles politely. 

“Lovely to meet you as well,” He extends a hand, but not for a handshake. Instead, he grabs your hand and presses a gentle, quick kiss to your knuckles, returning your hand to its place at your side. 

“She’s unmarried,” Julia threw in, not so casually, “So, she resides with us and cares for the children while Lord Langford and I are away on holiday.”

“Oh, how I’ve missed English company,” He swiftly turns from you, smiling towards your sister. You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding as his gaze leaves your face. His casual, collected demeanor is a stark contrast to the emotions written across his face just moments before. Have you met before? Were you being rude in some way? Surely that isn’t just his face. 

“I’m Sarah,” His daughter’s melodic voice interrupted your train of thought as she curtsied to you, “Thank you Lady Langford for allowing us to visit.”

“Oh, of course!” Julia smiled from ear-to-ear at Sarah and then looked to Mr. Miller, “Come now, Lord Langford must surely want to give you both a tour.”

The four of them walked away, already chatting. You could have joined them for the tour of the estate but honestly, your brief interaction with Mr. Miller had thrown you for a loop. 

“Back into the house,” You placed a gentle hand on the backs of your nieces and nephews, “We will rejoin them for dinner, yes?”

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀

As the few hours between Mr. Miller’s arrival and lunch passed on, you found yourself lost in thought wandering through the house again. You clutched a book in your hands but again, it was going unread. You couldn’t shake the thoughts of Mr. Miller. Of course, this was normal for anyone else. A strange visitor, a properly handsome one at that, with tales from America and you had barely scratched the surface. You allowed your mind to drift to daydreams of his American adventures as a businessman. Maybe he would have a tale of a daring adventure crossing the ocean. You thought of how he might look, a white billowy shirt on, see-through with water, pulling at heavy ropes and sails. You felt your chest grow hotter and you blushed at nothing. 

“Hello,” A deep, gravelly voice interrupted your thoughts. You jumped slightly, completely startled. 

“Oh!” You turned toward the source and of course found Mr. Miller, “Mr. Miller, I see you’ve found,” You looked around quickly, taking in your surroundings, “The library. Lord and Lady Langford have quite the collection,” You tried your hardest to keep your voice steady but failed miserably. 

He smiled a gentle smile and looked around at the many books, taking steps into the room. 

“Yes,” He agreed, “Lady Langford showed me earlier. She enjoys a guest,” He looked at you again, your breath spilling out of you quickly. 

“Oh, she does indeed,” You smiled, dropping the book by your side. 

“You two are close, I presume?” His smile dropped as he turned towards you fully now, his broad frame appearing even broader as his jacket stretched across his large muscles. You allowed yourself a peak at his biceps and then met his eyes again, hoping he didn’t notice. 

“We are,” You said, a little too loudly. Why was he making you so nervous? “Best friends, we’d,” You faltered slightly, now answering the question truly instead of on auto-pilot, “We’d do anything for each other.” 

“Any other siblings?” He said, his arms still clasped at the hands in front of him. 

“No,” You replied, relaxing a bit into your stance, “Just us.” 

“Hm,” He said, in thought, turning away from you again and looking towards the books, “And these? These are your choices, I presume?” He motioned to the book in your hand.

“What?” You look down at the book in your hand, taking in the title quickly and looking back to Mr. Miller, “Yes, yes. I love to read. I love literature and an occasional poem.” 

“Really? I truly admire some of the new poets and their work. I actually just got back from France with Sarah where we met some wonderful new artists. Have you read anything recently published?”

“France? Wow. It must’ve been beautiful,” You mentally searched your mind for anything you’ve read that had been recently published, “On the Sea by John Keats.”

He nodded and smiled, “Yes,” He unclasped his hands and reached up to touch a book, “Quite a poet for someone your age.”

“Really?” You challenged, feeling your nerves melt away slightly, “Or is it just quite a poet for a woman?”

He laughed at that, retreating his hand from the shelf, “No, of course not. Just… I haven’t found someone under the age of thirty-five to read Keats.”

“Hm,” You purse your lips and return your attention to the book in your hand, “Well, I’d better go and get ready for dinner, it’s a formal occasion in this house.” 

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from Lady Langford,” He smiled, almost laughing, “And, if you would, I’d love to discuss more poets with you. I have a female poet I think you’d love, if you like Keats.” 

You smile, almost blushing. 

“See you for dinner, Mr. Miller,” You turn on your heels out of the library, but not before allowing yourself a proper look at him. His dark hair was starting to curl at the edges, his graying beard was peppered across the bottom half of his face and his big, chocolate brown eyes were set in a permanent gentle smile. You committed the curves of his cheeks and regal nose to memory and allowed yourself to picture those brown eyes that night in bed as you lie awake. 

You smiled to yourself like an idiot as you let your mind wander to places that pictured you, Mr. Miller and Sarah all happily laughing and smiling at some sprawling estate. 

You silently begged yourself to find something wrong with him in the next coming days. 

You have never acted this way about a man, ever. But, they had never piqued your interest even slightly. 

Then, you silently hoped for a dream in which you and Mr. Miller were the main characters.

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Part 2 here!

[joelmillerlover123]

Need You Now | JOEL MILLER X READER

One shot! Inspired by Need You Now by Lady A. so much angst. our emo king.

Summary : You came home drunk and you just needed to call your ex. Of course he came over.

Word count : Like 1k.

Pre/No Outbreak AU. Fem!Reader sorta. Emo!Joel. Crying!Joel. Yeahhhh buddy.

So sad so heartwarming.

You knew it was a mistake to let your friends drop you off at your house after a night out. Once you were alone, you were no longer a happy drunk. You cried about the weirdest things. But tonight, you were crying for a legitimate reason. You remembered why sober you went out that night.

Pictures from your previous relationship were scattered around your room, you were cleaning out him from your life. Your heart lurched. You saw his handsome face in the pictures, touching a gentle thumb over his smile. You felt the tears pool in your eyes, threatening to spill over.

What the hell? Why can’t you call him?

Your friends aren’t here and they don’t have to know.

You fish your phone from your purse, typing his name into the contacts bar. The line begins ringing and within one ring he picks up, an on edge “Hello?” greeting you. You forgot the time. Quarter past one. He probably thought you were in jail or stranded on the side of the road somewhere, you never called this late.

“Hey Joel,” You tried to say without letting your breath shake, “It’s fine. I’m fine, I'm just…”

“Yeah,” He said, finishing your thought, “I know. I miss you, too.”

“Well, come over, will you?” You bit your lip, anxiety tearing at you. What if he said no? You couldn’t stand it.

Silence filled the other line and you almost said something else but he said, “‘Course. Be there in five. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” You say, letting the words hang in the air on your end, only taking the phone from your ear when he eventually hangs up. You didn’t even care that this wasn’t the ‘right’ thing to do, you just needed him. And now.

The two of you broke up for stupid reasons. Stupid in your mind. Not stupid in his. He said he was ‘taking your future from you.’ He was always so worked up about the age gap. It was only like 15 or so years, nothing crazy. He said he didn’t want any more kids, which is fine with you. Really. You didn’t care. You loved Sarah and the both of them would always be enough for you. But Joel wasn’t convinced. It was always a sore spot in your relationship and when he finally broke things off because of it, there were a lot of tears from both ends.

A knock on the front door of your apartment alerted you that he was here. He refused to text you when he was here.

“Why would I send a text when I can just knock like a normal person?” His words echoed in your head from your first couple dates. It earned a laugh from you, loving his old southern values.

You open the door and there he is, in all his beautiful glory. He was so beautiful. You could never get over it.

He saw the tears in your eyes and his look went from his usual stoic and stony to concerned in a flash. “Hey,” He said softly, “What’s wrong, darlin?” He moved to take you in his arms, kicking the door closed behind him.

“Just… missin you,” You replied. You realized you still had your going out clothes on. A black lacy tank top and blue jean shorts. Your makeup was heavy but never dark. You knew your mascara was probably running.

“Hey, hey,” He said, embracing you and letting your cheek rest on his chest, “Don’t get all worked up over me.”

You pulled back to look at him, searching his eyes. “Joel. Of course I’m gonna get ‘worked up’ over you. I miss you. So much,” You said with as much seriousness as the tequila would let you muster.

“I know. I’m sorry,” He said, tucking a hair from your face, “But you won’t miss me forever.”

Silence came between the two of you. An understanding that he won’t listen, the stubborn bastard.

“You’ll move on, eventually,” He said quietly, “Find you a nice guy, a nice young man. He’ll be responsible and kind and will take care of you. If he’s smart, he’ll worship the ground you stand on.”

“Joel,” Your voice shook, more tears pooling in your eyes, “I don’t want a nice, responsible young man,” You say, a sob threatening your throat, “I don’t want anyone besides you. Please. I love you.”

Now it was his turn to cry. His eyes turned glassy but he quickly blinked it away, knowing if he cried that he would stay. He wouldn’t be able to leave you.

“Why?” He asked quietly, almost ashamed, “Why in your right mind would you love someone like me? I’m old and cranky and I’m not exactly husband material.”

“Joel,” You mouth fell open in offense. You couldn’t believe he was talking about himself this way, “When I look at you,” You reached a gentle hand up to his cheek, running your thumb over a stray tear, “I don’t see anything but a kind, gentle man who loves his girls fiercely and with no abandon. Joel, it’s enough for me that you love me. And then you have to go and love me well!” You laugh at that, it’s almost unbelievable how perfect he was for you and for Sarah. She was one lucky kid. You stop smiling and your face turns deadly serious, “Joel, I don’t care what you say, I will spend the rest of my life missing you. Even if I did end up marrying that nice young man, I would always wonder where you are, what you’re up to, what you’re doing, and what my life would’ve looked like with you. I will miss you and Sarah for the rest of my life. And I mean that.”

Now Joel was crying, not without protest. He tried his best to hold back the tears but they were flowing. He loved you so much. And to hear that you felt the same? Well it made this old man practically break.

“I love you,” He said quietly.

“I love you, Joel,” You say, running your thumb across the apple of his cheek in a soothing rhythm.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle and soothing kiss. It was a cautious kiss, he was careful not to break you. That was, until, you tangled your hands in his hair, pulling gently. He deepened the kiss, running his tongue over his lips, which you opened your mouth to allow.

Yeah. He didn’t leave you. You would never drunk call him again, and he would never shed a goodbye tear over you again.

You were always grateful that sober you decided to get rid of those photos that night.

[joelmillerlover123]

Workin On Me | JOEL MILLER X READER

You and Joel meet at a bar and he instantly notices you. Your little dress and games are workin on him.

One shot! Inspired by Workin On Me By Riley Green.

No/Pre outbreak AU! Fem!Reader. Age gap (Reader is 23 and Joel is like 35/40 ish idk) HEAVY flirting. Cowboy!Joel (sorta). It’s cute this is cute.

Work count ~ 750 ish.

𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁 𐚁

(those r supposed to be cowboy hats but they don’t rlly look like cowboy hats. its fine.)

Joel saw you as soon as you stepped into the bar. You were wearing white cowboy boots, a little red sundress with spaghetti straps that tied into bows on your shoulders and big gold bangles that jingled when you walked. Gosh, you were gorgeous.

Joel tried his best not to look too obviously but you were making it real hard with your gorgeous smile and long hair trailing behind you. You were there with a group of friends, he guessed. Y’all all looked awful friendly, laughing and singing to the songs, line dancing when a good song came on. He hoped that meant you wouldn't notice him, but you did. Of course you did.

You noticed him as soon as you stepped in the bar. Gosh, he was just your type. Big and broad, nursing a beer. Of course it was a Corona, a lime sticking out of the lip. What you would do to get a beer out of him. You were a Michelob girl yourself but you would drink Corona for him. You would drink any kinda beer for him. You immediately alerted your friends that the hottest man you’ve ever seen was at the bar.

“The old man?” Your friend asked, wrinkling her nose. You just laughed. You’d always like an older man. Maybe it was a thing. Maybe he was just your type.

You tried to ignore him looking at you, mentally high fiving yourself for wearing this dress.

Eventually, though, with a shot or two in you, you had the confidence to ‘bump’ into him when ordering your next drink.

Your shoulder touched his, slightly harder than you meant it to but clearly enough because he just smirked as he sipped his beer again.

“What?” You smiled at him and played dumb. “Sorry about that,” Your voice lowered slightly so that only he could hear.

Your voice shot through him like a lightning bolt, he hid his nerves with a smirk and another sip from his bottle.

“Corona?” You ask, hoping to strike up a conversation about beer, a topic you knew plenty about.

“Ol’ reliable,” He replied, lifting the bottle.

You took his response as the invite to sit down while you waited for the drink you just ordered, facing him.

“What’re you drinkin’?” He asked, smiling a lazy, half-lidded smirk.

You practically shivered from the excitement of talking to this hot man. Sure, you’ve talked to your fair share of barflies but this was no barfly. This was a man.

“Usually Michelob, but tonight,” You look over your shoulder at your friends who are dancing, “Tequila.”

“Tequila?” His eyebrows shoot up, chuckling a bit. “How old are you?”

“I’m 23,” You say, confidently. He couldn’t have been more than what.. 35? Maybe 40?

He laughs again, looking at her head on, “You’re a little young to be chattin up an old man like me.”

“Well, maybe I like older men,” You pull out your best seductive voice which sounds a lot less cool in your tequila-buzzed ears and more awkward than you meant it to. No matter, Joel’s cheeks blush a deep red anyways. You smirk. Hook, line, and sinker.

He looks at you now, really looks at you. Not a half-lidded lazy grin. No, his eyes are anything but lazy, sweeping over your dress. He can’t help but wonder how many guys have looked at you in that dress. Surely you picked it on purpose. And to top it all off, his favorite color was red.

“Yeah?” He said, his voice deeper than before, “A little thing like you likin an older man?��

“What? You think boys my age can take care of me?” You laugh as nonchalantly as possible, and then shake your head.

“Oh, I see. You want a real man,” Joel’s eyes sweep over you again. What is it with him and this red dress? He can’t help but wonder what it’ll look like on his bedroom floor.

“Somethin like that,” You reply, smiling. The bartender comes and hands you the drink you forgot you ordered and you smile politely at him and turn back to Joel. You decide to go in for the kill. Now or never. “So, am I gonna have to take this shot and ask you to leave with me or are you gonna take me to yours?”

Whatever this little game you were playin with him was, he liked it, and it was working.

“Come on,” He said, putting down some cash for his drinks and hers, “Let’s get outta here.”

[joelmillerlover123]

Your Man | JOEL MILLER X READER

Joel Miller loves being your man, and he wants everyone to know it.

One shot! Inspired by Your Man by Josh Turner.

Pre/No outbreak AU. Domestic!Joel. Fem!Reader. Joel is a TRUE southern man in this. Reader is also southern. You’ll catch on.

About 700 words!

Joel watched as you went about the room, your smile lighting up each group you stopped and mingled with.

You had asked him to accompany you to this work event a couple weeks ago. He hadn’t wanted to go, not even a little. But it didn’t matter. Of course he would go.

You had gone up to the bar with him and stayed long enough to see him take his first sip of his first beer before you spotted your ‘work bestie’ and just had to go talk to her. He knew he wouldn’t see you much for the rest of the night. But he didn’t mind. He loved standing off to the sidelines watching you do your thing. He loved watching that smile of yours.

He was now on his third or fourth beer, just sitting at the bar, watching you flit from person to person, laughing, smiling and mingling. Every once in a while you’d make eye contact with him, sending a wink his way and the butterflies would stir in his stomach. A couple years down and you still managed to make him all nervous and giddy.

He had just turned back to the bartender to order another beer when your hands wrapped around his bicep, pulling slightly.

“Hey, what?” He turned to you, smiling.

Your eyes and smile were wide, pulling him to the dance floor.

“Oh, no, sugar. I ain’t dancing. Should’ve caught me a couple beers ago.” Joel shook his head but you and he both knew he would give in no problem. But then, Joel heard an all too familiar guitar riff come on over the honkytonk’s speakers. “Your Man” by Josh Turner was one of the first songs Joel ever played for you. It’s one of y’all’s absolute, all time, favorites. He swooned as the lyrics poured out and knew he was toast. Joel wasn’t even in his two stepping boots!

“Come on, Joel!” You practically whined, a smile still painted over your lips, “We love this song!”

“Alright, alright,” Joel let you pull him to the dance floor, hand in hand. You two reached the center of the dancers, most already two stepping. He held you close, smelling the familiar scent of your ‘Island’ shampoo, whatever kinda scent that was. It kinda smells like froot loops to him. Or maybe captain crunch. Whatever it was, it gave him more of a buzz than the beer.

Joel had two stepped with other women, but you were by far the best partner. You trust him, which makes for a better partner anyways. But man, the way you felt the music and smiled a lazy, half lidded grin the whole time had Joel practically melting into your touch. Your hair spun with you as he spun you around, showing you off. You were easily the most beautiful woman there, and Joel wanted everyone to know that you were his partner. You were there with him.

He found himself, not for the first time, relating a lot to the lyrics of the song. He mouthed them to you and you giggled, placing your head in the crook of his neck. You two spun about the room, only stopping when the song was over and you gave him a quick peck on the lips.

Joel blinked, taken aback. You usually hated PDA and so he quirked an eyebrow at you. You smirk slightly and say, “Guess I just love you being my man.”

Joel doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol in his system, or just purely you and your essence filling his senses but a feeling deep in his chest causes his whole body to tighten, inhaling a quick breath. His head feels all fuzzy looking at how gorgeous you look under the neon lights.

“I’m the lucky one here, darlin,” Joel says, trying to hide his nervous reaction.

“You’re too sweet,” You trail a gentle hand down his arm, “Hey, what do you say we get outta here?”

Joel couldn’t have said the word faster if he had tried, “Yes.”

You laugh at his eagerness and take his hand and lead him up to the bar to close his tab and quickly say goodbye to some friends.

“You ready?” You ask once you say your last goodbye, Joel just happily standing behind you.

“Hell, yeah, sugar. Let’s go,” Joel puts his hand to the small of your back and you two head home.