#Tommy should’ve stayed with him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pencil-n-pen · 5 months ago

Text

TONGUES AND TEETH

₊˚ʚ 🌲₊˚✧ . °🍂 ೃ࿔*

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°‧★

3K notes · View notes

pandapetals · 3 months ago

Text

Sunlight & Sawdust

Chapter Two: Tulips & Testers previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, you’ve told yourself his gruffness doesn’t bother you—that his clipped words and cold stares don’t matter. But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop. For free. Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that don’t need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, and—most shocking of all—getting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.

Pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

Content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics.

Joel found himself back at the shitty diner with Tommy for lunch again.

It was his brother’s favorite spot, always raving about how it had the best food in town. Joel wasn’t convinced. The place was worn down, with cracked vinyl seats and yellowed walls from time. The overhead fan rattled like it was one bad day away from falling, and the jukebox in the corner was stuck on some old country song.

Still, the food wasn’t bad. Not that he’d ever admit it. The service was always solid, too, even when the place was packed.

He slid into the booth across from Tommy, about to glance over the menu, when something familiar stopped him.

A scent. Soft, floral. A hint of something sweet.

His shoulders stiffened. Before he could look up, your voice cut through the low hum of the diner.

"I should’ve known you’d be here."

Warm. Easy. Meant for Tommy, not him.

Joel already knew who it was before he even lifted his gaze.

Tommy grinned wide as you approached, his whole face lighting up like you were the best part of his damn day.

Joel felt his mood immediately sour, but when he finally looked up and saw you, something in his chest tightened, stealing the air out of his lungs.

You stood there, sundress swaying just slightly, a soft floral print skimming the tops of your knees. Your hair was loose, falling in gentle waves around your shoulders, and tucked behind your ear was a single pink tulip.

It should’ve been ridiculous. Too much, too soft. Yet, Joel couldn’t stop staring.

"Have you ordered yet?" you asked sweetly, directing the question at Tommy.

He shook his head, grinning.

"I can order you some pancakes," you offered with a teasing lilt. "Unless you’re in the mood for something else?"

Tommy chuckled. "Nah, I’ll take the pancakes—best in town."

Joel barely heard him. His eyes were still on you. Had you always been this—

His jaw tightened. He looked away, grabbing the menu, suddenly far too aware of himself.

This was nothing. Just you being you. Too sweet, too kind, too…

Joel clenched his jaw harder.

"You want anything? I’m gonna order me a burger."

The question caught him off guard. He looked up, and there it was again—that warmth. The same damn warmth you always had when you spoke to Tommy. Only now, it was directed at him.

Joel should’ve shut it down, scoffed, or made some half-assed remark about how you didn’t need to play waitress for him. That’s what he normally would’ve done.

But for some reason, he held back.

"Coffee," he muttered, his voice rougher than he intended. "Black."

His eyes stayed locked on you even as the words left his mouth.

It was stupid—how his chest ached at something as simple as your kindness.

You didn’t seem to notice his hesitation. You just gave a small nod before turning and walking over to the counter, your dress swaying slightly with each step.

Joel exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

Once you were out of earshot, Tommy’s gaze immediately shifted to his brother.

Joel could feel it—the weight of it, the knowing behind it. He ignored it.

But Tommy wasn’t letting this one slide.

"You gonna be mean to her today, or you givin’ her a break?" he asked with a sigh, resting his elbows on the table.

Joel grunted, irritation curling in his gut. "Don’t start."

Tommy just stared, waiting.

Joel clenched his jaw, fingers tapping against the tabletop. "I don’t like her," he bit out, but the words tasted wrong even as he said it. "She’s…"

He stopped short when he caught the way Tommy’s expression shifted, his jaw setting in something dangerously close to disappointment.

Tommy exhaled, shaking his head. "I fuckin’ swear, Joel." His voice was low, steady. "Either admit she committed some god-awful crime against you… or admit you like her."

Joel’s face dropped. His throat felt tight. "It’s not… it’s not like that," he tried to argue, but even to his ears, the words sounded hollow.

Because the more he talked, the more he realized—he wasn’t telling the truth.

It was getting to him. You were sweet to him even when he didn’t deserve it. The warmth in your voice, the way you looked standing there in that damn sundress, all soft and glowing in the midday light. It was crawling under his skin, winding tight around his ribs, and it was pissing him off.

Across the table, Tommy’s disappointment faded into something worse: a slow, knowing smirk.

Joel groaned. He knew that look. Had seen it a thousand times growing up. It was the same smug grin Tommy wore whenever he figured something out before Joel did, the same one that meant he was about to start running his damn mouth.

Joel glared, pointing a finger at him. "Don’t."

Tommy just leaned back in the booth, still smirking.

"Tommy, shut your damn mouth." Joel’s voice was low, warning. He knew his brother. He knew exactly where this was going and refused to let it happen.

But it was too late.

Tommy let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what was unfolding before him.

His gruff, emotionally constipated older brother—who hated everybody—had a crush on the sweetest damn woman he’d ever met.

It was hilarious.

Joel’s scowl deepened, heat rising in his neck. "Tommy—"

Your voice cut through the moment before he could get another word out.

"What’s so funny?"

Joel stiffened.

You were suddenly right there, setting down plates with that easy grace of yours, sliding into the booth beside Tommy like you belonged there.

And Joel, who had spent the last five minutes convincing himself that you didn’t, was sitting across from you, hands clenched into fists beneath the table, doing everything in his power not to look directly at you.

Tommy, the bastard, was still grinning. "Oh, nothing," he said casually, far too pleased with himself as he cut into his pancakes like he hadn’t just laughed at Joel’s expense.

Joel gritted his teeth, grabbing his coffee like it might ground him.

He hated this. Hated how friendly you were and how Tommy was enjoying teasing him. Hated every damn second of this.

But most of all, he hated how hard it was to ignore you.

Utterly oblivious to the silent battle waging across the table, you reached up, plucking the tulip from your hair with delicate fingers.

Joel’s eyes tracked the movement before he could stop himself.

The way you handled it—gentle, almost absentminded—as you placed it on the table beside your plate—the soft brush of your fingertips against the petals.

It was stupid. Just a flower. A damn tulip.

But Joel couldn’t look away.

Tommy noticed.

He smirked, glancing between Joel and the flower like he had just won some unspoken bet.

Joel scowled, immediately averting his gaze, fixing his eyes on the dark liquid in his cup like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

But then, you noticed.

"Oh," you said, voice soft with realization.

Joel risked a glance up.

You looked at him now, your expression unreadable, until a slight blush crept up your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you smoothed your hands over your dress and explained, "My daughter insisted I wear it."

Joel wasn’t sure why that made his chest feel tight.

Maybe it was how you said it—soft, thoughtful, like it meant more than just a silly thing your daughter had asked of you. How you looked with that tulip tucked behind your ear, utterly unaware of how natural it seemed, how effortlessly warmth clung to you like it was just a part of who you were.

Or maybe it was the way his damn brain wouldn’t shut up about the fact that he had never seen you blush before.

"She said it would ‘help’ promote the flower shop," you explained, gesturing vaguely at your floral sundress. Your voice had a quiet fondness, as if the memory itself were a comfort. "It inspired the whole outfit today."

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. "Ah, of course. Ellie would insist."

Joel’s grip tightened around his coffee cup.

He knew you had a daughter. Tommy had mentioned her plenty—how she was always by your side when she wasn’t in school, how smart she was, how much she adored you.

But knowing you had a kid and realizing it was two different things.

And for some reason, it was hitting him like a freight train right now.

"Ellie did. She’s too sweet—thinks me wearin’ flowers is the best way to promote I’m a florist," you laughed, shaking your head.

Tommy grinned. "Kids do the funniest things, huh?" He took another bite of his pancakes, as easy and relaxed as ever.

Joel felt like the air had been knocked out of him.

He brought his mug to his lips, taking a slow drink, hoping the bitter heat of the coffee would settle something in his chest. It didn’t.

Because his mind wouldn’t stop.

Would Sarah have done the same? Would she have insisted on something ridiculous like that, her voice full of certainty, eyes bright with excitement?

She would’ve. He knew she would’ve. She had that same kind of heart, the kind that saw good in the smallest things.

The realization sat heavy, pressing down on his ribs. You were a mother. That fact alone had his thoughts spiraling, tangling into something messy, something dangerous. Because you being a mother wasn’t just some trivial detail. It meant something. It meant you had someone who depended on you, someone you loved more than yourself. It meant you knew what it was like to raise a child, to have that kind of love and fear.

And Joel, he knew that fear too well.

His grip on the coffee cup tightened as you and Tommy kept talking, your voices warm and easy.

Joel stayed silent. He kept drinking his coffee, pretending it was enough to drown out the noise in his head. But it wasn’t working.

Not when you kept smiling like that. Not when his eyes kept betraying him, flicking back to you, lingering just a little too long.

"You heading back to the flower shop?"

Tommy’s voice pulled Joel from his thoughts. He blinked, realizing both of you had finished eating. Tommy leaned back in his seat, patting his stomach with a satisfied sigh, while you sat next to him, still smiling despite the conversation turning toward something less pleasant.

"Yeah," you nodded. "Did I tell you the A/C unit in the window leaked water all over the floor last week?"

Tommy’s easy expression shifted into concern. "No, you didn’t mention that. Do you need help—"

"No, I got the A/C replaced," you said with a slight huff, shaking your head. "Had a new one put in a few days ago, but it cost me an arm and a leg."

Joel’s eyes stayed on you. Even frustrated, you still had that warmth about you—like you couldn’t help but soften the edges of bad news. It was infuriating.

"What about the floor? Did it get water damage?" Tommy asked, brows furrowed.

Your smile faltered just a bit. "It did. But with the cost of the new A/C unit…" You trailed off, rubbing the back of your neck. "I can’t afford to replace the flooring right now. It’s wood… and you know that’s not cheap."

Joel didn’t realize he was frowning until his jaw clenched.

He caught something in your expression—something quiet, weary. You weren’t complaining, just stating a fact. But he could tell the stress was weighing on you.

And for some reason, that didn’t sit right with him.

"Damn, that really sucks," Tommy muttered, crossing his arms. Joel knew his brother—he hated seeing you stressed, especially about the shop. That place meant everything to you.

Joel exhaled slowly, willing himself to look anywhere but at you.

But he couldn’t help it.

His gaze flicked back, catching you lightly chewing your bottom lip, and your fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of your coffee cup. It was a small thing—probably nothing—but for some goddamn reason, it hit him square in the chest.

And then, before he could stop himself, a stupid thought formed in his head.

A dangerous thought.

He was a carpenter. He could fix it.

It would be simple—just a bit of work. It wouldn’t even take him that long, and he sure as hell wouldn’t charge you for it.

Joel immediately shoved the thought down, his fingers tightening around his coffee mug.

Why the hell should he care? He didn’t like you. He had told himself that over and over again. But now, sitting here, watching you try to brush off your worries with a smile— Shit.

"I could fix it." The words slipped out before Joel could stop them.

The second they did, he regretted it. Not because he didn’t want to help, but because of how you and Tommy immediately turned to look at him, twin expressions of confusion and disbelief.

Tommy’s smirk was instant. Shit.

Joel exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He should’ve let it go and backpedaled before this worsened. But instead, his gaze landed on you, and before he could stop himself, he doubled down.

"How about I fix it? For free."

Your lips parted slightly, blinking at him like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. "Joel, no." You shook your head, a quiet huff escaping you. "I couldn’t ask that of you, especially not for free."

There it was again—that damn, ever-present warmth.

It irritated him, and it also did something else—something he refused to name.

Joel felt Tommy’s smug stare burning into him from across the table, but he ignored it, keeping his attention on you.

"I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to do it for free," he said gruffly, shifting in his seat. "It’ll be an easy fix."

You studied him, brows furrowing slightly like you were searching for the catch.

And honestly? You should have been.

Because what the hell was he doing?

Joel Miller—the same man who spent the last who knows how long acting like you were the most enormous pain in his ass—was now offering up his time, his work, for nothing in return? Even he could admit it didn’t make sense.

Maybe this was a mistake. Perhaps you’d see through whatever was happening inside him before he figured it out himself.

But instead of questioning it or teasing him for it, you just sighed softly and sweetly.

"Are you sure?" Your voice was gentle, like you were afraid to push too hard. "I... could pay you a little bit."

Joel clenched his jaw, gripping his coffee like it might hold him together.

The truth was, he wanted to fix it. Not because he had to, not because Tommy would tease him if he backed out, but because the thought of you being stressed over something he could easily take care of bothered him.

"I’m 100% sure." Joel hadn’t meant for his voice to come out so soft. It just did.

The second the words left his mouth, your whole face lit up.

"Joel, you’re a lifesaver!" you squealed, practically bouncing in your seat.

Joel barely had time to register the warmth in your voice before Tommy let out a knowing chuckle.

He was stunned by how fast you brightened at his offer—how, instantly, the weight of your problem seemed to lift right off your shoulders. And the fact that he was the reason for it?

That did something to him.

Something unfamiliar. Something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Tommy, of course, noticed.

His smirk deepened like he already knew that your reaction would boost Joel’s ego for the rest of the damn day. Joel shot him a look, but it was too late. Tommy had already seen everything he needed to.

"Stop by whenever you’re free. No rush." You beamed at him, all soft gratitude. "Hopefully, it won’t be too much trouble for you."

Joel exhaled, running a hand over his jaw, but he couldn’t help it—his lips twitched slightly, the tiniest hint of a smile creeping in.

It had been a long time since something as simple as helping someone made him feel… useful. Like he wasn’t just passing the time, like what he did mattered.

"It won’t be a problem." His voice still held that quiet softness he didn’t quite recognize in himself. "I’ll stop by later. I got time."

Your eyes softened even more, like you appreciated it. Like you really saw him.

"Okay. Thank you so much."

You stepped out of the booth, giving Tommy a quick, casual hug before straightening up.

"See you later," you said to both of them, flashing one last bright smile before heading for the door.

Joel’s eyes followed you without thinking, watching as you stepped outside into the afternoon light, the bell above the door jingling behind you.

The moment you were gone, Tommy snorted. "Well, I’ll be damned."

Joel tore his eyes away from the door, scowling. "Shut up, Tommy."

But Tommy wasn’t letting this one go. Joel could see it all over his face—that shit-eating grin, the barely-contained amusement.

"Don’t start."

Tommy ignored him, reaching across the table and nudging something forward with his finger.

The pink tulip.

The same one you had pulled from your hair, the one you had absentmindedly left behind on the table.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, already hating whatever game Tommy was playing.

"Oh, I’m gonna," Tommy teased, grinning as he pushed the flower even closer.

Joel rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath. He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve left the damn thing sitting right there on the table. But his fingers twitched.

Before he could think twice about it, he picked up the tulip, turning it between his calloused fingers. His thumb brushed over the soft petals.

He didn’t know why he did it, just that he needed to. Like some part of him wasn’t ready to let it go.

Tommy smirked. "You gonna keep it? Jerk off to it like it’s her underwear?"

Joel nearly choked. His entire body tensed, heat flaring up his neck and into his face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he snapped, shoving the tulip into his pocket before he could stop himself.

Tommy threw his head back, laughing. "Damn, man, you got it bad."

Joel clenched his jaw, refusing to dignify that with a response.

But the weight of the flower in his pocket—the fact that he had pocketed it—said everything he wouldn’t.

#joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #tlou joel #joel tlou #joel the last of us #fluff #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x female reader #tlou fanfic #pedro pascal #joel x reader #joel miller fluff

1K notes · View notes

lexirosewrites · 4 months ago

Text

Day 10: Rejection Sickness

for @stmarchmm

Steve doesn’t recognize the signs right away. He knows what sadness feels like, but not like this.

Nancy made it clear that she didn’t love him and it did something much worse to him than sadness.

Something beyond simple hurt feelings.

It hurts his heart to think about, but it hurts his lungs too. Every breath feels like drowning on dry land, heaving for air and choking instead.

And goddamnit if he’s not still on the floor of Tina’s bathroom, trying to pick himself up and leave this party with some dignity.

He knows they’ll all stare.

Steve “The Hair” Harrington, dumped and pathetic. Former popular beta and now just a trophy girlfriend omega who isn’t even good at hanging on an alpha’s arm properly.

Nancy doesn’t want him. Nobody else does either.

Bullshit, through and through.

Maybe he should’ve taken his parents’ advice and stayed on scent blockers until graduation so his designation status wasn’t public knowledge.

Steve would be lonely, but at least he could’ve saved himself some heartbreak and embarrassment.

Now he’s shaking and sobbing. Alone anyways.

Everything feels so cold and off balance.

The October chill is reaching him even though he’s inside. It doesn’t make any sense, but his bones are chilled to their core and he’s completely frozen.

This is the worse night of his life and he can’t even find the strength to leave.

Steve doesn’t actually hear the door to the bathroom open, but it makes sense that Nancy didn’t lock it on her way out and he hadn’t bothered to check it.

But he’s not by himself anymore.

Another voice is in his ears— other than his own inner omega that’s thrashing around in pain.

“Are you sick or something, Harrington? You look pale as fuck. Too many keg stands tonight?”

Words are hard. He lays there instead. That feels easier.

The voice persists nonetheless.

“Seriously, Steve. Where’s Wheeler? I thought she was with you earlier. She shouldn’t leave you alone like this.”

He can’t bite back his cry of pure anguish at hearing his alpha’s name.

She may have disowned him as her omega, but she’s still his alpha.

Nancy was supposed to take care of him. She was supposed to start a family with Steve and love him forever. She wasn’t supposed to leave too.

Everyone always leaves.

She said she was different. Steve thought she was different.

“She’s gone,” he manages to rasp.

Those two words hurt his throat and his heart.

How long has he been crying? How long has it been since he was abandoned by his future mate and left to die here?

“Jesus. You’d think she’d know better than to leave her omega alone. When is she coming back? Is Tommy giving you a ride home?”

So many questions. They still don’t understand.

Saying it out loud will make it real, but Steve isn’t sure how else to communicate the reality here.

“Alpha isn’t coming back. I was bad omega. Stupid fucking omega. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit omega. She doesn’t want me. Doesn’t want a bad omega as her mate.”

He’s so stupid. So stupid and bad and bullshit. If he wasn’t, Nancy would still be here. She would still love him.

“Oh, fuck.”

Something touches his forehead lightly. It feels just like how his nanny used to check his forehead when he was sick as a pup.

“You’re burning up, Steve. Shit. Okay, it’s gonna be okay. Wayne said any alpha can help, even if it’s not the alpha who caused it. I can do this… Fuck.”

Steve hasn’t a clue what’s going on, but the touch on his forehead goes away and is replaced with more touches.

Part of him wants to lash out at the stranger daring to lay a finger on him, especially when his alpha wouldn’t allow it.

But he doesn’t have an alpha to protect him anymore.

Nancy couldn’t care less if he lives or dies.

So he doesn’t fight the touch. After a short while, it almost feels… nice. Soothing, like cold aloe on a sizzling burn. An aching relief.

He’s wrapped up in someone’s arms, cradled in their hold as if he’s precious and worth holding onto.

“That’s it, omega. Just relax. You’re safe and nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t leave you,” the hushed voice whispers in his ear.

Steve finally catches a whiff. The scent of his holder.

Cinnamon. A dash of musk and earthy wood. It’s a rather pleasant combination in his nose.

Nancy always smelled sharp and citrusy. It was nice enough, but he never particularly wanted to inhale it more than was required.

This scent, however, feels warm and comfortable. A toasty blanket of scent wrapping him up gently just like the person it belongs to.

“Alpha,” he purrs happily into the cinnamon-scented neck. “My alpha.”

Nancy isn’t his alpha anymore. Can’t be. She doesn’t want him. Doesn’t love him.

But this is unmistakable.

The warm scent, the protective embrace, the gentle growl from the chest beneath his ear.

His alpha.

“That’s right, omega. Your alpha. But I need you to be good for me now, Steve. Can you be good for your alpha?”

What a silly question. He would do anything for his alpha.

“I’m a good omega,” Steve begs, explains, pleads.

He doesn’t want to be left alone. Not again.

“I know you are, sweetheart. You’re so good. We need to take you to a clinic to get some medicine though. You’re sick. I promise I will take care of you, but we have to leave now.”

That sounds like his alpha is going to leave.

“Don’t leave me,” he begs once more. “I’ll be good. I can be good!”

“Shhhh, you’re already good. Won’t leave you, baby. I won’t ever leave you. I just think you have rejection sickness and I can help, but you still need medicine to make sure you don’t go into shock. Your panic attack was just the beginning of it and we can’t hold this off forever.”

Steve whines at that.

He can’t imagine it getting worse than it already was. Everything feels better now, but it still stings.

Rejection sickness. Just a silly omega with his silly heartbreak.

“You won’t leave me?” he confirms.

The response he gets is gentle and kind.

“I don’t think I could, even if you asked me to. I’m your alpha now, Steve. If Nancy didn’t see what a perfect omega she had, that’s her loss. You belong to me now and I promise to take care of you. Whatever you need, it’s yours. Let me be your alpha.”

Nancy never asked what he needed.

Steve snuggles just a little bit deeper into his alpha’s neck.

A steady hand on his back rubs along his shoulders with just enough pressure to anchor him to the earth and not let his head float too far away.

“You’re a good alpha,” Steve declares sleepily. “What’s your name?”

His alpha doesn’t seem surprised by the belated question, he doesn’t even pause his comforting actions to answer.

“I don’t know that we’ve ever officially met before, but my name is Eddie.”

“Eddie?”

Sounds familiar.

“Eddie Munson.”

Ah. That’s Hawkins’ resident drug dealer.

An alpha with a job!

#stmmm25 #stranger things march mating madness #steddie #steddie omegaverse #omega steve harrington #alpha eddie munson #steve x eddie #omegaverse #a/b/o

1K notes · View notes

damneddamsy · 4 months ago

Text

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part vii)

FREEFALL FUNCTION—Descent governed by forces outside one's control.

summary: After a disappearance shakes his world, Joel finds himself craving home, touches that promise, hands that stay.

a/n: I was in a really bad headspace, and that's why I wasn't replying a lot to your sweet comment (I've read them all, thank you so so much), or responding to messages. I just needed to get this chapter off my chest, because it's been building up to this, and I've been coming back a lot to fix this specific part so a lot of WARNINGS please: vague mentions of rape, lotsa violence, trauma, action, and just a fuckload of angst. also, LOVE. SO MUCH LOVE. hope you've got your hearts ready and some bandaids.

Joel was making a list.

A real mental inventory of all the fucked-up shit that had gone sideways since last night.

He had to. Otherwise, his head would be a mess of rage and regret, spinning in circles, getting him nowhere but down. And he needed to focus.

First, the crap he’d spewed at Leela—words he couldn't take back, words he didn't mean, words that sat like rusted nails in his gut. Sharp, corroded, poisoned with his own damn pride. He should’ve known better. But meaning didn’t matter. It was what she heard that counted. And what she heard had been enough to make her go quiet on him. Worse than yelling. Worse than anything. He’d rather she cussed him out, swung at him, anything but this.

Second—fucking Tommy. The son of a bitch dared to leave him behind on this run. Rode off without so much as a glance back, like Joel was the one being difficult. Like he was the one who needed space. Like he wasn’t the one who’d been fighting tooth and nail to put things right. And now he was playing some game of keep-away like Joel didn’t deserve to be part of it.

He clenched his jaw at that. He didn’t like being shut out, especially not by his own damn brother.

Third—his back. Christ. Riding non-stop for the past hour had him aching fiercely. His lower spine felt like it was grinding itself down to dust, and every bump in the trail shot pain clear up to his skull. He was too old for this endless shitwork, but stopping wasn’t an option.

And then—Leela. Because out of everything in his life that was spinning out of his control, she was the one thing he wasn’t willing to lose.

He hated it. He hated this helplessness. The desperation to know that she was alright. This madness was a product of his own idiocy.

Right. That was the list.

And now, this—this goddamn trail. Because like clockwork, the next thing to add to his tally of frustrations was creeping up on him before he saw anything.

The Colten Bay trail had started to look familiar—small bends in the path, the way the trees arched overhead, creating a canopy of shifting shadows. He'd been riding for two hours, maybe more, the passage of time lost in the churn of his thoughts. He wasn’t as good as Tommy at navigating these woods, not yet, but he wasn’t blind either.

The ruined road into the small town had gone quiet—too quiet. No wind whistling through the broken windows, no birds, no distant scurry of wildlife picking through the remains. Just silence, thick and suffocating,

He took it in as he rode in slowly, scanning the hollowed-out husk of a town that had been left to rot. Storefronts with shattered windows, doors hanging off hinges, sun-bleached signs dangled by rusted chains. Rusted-out trucks half-buried in overgrown grass. A rust-colored stain smeared across a brick wall, years old, but still dark enough to make something curdle in his gut.

Joel pulled up short, dismounting without taking his eyes off the wreckage. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thump, the heat of the sun bleeding into the soles of his feet.

It was even worse up close, but nothing he wasn't used to. He'd seen worse. Nature had started creeping back in—vines curling over stone, weeds splitting through the pavement—but it wasn’t enough to hide the bones of what had been left behind.

He adjusted his grip on his rifle, raised and cocked to take aim, his every sense straining for something—growls, clicks, rifles, shoes, anything.

Then he heard it.

A voice. Then voices. Faint, distant. Threading through the ruins.

Tommy. More specifically—his shitty brother’s loud-ass laugh.

Joel exhaled sharply, stock perched tight into his shoulder, trying to shake the tension curling through him. Tommy was laughing, which meant the dumbass wasn’t dead. Which meant there was no immediate danger.

Still, Joel pushed forward carefully, stepping over debris, keeping to the edges of the street.

And then he spotted them.

Tommy, standing outside a withering old appliance store, leaning against the frame with his rifle slung loose over one shoulder. Ellie was a few steps away, arms crossed, leaning on her rifle like she was already bored.

Ellie—fucking Ellie. What was she doing here? Did nobody think? Did nobody use their goddamn heads? She hadn't even been down this path before. Kid was going to get herself killed.

Joel barely had time to process it before Tommy caught his movement. His brother tensed immediately, his hand twitching toward his gun, already halfway to raising it before recognition hit.

Joel threw up a hand. “Jesus Christ, Tommy, it’s me.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, lowering his rifle. “Son of a bitch—”

Joel didn’t let him finish. “The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out low and edged, riding the line between frustration and relief, still fueled by the panic that had been burning through his veins for the last two hours.

Tommy gave him a flat look. “Right now? ‘Bout to blow your goddamn head off.”

His pulse thundered, but he forced himself to keep steady. “You were goin’ off alone? Did you want to get your ass kicked?”

Tommy scoffed. “Toldja, not a tough job. In and out.” He tilted his head toward Ellie. “And I’m not alone. I’ve got the kid. And the whizkid.”

Ellie grumbled. “How am I still a...? Ugh.”

And as if Leela even counted as a backup. How the hell was she supposed to protect anything? What was she gonna do—build a goddamn time machine? Throw a wrench at danger? Jump in a fucking toolbox? She could hardly walk without wincing half the time, always too lost in her head, too quiet, too—

Joel exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand down his face before turning to Ellie. She barely acknowledged him, arms still crossed tight, scuffing her boot against the pavement like she was already tired of waiting.

He huffed, stepping over, and giving her shoulder a firm squeeze. Just checking. Just making sure. She was real, breathing, safe, alive.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Ellie rolled her eyes, glancing up at him. “Relax, old man. No one's dead yet.”

Joel's jaw ticked.

She jerked her chin toward the store. “Your girl’s back there. Still scrounging up stuff.”

Joel stalked forward without another word to her. The place within was dim, slats of dying afternoon light slanting through the busted-out windows, casting long, jagged shadows across rows of overturned shelves. The air reeked of stale plastic and mildew, and somewhere, a strip of metal dangled from the ceiling, creaking with the breeze.

He stepped past a shattered washing machine, careful with his footing, ears straining.

His fingers flexed around the stock of his rifle, irritation already flooding his focus. Stupid. This was so fucking stupid.

Leela was nowhere in sight. Just more and more metal shelves stripped bare, and the soft creak of something shifting toward the back.

He found her there—half-hidden behind the last row of shelves, grunting as she wrestled with the handle of a rusted cart already stacked high with shit he didn't know the names of—gears, belts, maybe the guts of an old dryer. Heavy-looking. Useless-looking.

Joel barely stopped himself from cursing out loud. “Jesus, darlin'.”

She glanced up then, catching sight of him, eyes flicking to the rifle still in his hands. He saw the brief tension in her shoulders, and the slight narrowing of her eyes, before he wordlessly slung the weapon back over his shoulder.

“Joel,” she greeted, a little surprised but didn’t care enough to show it.

Just Joel. As if he hadn’t spent the last two hours riding like a maniac through the woods, as if she hadn’t left Maya alone like she hadn’t done the most reckless, mind-numbingly foolish fucking thing she could’ve possibly done.

There were so many things he wanted to say. To lay into her, to yell, to cuss her out, to tell her what a fucking idiot she was.

For leaving Maya alone. For coming out here, unprepared, with Tommy of all people. For not thinking—despite whatever had happened between them—that she could have left the baby with him. Because that was how it worked. That was how relationships worked. Or would have worked. If they had ever thought to address what the fuck they were. Too friendly neighbours? Co-parents? A friend he really wanted to belong to for the rest of his life? Just two people who knew each other too well?

No, but she looked fine. Which would've been great if it didn't piss him off even more. As if she hadn’t made him lose his goddamn mind these past few hours.

His jaw ticked as his gaze flicked down, scanning her, frustration mounting as he catalogued every stupid decision she’d made today.

She’d put on a nice windbreaker—for once—yet she was completely underdressed for the trip. No flashlight strapped to her pack. No holster. No decent boots. And for the love of all that was holy—where the fuck were her pants?

She was in nothing but those annoying tiny shorts, legs all bared for the claws or teeth of a clicker, like she thought she was going out for a fucking morning stroll instead of a dangerous supply trip with Tommy.

Joel exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. Stupid, stupid girl.

And she was looking at him like she was waiting. Like she knew exactly what was coming.

Proving her right, he took a slow step forward. “Are you outta your goddamn mind?”

Leela didn’t flinch. She just looked back at him, even, hands tightening over the handle of the cart. “Didn’t realize I needed permission from you.”

“Ain’t about permission. It’s about sense.” His voice dropped lower, biting. “Somethin’ you seem to be lackin’.”

Leela didn’t rise to it. She never did. It seemed to be this ongoing habit of hers. She just let the words settle between them, let it fester, before she turned her focus back to the cart like she’d already decided he wasn’t worth arguing with.

And that? That made something in Joel snap.

“Y'know, you're always thinkin’, but you don’t think, do you?” His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists before he could reach for her, shake some goddamn sense into her. “You’re out here, in the middle of this—” He gestured vaguely at the abandoned town, at the dust, the dried blood smeared across the floor, the risk that was so apparent to him and not to her, “—and you don’t even have a fuckin’ gun on you.”

“I have a knife in my bag,” she defended, but with not as much fight.

Joel let out a sharp, bitter scoff. “Is that gonna do much good against a clicker? Maybe they’ll take a step back, let you go ‘cause you've got a real nice set of kitchen knives in your pack.”

Leela’s expression didn’t change. “But, Tommy has a gun.”

Joel let out a humourless breath. “And I guess everyone else has fuckin’ daisies.”

She shrugged. “Ellie has a gun, too.”

“Oh, ain’t that perfect?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, his chest rising and falling harder now. “So, what, you’re just trustin’ everyone else in the goddamned town to keep you alive? You think that’s how it works?”

Leela didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Just stared at him, quiet, unmoving, in that way that had always fucking unnerved him. She wouldn't fight back for him.

And that silence? That refusal to defend herself, to say anything, to at least try to justify the absolute recklessness of what she was doing—it only pissed him off more.

Because if she didn’t care, if she wasn’t afraid—then what was he even doing? Why did he even bother?

Joel threw his hands up, biting back the string of curses burning the back of his throat. His patience had already been worn thin, sanded down to raw edges.

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping away like he was physically forcing himself to let go. “Do whatever the hell you want. I'm done.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch as he turned sharply on his heel, raking a hand through his hair, his pulse still thrashing out the remnants of his irritation.

She could've spared him a little fight. Snapped something cutting, something sharp enough to match the anger buzzing beneath his skin. But instead, she said quietly—

"I think that’s how trust works."

The words landed deep, right in the place where things stuck—where they burrowed and festered before he could shove them down.

It should’ve been just another one of her quiet, cryptic remarks. No, this felt undeniable.

That’s all she’d ever wanted from him, wasn’t it? From the beginning, it was for him to trust her. For her to trust him. To trust that she could handle herself. That she wasn’t this fragile, breakable thing that needed to be caged for safekeeping.

And him—he’d been too fucking blind in his own haze of anger and anxiety to see it.

Leela didn’t wait for him to say anything. She just turned, dragging the cart behind her, grating against the ageing floorboards with a long scrape. Moving forward, focused, methodical, searching.

Ignoring him completely.

Joel exhaled hard, grounding himself, still riding the tail end of his frustration. Because the worst part was that she was right. But he would never admit that.

A sudden, violent crack split the air. The sound of wood splintering. The groaning of something old, something giving way.

Joel’s stomach lurched. His head snapped up just in time to see the floor beneath her buckle, the rotted planks slumping under her weight. Her hands jolted out instinctively, fingers clawing at empty air, a piping scream tearing out her throat.

Then, nothing. She was gone.

“Leela—!” Joel surged forward, reaching before he could think—but it was too late.

The floor swallowed her whole, boards snapping shut like a broken jaw, dust curling up in thick, choking plumes. The sound of her landing—hard, jarring—hit his ears like a gut punch. Then came the whine of shifting debris. The scrape of metal. Her groan strained with effort.

That sound. A sick, inhuman clicking.

Joel’s pulse kicked like a gunshot. His muscles locked, his body firing forward on instinct before his mind could even catch up.

Fucking clicker. It was down there with her.

The thought sent a cold, ruthless and electric prickle ripping through his chest.

Joel barely had time to think. A screech echoed up from the basement, followed by the hysterical sound of struggle, of something heavy slamming into concrete.

He dropped to his stomach over the broken floorboards, rifle braced, eyes straining through the broken planks. His flashlight cut through the dust, the yellow beam sweeping frantically over crumbled furniture, cracked linoleum and rusted-out shelving.

Then the light found her.

Leela was on her back, breathing hard, limbs tangled in broken debris. And above her—

The clicker.

It was on her.

Face sickly split and scarred like some rotting flower from the overgrowth of Cordyceps. Snarling, yellowed teeth dripping, gnashing too close, pinning her down. Hands curled into claws, raking at her shoulders and throat, missing if not for Leela's battling strength. Its body convulsed, straining forward with desperate, single-minded hunger. To feed. To kill. To infect.

And she was holding it off. Barely.

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he whispered aloud, fists tight around his rifle, taking aim.

Joel’s trembling hands steadied, years of muscle memory overriding the blind panic gripping his chest, his heartbeat a rapid-fire hammer against his ribs. His thoughts narrowed into one singular focus: kill the fucker.

But he didn’t have a clean shot.

The clicker was thrashing, too close, too erratic, its face just inches from hers. One wrong move and—his stomach roiled at the thought.

"Hold it there!" he yelled.

Leela didn’t respond—only sucked in a breath and turned her head, her knee jerking up to slam into the thing’s gut, rearing it back an inch—just enough.

Joel fired.

The first shot grazed its shoulder, making it shriek.

The second and third shots went straight through its skull. The fourth one, although completely unnecessary, sparked off from his trigger.

The clicker went rigid, its movements stuttering like a puppet with its strings cut.

Then it slumped. Its deadweight crashed onto Leela, forcing the breath from her lungs in a sharp, strangled sound.

For a long second, Joel didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His mind was still catching up, reeling from how fast it had happened. One second she was standing there, the next—she was nearly gone. Taken from him. He saw a flash of what could've been if he hadn't made that shot.

His hands were shaking.

Boots pounded against the floorboards behind him, but the sound barely registered until Tommy's voice cut through—sharp, urgent.

“The hell happened?”

“Where is she?” Ellie demanded, rifle raised.

Joel was already moving.

“I got her, I got her,” he ground out hoarsely, twice to himself, barely keeping up with the adrenaline roaring through him.

Without hesitation, he leapt straight down into the hole, landing hard on the basement floor, his knees taking the brunt of the impact. He came up, rifle-first, and his flashlight swept the space—shadows stretching long against the damp walls, old shelves lining the perimeter, nothing but silence now.

Leela had already pushed the dead clicker off her, chest rising and falling too fast, breath coming in sharp inhales, hands clenched into her shirt collar, shoulders drawn tight. She hadn't moved beyond that.

Joel was on her in an instant, pushing her hair out of the way. “I'm here. You're okay.”

But the moment his hands found her skin—

She screamed.

It wasn’t just fear or panic. It was an impulse. It was raw, broken, blood-curdling, a sound that clawed its way out of her throat like she was being torn apart.

She thrashed against him, full-bodied, desperate, her hands flying up, kicking him off, shoving at his chest, nails catching against the rough fabric of his jacket. She was fighting with everything she had, body twisting, gasping through sobs, her strength fueled by something deep and unconscious.

"No—no, please, please—stop!"

Joel flinched.

Not at the force of it. Not at the hit.

At the sound. At the way she said it. Like she wasn’t here. Like she wasn’t seeing him. Like she was still down there in the dark, with that fucking thing clawing at her.

It hit somewhere he didn’t have words for, someplace that made his stomach twist and his ribs squeeze tight.

Because she wasn’t just afraid.

She didn’t recognize him. For a second—a heartbreaking second—he was just another set of hands on her, just another force holding her down, just another compulsion, and the thought of that—of her looking at him and not knowing him—it fucking gutted him.

But he didn’t let go.

“Hey,” he coaxed, his grip firm but cautious, hands bracing her shoulders, keeping her still, not trapping her, just holding on. “It’s me.”

She was still fighting him. Still gasping. Still somewhere else.

His hands moved—one sliding up, cupping her face, fingers pressing into her skin, desperate, grounding, his thumb stroking over her cheek like he could physically pull her back.

"Just look at me," he murmured, voice softer now, voice wrecked.

Her body was still trembling beneath his hands, her muscles locked tight, her pulse battering out a frantic rhythm beneath his fingertips.

And it hurt like shit. Hurt to see her like this, to know that she was still drowning in what he couldn't touch, that she was still lost, still bracing for a fight that was already over.

So he did the only thing he could.

He took her hand. Brought it to his shivering lips. Pressed a kiss into her palm, firm, warm, real.

“It’s me,” he urged.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers twitched against his skin. Her vision cleared. Then she saw him. Finally saw him, those brown eyes focusing.

And in that split second, her body wilted against his. The fight drained from her like water slipping through open hands, leaving only exhaustion, only relief, only the sharp, shaking remnants of fear still rattling in her chest.

Her lips parted, and a single, barely-there whisper fell from them—

“Joel?”

Joel exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath this whole time. Like the air had been punched out of his lungs.

“Yeah, baby,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over her cheek, over the damp trail left behind by her tears. Her pulse was still too fast, still too frenzied beneath his fingertips, and that tightness in his coiled harder.

He wanted to tell her she was safe. That it was over. That she was alright. But his voice was too fucking broken to say any of it.

He swallowed hard, still fighting the residual panic gripping his chest. He had to see. He had to know.

“Let me see,” he rasped, his hands already moving, frantic, fierce. “I have to see if...”

His fingers swiped up her sleeves and lapels, moving too fast, running over her arms, his mind slating every inch of skin, checking, counting. No bites. No scratches. No bleeding.

Down her sides. Down her shoulders and neck. Down her thighs. Down her calves—and his stomach dropped.

“Oh, Christ.” The words left him in a breathless rasp, barely there.

At the back of her calf—a deep, glistening wound. Blood ran in a slow, damning trickle down into her shoe.

Joel's inhale caught in his throat. The edges of his vision blurred. His ears started to ring.

No. No, no, no—not like this. Not now. Not her.

His hands loomed over it, useless, fingers twitching, unable to touch, unable to breathe.

The panic surged like wildfire, like an explosion inside his chest, riving through every thought, every shred of calm, reducing everything to one singular, burning horror.

This couldn’t be happening. What could he do? He couldn't stop this. No, this was beyond him. His mind scrambled, flipping through every second of the fight, anguished, reckless, trying to remember—had the thing bitten her? Had it broken skin? Had it—

His pulse roared in his ears, hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.

He was losing her.

His throat closed up. His fingers curled into fists.

He was losing her. He was losing her. He was losing her.

Again, and again, and again.

His vision tunnelled, narrowed down to the blood, to that slow, seeping trickle, red against her skin, a death sentence in real time. He swiped his thumb over the wound, barely thinking, breathing, hoping maybe it'll sicken him too, because he couldn't take another blow, another fight—

And—his finger nudged something hard. Not a claw mark. Not torn flesh. Not infection.

A splinter.

A sharp piece of wood, lodged deep under the broken skin.

Leela flinched, hissing in pain. “Ow.”

His entire world tilted, cracked, and realigned itself in the space of a heartbeat.

And then—he crashed. His whole body sagged, the relief so brutal, so fucking absolute, it nearly knocked him flat. His head dropped forward, breaths rattling back into him, shaking, breaking.

“You're fine. You're okay.”

It hit him so hard, he felt dizzy. Like he’d been standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to fall—and suddenly, somehow, he was back on solid ground.

His hands found her again, gripping her tight, pulling her into him, pulling her against him because he needed to feel it, needed to know she was here.

He pressed her face into his neck, arms locked around her, one palming her head, the other over the edge of her braid, holding on like his body was still catching up to what his brain knew now—that she was okay. That she was still here. That she was still his.

His heart was still hammering, still pounding out a brutal rhythm against his ribs, his breath coming fast, too hard, too jagged. All he could think about was how much he lived for this girl, that he couldn't take another step forward without her, that he'd lose all purpose in this damned world.

He turned his face into her hair, pressing a kiss there, desperate, lingering. He pushed his lips wherever he could reach; eyes, temple, ears, jaw; it didn't matter. As long he could convince himself she was real.

"You stay with me," he whispered, voice muffled into her hair. "You stay."

She didn’t have to say anything back. She just clung to him, hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, her breath still sharp, still ragged, still too goddamn close to slipping away from him.

After a long moment, she pulled away, a little more than uneasy, her hands shaking as she swiped roughly at her eyes, breath uneven, fingers bruised, arms bruised, skin mottled in dark, ugly shades.

Joel saw it all. The marks. How badly she was still trembling. How she still hadn’t fully caught her breath. And something inside him cracked—deep, marrow-deep, where all the old wounds lived.

He couldn’t lose her. Not ever.

Clenching his jaw, he reached behind her way too roughly, into her pack, shuffling things around until he felt it.

He found the knife. And pressed it into her hands, firm, insistent.

"Knife in your hands," he said, voice gruff, still rigid, still devastated. "Not your pack, you hear me?"

Leela nodded shakily, fingers closing around the handle.

And Joel just sat there for a moment, staring at her, still feeling the phantom panic in his veins, still trying to convince himself that she was okay.

That she was here. That he hadn’t lost her.

Tommy wasn’t buying it.

And it pissed Joel off. Piled onto the other—what? Five? Six? A dozen? He’d lost count—things already on his shitlist.

Still, he kept his distance. Kept Ellie back, too, for no reason, discounting the fact that she was immune.

Leela dragged the overflowing cart forward on the dead street, limping slowly. The old thing rattled, wheels stuttering over cracks in the pavement. Every so often, she’d stop—digging through rusted-out trucks, popping the hoods of long-dead cars, arms trembling as she reached in, feeling around for parts.

The afternoon sun beat down on them like a long-suffering punishment. It baked the asphalt and turned the air stuffy and dry. She was struggling. Joel could see it—the slack in her shoulders, the sluggish, tired way she moved, the way the limp in her step was getting worse. She was running on fumes.

He’d managed to pull the splinter from her calf, and cauterized the wound with the searing end of the rifle barrel, just in case. She’d cringed hard, let out a yelp, and gone stiff beneath his hands, but she hadn’t cried. Hadn’t fought him on it. Hadn’t even looked at him afterwards.

He’d bound it up tight with a strip of his flannel, close and snug. And that was that.

But fucking Tommy was still keeping his distance.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, scowling as his brother trailed behind her, still gripping his rifle like he was waiting for the worst. At least ten paces back. Observing for twitches. He wasn't wrong for being cautious, but Leela was seeing it, feeling it, how she was being treated like an inconvenience.

Ellie clucked her tongue from beside him, shifting uncomfortably. “You're such a cruel bitch, man,” she muttered. “She’s probably fine.”

“Probably ain’t good enough,” Tommy answered flatly. “Not takin’ any chances.”

Joel clenched his jaw, tension winding tight in his chest. Since when was his brother, the ex-Firefly, the bleeding heart, suddenly such a cynic?

“Joel?” Ellie shot him a look, voice careful, hesitant. A little afraid to ask. “It wasn’t a bite, right?”

His patience splintered as he bit out through his teeth, addressing his brother instead. “If I say it one more time, Tommy, it’ll be after I break your goddamn rib.”

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “Hey, don’t blame the messenger.”

Joel didn’t bother with a response—just slammed his shoulder hard into Tommy’s as he passed, enough to make his brother stumble, grumbling under his breath. Thought it would make him feel better, but surprise, surprise; he should've just tripped the son of a bitch on his ass.

He didn’t care. Not about Tommy’s paranoia, about the way he was still watching Leela like she was a loaded gun with a faulty trigger. It made Joel feel like shit.

Now, he refused to believe in a lot of things, but he believed in his own eyes. And his eyes told him she was not infected.

So he strode ahead, sifting into his pack, and digging out his water bottle. Hadn’t refilled it in two days, but she needed it more than he did.

He reached her side, matching her pace. “Have some,” he said, holding it out.

Leela didn’t look at him. Kept walking.

Joel ground his teeth, his grip on the bottle tightening. “Drink.” His tone brooked no arguments.

She sighed, glancing at him sideways, eyes dull, vacant. “What if I’m infected?”

Joel nearly stopped in his tracks. “You’re not infected,” he muttered, exasperated. “There's no sign.”

She let out a breath, shaking her head. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Her voice was thin. She pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead, hard, like she could grind the thought out of her skull. Punish herself with it.

“You were right, Joel. I’m always thinking—but it’s never about the right things. Maya, my research, my home... this is all on me.”

Joel frowned, something uneasy twisting in his gut. "Look, what I said earlier—how I—”

"I don’t care anymore,” she cut in, her voice barely above a whisper. “I deserved that.”

Joel felt that like a gun wound with no clean exit. She said it like a fact like she'd decided this. Could she not stop being so goddamn awful to herself for two seconds? Maybe not lay a bad trip on herself every time something went south?

His grip on the water bottle tightened. He took a breath and fought for patience.

"You didn't deserve shit." His voice was lower now, rough around the edges. "You fought your ass off, and you’re still here. You survived. That’s it. End of story, movin' on."

She didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him.

Joel hated this. Hated watching her walk like that, shoulders hunched, eyes distant, like she was already halfway gone.

Like she wasn’t even trying to hold herself together anymore.

He shoved the water bottle toward her again. “Drink the goddamn water.”

Joel watched as she took the water bottle, hesitating for just a second.

Then she raised it to her lips and gulped down what was left, fast, like she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until now. Water spilled from the corner of her mouth, slipping down her chin, but she didn’t bother wiping it away. Just drank until the bottle was empty until she had to stop and take a breath.

Joel let her have that moment. Then he took the cart handle from her grasp and took the load off her. Leela didn’t argue. Just fell in beside him, silent, exhausted.

It was just then that Ellie's complaints started up. When Ellie's grousings about 'severe FEDRA-level slavery,' got on his nerves, Tommy finally threw up his hands and called for a break.

They stopped at the next street corner, gathering under the shade of a souvenir shop. Tommy passed out rations—peanut butter sandwiches from Jackson, stale at the edges but still good enough. Ellie tore into hers immediately, swinging her boots where she perched on the ledge of the broken storefront window, crumbs scattering at her feet.

Joel didn’t even have to look at Leela to know what was coming. She hesitated, turned the sandwich over in her hands, once, twice—like she was waiting for some spark of appetite that never came.

"I’m not hungry," Leela muttered, setting the sandwich beside her knee before pushing herself up.

Joel watched as she stepped away, moving toward the shop entrance like she was just stretching her legs like she hadn’t been looking for some rest since they sat down.

He sighed and let her go.

Ellie frowned, still chewing. She glanced at the sandwich Leela left behind, then at Joel. "She eat anything today?"

Joel shook his head once. "I don't think so."

Ellie sighed. Then she dusted off her hands and hopped down from the ledge, following after her.

By the time Ellie caught up, Leela was already inside, wandering between toppled racks and glass cases that had long since been looted. Her fingers trailed over warped magazines and stacks of yellowed postcards, her touch too soft, like she was afraid anything more would make them crumble.

Ellie grabbed a few postcards from a rusted wire display, flipping through them. Bright colours, frozen places—little glimpses of a world that didn’t exist anymore.

"Hey," Ellie said, nudging one toward Leela. "What about this? Looks so cool."

Leela blinked like she was only just realizing Ellie was there. She glanced down. A postcard—a sun-soaked coast, palm trees stretching lazily over white sand. Probably reminded her of her before home, her lip twitching up a little.

Leela flipped it over, scanning the faded text. “Mallorca.”

“You been there?”

A pause. And then, a small nod.

Ellie plucked another—this one softer, the colours faded from time, the name written in neat cursive along the bottom. “An...ti...bees. Anti-bees. Never even heard of that.”

Leela didn’t even glance at it, and nodded again. “Antibes. France. Been there, too.”

Ellie studied her, then stuffed the postcards into her jacket. "Shit. You’ve been everywhere. Awesome."

Leela didn’t say anything or smile back. Didn’t brag, the way Ellie probably wanted her to. She continued to flip through the postcards like they were meaningless. Like they weren’t memories at all.

Joel exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard, his eyes never leaving her. She looked so small in there. As if she could’ve been just another part of the abandoned store—one more thing left behind.

“Joel.” Tommy’s voice cut through his observation, low and careful.

Joel barely glanced at him. Just kept chewing through the sandwich Leela had given him, eyes still on the store.

Tommy hesitated. “What’s the plan if she turns?”

Joel stopped chewing. The words landed like a slow knife to the ribs. He wanted to put a hole through that window just listening to it.

He swallowed, rolling his jaw. “I said she ain’t gonna turn.”

“I know, but—” Tommy exhaled, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Look, I believe you. But I gotta ask, ‘cause if you’re wrong—”

Joel turned to face him fully now, expression hard as stone. Seething. “Tommy.”

“Would you shoot her?” Tommy asked, blunt.

Joel barely chewed his last bite. The bread felt dry in his mouth, sticking to the roof of his mouth like dust, but he swallowed it down anyway, his eyes locked on the store where Leela was standing, a little more life in her eyes as Ellie attempted to cheer her up with her endless supply of puns.

Tommy’s question still stuttered his mind. Would he shoot her? Could he shoot her?

Joel wanted to say yes. He wanted to say he wouldn’t hesitate, that if she turned, he’d do what had to be done. That’s what he was good at, wasn’t it? Putting things down when they needed to be. Bear the brunt of the hard decisions.

But the words didn’t come.

Instead, his mind raced ahead of him, flashing through all the things he didn’t want to see. Leela, breathing hard. Weeping. Pleading with him. He could hear it now, could picture it like it was real like it had already happened. Her voice breaking. That sharp, desperate shake of her head. Those big, dark eyes, utterly empty this time, hollow, her veins crawling black, twitching.

Please, Joel. I don't want to die. Would she fight him? Would she try to run? Would she make him do it?

Or worse—would she accept it? Would she nod, take one last breath, close her eyes and wait for the bullet?

His stomach turned. He knew Leela, even at times like this. She’d make it easy for him. She wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t run. Wouldn’t force him to wrestle her to the ground. She’d just—let it happen. Face his rifle head-on. Make it quick, Joel. I don't want to feel a thing. And that thought was worse than anything.

Joel exhaled slowly, rubbing at the knot forming between his brows.

But it didn’t stop there. Because then came the next part.

Maya. God, Maya.

His throat tightened, his chest constricting at the thought of her alone in that house, waking up hungry, crying, waiting for a mother who was never coming back. Waiting for Leela.

If she was gone—if Joel let that happen—what happened to her daughter?

Would he just hand her off to Maria without a second thought, because her mother's murderer couldn't touch a hair on that sweet head without tainting it? Or would he do it himself anyway, raise her, love her, stay with her in that big white house, tell her about a mother she’d never remember if only through pictures?

Joel inhaled sharply, cutting that thought off at the root. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t let his mind wander any further down that road.

His hand flexed where it rested on his knee, fingers twitching to his pant pocket where the imprint of the little button embossed on his thigh, the one that Maya had picked off the street last night and passed to him with that soul-crushing, gummy grin of hers.

The answer should’ve been easy.

It should’ve been an immediate yes. He should’ve said it by now.

How could he go back to being the man he'd been desperately trying to outrun? He wasn’t one to pull the trigger just because something looked bad anymore.

Because he knew better. Knew what it meant to lose. Knew what it meant to take. And the sheer fucking burden of it didn’t sit right on his soul.

Joel sighed, fiercely shaking his head. “We’re not havin’ this conversation.”

Tommy didn’t push, but Joel could feel him watching. Waiting.

And Joel hated it. The doubt, the uncertainty, the way it stuck to him like blood on his hands. Because the truth was—If it came to that, if she was turning, if there was no saving her—Joel wasn’t sure he could do it.

By the time they reached the lake, the more relaxing route toward Jackson, the day had worn them all thin. Relief was sweet, to Leela more than the others.

They deserved this breathing spell, maybe that's why Tommy took this trail. It had been miles of hot sun, dry wind, and half-dead exhaustion that hardened into the bones. Too many things had happened—too many conversations left half-finished, too many wounds, seen and unseen, still bleeding under the surface.

But here the air was clean, touched with crisp pine and cold water. The lake stretched out wide before them, the mountains cradling it like a secret, their peaks softened by the golden evening light. The cabins stood quiet among the trees, their wood dark with time, their windows empty.

Joel slowed his horse, taking a breath, letting his shoulders drop just a little.

He imagined Maya here, toddling in the shallows, barefoot and giggling, a little bucket hat over her feathery curls, stuffing her tiny fists with pebbles and leaving baby footprints in the wet mud. Happy. Safe. With her parents. The kind of afternoon that should’ve been normal for her.

He missed her. Too, too much. He absently rubbed the button at his pocket, bearing a small smile. Had it been really been the whole day? He couldn't wait to get back home, have her breathe out that panting, hitchy breath of laughter as she came wobbling for him.

Still, it was nice here. Peaceful. And for a second, it felt like they weren’t running.

He glanced over at Leela.

She was staring straight ahead at the lake’s smooth, glassy surface, her fingers slack around the reins of her horse. Not moving, not speaking, just looking.

“Actually kinda pretty, ain't it?” he murmured.

She only let out a quiet breath.

“Yeah,” she said eventually, voice barely above the hush of the wind.

He studied her for a moment—the way she looked at the lake without really seeing it, the way her voice didn’t match the lightness of her words.

She was doing that awful thing again. Reaching for something just out of her grasp. Trying to picture something that wouldn’t come.

Joel sighed and swung off his horse, moving toward hers. He took the reins, steadying the animal before tilting his head up at her.

“Go on, then.” He nodded toward the water. “Let your hair down for a bit. We're close to town anyway.”

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I'm good.”

“Now, darlin’—”

“Joel.” He heard it then—the edge to her voice. The exhaustion. “I'm not in the mood. Just go.”

Joel clenched his jaw till something popped. He didn’t let the disappointment show and didn’t press the issue. He knew better.

Just nodded once and turned away, walking toward where Tommy and Ellie stood by the lake, rolling out the tension from the day.

The breeze cooled off the water, lifting the heat that had weighed heavy on them. But Joel still burned not just from the sun, but from something else, a displaced load in his chest. He needed quiet.

He let himself wander, boots moving on their own past the cabins. The dirt was loose beneath him, old pine needles crunching, the scent of damp earth dense in the cooling evening. The distant rustle of birds carried over the water, but Joel barely heard it.

He was still too full of her voice. The way it wavered. The way she looked at him, absolutely devastated, before she had sighed.

He willed himself to focus on something else. Just the ground beneath him. Just the sky above him. Just breathe in, breathe out.

Until he saw it. He had to do a double-take, just to make sure he wasn't seeing stuff.

A cabin, the same size as the others, but this one—

This one was burned to hell. The entire thing had been gutted—charred black, the roof caved in, the porch sagging on its last, miserable legs. Windows blown out, the edges jagged with soot. The wood still smelled like it had burned recently, that sick, acrid stench of an electrical fire curling up in the back of his throat.

Joel stopped.

His muscles coiled tight, readied, breath slowing as he scanned the surrounding area.

The other cabins were untouched, not a mark on them. But this one had been burned down to the skeleton.

Something about it didn't sit right.

Slowly, Joel turned his head, looking over his shoulder. Ellie and Tommy were still by the lake, too far away, Ellie skipping rocks, Tommy saying something, hands moving as he talked. Leela was out of sight, hidden by the cover of trees and cabins.

Joel returned to the cabin in the spirit of inquiry, stepping onto what was left of the porch. The boards creaked, soft under his weight, and when he pushed open what remained of the door, the smell hit him like a gut punch—smoke, damp ash, something rotted.

The fire had torn through the inside just as bad as the outside. Everything was gone.

The walls were scorched, furniture reduced to blackened skeletons, and the mattress was little more than charcoal and wire. The space had been stripped of warmth, of life, reduced to nothing but ruin.

“Jesus.” The word barely left his lips before he saw them.

Two bodies.

Scorched. Twisted. Unrecognizable. Stilled in the exact positions they had died. One was closer to the bed, curled inward like they’d been trying to protect themselves from the heat. The other sprawled nearer to the door, obviously in an attempt to escape.

Joel knew that stance. He’d seen it before. Run and burn.

The uniform was barely there—scorched black, peeled away in places, but the collar remained intact enough to tell the story.

He crouched, eyes tracking across the floor, the details unravelling themselves in layers. Former FEDRA, probably. Runaways. Recently turned raiders. Even through the charring, he recognized the insignia on the camo-green collar.

Joel nudged what remained of the skull with his boot, the brittle bone breaking apart, collapsing inward like a dry leaf.

“Probably fuckin’ deserved it,” he muttered. But it didn’t bring him any comfort.

Something was off.

This wasn’t a FEDRA outpost. Wasn’t a checkpoint, a patrol route, or a resupply station. The room was too small, too personal. The furniture—what was left of it—wasn’t a regulation. The scattered remains weren’t military-grade. Yet, the whole place stank of it. Tyranny. Wealth. Power. Drugs. Rot.

Joel’s eyes roved over the wreckage. The fire hadn’t taken everything, though.

There, right by the bed—melted plastic, warped glass. Empty pill bottles and liquor containers. Loose zip locks, some of them still filled with white powder Joel used to begrudgingly peddle back in Boston. Ration packs from the QZ were torn open, contents spilling out like someone had been too impatient to open them properly.

It wasn’t a checkpoint.

It was a hideout. They must’ve holed up here for a while, waiting something out.

His gaze caught on a backpack, half-buried in the charred remains, its contents spilt out like someone had gone through it in a hurry. Charred clothes, a lighter, a flashlight, and utensils.

And a shoe. Small. A size too slight for a man’s foot. The soft leathery edges curled and blackened, but the tag inside was just barely readable beneath the soot.

Joel bent, brushing his thumb over it, knocking away the ash. The letters beneath made him snort. Some fancy Italian brand. Expensive. His mind flicked back—Leela’s house, her endless closets, neatly lined with shoes that didn’t belong in this world.

No wonder. It finally made sense for rich assholes to like places like this. They came out to the middle of nowhere to fuck around, get high, waste their shit on things that didn't matter.

Joel tossed the shoe aside and straightened, moving deeper into the wreckage. His hands brushed the charred edges of furniture, fingertips finding the brittle remnants of things that had once meant comfort—pillows turned to dust, a mirror warped in the heat, a chair crumpled inward.

Then he saw the rifle.

He smirked, his lucky day. Sure, it was smaller than his, the wood stained dark, almost black beneath the soot. Sturdy, thirty calibre, American-made, definitely not the kind of rifle you wouldn't see a FEDRA soldier have. It had been tossed aside near the backpack like someone had discarded it in a hurry.

He knelt, running his palm over the stock, feeling the grit of ash give way to smooth wood. The engraving beneath was faint, hidden in the dark, but as he brushed away the dust, it came through—delicate but unmistakable.

Cherries.

Joel heaved out a breath. His fingers stilled over the engraving, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A tiny mark, burned beneath layers of soot, was almost innocuous.

But he’d seen this before.

A different rifle. A different home.

A cowboy hat. A sunflower. A cherry.

The third missing rifle. One for each member of the family.

His stomach clenched. He could see them in his eyes—lined up in Leela’s living room, the weapons she never used, never even acknowledged. The ones that were hers but weren’t hers. Polished. Preserved. Like artefacts. Like gravestones.

His throat went tight, air pushing through his nose in a sharp, uneven breath. And all at once, his body knew before his mind could catch up.

Someone had been here. Not passing through. Not scavenging.

She had been kept here.

Joel’s body locked up, a sick load clinching in his gut as his gaze swept the room again—now searching, understanding.

The mattress—charred down to its skeleton, coiled metal peeking through, the last stubborn remnants of sheets melted into the frame.

The belt.

His vision sharpened. The straps melted into the mattress frame. The scorched edge of a leather belt, its buckle twisted from heat. The dark stains, layered beneath the soot, soaked deep into the wood. A clean through the knot.

Someone had fought like hell.

Joel exhaled through his teeth, his knuckles whitening where they curled at his sides.

His brain was putting it together faster than he wanted it to.

The burned clothes in the corner—ripped at odd angles, tossed aside like garbage.

The splintered chair—one leg broken, shards of wood scattered like someone had slammed it against the floor, against a body.

The walls—scuffed, handprints smeared past the soot, the echo of someone pushing away, fighting, failing.

That sinking feeling became madness, nausea heaving through him.

On the floor—long, thin, small. A black hair ribbon. Burned at the edges, and melted in places, but the middle of it was untouched. Still soft. Still delicate. Still, something that had once belonged to a girl. He'd seen Leela use it on her braids hundreds of times.

Joel’s breathing went ragged. His pulse pounded in his ears.

It felt like poison in his veins, the slow drip of information into his head.

The way she always kept her back to the wall. The way she flinched—not much, just barely—but enough, whenever someone moved too fast, whenever a shadow crossed her path the wrong way. The way she never talked about before Maya. Maya, god, Maya.

His chest squeezed, he had to press his palm just to make sure he wasn't about to pass out. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

The fire had tried to erase it. But it hadn’t.

The proof was here, in the remains. The belt. The bedframe. The ribbon. The rifle.

Joel turned back, his gaze landing on the scorched, skeletal remains near the door. His stomach twisted, white-hot rage flickering through the nausea.

He looked at them, looked at what was left of them, and felt nothing. No pity. No hesitation. No misery.

Whoever had done this—whoever had burned this place down, made sure it would never stand again—they had done the world a fucking favour.

He could see it then.

He didn’t want to, but his mind pulled it forward anyway, like a dark thing rising from deep water, clawing its way into the light.

The mattress sagging under the force of bodies. The fight. The struggle. The burn of restraints against soft wrists, the sharp crack of something breaking—bone, furniture, someone’s resolve. The walls shaking from the force of it. The air stifling, sultry with sweat, with smoke, with the stench of men who took what they wanted, heady from a trip, and left behind the wreckage.

When the screams began, his gut twisted, nausea kicking up sharp and fast.

Joel jerked back, sucking in a breath like he’d been underwater too long. His stomach lurched.

No.

Joel swallowed hard, his mouth tasting of ash and bile. He got the hell out of there, boots scraping over scorched wood, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His pulse roared against his skull, his stomach rolling, his whole body burning like he’d swallowed the poison of this place whole.

He turned, pushing through the ruined doorway, shoving out into the evening air.

The scent of fire clung to him. Smoke. Rot. The sounds.

He braced his hands against his thighs, head ducking down, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.

Breathe, he told himself. Forget it. Breathe.

But it wasn’t working.

The memories weren’t his, but they were in him now, crawling under his skin, working their way into the deepest crevices of his mind.

Joel had seen a lot of evil in his life. But this—this was something else. Worse. Something he should’ve never learned. And for the first time in a long time, he wished he had stayed the hell out of it.

So, he kept walking. Didn't look back. Fast at first, then faster.

The burned cabin shrank behind him, but its looming presence didn’t. It clung to his skin, sank into the seams of his clothes, and resigned heavy and dark in his lungs.

His boots pressed deep into the dirt, kicking up dust, dry pine needles snapping underfoot. He didn’t care where he was going, only that he was putting distance between himself and that place—that stain.

But the rifle was still in his hands.

His fingers tightened around it, feeling the soot, the grit, the filth of it digging into his palms, burning like it was branding him. He wanted to throw it. Wanted to drop it, bury it, let it disappear into the weeds, let the earth swallow it whole.

But instead, he kept walking.

Until the sound of laughter struck him. Soft, rolling over the water, tangled in the breeze. It shouldn’t have hit him so hard.

Joel’s head snapped up, breaths still ragged.

Ellie and Tommy stood too close together by the shore, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, swaying, singing—loud, off-key, godawful. The words didn’t even register at first, just noise. Just a sharp, jarring thing that dragged him back into the present too fast.

And then he caught it. The song. Total Eclipse of the Heart.

Jesus.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, and everything felt too abrupt. Disorienting. His mind is still stuck in that cabin, hearing things long gone, breathing smoke that was long gone.

He didn’t know what the hell he was expecting—maybe for the world to still feel like it was on fire. Like he was.

But here they were. Laughing. Singing. Having a great time. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just clawed his way out of hell. His grip tightened on the rifle.

His gaze cut past them—to her.

Leela was still on her horse, watching them, shaking her head. Her shoulders had relaxed, the tension she had carried through the day bleeding away like it had never been there.

And then, suddenly—she smiled. It was small, barely there, but real. The kind of smile that sneaks up on a person, that slips past the cracks before they even realize it’s happened. Her head dipped like she was trying to fight it, but the corners of her mouth curled up anyway. Her lashes fluttered, shoulders trembling from quiet laughter.

Like nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t been here before at all. As if she hadn’t been trapped in that place, in that nightmare, in a past she never dared to utter aloud.

Like he hadn’t just seen the wreckage of it with his own two eyes.

Something crawled up his throat, hot and mean. A sick, twisting thing. That part of him wants to put it in Leela’s hands, make her understand what he now knows. To bring it all back despite that being his last intention.

Maybe Leela really had no idea. Maybe she didn’t remember. Maybe that goddamn fog—the one she was always lost in—had swallowed it whole. Spared her.

Mercy on her mind. Whatever void above was repaying her compassion. Or maybe she’d chosen to forget. Decided to ignore it. Or maybe the pain of remembering all the horror inflicted made her lose sight of where it happened. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Either way, Joel didn’t have the fucking right to take that from her.

His fingers uncurled from the rifle’s stock. That nausea crept back in, a slow, curling sickness that seeped into his bones.

His knuckles ached. He hadn’t realized how tight he’d been holding it—like it was the only thing keeping him upright, like it had latched onto him, burned into his skin, clung to him like a brand. It wouldn’t let go until he did.

His gaze dropped to the wood. Soot. Grime. Filth. The feel of it in his hands was unbearable. It sat there, heavy and wrong, its history seeping through his fingers like a sickness.

And there, beneath all the muck—the cherry. Easy. Innocent. A goddamn lie.

Joel swallowed thickly. His pulse pounded against his skull, a deep, insistent throb. He didn’t want to think about what it meant.

Simply let the rifle slip from his fingers. It fell soundlessly into the brush, swallowed by the dark, and disappeared into the damp earth. Gone.

His feet moved forth before his brain caught up. The path blurred beneath him, his boots scuffing against the earth as he veered off, crouching low, hands skimming the damp ground.

He needed—something. Anything to pull himself back, to ground him, to wipe the feeling of fire and metal from his hands. Though, the practical part of his head shouted, asking, what the fuck he was doing.

His fingers brushed against something soft.

A flower. Small. Wild. Purple. Delicate. Whole. Untouched.

It didn’t belong here, in the filth, in the destruction, in the wake of something so goddamn ugly. And yet—here it was. Sharing its likeness to someone he knew.

Joel plucked it without thinking.

And then he was walking again, his boots moving steady, purposive, toward her.

Leela turned when she noticed him walking toward her, her head tilting just slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet his. A question there. A quiet curiosity.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just held out the flower.

She blinked. First at him, then at his hand.

Her lips parted. The warmth in her expression softened, deepened. For a second, she just looked at him, searching his face, like she was trying to understand something he wasn’t saying.

And then—her smile widened.

Not much. Just a small curve of her lips. But real. Honest. Breaking his miserable heart with that smile that was spoken for in his name.

She reached for it, took it carefully from his fingers, rolling it between the pads of her fingertips for a moment. Then, with the same careful precision, she slid it into her hair, tucking it near her neck. That violet bloomed against her like it belonged.

“Thank you, Joel,” she murmured.

Joel swallowed everything that burned in his throat and shoved it down where it would snuff out sooner or later. He simply managed a nod.

Then he turned, clearing his throat, his voice coming gruff, unduly commanding. “Right, let's move. C'mon.”

Ellie and Tommy groaned, dragging their feet, still laughing, still complaining, still alive.

But Joel was already looking ahead, hands loose at his sides.

He didn’t glance back at the rifle. Didn’t check to see if it had sunk into the brush, lost beneath the undergrowth.

Let it be buried.

Let it stay gone.

The big white house welcomed them back like an old friend, its porch light casting a soft glow over the worn steps.

Joel barely had a second to register the warmth of it before Maya came stumbling toward them, bounding forward, her small legs rushing too fast for her body. She tripped, fell to her knees, and then—“Ma-ma!”

Leela was already there. She caught her before she could hit the ground, pulling her into her arms, holding her tight, like she never wanted to let go.

Joel sighed, sucking a deep breath in. All the warmth of the lights, the faint hint of grease from the basement, the herbs from the kitchen, the white curtains snapping away in the breeze. This was what coming home was supposed to feel like.

Leela clutched her daughter to her chest, her face buried in the dark curls, inhaling deep like she could breathe her in. A shuddering exhale left her, like she’d been holding it in since the moment she left this house.

She had faced death today. And now, she was holding her life in her arms.

“Did you miss me?” she murmured to Maya, oh-so-tender. She smoothed a hand over Maya’s back and scratched gently at her belly. “Yeah? You did?”

Maya giggled, squirming in her mother’s hold.

Leela kissed her temple, her forehead, her small, chubby hands. “I missed you, too, baby girl. Mama missed you so much.”

He had seen Leela exhausted when she was with their baby girl. Distant. Detached. He had seen her shut down, her voice hollow, her eyes unfocused, like she had learned how to live in a way that kept her just outside of it.

But this—right now. She was here. Completely in Maya's orbit.

Maya pulled back slightly, tilting her head at her mother with that childish wonder, watching her closely like she was searching for something—measuring the movement of her lips, the sound of her words.

With slow, wary fingers, she touched Leela’s mouth. She wasn’t just hearing her mother’s words. She was holding them. Keeping them safe. Then, just as slowly, she brought her hand to her own lips.

Joel’s lips coiled upwards. Another trick that Leela had taught her. A way to say 'I love you'. Little smartass was catching on pretty quick.

Leela let out a soft laugh, her nose stroking against Maya’s. “I love you, too.”

He turned away. This moment—it didn’t belong to him. He felt like a trespasser like he had stepped into something too soft, too sacred for his presence. For the first time in a long time, he felt out of place in this big house.

Maria seemed to notice. She rested a hand on his back, voice quiet. “You okay, Miller?”

Joel exhaled through his nose and lied. “Fine.”

Maria didn’t push it, but her hand lingered for a second longer before she stepped away. “You owe me for that shit you pulled today. Nearly cost me a horse.” And when Joel shot her a no-bullshit glance, she added, “And a stupid fuckin' brother-in-law. Whatever.”

Joel nodded, impressed. “Naturally.”

She snorted, shaking her head as she walked out.

Joel followed her to the door, pack still slung over his shoulder. His hand landed on it, ready to push it closed—but his gaze drifted past the porch, past the quiet street, to the house across from him. His home.

He definitely should go. He should walk out, shut the door behind him, and put some distance between himself and everything that happened today for a while. The words he’d thrown at her in this house. The way he had pushed it further at the store. The grim fucking cabin.

All of it should have been reason enough to leave. But he couldn't move.

He took a slow, thoughtful breath. Let the warmth of the house settle into his skin. Then, before he could think too hard about it, he clicked the door shut.

Because he was too fucking selfish to leave.

So, Joel dropped his pack by the door, shrugged off his jacket, and toed off his boots. The big, white house had whispered around him with its scent of candlewax, firewood and warm linens, but not in him. Not just yet.

His gaze flicked up, landing on Leela just as she gently tucked the flower behind Maya’s ear. “Don't you look cute, trouble?” she teased.

A lump formed in his throat.

Maya blinked up at her mother, chubby fingers reaching to touch the delicate petals like she could hold onto them. Her eyes, wide and round, tracked her mother’s face with something close to awe before breaking off to her signature, gummy grin.

Joel had a smile curve up for her in return when she reached for him knowingly. “Hi, baby girl. C'mere, let me have a kiss, too.”

He leaned down, palming her back, pressing his lips deep into Maya’s curls, having his fill of kisses. God, he fucking loved her. She smelled of soap and soft cotton, of warm bathwater and the sweetness of bedtime. Her tiny fingers found his neck, curling into his skin. For a second, he let himself stay there, let her hold him.

Then he pulled away without another glance, stepping back from the moment before it could swallow him whole, giving them some space.

He stepped into the kitchen instead, grabbed a glass from the overflowing drying rack, and filled it under the tap.

Then—the cabin.

It came back, unbidden, curling around his mind like smoke.

The stench of rot. The filth on the rifle, caked in soot and sin. The bones burned into the floor, the pills pressing into the soles of his shoes.

Joel squeezed his eyes shut. Tilted his head back. Drowned it all with a long gulp of water.

Good. Let the fire take them. Let them burn down to nothing, to dust. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have left a fucking trace of those motherfuckers, not even their bones.

A warmth settled on his back.

Joel's every muscle tensed beneath it. Two palms, pressed gentle between his shoulder blades. Silently calling for him.

When he turned and glanced down, Leela was standing there. Maya was gone—tucked away somewhere safely in the living room, her shadow padding across from surface to surface for trouble to cause.

Now it was just them.

“Hey,” he tried first.

“Hi,” she returned.

She was warily watching him. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, fingers twisting together. Obviously, there was something she was dying to say, ask, or do. Without even knowing it, he knew his answer would be a flat yes.

Joel cleared his throat, setting the glass away. “Y'know, I'm proud of you. You did really well today.”

He barely got to finish that last sentence.

Before he could say anything else, she stepped forward and looped her arms around his neck. Utterly winding him.

It wasn't just a hug. This was clinging.

She pressed close and warm, her body tipping forward, her very toes crushing against his own, as though not an inch of skin should go untouched, and he hardly had time to catch her. Her arms wound tight around him, slender fingers sliding up, curling into the back of his longer, greying hair, pulling just gingerly as they dragged against the grain.

She melted into him. Sank into his chest like it was the only place she could land. She was holding on. Staying.

And for a second, Joel just stood there, hands hovering, caught between instinct and hesitation.

Because this wasn’t for him. It was for her. He should pull back. Shouldn’t take something she wasn’t giving him, shouldn’t soak up the heat of her like he fucking needed it.

Then, she shivered. Just faintly. Just enough.

And Joel broke.

His arms locked around her, one gripping her around her waist, the other spanning between her shoulder blades, brushing against her long braid. He held her tight, holding her close.

Her heartbeat thrummed against his ribs, her trim abdomen crushed into his stomach and belt buckle, and each finger of his ruined hand depressed into a portion of her spine. A soft, fragile thing.

She was here. She’d always come back.

Joel turned his face, pressing his lips against the side of her head, breathing her in, his fingers tightening in her shirt like he could keep her there. Like he could hold her together.

The cabin. The filth. The fire—it was all gone. Burned away in the warmth of her, the scent of her hair, the way her fingers curled deeper against his skin.

And Joel, for all his anger, for all his ghosts, for all the things he did and did not deserve—held on.

She exhaled softly against his neck, her breath warm, and uneven. Her hands curled a little tighter against the back of his head like she could anchor herself to him.

“I’m going to get sick and tired of saying thank you, Joel.” Her voice was quiet, a little scratchy, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say it at all.

Joel huffed, barely a sound. His hand flexed against her back. “Then stop sayin’ it,” he murmured.

Leela let out something between a breath and a laugh, her body shifting against his. Finding her fit against him.

Joel felt her fingers at the nape of his neck, brushing against the rough curls there. It sent something tight through his ribs, something that coiled in his chest and refused to let go.

She was quiet for a long moment, just breathing him in.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “If something happens to me—”

Joel stiffened. His grip on her waist tightened like he could hold her in place like just the thought of losing her was enough to make his body rebel against it.

“Don't.” His voice was a warning, a plea, rough with something he didn’t want to name.

Leela didn’t let go.

Her fingers curled against the nape of his neck, grounding herself in him. Or maybe—trying to ground him. Trying to hold him there before she said something he wouldn’t want to hear.

“If something happens to me, I need to know that you'll take care of Maya.”

He knew why she was saying this bullshit.

She was only here by chance. By luck. A few inches, a second too slow, and she wouldn’t be in his arms right now—wouldn’t be pressing against him, wouldn’t be warm, wouldn’t be breathing, wouldn’t be looking up at him with those eyes like she was asking him for something bigger than a promise. Something final.

“Ain't gonna happen,” he muttered.

“Joel.” A soft plea, a tilt of her head.

He shook his head, jaw tight, chest locking up like a goddamn vice. “Christ, Leela. This shouldn't even be up for question.”

But she was insistent, her grip on him tightening, like she was afraid he'd pull away. Like she needed him to hear this. Accept this.

“Then promise me now.” The words barely held together. Cracked down the middle. “Not Maria. Not Tommy or even Ellie. You.”

Joel clenched his teeth, something raw scraping inside his ribs. All these promises he's been making. How were any of those fair on him?

“Joel, I don't have anyone else left. You have to understand how important this is to me.” Her voice was steadier now, but her hands trembled against him. “She’s all yours. She’s always been yours. My home, all my research, my daughter—you'll be there. It's all yours.”

His breaths ached, as if it was inside him, splitting.

This was fucking real. Not some passing thought, not some fleeting worry—this was her laying it out, putting her life into his wrecked hands, trusting him with it.

Maya wasn’t just hers. She was his, too.

She had been for a long time, hadn’t she? And if something happened—if Leela was gone—there wasn’t a damn force on this earth that would take that little girl from him. It didn’t scare him anymore.

“You don’t need me to put it in triplicate,” he murmured. “I'd do it without askin’.”

Leela exhaled sharply like she’d been holding her breath. “I know. Needed to hear it from you.”

Joel lifted a hand, threading his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up just slightly. “You’re both mine. Both of you.”

He made it quiet, severe, but unshakable. A vow, not just to her, but to himself. Because that was the truth. The thing he’d known for longer than he’d let himself admit.

They were his.

Leela let out a small breath—like this was the only thing she’d needed.

But then, after a moment—she spoke again.

“If this is about legacy or—” Joel started, but she cut him off before he could even finish the thought.

“I don't give a shit about legacy, Joel. Look at me,” she said, fierce in a way that left no room for doubt.

Her fingers dug into him, pressing at the base of his skull, as if forcing him to stay his eyes on her. To the sharp edges of her features, the slight furrow in her brow.

She meant this. She fucking meant it.

And maybe that shouldn’t have hit him as hard as it did, but Christ, after all this time, after everything she’d kept close, all the ways she’d pulled away—here she was, giving him this. Not just her daughter, not just trust, but herself.

Not the Leela who brushed things off with an easy laugh. Not the Leela who went silent when it hurt, shutting herself away before anyone could get too close. Not the one who had been worn thin by exhaustion, by grief, by everything this world had taken from her.

No—this was the one who fought. The one who was staring him down now, fire in her eyes, daring him to push back.

It struck him somewhere deep, somewhere below words, below reason.

This was her. All the dimensions. The burden of her intellect, the sharpness of her conviction, the softness that she didn’t let many people see. The mother of his child. The woman he—god, the woman he really goddamn loved.

“I want my daughter with you.” A beat. “With her father.”

Everything inside Joel went quiet, dead still, like his brain had to stop just to catch up to what she’d said.

His throat worked, but no sound came out.

Leela watched him, her hands solid against him, holding him in place. Not backing down.

“Now, I know we haven’t gotten down to talking about it because of everything—” she muttered carefully, “but you accept that, don’t you? That you’re more than just Joel to Maya?”

He should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve known.

Because wasn’t this the truth? Wasn’t this what had been sitting there, waiting, just waiting for him to stop being so goddamn stubborn and see it?

Maya didn’t just cling to him—she reached for him. She trusted him in that quiet, simple way children did when they knew, down to their bones, who their people were. Or maybe it had happened even earlier, when he’d first stepped into this, when he’d first decided—without words, without promises—that he wasn’t walking away.

And he’d never fought it. Never questioned it, never thought of her as anything but his. But hearing it—hearing it, out loud, no escape, no walking around it—

It was a thunderclap in his black sky.

His eyes flickered over Leela’s face, searching. Waiting for her to say something else, something to ease the way it was fucking ravaging him.

She only waited, knowing the unspoken.

Joel exhaled, slow, long. His fingers flexed in her hair, at her waist, at the places where she fit against him.

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse, stripped bare for her to see.

He felt his past pressing against the edges of this moment—Sarah’s wide grin, her hand gripping his as she leaned on his side, in a home full of possibilities before the world had collapsed beneath them. Ellie’s fire, the way she’d fought relentlessly against every part of him that had tried to keep her at arm’s length.

He’d been a father twice over.

And now—now he was being handed the chance again.

But it was different this time. Not just because it was Maya, because she was small and warm and already his—but also that he wasn’t alone in it.

Because this time, he wasn’t clawing through it with only guilt and hard work and grief and stubbornness and separation keeping him going.

This time, there was a warm home. A quiet life. Some room to grow. There was Leela.

Maybe that was the part that really undid him. Not just being a father again, but parenting with someone.

He thought of all those nights when she was too exhausted to function, but still got up anyway, still kept going, because that’s what she did. He thought of the hushed strength of her, the stubborn resolve, the way she had fought to keep Maya safe in a world that didn’t leave room for that kind of thing.

He wasn’t fumbling through it alone this time.

“Yeah,” Leela whispered her answer, as if reading his mind.

She tilted her head up, rising on her toes again—not much, just enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his jaw.

Joel breathed out sharply.

This was dangerous. This was slipping, past whatever line he’d attempted to keep between them for her sake. He should move. Say something. Break it up and put space where there wasn’t any.

Joel swallowed, hard. A little, idiotic, anxious part of him wondered if it had been that long and the fundamentals of a kiss had changed. There wasn't a textbook to flip here.

He had kissed women before. Had held them, had wanted them, had fucked them, and felt that pleasure only a woman could offer him when he hit the mattress.

Leela was different.

Not just because she was her, not just because she looked up at him like that—like she had never once questioned whether he was worth wanting, like she already knew this was happening, like she had already made up her mind. It didn’t matter to her that he was worn down, exhausted, and probably reeked of sweat and death and whatever the hell else he’d been working through that day.

No—she was different because he was different. Because it had been a long, long time since Joel had let himself want a woman like this.

Want without restraint. Want without thinking about the mess of it, the mistakes of it, the goddamn risk of it.

And she—God, she looked fucking stunning. Just like the first time he’d seen her, only now, it wasn’t from across the street. Wasn’t at a distance. She was here, close enough to feel, close enough to breathe in.

Her fingers curled deeper into his hair, and whatever was left of his restraint snapped like brittle wire.

His head dipped before he could stop it.

The first brush of their lips was hesitating—soft, careful, fucking fantastic, like neither of them were quite sure they had permission. Like they were hovering on the edge of something neither of them could name.

Leela stiffened—just for a second.

Joel felt it. The way she froze—like the reality of it had just hit her. But her hands stayed, one fisted against his shoulder, the other still tangled in his hair, gripping tighter, not pulling away.

A small, shuddering breath slipped from her lips.

Joel swallowed, trying to ignore the way she did that, the way her fingers tensed against his scalp, her lips parted, uncertain, and she sighed against him.

For fuck's sake, she’d never done this before. Not like this. Not the way it should be done, not to be had. She was waiting on him—watching him, trusting him to show her how.

His palm smoothed up her spine, patient, languid. Soothing. Sweetheart, you ain’t gotta be nervous.

Leela inhaled sharply. And her grip shuddered. Tentatively, like she wasn’t sure she was doing it right, her lips moved against his.

He could feel the way she concentrated, the way she was brooding in that shrewd little head of hers, and figured it out as she went, pressing a little too lightly, pulling back like she went too far, or wasn’t sure how much to give.

His chest clenched. Jesus.

She was trying. Trying so hard, even though she didn’t know how.

Joel let his other hand drift up—languid, knowing—fingertips grazing along the edge of her jaw, curving, pressing, tilting her just slightly. Guiding her.

Leela’s breath hitched.

Then, as if that small adjustment had steadied her, she softened entirely against him.

And Joel—yeah, he was fucking gone.

His fingers threaded into her hair, twisting into those wild, thick strands that weaved down into her braid, angling her deeper, letting her have all of him. Because that seemed to be all he could give her. Nothing but himself.

His lips moved against hers, gentle, sure, patient—like he was showing her how.

God, she was so fucking sweet. So nervous, so careful, but trusted him to lead her through it.

Her lips parted, a quiet, breathless sound slipping through—small, barely anything, but fuck, it hit him hard.

Joel groaned, low, deep in his throat, heat curling through his stomach. What he would give to push her up against that counter behind her, to have him pick apart that pretty pearl-buttoned night dress or bite off those bows and strings in those mind-bending backless tops of hers.

The thought only made his hand splay at her waist, pulling her flush against him, fingers pressing into the small of her back. Leela let out a soft gasp, her other hand sliding up, gripping at his throat, and she wanted more.

Well, he was already fucking ruined anyway.

His lips moved deeper into her, more certain, his fingers pressing into the curve of her jaw, tipping, angling—letting her feel it, letting her lead, letting her find her rhythm, letting her take what she wanted at her own pace.

And she did. She deserved that. Knowing she was in control of this.

He pulled back just an inch—just enough to meet her gaze, to give her a second to breathe, to make sure she knew—

But before he could, her lips chased his, and Jesus—

Joel laughed softly, deep in his throat, warmth curling through his stomach, twisting through his ribs. Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you need.

So he kissed her again. More. Deeper. As long she wanted. Till his lips went blue, till his legs went dead, till his brain was fuzzy, till she was sure she'd mastered the art of kissing.

Her fingers trembled against his neck when she eventually fell back on her heels, realizing—like this was finally sinking in.

Joel exhaled against her lips, gruff. “Good?”

Leela nodded—too fast, too eager. “Mhm.”

It was barely a whisper, barely there at all, but her hands were still on him, still keeping close, still wanting.

His thumb brushed over her jaw, soft, reassuring. “You sure?”

She swallowed, eyes flickering over his face, searching—like she was waiting for something. And then, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it—

“I didn’t know it could be like this.”

Oh, that knocked the wind out of him. The next time she said shit like that, he'd put his fist through a wall.

His hand lifted, threading through her hair with a tenderness that nearly undid him, coarse fingers dragging through the strands before resting at the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the soft skin there, his other hand smoothing over the small of her back, pulling her a breath closer.

“S’alright, darlin',” he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead, lingering just a little longer than necessary. “Ain’t gotta rush.”

And that—that was it.

That was the moment Joel knew. And Christ, maybe that was the thing he never let himself want—never let himself hope for.

This wasn’t about grief. This wasn’t about making promises in the shadow of something terrible.

This was about life. A chance to do this again, but with stability. With reassurance. With her.

Leela was standing in front of him, alive, wanting, present. All his.

And somehow, despite all the shit they’d lived through, despite all the ways he had shut himself off over the years—somehow, he was too.

{ taglist 🫶: @darknight3904 , @guiltyasdave , @letsgobarbs , @helskemes , @jodiswiftle , @tinawantstobeadoll , @bergamote-catsandbooks , @cheekychaos28 , @randofantfic , @justagalwhowrites , @emerald-evans , @amyispxnk , @corazondebeskar-reads , @wildemaven , @tuquoquebrute , @elli3williams , @bluemusickid , @bumblepony , @legoemma , @chantelle-mh , @heartlessvirgo , @possiblyafangirl , @pedropascalsbbg , @oolongreads -> @kaseynsfws , @prose-before-hoes , @kateg88 , @laliceee , @escaping-reality8 , @mystickittytaco , @penvisions , @elliaze , @eviispunk , @lola-lola-lola , @peepawispunk , @sarahhxx03 , @julielightwood , @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi , @arten1234 , @jhiddles03 , @everinlove , @nobodycanknoww , @ashleyfilm , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @i-howl-like-a-wolf-at-the-moon , @orcasoul , @nunya7394 , @noisynightmarepoetry , @picketniffler , @ameagrice , @mojaveghst , @dinomecanico , @guelyury , @staytrueblue , @queenb-42069 , @suzysface , @btskzfav , @ali-in-w0nderland , @ashhlsstuff , @devotedlypaleluminary , @sagexsenorita , @serenadingtigers , @yourgirlcin , @henrywintersgun , @jadagirl15 , @misshoneypaper , @lunnaisjustvibing , @enchantingchildkitten , @senhoritamayblog , @isla-finke-blog , @millercontracting , @tinawantstobeadoll , @funerals-with-cake , @txlady37 , @inasunlitroom , @clya4 , @callmebyyournick-name , @axshadows , @littlemissoblivious } - thank you!! awwwww we're like a little family <3

507 notes · View notes

buckevantommy · 7 months ago

Text

Everyone's always telling Buck what he should do. Okay, sometimes he did ask for their advice, but every piece of advice he's followed through on lately has ended badly and everything they tell him to do he doesn't actually want to do.

He should want to do something if it's supposed to make him feel better, if it's supposed to be better for him, right?

Josh told him to bulldoze ahead and tell Tommy what he wanted. Tommy told him to re-enact his Buck 1.0 days and spend time with some indeterminate amount of people until he finds someone forever. Maddie and Chim told him to start dating again and also wait for the universe to bring him someone special; another someone. Hen and Eddie told him not to contact Tommy.

He doesn't want to do any of that! He wants to talk to Tommy, to see him, to get Tommy to talk to him instead of giving up on them and running away because he's scared. He wants to tell Tommy he loves him. He wants Tommy to know first and last aren't mutually exclusive. He wants to yell at Tommy, and kiss him, and hold him. He wants Tommy to apologise for breaking his heart and for being a dumbass. He wants Tommy to believe him when he says he won't do the same; well, he might be a dumbass sometimes - but he would never break Tommy’s heart. He wants to apologise for jumping ahead but also not have to apologise for wanting a life with Tommy or for being too much.

Since that first night Tommy kissed him, he's felt reborn. Not in some starry-eyed way that Tommy seems to think is fake and won't last, but in the way that he's shed the skin of past Buck upgrades and finally grown into his body, become comfortable in who he is instead of trying to fit a facade that other people would accept. Always too big, too much, not enough, never content to just sit in his self and be without his worries and insecurities moulding him into something else, something with a better chance of getting people to like him, love him, stay with him.

He’s never felt more himself or more at ease in a relationship that meant something to him than he did with Tommy. Never felt more wholly seen - the good, the bad, and the too-much and not enough - by his partner and adored anyway, wanted anyway.

Halfway through making swiss meringue buttercream instead of breakfast, he realises he's thinking about Tommy. His coping skill, as Bobby called it, has stopped working.

There's butter and sugar in the creases of his hands and nailbeds even after he hurriedly wipes them with the dishcloth over his shoulder. He can see it as he scoops up his phone from the charger and thumbs over to his message thread with Tommy, leaving greasy crumby residue on the screen.

i saw you bubbling

After it happened, after the Chief distracted everyone enough for him to grab his phone and retreat somewhere he wouldn't be disturbed, he'd stared at the space where the unsent message had appeared for twenty minutes waiting for the type bubble to reappear. Waiting for Tommy to hit send on whatever he'd backtyped.

Buck's mind had spiralled with all the possibilities and while it spiralled and he stared and waited he never got around to actually calling or texting Tommy himself. And then the bell rang.

He has time, now. He has things he wants to say.

you were going to tell me something an maybe i wont like what it was but just knowing you almost reached out is kinda driving me crazy bc i have a fridge full of baked goods bc everytime i think about calling you i bake and now i havnt cooked a proper meal in my own place in over a week bc i dont have room in my damn fridge to store anything besides chocholate chip bananan bread and baked alaskas

He wants to say: and it's all your fault! but that's not the whole truth. Buck played his part in this, set the wheels in motion that drove Tommy away from him. But how the hell was he supposed to know that? And Tommy should've known by now he doesn't really do 'slow'.

i'm not sorry for being too much bc i shouldnt haveto apologize for being myself

Screw it. Can't get any worse, right? Tommy's getting all of him whether he likes it or not.

i dont see you as some queer life coach or someone to fill space until someon else comes along

thats not who i am

i thought you knew me better than that but whatevr ig

i wanted to live with you bc i want a life with you bc i love you

i love you

i shouldve said that first

Send after send, typing like a man possessed, he gets out everything that's been pent up inside him since the shock wore off a week ago.

His chest is heaving as the adrenaline rushes through his veins. And his eyes sting. He has to blink away tears as he reads over the last message.

He never told Tommy. Tommy doesn't know. Maybe Buck wasn't sure that night Josh asked him, but he knows it now.

i wanted you to be my last

He still does.

i wanna hate you for giving up on us

but i cant seem to hate you

This whole thing would hurt a lot less if he could just hate Tommy for what he did. It would hurt a lot less if they could find a way through this mess, together, and come out the other side stronger because they know each other better and know they want to fight for what they have.

Real love is worth fighting for. Red taught him that. Real love isn’t found, it’s made. Old gay Thomas taught him that.

Well, Buck found Tommy. Or, the universe did. And he’s going to fight, dammit, because he wants to build a future with Tommy.

His vision has blurred with hot tears. Movement on his screen catches his attention from where his gaze had drifted over to the couch where Tommy had stayed to take care of him through his Billy Boils saga.

Tommy is bubbling him.

Buck’s heart lurches in his chest. His breath catches.

can we talk?

There’s a huff of something like manic laughter as he swipes at his snotty nose.

that’s what i typed

Hope blooms in his chest, sudden and bright and painful in the best way.

can we?

I think I owe it to you to yell at me in person

There’s a long moment where Buck tries to return his breathing to normal but its bated as he watches three little dots appear, then disappear.

Then reappear.

Then disappear.

Then:

I don’t want to give up on us either

Buck’s tears are still making his vision watery, but now they’re tears of joy. He did what he wanted to do - he reached out. And Tommy heard him.

He should take his own advice more often.

#bucktommy #fanfiction #911 8x07 #fixit #.txt #s8!buck #evantommy #tevan kinkley firepilot #basically: everyone is giving buck terrible advice an dhe just needs to trust himself and follow his heart

414 notes · View notes

touchtheinvisiblestars · 2 months ago

Text

Good Reason

He’d promised.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, your arms wrapped around your knees, you stared at the empty space where Joel's boots were supposed to be. The ones he’d sworn he wouldn’t put on today.

“Just a supply run,” you’d said last night. “Let someone else do it for once. Please.”

And he’d nodded. Kissed your forehead. Wrapped you in that heavy, safe hold of his and said, “I won’t go. You got my word.”

But the bed was cold this morning. No Joel. Just an empty space beside you and boots that hadn’t moved.

Tommy was the one who slipped up. Muttered something about Joel heading out toward the east ridge because they needed someone who could handle the terrain. You didn’t even wait for him to finish before turning and walking out.

Now, you stood by the stables, watching as figures appeared over the hill. Rage bloomed in your chest, sharp and unforgiving.

He looked relieved when he saw you. That faded the second he saw your face.

You didn’t speak until he was close enough to hear the crack in your voice.

“You promised.”

Joel pulled his horse to a stop. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking over your expression like he was assessing a wound. “I had to.”

You laughed bitterly. “You had to?”

“There was a breach,” he said, voice low. “Scouts got pinned. Kid got taken. They needed someone who knew the terrain.”

“So send someone else!” You gestured vaguely toward Jackson behind you. “You’re not the only one who can shoot a rifle or ride a damn horse.”

Joel swung down, a wince betraying the stiffness in his side. He’d taken a hit—minor, you hoped, but enough to make your stomach turn. “I wasn’t gonna let a teenager die out there just because I made a promise in a warm bed.”

You flinched.

Joel’s voice softened. “I meant it when I said I wouldn’t go unless I had to. But I ain’t the kinda man who stays behind when someone’s kid is out there scared and alone.”

The words made sense. They really did. But your anger wasn’t about logic—it was about fear.

“Do you know what it felt like to wake up and find you gone? I thought—I thought maybe you just chose not to come back.”

His face crumpled, only slightly. Joel wasn’t the dramatic type. His regret was quiet. Heavy.

“I ain’t ever choosing to leave you,” he said, stepping closer. “But I can’t always stay. Not if it means someone else loses what I’ve got.”

Your breath caught. You hated how much sense that made.

You didn’t say anything as he reached out, gently brushing a thumb over your cheek. His hand smelled like leather and gunpowder and pine. There was a cut across his knuckle.

“I’ll break a hundred promises to keep you safe,” he said. “But I’ll break a thousand more if it means saving some kid.”

You swallowed hard, chest aching.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

You looked away. “You still should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want you to stop me,” he said simply. “And you would’ve tried.”

You would have. God, you would’ve.

You leaned into his touch anyway. Let him hold your jaw with one hand and your waist with the other, even though you hadn’t forgiven him yet.

It wasn’t about perfect promises. It was about who he was. And Joel Miller didn’t make easy choices. He made the ones that left scars.

“I’m sleeping on the couch then?” he asked quietly.

You huffed. “You’re lucky if I let you in the house tonight.”

He smiled then, barely—but it was real.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller imagine

168 notes · View notes

roseandxanderfics · 1 month ago

Text

"You're terminally ill" (headcanon) - Peaky Blinders x reader

Tommy

You tell him in the garden.

It’s late — the kind of late where the night feels bottomless — and he’s chain-smoking like usual, eyes on the horizon even though there’s nothing to see. You sit beside him, blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders, throat already dry before you speak.

“I’m sick.”

His jaw ticks, cigarette burning between two fingers, but he says nothing. You keep going.

“Not the kind of sick you recover from.”

He doesn't flinch, but you can feel the silence stretching between you like a thread pulled too tight. Finally, he stubs the cigarette out and says, “We’ll find someone. Someone good.”

“There’s no one, Tommy.”

He blinks like you’ve hit him. Not hard, but sharp. Surgical.

You expect rage. You expect denial. But all he says is, “How long?”

“Maybe a year.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stands, walks a few paces, then stops — arms folded, shoulders tight. You’ve never seen him look so… helpless. Not even in France.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he says.

“I didn’t want to be something you had to fix.”

He turns, finally. “I can’t fix this.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “That’s why I waited.”

He kneels beside you, slowly, and presses his forehead to your knee. No words. Just a man who has built empires, wars, and legends — crumbling, quietly, for someone he might lose before he ever said what he meant.

-------

Alfie

You don’t plan to tell him. Not because you’re afraid of how he’ll react — you’re afraid he’ll understand. That he’ll see the shadow in you and name it out loud.

But Alfie is too smart, and too cruel when he loves someone.

He notices the fatigue. The weight loss. The way you grip your stomach when you think no one’s looking. He lets it build. Watches it. Measures the timing until one evening, after dinner, he kicks the chair out from under your excuses.

“You’re dyin’, yeah?”

You freeze. He doesn’t.

“Don’t give me that look. I’ve buried enough people to know what it smells like.”

You try to deny it. You try to laugh. But Alfie gets quiet — and that’s worse than shouting.

He stands with both hands braced on the table, leaning in. “You don’t get to keep that from me.”

You whisper, “I didn’t want to make it real.”

“Well it’s fuckin’ real now, innit.”

There’s a pause. You expect him to erupt, to make it about himself. But he only exhales, like something’s broken inside him.

“I’ve outlived bastards, traitors, and half the bloody empire. And now I’ve got to watch you go, too?”

Your hands shake. You don’t know what to say. But he does.

“I’ll stay, right? Right ‘til the end. You don’t have to be brave around me. Not anymore.”

And somehow, it’s that — not the diagnosis — that finally makes you cry.

---------

John

You don’t get two words in before he knows.

You’re sitting in the kitchen, your tea going cold, and he’s just come in from the yard, still dusted with soil. You start the sentence — “John, I need to tell you something”— and his smile drops like a shot to the chest.

He pulls out a chair, sits across from you, all arms folded and jaw clenched. “Is it bad?”

You nod. Barely.

He gets up. Paces. Sits again. ��Alright. Okay. What are we talking?”

You tell him — gentle, clinical words for something that doesn’t feel gentle at all. And he listens. Really listens. No jokes, no deflection. Just quiet, heavy breath and a kind of devastation he can’t name.

“I’m not gonna make it easy for you,” you whisper. “If you want to leave—”

He slams his hand down on the table. “Don’t.”

Your chest jumps.

“Don’t ever say that again.”

He comes around the table and crouches beside you, holding your hand like it might come apart in his. “You’re mine. You don’t get to tell me when to stop lovin’ you.”

Your eyes burn.

John doesn’t cry. Not yet. But when he presses his forehead against your ribs and says, “I’ll fight the fuckin’ sky if I have to,” you know he means it.

Even if he’s powerless against this.

--------

Arthur

He finds out by accident.

You were going to tell him, eventually. But he walked into the doctor’s office before you had the chance. Heard the words. The prognosis. The date stamped on your future like a prison sentence.

When he gets home that night, you’re waiting for him, and his eyes are red.

“I wanted to tell you—”

He cuts you off with a gesture, wild and sharp.

“Don’t—just don’t lie to me now.”

You don’t.

He paces, punching his own palm, breath shallow. “How long’ve you known?”

“A while.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

You brace yourself for the spiral — for the drink, for the storm. But Arthur surprises you. He doesn’t reach for the bottle. He doesn’t shout. He just sits. Slowly. Like someone deflating in real time.

“You’re the one thing,” he says. “The one good thing. And now you’re leavin’.”

Your heart cracks open.

You kneel in front of him and take his hands. “I don’t want to. But I need you to be alright after.”

He shakes his head, tears on his cheeks. “I’m never alright. But I’ll do what you need. I’ll stay. I’ll hold your hand. I’ll be there.”

You nod, breath caught.

And when you start to fall apart later — when the pain comes and the strength leaves — it’s Arthur who keeps you tethered. He doesn’t pretend to be strong. But he never once lets go.

#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader #john shelby x reader #arthur shelby x reader #alfie solomons x reader

149 notes · View notes

joelslastofus · 10 months ago

Text

[SUMMARY: Joel is protective of his alcoholic neighbors daughter.]

PART 3

Mention of Violence and blood. angst

“I see you with a mark again, I ain’t stayin’ back.” He warned you as you quietly walked inside and closed the door.

The next day you woke up realizing a slight bruise forming on your cheek from where your father had smacked you. You sighed wondering how the hell you were supposed to hide that from Joel when you suddenly heard glass break. Closing your eyes as you took a deep breath you heard the sound of more glass breaking. Your father was on a drinking binge like never before, you had no idea what to do.

Knowing Joel was at work you knew you wouldn’t be seen, you did your best sneaking out the front door. A walk into town would’ve done you some good, anything that meant you weren’t near your father.

After roaming around for most of the day and window shopping you got yourself something to eat. Sitting by a window by yourself you thought about how bad things had been lately with your father. This was just suppose to be a nice summer visit, part of you couldn’t wait to go back to your campus yet you knew you couldn’t leave without knowing he was in rehab and so you decided to wait the following semester to go back. Convincing a stubborn man anything was wrong with him wasn’t going to be an easy battle.

Walking towards your house you cursed at yourself when you noticed Joel’s truck pulling in his driveway. He should’ve already been home by now but of course with your luck he wasn’t already inside. He instantly looked up to see if the light in your room was on, he wondered if you were home. He hadn’t spoken to you since he called you the day before after Tommy told him what happened with your father.

Coming out of his truck he noticed you walking down the block with your head down. You knew he would stop you, you hoped that somehow the sun setting would make it harder for him to see the bruise forming.

“Hey, I called you earlier” you looked up hesitantly relieved to see he was still far enough to not notice.

“Yeah, uh sorry. I had a busy day” you smiled quickly just as you turned to your porch.

“Hang on a second” he some how caught up fast enough to take hold of your arm. You stood still before giving in and looking up at him.

His face changed instantly.

Although you didn’t know, of course he knew the truth of what happened to you yet he still didn’t expect to see evidence of what your father had done. He hadn’t spoken to Tommy after he got off the phone with you the night before but he more than ever he wanted to knock some sense into his brother. How could he have seen you in trouble and not done a thing?

“Look he’s never done this before” your quick attempt to defend your father’s actions only pissed him off.

“Where is he?” He asked as he turned your face slightly to the side to get a better look at the bruise.

“I-I don’t know, Joel. Look I’m fine ok-“

“Like hell you are” he snapped, anger fuming through him. He controlled himself when he noticed your reaction to his tone.

“Why didn’t cha call me?”

“For what? To hear you like this. We had a disagreement and-“

“A disagreement? Ya gotta be kidding me” he whispered looking behind him to make sure Sarah hadn’t come out.

“I’m gonna have him go to rehab, Joel. Just let me talk to him-“

“No. Not alone-“

“Joel” you whispered.

“Hey dad, everything ok?” Sarah’s voice startled the both of you making him turn back.

“Yeah, honey. I’ll be inside in a minute” he assured her.

“I’ll be fine, Joel. I’ll wait until he’s sober to talk. We should just…keep our distance for a bit. Go inside” you proceeded to walk up your front lawn as he took a step back with his hands on his hips.

“I see you with a mark again, I ain’t stayin’ back.” He warned you as you quietly walked inside and closed the door.

“You ok, dad?” Sarah asked as she walked in the house in front of Joel. She looked back noticing how he stayed looking out the window as he walked to the kitchen.

“Yeah, honey. Everything’s fine,” he responded without looking at her.

“Dad” her tone making him look down at her.

“Everything’s fine” he assured her before pulling her in and kissing her forehead just as Tommy walked in.

“Uh, sweetheart, why don’t cha finish up your homework while I have a word with uncle Tommy” Sarah nodded as she smiled to her uncle and walked into her room closing the door.

“What I do now big brother, leave a box of pizza on the counter?” The playful tone in Tommy’s voice only making Joel lose his patience. Without thinking he walked around the table and grabbed his brother by his collar and slammed him into the wall.

“Hey! Easy man!”

“How the hell could you not help her?!”

“What?!” Tommy asked confused.

“Y/n, her father hit her and you just turned away” he slammed him against the wall once again making Tommy wince. Sarah could hear her father upset but she knew better than to leave the room.

“I don’t know her like that, Joel! I don’t know what that man is on!”

“Ya ain’t gotta know a woman to help her dammit, she needed your help!”

“Why the hell do you ever care so much?!” Tommy yelled back. Joel stood silent, his lip quivering as he looked at his brother in disgust.

“We were raised better than that, you know better than that” Joel whispered.

“You ever see her in trouble again you stop what you’re doin’ and ya help her. Got it” he clenched his teeth together as Tommy quickly nodded. Joel released his brother roughly and walked into the room.

Weeks went by as Joel cautiously watched for any sign of any kind of disturbance. Some days your father was sober but most of the time he was drunk. A part time summer job kept you distracted for the time being. Talking to him about rehab seemed harder than you expected and so you delayed your approach.

One Saturday morning you woke up to music blaring loudly throughout the house. Your head throbbing you turned around and sighed just as a wave of nausea hit you like you had never felt before.

“What the hell” you whispered as you slowly got on your feet.

“Jesus Christ dad,” Rubbing your eyes you walked out into the living room to find no one was there.

“He would do this” you whispered to yourself as you turned to shut off the music. Just as you did your father’s voice made you jump.

“Hey, I was listening to that” he walked in with a beer in hand.

“Dad it’s my day off, I’m trying to sleep” you sighed walking into the kitchen.

“It’s the 15th already aren’t you suppose to be back at your campus?” He asked with irritation, clearly he wanted you gone.

“Dad I’m-“ you suddenly froze realizing he said it was the 15th.

“What day is it?” You asked running to your planner that sat at on the counter.

“The 15th, your classes are probably already started” he continued to talk as you opened your book and realized you were four days past your period being due. Your father continued to talk but somehow you zoned him out, you felt sick to your stomach.

This couldn’t be right.

Getting dressed and making your way to the door you ignored your father mumbling things you could barely understand. Your head not in the right place as you quickly made your way to your father’s car. The thought of being pregnant made you begin to hyperventilate as you slammed the car door. You had been taking your birth control strictly every day you couldn’t understand why this happened.

And if you were, this meant you had to tell Joel, the thought of what his reaction might be only making you panic more.

Grabbing what you needed from the pharmacy and getting back into the car you sped back home eager to take the test. So eager to run in and take the test, you never noticed Joel sitting on his porch as you pulled up. Joel had respected your request and kept his distance but he never stopped thinking of you or watching to make sure you were ok. Thankfully he never saw much of your father, Joel seeing him wouldn’t have done him any good. Just as you came out of the car Joel stood up and made his way towards you.

“Hey” Joel’s voice made your heart skip a beat. You looked up to see him walking in your direction before he stopped right before you.

“I know ya told me to give you space but I just…I wanna make sure you’re alright” he whispered as you stood still holding the plastic bag that held your box of pregnancy tests.

“I know, Joel. I-“ just as you began to speak you both turned to the sound of your front door opening and your drunk father stepping out.

“Where’s my beers?” He asked in snotty tone as you looked at him confused. Joel flared his nostrils at the sight of your father for the first time since he learned that he put his hands on you.

“Dad, I didn’t get any. Please get inside” you spoke softly hoping he would listen.

“Come on, wheres my fucking beers…” he slurred as he came towards you. Joel instantly stepping before you as you tried to pull him back by his arm.

“It’s fine, Joel-“ your father suddenly yanked the bag you held.

“Give me my drinks-“

“Stop it!” You pulled back when the bag broke and out fell the very thing you didn’t want him to see.

“You’re good for nothing!” Your father waved his hand at you, too drunk to notice a thing and walked back inside. Joel stood still looking at the box on the ground as you stood silently. He didn’t say a word as he picked up the box before looking directly into your eyes.

“I’m not sure-“

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He whispered coldly.

“Because I’m not sure, Joel” you lied. Deep down you knew it, you knew you were pregnant. Never had you been late before.

“I would’ve had you out of there a long time ago-“

“Look, Joel I…I don’t know anything yet and-“

“But cha think you are don’t ya” his response leaving you speechless. Looking down at your fingers you felt a knot in your throat as you held back tears.

“Well ya ain’t goin’ back in there with him that’s for sure”

“What?” You looked up at him confused.

“Joel, I can’t just leave. Look I was going to talk to him tomorrow about rehab it’s been hard to bring it up.”

“Let me talk to him” he insisted.

“No!” You grabbed the box out of his hands.

“This is my problem-“

“Not if you’re carrying my kid” he whispered low close to your face. Swallowing nervously you took a step back and turned to your house. Joel quietly watched feeling helpless, his breathing was heavy watching you close the door behind you. The anxiety he felt was an anxiety he wasn’t familiar with. Turning back to his house he slammed the door shut to find Tommy on the couch.

“You alright?”

“Mhm” he walked straight to his room slamming the door shut once again not wanting to speak. Talking wasn’t his thing when he was pissed like this and Tommy knew it.

Feeling so many mixed emotions you went up to your room and took one test out of the box. Your father was distracted screaming at the tv during a game and so you took advantage and went to the bathroom.

Minutes never felt so long like they did in this moment. Holding your breath you paced back and fourth until finally time was up. Taking slow steps towards the test that sat on the counter you hesitantly leaned forward to see two bright pink lines.

“Oh fuck!” You turned around quickly holding in your tears just as your father began to bang on the door.

“Hurry up, I gotta take a piss!” He yelled. Quickly you took hold of the test making sure there was no evidence of anything else and opened the door. Walking past him as fast as you could you made your way to your room and locked the door shut.

Joel sat on his bed looking down at the floor as he thought over the possibility of you being pregnant. None of this was suppose to happen, he never meant for things to quickly escalate the way they did but the feelings Joel knew he had for you, wasn’t a lie.

The next day Joel tried calling you but you ignored his call while you were at work. You knew you had to tell him, your conscience couldn’t let you lie to him.

Joel rushed home from work hoping to catch you out front but you had already been inside. Calling your phone repeatedly you muted it and threw it under your pillow.

“God dammit!” Joel hissed and walked inside. The unknown was driving him insane yet you felt you couldn’t face him just yet. Telling him you were pregnant would only make everything more real and you didn’t know how much of it you could handle.

That night you could barely got any sleep and in the morning you felt sick. Your father once again leaving a mess for you to pick up, you sighed as you found him passed out on the couch.

“Today we’ll have the talk, today it is” you whispered to yourself, you waited long enough to tell your dad about rehab. Picking up garbage from the floor made you sick to your stomach, quickly you turned and threw up in the garbage bag behind you.

With little to no energy in you, you picked up the garbage bags and dragged it outside. Joel noticed you just as he got out of his truck and paced quickly towards you.

“Gonna keep ignorin’ me” he called out as he walked towards you, the second you looked up he noticed how pail you were. His look of frustration quickly changed to concern.

“You alright, what’s the matter” he closed the distance between you two lifting your chin up with his index finger.

“I’m fine…it’s just…-“

“Just what?” He asked eagerly.

“It’s morning sickness, Joel.”

Although a part of him felt you were pregnant, it was still different to hear you confirm it.

“Well then you should be in bed dammit, not pickin’ up your father’s trash” he took the bags out of your hands and threw them into the bin.

“Well, I can’t leave the house dirty” you explained with a sigh.

“Where is he?” He looked towards your door hoping he wasn’t home.

“He asleep, on the couch. He’s out cold”

“You should be in bed”

“I have work”

“Quit, stay in bed. I don’t want cha like this out and about-“ you began to laugh with your hand on your chest.

“The hell is so funny?” He asked stepping forward.

“You, you expect me to just quit my job?”

“I’ll take care of ya” he insisted, you turned serious realizing he was serious.

“Joel, I’m not doing that. I need to work and help my father” you explained.

“I don’t want cha doin’ all this while you’re pregnant”

“I never said I was staying pregnant” you blurt out catching him off guard. He stood silent for a moment unsure with how to respond.

“What happened with us wasn’t suppose to happen, we should’ve never slept with each other. I appreciate the help you’ve given me while dealing with my father but that’s all it was suppose to be-you helping out a neighbor. Not me getting pregnant”

“I ain’t plan it to be this way if that’s what cha think, I was really just trynna make sure you were alright” he explained.

“Joel, I have to get back to my campus soon…I can’t…I can’t do this”

“I can help you” Tommy walked out the front door making Joel look behind him.

“We’ll talk later” you sighed as you walked off. He didn’t say a word and simply turned to Tommy who raised a brow wondering what was going on.

Just before you left to work your father woke up and he was sober. You knew this was it, it was now or never to speak to him about rehab.

He stood in the kitchen taking Tylenol as you placed your purse over your shoulder and hesitantly got his attention.

“Dad” he winced from the pain of his headache.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, um…about all of this…” your words catching his attention.

“Look I know I’ve been drinking a lot lately but I’m slowing down-“

“No you’re not.” You quickly disagreed.

“Dad you need to go to rehab” you blurt out as you squeezed your eyes shut worried about his reaction.

“Rehab?”

“Yes, there’s a program for three months I already looked into-“

“You signed me up?”

“Not yet” you whispered. You could see the hesitance in his eyes.

“You’re not yourself when you’re drunk, dad you hit me the other day and you’ve never done that before” he looked at you shocked. He had no idea how bad things had actually turned.

“If it makes you happy I’ll do it.” He finally agreed making you let out a breath of relief.

For the first time in a while you felt a huge weight off your shoulders.

At work your mind still wandered off thinking about Joel, thinking about your pregnancy and what was the right thing to do. With nausea and migraines through out the day, you couldn’t wait to get home and sleep.

On your way home Joel called you just as you reached your front lawn. Him asking if he could see you was something you weren’t sure was a good idea in this moment but you gave in.

“How ya feelin’?” He walked towards you with a look of concern.

“Just tired” you responded softly. You could tell he had a lot to say but didn’t know how to start.

“Listen, whatever you do…I’m here alright. I wanna be there for you”

“Oh, Joel” you smiled in relief.

“Thank you” support was all you truly wanted.

“My father is going to rehab, I spoke to him this morning” you looked towards your front door.

“Oh yeah?” Joel pressed his lips together, he didn’t trust it. His expression changed once you looked back up at him.

“Thank you for being there for me, Joel. I promise we will talk more about this.” you unexpectedly reached towards him and hugged him. Joel froze for a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

“I just want cha safe” he whispered.

“I am” you assured him before taking a step back not knowing that your father was at the window, watching the both of you behind the blinds.

“I’ll text you later” you spoke softly and left to your house.

Joel couldn’t take his eyes off you as you walked inside. Something left him unsettled, he didn’t trust a man who could put his hands on a woman, drunk or not. He walked backwards back to his driveway and began cleaning out his truck.

“Dad, I’m home” you called out as you walked to the kitchen to be caught off guard by a half empty bottle of whiskey. You sighed with disappointment as your father walked into the kitchen.

“Dad-“

“So this is what you do after I pay all that money for your tuition” his words confusing you.

“What?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, you and this guy-“

“What guy?!”

“Miller” Joel’s name made your heart stop.

“Dad, it’s not-“

“You sure?” He threw your left over box of pregnancy tests across the counter at you. You gasped, standing speechless as he made his way around the counter and cornered you against the wall.

“You pregnant, little girl?”

“I am not a little girl” you whispered.

“Are you pregnant?!” He slammed his hand on the counter beside you making you jump. Your silence was enough to give him an answer, he turned away throwing a large glass vase by the window. The sound of the glass shattering making Joel look up. Joel immediately walked towards your house trying to look through the windows but couldn’t see a thing. He began to call your name making your father’s eyes widen.

“Joel, I’m fine!” You yelled out but he could hear the fear in your voice.

“Open the door!” He wiggled the door knob to no avail. Your father angrily grabbed your face with his hand making you scream as Joel began running his shoulder into the door.

“You think you’re gonna act like a whore while I’m paying for your college and just throw it all away!” He yelled angrily.

“Dad! I’m not throwing it away!” You screamed in defense when the front door broke open. In ran Joel to see your father’s hand on you as you stood still.

“Let her go” he spoke with a threatening tone. Your father turned to him as he stumbled before reaching for his bottle of whiskey and taking another sip.

“You think I’m gonna let her keep that thing”

“Dad-“

“Shut up!” He roughly pulled you by your hair in front of him making Joel step forward. You screamed as he yanked your head back.

“You know what? You want her, you could have her” he threw you across the floor towards Joel. Joel quickly crouched down to you helping you up without taking his eyes off your father.

“You alright? You ok?” He asked just as Tommy walked in shocked to see his brother in the middle of everything.

“Joel, what’s goin’ on?”

“Take her inside” Joel instructed as he walked towards your father.

“Joel- no-“

“Make sure she’s ok, keep her inside and call a damn ambulance” Tommy did just as he was told and pulled you out of the house while you cried.

“What’s he gonna do?” You asked looking back. Tommy knew the damage his brother could do but didn’t say a word.

Your father laughed as he finished up his bottle of liquor.

“What are you gonna do asshole?” Joel waited for you to walk into his home before grabbing your father and head butting him hard. Blood instantly gushed from your father’s nose as he went down to the ground. Grabbing your father by his collar with his fist in the air, Joel wanted to do more but the man could barely defend himself at this point and he knew how much it would hurt you. Leaving him unconscious he took a step back with a deep breath. Hearing the ambulance close by he left the door open and walked out back to his house. Joel knew you would all be questioned once they arrived but he didn’t care.

“Is he ok? What happened?” You ran up to Joel desperately.

“You alright? You feel alright? I want em to check you before they leave.” He ignored your questions and unexpectedly placed his hand on your stomach making Tommy realize just what was going on. Sarah came out of the room confused when multiple ambulances came crashing into the street. Police cars pulled up as you looked out the window confused when a man beside your house walked out into the street. Cops instantly came out there cars and hid behind their doors aiming their guns.

“The hell is going on?” Tommy whispered when the man suddenly ran towards the cops. Gunshots went off making you jump as Joel quickly locked the door shut as you all watched in shock with what was happening.

“Oh my God!” You gasped, the man was shot at multiple times yet kept running. The rest of your neighbors peaking out their windows when finally the man was shot dead.

“Ladies and gentleman please stay inside, lock your doors. Do not come out until you’re told” an officer announced through a microphone.

“What’s happening, dad?” Sarah asked with wide worried eyes.

“I don’t know, baby.” Joel proceeded to close the windows not wanting his daughter to see anything else.

“What about my dad” you whispered but before he could respond more gunshots went off making you and Sarah jump and the lights went out…

Just like that it was the beginning of a massive disruption that would turn everyone’s world as they knew it upside down more than you already felt it was….

*tagging for some reason isn’t working for me but I’ll figure it out soon. No one’s name is coming up.*

#pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller angst #joel miller x pregnant reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n

515 notes · View notes

shellshocklove · 1 year ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

main masterlist / series masterlist / ao3 / playlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

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

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Are you going to kill me, son?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you alone?” Joel asked.

“Not anymore,” the man answered.

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

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

“Take me to it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man’s wife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boston.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is…” The man paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?”

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

“What?” Joel answered, eyebrows furrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, how do you aim straight?”

“You learn to shoot.”

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

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

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

His lips pulled at the corner, “No.”

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

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

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

“That ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

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

Cute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Joel.”

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

“Joel.”

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

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

And…

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

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

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

“Joel.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit.”

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

Finally, Joel could breathe.

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

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

989 notes · View notes

chelseeebe · 3 months ago

Text

would that i

18+. mdni. smut!! tommy hagan is mean and there is slight homophobic language! no use of y/n!

part two to this fic! can probably be read on it’s own but p1 will help you understand things!

would that i - hozier because i think steve used tommy as a scapegoat for never being himself and now he doesn’t have to <3

HIHI! i’ve been away for a little while and i apologise tremendously! this is a part two which seems completely out of left field but i found it half-finished and really liked it!! i’m hoping to start posting this multi-part eddie fic i have been working on but i want at least a couple parts solidly finished beforehand because i know exactly what i’m like lol

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

as to be expected, tommy has no interest in steve. three years of friendship washed down the drain for no good reason. on reflection, steve doesn’t really count what tommy and he had as true friendship, they were just using each other.

he was too terrified to be alone while tommy saw that and took full advantage, milking his credit card along the way.

he’s got you now, he supposes. finding solace in your house, away from the judgemental glares and snickering whispers of his teammates and friends.

robin seems to be warming up to the idea of having him as a constant presence in your house, though it’s slow and longwinded. steve had found that she was nothing like tommy, she couldn’t be bought with pizza or gifts but not with lack of trying.

you sit now on the couch, your head in some book with your legs strewn over his lap as the tv plays sunset avenue loudly. he’d never take someone like robin as an avid soap opera watcher, but then again, he shouldn’t be either.

“donna should’ve left him years ago,” steve adds, a comment that was supposed to stay tucked away in his mind.

you look up slowly, robin’s head turns, confusion plastered across your faces.

“what?” you laugh, placing the book down on your lap.

he just shrugs, eyes darting between both pairs of baffled eyes, “david’s an asshole.. she should’ve left.”

“no no, i got that, i’m just- you watch this crap?”

he shrugs again, “yeah,” finding great pleasure in the way he had finally gotten robin to crack a smile, “my mom used to watch it.. what’s the big deal?”

you look to robin, a knowing smirk on your lips before picking up your book again.

robin just grins, “oh steve harrington, i think we might just be friends.”

and thus, a weekly tradition was born.

he and robin would settle in for their fill of second-rate acting every tuesday at eight on the dot.

he lets her know that her opinions are trash and she kindly tells him to fuck off back to the barn he was born in. they were two peas in a pod really.

steve appreciates the newfound friendship. it’s comforting in ways no one else had ever been. he just hopes robin sees it that way too, he’d had his fill of one-sided friendships to last a lifetime.

steve hadn’t really left your side since the night he tumbled down your staircase and proceeded to confess, rather terribly, that he was practically in love with you.

he doesn’t mind, he likes spending time with someone who actually likes him for once.

even now, as steve attempts to settle down for the night, you’re restless, sat at your vanity rooting through your makeup.

“so i’ve been thinking,” you did a lot of that, most of it nonsensical.

“hmm?” quirking his brow, always a little worried for what was about to blurt out.

“i think you should let me put eyeliner on you,” spinning around to face him with a maniacal grin, the pencil already poised in your hand.

there was one outcome here, and it absolutely involved you jabbing a pencil into his eye.

“do i get a choice?” he asks naively, knowing the answer was certainly a no.

you shake your head, smile stretching from ear to ear, gesturing for him to scoot back. eddie wore eyeliner, and those guys on your posters. is that why you wanted him to? to be more like them?

steve swallows that thought, pummels it down until it’s but a quiet whisper. he liked you for you, surely you felt the same.

“if you really don’t want me to, i won’t,” sensing his apprehension, you were pushy and stubborn but not cruel.

he blinks, who would ever see? maybe you’d tell robin, but she certainly wouldn’t care, in fact, she’d probably think he were cooler. “i wanna make you happy,” smiling softly, “and if putting eyeliner on is what makes you happy then.. do it.”

your eyes light up, coming to stand between his knees, “you’re sure?”

steve nods his head, lying back on your bed as you get up to straddle his waist, black kohl pencil in hand.

your thumb delicately holds the skin down, allowing the pencil to line his waterline. it stings for a second, an unfamiliar feeling of a pencil jabbing his eye.

“babe ow,” exaggerating greatly. truthfully, he enjoyed the attention, the focused look on your face as your tongue peeks out in concentration.

“shut up,” moving onto his other eye without much warning, his right eye blinking rapidly. “okay,” you smile, “sit up.”

he does as he’s asked, like always. holding onto your hips as he shuffles, keeping you steady on his lap.

“oh my god,” gasping once his eyes meet yours fully, “oh my fucking god,” swooning over his forced makeover.

“you like it?” he asks innocently, none the wiser to how he actually looked.

your hands grab his cheeks, shifting on his thighs with excitement, “i love it,” gazing deep into his soul, “i just wanna kiss you.”

the side of his mouth quirks, snaking his arms around your waist, “you can always do that.”

“i know,” gladly connecting your lips, a softer appreciation for the intimacy you got to share now. nothing felt rushed or scary, you were able to enjoy each other without fear of getting caught.

he keeps your body pulled tight to his, laying you back onto the mattress as he crawls on top, his hands sliding underneath your shirt. steve hadn’t realised how much he appreciated having sex in a bed and not his cramped car.

your fingers brush the falling tendrils back from his face, interwoven into his hair with such tender loving care that it sends shivers down his spine.

they hover over his scalp, tracing gentle patterns to the sensitive skin, “you’re so handsome,” mumbling into his mouth, “i can’t believe you’re my boyfriend,” lifting your back from the mattress to allow him the space to tug your sweatpants down.

“it should be me saying all that,” steve marvels, admiring the curve of your hips, the way your thighs fit him so perfectly between them. “you’re too good f’me,” saying so earnestly, he should be thanking the gods you ever looked at him twice.

“stop it,” you hush, interlocking your lips once more in a bid to stop him rambling on and ruining the moment.

steve sighs faintly, ridding himself of his shirt, giving you free reign of the delicate skin of his neck you loved so much. your lips find it first, peppering short kisses in the crook between his neck and collarbone, only for your teeth to graze the skin soon after.

he enjoyed seeing your mark on him, violet and maroon splotch’s that meant he was yours.

his hips grind down mindlessly, rutting desperately against your soft thigh.

“we have to be quiet,” you mutter into his collarbone, cradling the back of his head in your hands, the feel of your thigh brushes against his ribcage as you shift beneath him.

“i know,” he breathes, fumbling with his boxers in a desperate attempt to tug them down and feel you.

“fuck,” almost growling as you bite down onto your bottom lip, “i can’t stop looking at you,” admiring his focused expression, the charcoal lines you’d painted below his eyes.

“don’t,” fisting his cock, gliding his piece between your slick folds, “keep your eyes on me, darling,” nudging inside, his leaking tip just barely sinking into your cunt before you’re clawing desperately at his clammy neck, gasping into his ear.

“sh-shit,” speaking in shuddered breaths, praying you won’t wake robin next door. on occasions, he missed the backseat of his bmw, for this very reason.

he hadn’t heard you so loudly in months, the filthy, x-rated shit you used to growl only came out in whispers now. alas, his back had finally recovered after those weeks of trying to manoeuvre around the tiny backseat of his car and the faint scent of sex had faded.

your delicate fingers stroke his jaw, panting in succession with his hips. he can see the exact moment the idea springs into your mind, moving your thumb to the plump skin of his bottom lip, itching for him to catch on.

steve does, always one to please, you especially so. taking your thumb between his lips to suck gently on the digit, he can feel you practically convulse in response. clenching around him, keeping him so tightly wound inside you.

“holy fuck,” releasing the most animalistic growl alongside your wretched smirk, ogling his face, tracing the curve of his lips with hooded eyes.

taking his sweet, sweet time tonight, hips rocking at a astonishingly slow pace, hoping to keep you concealing your sweet moans for just a little bit longer.

adoring the way you keep your eyes trained on him, humming in appreciation when his tongue dances around your thumb.

your other hand brings his face closer, sliding your thumb down his plump bottom lip to replace it with your lips instead. groaning into his mouth when his hips still and his tongue runs the length of your bottom lip.

messy and slow, just the way steve liked it. he wasn’t opposed to the hard and fast dynamic you shared either, but this way he could truly feel you, admire your curves and your warmth as it deserved.

“can’t believe you’re mine,” he grumbles through shared kisses, fingers groping at your doughy hip.

the bed frame creaks as he moves again, disregarding how obvious the sound was to stay in this very moment. he wants to swallow you whole, sucking and nibbling ravenously at your jaw, trailing down to your neck. a safe haven for him to whine loudly.

“ohh yeah, fuck- all yours,” reassuring him of what he already knew.

steve shifts your legs, pressing down gently on the backs of your knees to allow himself further, deeper even. your eyes rolling into the back of your head when his cock nestles into your sweet spot.

“shit baby, feels so fucking good,” murmuring through gritted teeth, his pace faltering as you rut back against him.

he feels so obscenely close to you, connected in such a way that’ll leave your souls entwined forever.

you’re close, steve can feel that much. no need for desperate gasps when you made it so obvious every time. you become accustomed to a person’s body when you spend every waking moment with them.

“give it to me honey,” he pleads, unrelenting with his strokes, desperate for you to come undone beneath him before he lost it all completely.

your whines become frenzied mewls, panting and sighing into his neck.

steve’s arms tremble, succumbing to his own climax, especially when your thighs spur him on, entrapping him inside, your cunt clenching, tumbling over the edge with a chorus of pleas and utterances of his names.

“ohh yeah- oh fuck yeah,” pumping thick ropes of cum into your hole, a decision he’d probably come back to regret. that didn’t matter now, not with you so placid underneath him, clutching onto his damp skin like you’d never let him go.

he all but collapses, chest to chest, both heaving against one another. you sigh wearily, running your fingers along his shoulder, right up to his cheek, “i don’t think we were very quiet,” chuckling into the warm air.

he shakes his head, “that’s your fault,” brushing the wisps of hair from your sticky forehead, admiring your spent state.

“i love you, steve,” saying it aloud for the first time, exasperated but wholly true nonetheless.

steve chokes on his tongue, the words had laid dormant for months now, only they fail to form at the most crucial time. dumbfounded by your admission as if it weren’t obvious.

he coughs up a reply, cradling your jaw in his palm, “i love you too.. i really do,” slow brushes of his thumb on your skin, proving his full adoration of you.

your smile causes his heart to thump, “i know.. but you gotta get off me so i can shower,” gently pushing his dead weight away, rolling out from underneath.

his heart full of love and affection, you were everything to him and you hadn’t a clue.

steve awakens to your alarm blaring, the weight of your body keeping him anchored to the bed. he peers over your lifeless body to the clock, 7:32 it reads.

fuck.

he was late.

he peels your arm from his side, rolling out of bed to slam his fist on the frankly grating clock. you grumble in response, reaching your arm out for his hand, “don’t go,” murmuring into the pillow as you come around.

“honey, i’m late,” he coos, pulling his sweatpants on, the remnants of your makeover smeared all over the pillow. “i’ll see you later, okay?” leaning over to place a gentle kiss to your forehead, receiving nothing but a soft hum in response.

he hadn’t thought any more of his face until he busted through the locker room doors, receiving ten-fold the usual stares he’d get.

they all snicker amongst themselves, elbowing one another as his heart sinks to his ass. dating you was one thing, wearing makeup was an entirely different thing.

steve wants to die, far more than he usually does at this time of day. shoving himself into the far corner in hopes that they’d leave him alone enough to allow him to scrub at it.

“are you wearing eyeliner?” jason perks up, grimacing right in his face. never subtle nor ever caring to be.

steve shakes his head, his fingers trembling as he drops his bag on the bench, wondering if it’d be easier to just sprint out of here before tommy clocks on.

too fucking late.

tommy rounds the corner just as he takes off his shirt, a littering of violet markings scattered across his neck and collarbones. in any other circumstance, he’d show them off, be proud to be claimed by you.

but not now. not as tommy whistles, scoffing to himself, “holy shit, what’re you fucking a vampire or somethin’?” the quip leaving his lips before he has time to spot the dark rings around his eyes.

“fuck off,” steve retorts, pulling his jersey over his mop of hair, he’d had no time to style it this morning, treasuring his time with you instead.

“you wearing makeup?” tommy punches his shoulder, far heavier than steve could brush off as just playful banter, “my god, steve.. she’s turned you into a fucking queer,” his words snide and venomous.

a tongue so heavy and harsh, steve was genuinely surprised that that was the worst he’d said.

though it doesn’t lessen the sting, watching the locker room erupt into laughter at his expense.

tommy doesn’t deserve a reaction, knowing full well that any retaliation would end in a bloody nose and a busted lip.

everything was new to steve, being the laughed-at rather than the laugher. now he understands why eddie hated him, why robin wasn’t interested in friendship or why people seemed to turn the other way when he was coming.

it’s dreadful, the whirling nausea in his stomach and the flaming hot feel of his cheeks. nothing could’ve ever prepared him for being on the receiving end of tommy’s abuse.

he barges past, desperate to just get their mandated practice over with and get the hell away from them all.

he hadn’t understood it until now, how scared he must have made people feel, how dreadful he must have made their lives- your life.

and eddie’s.

steve didn’t deserve you at all, nor the kindness of your friends or your forgiveness for that matter. you deserved better, someone who wouldn’t get uneasy over eyeliner or kept you a secret for the first three months of your relationship.

steve knows now that he wasn’t ashamed of you, he was scared.

scared of tommy and his poisonous tongue, his teammates beady, judgemental eyes that saw him- saw you- as less than.

he can’t face you tonight, unworthy of your warm bed and gentle embrace. questioning whether he had the gall to ever face you again.

music thumps from below, showing no signs of stopping. a few months ago steve would have been right down there with them all, probably letting his mind wander back to you, just like it was doing now.

he doesn’t like being here much anymore, the boys were too loud, too boisterous for steve to settle properly. the smell of stale beer and shoddily rolled joints lingered in every room, miles apart from your cluttered yet tidy house

he misses your bed, with the clean blankets and the fresh sage and lavender you kept in vases around your room.

he misses you.

screw it.

if he wasn’t going to sleep well here, he might as well go back to where he belongs. shoving clothes into his bag without a second thought, he practically lived with you anyway, his own drawer full of clothes and other random shit he’d accrued.

the clock reads 1:31, you’d probably be asleep but he’ll try his luck either way, the spare key tucked under the doormat if you really didn’t answer.

sliding down the stairs and out of the door before anyone could notice him and poke fun at his co-dependency issues.

it was only a short walk to your place, one he’d done a thousand times by now. passing other students just getting back from the bar or the library, paying him no mind, not like they used to.

steve prefers it this way, without the notoriety that came with being tommy’s lapdog.

tommy upset a lot of people, so in their eyes, steve also upset a lot of people.

he supposes that’s fair, he’d never tried to intervene or stop tommy’s behaviour, a willing participant just by being there.

he’d got his comeuppance though, what with being shunned by his basketball teammates and now becoming bullied as opposed to the bully.

fortunately, there’s no time to stew on what his karmic punishment may be, sidling up the cracked path to your front door in record time.

much to his surprise your light is on upstairs, a faint orange glow from behind the curtain. it settled his raging heart to know you were only seconds away.

rapping his knuckles lightly against the door, hoping he’ll catch your attention and not robin’s. he could pelt pebbles at your window he supposes, truly old school romance. but he’s not sure how much you’ll appreciate that.

the thought is futile anyway, he can hear your feet shuffle and creep down the stairs, flickering the lights on as you go.

inching the door open to peer out, not expecting steve on the other side, “steve? what’re you doing here?” though you don’t sound angry, or even slightly annoyed for that matter. you look relieved that he’s here, after what was clearly a restless night for you too.

“sorry, i tried.. i missed you too much,” pathetically shrugging his shoulders, “-is that my shirt?” knowing full well that it was.

your head dips, becoming immediately bashful, “yeah, i missed you, i’m sorry,” pulling at the worn hem, weary eyed and full of sleep. “come in, it’s cold,” tugging him inside by the hand and locking the door behind him.

steve glances up the stairs, he knows the drill by now. traipsing after you like a little lost dog, he can’t help but let his eyes trail down to your thighs, his favourite tattoo of yours, a snake that wrapped around your leg peeks out from under his shirt.

“and my boxers?” reaching out to brush his hand over your thigh, resisting the urge to pinch and grope like he really wanted.

“sorry,” flashing a smile over your shoulder, “i told you i missed you,” hushed whispers as you pass robin’s room, her soft snores heard from the hallway.

“stop saying sorry, i like it,” he mutters, clicking the door closed. back in his domicile, a wave of comfort washing over him immediately.

“then good,” cradling his cold cheeks, “i’m glad you like it,” placing a soft, docile kiss on his lips, clutching onto his hip, desperate to keep him close after a torturous twelve hours apart.

steve hums in appreciation, relishing in the moment, wafts of coconut from your shampoo fill his nose as his chin settles on your head.

“i don’t think i like sleeping without you anymore,” he’s laughing but he’s deadly serious, he felt empty without you, like a piece of himself was missing.

there’d never been a time that steve had thought he’d become one of those unhealthy co-dependent people, but now he understands it completely. wanting to share your company constantly, missing your adoring touch and sarcastic jokes at his expense.

“mhm, you don’t have to,” swaying in the low light, where the edges of you are a little fuzzy but his brain is still too amped up to sleep.

“did i wake you up?” steve asks, lingering hands on your back before breaking apart.

you shake your head no, kicking your obnoxiously cliche bunny slippers off under the bed, “i couldn’t sleep.. something was missing but i’m not sure what,” cracking a smile, tucking yourself into the soft blankets.

ridding himself of his sweatshirt and jeans before crawling on in, right next to you. at peace once more, fatigue seeping through his veins.

“how was your day?” he asks, settling in to his rightful space.

your eyes roll back, “same old.. i passed that report i was worried about though, what about you? you look exhausted,” jutting out your bottom lip.

steve mumbles some half-assed response, something about a long day and being tired but you’re too wise to his tricks, tilting your head when he doesn’t answer your question.

“what happened?” settling into the bed next to him, “was it tommy again?” pulling the blanket tight around your shoulders, peeking inquisitively over the pillow.

steve hums, staring at the ceiling, “i forgot to take that makeup off last night,” shrugging, because to most it wasn’t a big deal but people like tommy and jason aren’t in the 90s like the rest of humanity.

“and they had a problem with that?” you ask, rather naively, because what other reaction would they have?

“mhm,” he nods, swallowing his hurt, “tommy said some shit.. brought you up, it’s just- stupid, they’re stupid,” not seeing the need to repeat what he had said verbatim but hopefully saying enough for you to understand.

he can’t see you though he can hear the blanket ruffle, “what’d he say?”

steve doesn’t want to repeat it. he’s said some stupid things throughout high school but that wasn’t him anymore.

“he.. he called me a- babe i don’t- i’m not saying it,” turning to face you, pleading with you to understand. “he said you made me.. gay, alright?”

your brow knits together, doubtful that it were just annoyance and not pure wrath, “what a fucking-,” stopping yourself from saying anything else, that wasn’t the intention, “did it upset you?”

steve contemplates for a second, truthfully, he hadn’t really been able to really articulate his feelings. he wasn’t upset that he’d been called that, more so upset that someone he once called a friend could think so little of him over eyeliner.

“i don’t know.. i’m not gay- i mean, i don’t have any problem with it, it’s just-,” he sighs, struggling to find the right words, “i dunno, he just said it so.. so angrily.. like it’d be the worst thing in the world if i was.”

you exhale, not meeting his eye, “tommy’s just.. jealous, he’s intimidated by anyone that isn’t like him,” a concentrated look settles on your face, “he doesn’t have a job or a girlfriend, i mean, he’s barely gonna graduate.. it’s no surprise he’s pissed off that you’ve grown up without him.”

it’s undeniably the truth, and yet it still hurts.

this stemmed from tommy’s inability to grow up, and his raging jealousy towards anyone who was actually comfortable enough to be themselves. steve knows what tommy said to you, visiting the bar where you work just to try and get into your pants behind his back.

he doesn’t hate you, he hates that you don’t care what he thinks of you. and neither does steve. anymore at least.

“you’re really good at this,” he snickers, reaching over to stroke your cheek, “i don’t say it enough but i really appreciate you.”

your smile creeps onto your lips, eyes creasing as it grows, “you say it, don’t worry,” leaning into his soft hand, “or you show me, at least,” feeling your smirk against his palm.

“oh yeah? how do i do that then?” letting his own lips quirk up.

“hmm lots of ways,” dismissing him with a shake of the head, “like when you kiss my head every morning before you leave orrr..” failing to turn this conversation around, “when you make me cum three times before even thinking about yourself.”

that was honestly just his duty as your boyfriend, your pleasure is paramount and seeing your eyes roll back and your thighs start to tremble meant the world.

his chuckle bellows, louder than intended. “i’ll always make sure you cum first, don’t worry,” gaze flickering back to the ceiling, contemplating his next words. “even when we’re old and gray,” he’d been thinking it for a while, you deserved to know too.

“oh?” yawning through your words, “are we going to get old and gray together then?” as if it weren’t a certainty.

steve hums, unsure of how much detail to divulge, “oh yeah, i’ve got this all planned out,” his tongue clicks against his teeth, “you just have to agree.”

you laugh sleepily, talking into the soft pillow at this point, “and you think you’re gonna tie me down?”

he pauses again, “hmm no, i know i’m gonna marry you,” waiting for your reaction to his outlandish claim, though it doesn’t come.

steve looks over, finding your eyes pressed shut and your mouth slightly open, soft snores floating out and into your room.

“goodnight then,” reaching over to press a gentle kiss to your forehead before flicking the lamp off and settling in.

he would die a happy man if he got to talk nonsense with you for even one more night.

eddie was hesitant to invite steve, it was his birthday after all. he understood, it’d take a while to earn his trust and respect, that was fair.

but you were insistent, pestering eddie until he crumbled and said steve could join you all at the bar. so long as he was nice and didn’t bring any trouble.

easy enough.

steve keeps with you mostly, trailing around after you like a lost puppy dog. fetching drinks and accompanying you to and from the bathroom. fulfilling any and all boyfriend duties.

“i’m just going to get another drink,” standing from the booth to shuffle over his legs, “stay here, i won’t be long,” patting his shoulder rather patronisingly.

oh no.

robin was in the bathroom, you were going and the two guys that eddie had arrived with were in a heated game of pool inside. leaving him no choice but to talk to him.

“you’ll be okay, won’t you?” already walking off, leaving him with really no other option but to make awkward small talk with eddie.

steve can sense how painfully awkward this was about to be, neither of them wanting to acknowledge the other without you here to mediate.

no doubt some cunning plan of yours to get them talking.

he determines that being the one to break the silence is the better move, clearing his throat before speaking, “so.. you having a nice birthday?”

“mhm,” short and curt, exactly as he expected. “i’m glad..” clearly struggling to be nice, “glad you could come,” his eyes flicker to the stone floor, “you’re not so bad, actually.”

wow.

steve almost falls out of his chair.

he doesn’t know what to say, eddie had never been so polite, “th-thank you,” eddie already thought of steve as a loser, he didn’t need to make it any worse.

eddie offers his cigarette carton out to steve, an olivia branch of peace or something. at least that was how steve saw it. it’d be rude not to take one.

“thanks,” he hums, lighting the cigarette himself before offering his lighter out.

it’s peaceful, and far less awkward than it had been just twenty minutes ago. maybe they could be friends, they had a common interest after all.

“you know i used to overcharge you for weed, right?” eddie chuckles, taking a drag of his cigarette, narrowed eyes focused on steve.

he just sighs because yes, you had explained in great detail that thirty dollars was nowhere near the correct price for a gram of weed. “yeah.. she told me,” smiling back through his embarrassment.

“sorry dude,” he shrugs, though it sounds completely insincere, “but you deserved it,” stubbing out the embers of his cigarette.

“yeah, that’s fair,” he’d done far worse, he’s sure.

just as they collapse into laughter, you and robin swan back through the door, carrying a tray of what looked like tequila.

“absolutely not,” eddie cries out, watching robin grin as you hand them out.

“it’s your birthday! don’t be so bor-“ interrupted as the door swings open again, a chorus of voices steve unfortunately recognised following suit.

tommy, and his new lackeys stumble in, catching sight of your little party immediately.

“this is sweet,” he mocks, “where was my invite, stevie? i thought we were best friends!” his tone patronising and his eyes narrow and dark, just as they were in the locker room.

steve doesnt meet his eye, his didn’t deserve that respect. “we should go..” finding your infuriated gaze instead, noticing your clenched jaw.

this wasn’t a fight worth having.

tommy’d win whatever happened.

“leaving so soon? but we just got here!” sneering at your silenced group, “c’mon man, where’s your hospitality?” swaggering over to the table, an overbearing grin that steve wants to wipe right off of his face.

he won’t. of course.

this is eddie’s birthday and tommy’s thoughtless stunts won’t get in the way of him becoming friends with your friends.

but eddie’s up before steve can do anything about it, fist drawn back until it quickly meets tommy’s nose, a loud crack and a guttural groan follows.

tommy grabs his nose, only to pull it back stained red, “what the fuck man!” staggering backwards like he didn’t deserve that and worse.

eddie turns, entirely unfazed by his actions, “i think we should go home,” finding each of your eyes. he didn’t look ashamed, or even slightly concerned about the blossoming bruises on his knuckles, instead, he was proud.

steve can’t sling his arm around him fast enough, stumbling out of the bar in sheer shock that that had really just happened. someone had finally shown tommy hagan up.

“thanks man,” steve mutters into his ear, watching as you and robin attempt to hail a cab.

eddie claps his hand against steve’s back, shaking his head slightly, “that wasn’t just for you,” his eyes trained on your back, “but her too.”

their shared affection for you had been their means to come together, steve can recognise that eddie only ever wanted what was best for you. and now he thinks that eddie might just see that he was worthy enough to be that.

#steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington smut #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x reader

184 notes · View notes

pandapetals · 2 months ago

Text

Ain't No Grave

Chapter Four: Low Lamplight previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

Pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

Content warnings: angst, trauma, PTSD, pain, guilt, smut, fingering, p in v sex, no y/n used, good girl praise, possessiveness, she/her pronouns, joel being soft, established relationship, jackson setting

A/N: divider by @saradika-graphics.

The bright sunlight hit you like a punch, flooding your vision in a way that made your head swim. You squinted against it, your hand rising instinctively to shield your eyes—only there was no hand.

Your breath hitched. A cold, hollow ache opened in your chest, sharp and sudden, as your gaze dropped to the bandaged stump where your wrist should’ve been. The motion had been so natural, so reflexive, and now it was a mistake you’d have to keep learning not to make.

Your bottom lip trembled, a wave of something between grief and numbness threatening to crack you open.

Then you felt it.

Joel’s hand at the small of your back was warm and steady, rubbing small, slow circles through your jacket. That simple touch grounded you in a way nothing else could. It pulled you back from the edge.

“Just stay low for a bit,” Maria’s voice cut through the static in your head, calm and cautious. “Only a few people in Jackson know what happened. Best to keep it quiet until—”

Tommy laid a hand on her arm, gently stopping her.

“Darlin’, let ‘em go home,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet kindness. “We’ll deal with the rest when it comes.”

You saw Maria's brief flicker of irritation before it softened. She gave a reluctant nod, stepping back.

Joel’s eyes met Tommy’s then. A look between brothers that said more than words. Gratitude. A silent thank you for knowing when to step in.

“I feel fine,” you lied softly, forcing a small, tired smile in Maria’s direction. It didn’t touch your eyes. You could feel how brittle it was, how forced.

But it was enough to get Maria to nod.

You weren’t fine. Not even close. The sunlight felt too bright, the town too big, every glance from people who didn’t know you yet like a weight pressing down on your chest.

“I’ll check in tomorrow,” Tommy said, giving Joel a firm nod before gently guiding Maria toward the town hall. She didn’t look back.

You let out a long, unsteady breath, shoulders sagging as the space around you grew quieter. The weight of everyone else’s presence faded, leaving only the hollow stretch of road between you and the house you’d once called home.

You glanced up at Joel, offering a weak, crooked smile. The kind that was meant to say I’m okay, but didn’t convince either of you. It lingered for a heartbeat before slipping away, like it was too heavy to hold onto.

Joel saw it. Saw the exhaustion in your eyes, the weight pressing down on you. Your steps felt uneven, like the ground had shifted under you since the last time you’d walked these streets.

And it gutted him.

He kept his hand at the small of your back, guiding you wordlessly, his thumb brushing small, steady circles there like the only thing tethering him to solid ground.

He hated what he’d done. Hated what it cost you.

But he didn’t regret it.

Not for a second.

The guilt gnawed at him anyway, sitting heavy in his chest, knotting his stomach, the memory of your fresh blood on his hands refusing to fade.

You walked silently, the snow crunching beneath your boots, the late afternoon sun slanting long shadows across the road. Familiar faces moved in the distance, people going about their lives, blissfully unaware of how yours had come apart.

Everything looked the same. It felt wrong.

The ache in your wrist—or where it should’ve been—throbbed in time with your pulse. Every step was a reminder. Every brush of your coat against the bandage sent a cold shiver up your spine.

“I’m—I had to…” Joel started suddenly, his voice rough, catching like gravel in his throat.

You looked up at him, brow furrowing, your steps slowing just enough for him to feel it. His face was tight, his eyes fixed ahead like he couldn’t bring himself to look at you.

“I know, Joel,” you said quietly, the words soft but steady, though you could feel them cracking at the edges. “You did what you had to do.”

You let out a shaky breath, your gaze dropping for a second before forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Don’t you dare feel guilty over it. You saved my fucking life. You took a risk and—” Your voice wavered, snagging on the weight of it. It felt like your chest was caving in.

Joel’s jaw clenched hard enough that you saw the muscle twitch. His shoulders tensed, his hand flexing at his side.

“But look what you lost,” his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it any louder might break something between you.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, an ache swelling up behind your ribs. There wasn’t a correct answer to that — no words that could undo what had been done or make it easier to carry.

So instead, you reached out.

Your good hand brushed against his, fingers sliding between his with an unsteady, awkward grace, lacing them together as best you could. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t have to be.

Joel’s steps faltered for a heartbeat, and his grip tightened around yours. Firm. Unyielding. Like a promise he couldn’t say out loud.

Neither of you spoke after that. The silence stretched between you, not empty but full—thick with grief and unspoken love, with everything you’d both survived and everything you’d still have to face.

“Nice and easy,” Joel said, his voice low and steady, the kind of voice meant to anchor you when the ground beneath your feet kept shifting.

His fingers brushed your side as he helped lift the torn, blood-crusted shirt over your head, careful not to jostle your injured arm. The fabric clung to your skin, stiff with dried sweat and blood, tugging at your hair as it came free. A sharp sting bloomed in your shoulder, but you bit it back.

You hadn’t changed in two days. The jacket sleeve was shredded, and the collar was stiff with old blood. You could only imagine how you looked if you caught your reflection — sunken eyes, dirt-smudged skin, bruises blooming beneath your jaw.

Joel didn’t flinch at the sight of you. Didn’t comment. He just tossed the ruined shirt aside and knelt to untie your boots.

You opened your mouth to protest, some old stubborn instinct kicking up, but his gaze flicked up to yours — not sharp, not pitying, just a quiet, tired sort of patience.

“I know you can,” he murmured, like he could hear what you weren’t saying. “Just let me do this.”

The words loosened something tight in your chest. You nodded, swallowing around the ache in your throat.

When your boots were off, Joel guided you to the bathroom. The small space was already thick with rising steam. A clean towel hung from the hook, and a folded pair of soft clothes waited on the counter. The bath was drawn — hot water glinting in the low light.

Joel crouched beside the tub, testing the temperature with a hand, adjusting the tap like it was the most natural thing in the world as if this weren’t some terrible, broken aftermath.

“Water’s good,” he said, standing and rubbing a hand over his neck, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself. His eyes darted to yours. “I’ll be right outside. Call me if you need anything.”

You hesitated.

And he saw it.

That brief flicker of hesitation, of wanting him close even though you weren’t sure how to ask.

Joel didn’t say a word. He just gave a short nod, crossed back to you, and rested a calloused palm against your cheek.

His thumb brushed there once, slow and sure.

“You’re home now, baby,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

“Stay,” you muttered, your voice catching, your bottom lip trembling despite your best effort to hold it together. The word felt small in the heavy, steam-thick air.

Joel’s gaze met yours — steady, quiet, something breaking in his eyes. He gave a slight nod. No hesitation. No question.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m stayin’.”

He moved to strip off his jacket first, the blood-soaked fabric hitting the floor with a wet, heavy thud. His shirt followed, streaked with dried blood and grime, clinging to his skin as he peeled it away. He didn’t bother looking at the mess of bruises and scrapes blooming along his own arms, his focus never leaving you.

You eased into the water with a wince, the heat biting at your skin, sharp and stinging against raw cuts and tender bruises. You bit down on a hiss, trying not to show it, but Joel saw — he always did.

“Too hot?” he asked, reaching for the tap, adjusting the cold.

You shook your head, your throat tight. “It’s fine,” you whispered. It wasn’t, but it was the first thing that had made you feel anything in days, and you weren’t about to let it go.

Joel finished undressing, his movements slow, methodical, and careful. He understood this wasn’t about the bath. It was about not being alone.

He slid into the water behind you, the tub barely big enough to hold both of you. His legs bracketed yours, his arms resting on the rim for a moment before one slid around your waist, pulling you gently back against him.

The contact broke something loose in your chest. You let yourself lean into him, the weight of his body grounding you, his chin brushing the top of your damp hair.

Joel reached for a washcloth, dipping it in the water, wringing it out, then carefully running it along your shoulder. His touch was light, unhurried, working over the dried blood, the dirt, the grief clinging to your skin. He didn’t flinch when he reached the bandaged stump of your wrist. He was always steady, even when everything else was falling apart.

Your eyes stung with hot tears threatening to spill.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” you whispered.

Joel kissed your temple, the scrape of his stubble rough but familiar.

“It’s alright,” he murmured against your skin.

The water had gone from scalding to warm, clinging to your skin like a heavy second weight, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the storm in your head.

You stared down at the rippling surface, the band of skin where your wrist used to be, and the knot in your throat thickened. The silence between you and Joel wasn’t uncomfortable — it was heavy with everything neither of you had the strength to say yet.

“I shouldn’t have wandered off,” you whispered, the words falling out of you before you could stop them. Weak. Shaky. Like a confession you’d been holding onto since you woke up.

Joel’s hand moved before his words did. His calloused fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes met his. You hadn’t realized how badly you were shaking until he touched you.

“Stop,” he said, and it wasn’t sharp or harsh. It was soft, but its weight left no room for argument.

His gaze was glassy in the low light, rimmed with exhaustion, but there was no anger—only grief and tenderness.

“It ain’t your fault what happened,” he murmured, thumb brushing across your cheekbone, catching the tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

Your bottom lip quivered again, a fresh wave of guilt breaking loose in your chest. “I put you in that position,” you choked out, the words hitching as your throat tightened. “I made you—”

“Hey,” he cut in gently, shaking his head. “No. Don’t do that, sweetheart. Don’t you dare do that.”

Your breath broke, a sob catching in your chest. And before you could turn away, before you could fall apart alone, Joel pulled you in. Both arms wrapping around you, drawing you back against his chest, his hand cradling the back of your head as the tears came.

You pressed your face into his neck, the scent of him grounding you even as you cried, your shoulders shaking. The water sloshed around you, your sobs ragged in the quiet room.

Joel didn’t speak. He just held you. His hand moved in slow, steady circles over your back, and the beat of his heart was a steady drum beneath your ear.

He let you fall apart, and when the storm started to ebb, his voice came again — low, rough, and close.

“You’re here. That’s what matters. Nothin’ else.”

Somehow, you believed him even if the ache in your chest still lingered, even if the guilt didn’t quite go away.

After the bath, you sat on the edge of the bed, one of Joel’s shirts swallowing your frame, the fabric soft and worn, smelling faintly of him. It hung off your shoulders like borrowed armor you didn’t feel you deserved.

Joel sat behind you, one knee pressed to the mattress, carefully brushing your damp hair. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask if you wanted him to. He just did it, the slow, steady drag of the bristles through the tangles.

You knew this wasn’t for you.

Not entirely.

It was for him. To prove you were still here, still breathing, and solid beneath his hands. Every gentle pull through your hair and every brush pass was a way for him to keep from falling apart: a ritual, a reassurance.

So you let him.

And maybe you needed it, too.

Your gaze stayed fixed on your lap, at the loose drape of fabric where your hand should’ve been. You flexed your fingers on your good hand, feeling the phantom weight of the other one. It still felt like it was there sometimes, an itch, a flicker of sensation, a cruel trick of your brain.

You thought about how you couldn’t even brush your hair anymore. Couldn’t tie your boots. Pull on your jacket, how you’d have to relearn every small, stupid thing with your nondominant hand. How something as simple as buttoning a shirt might unravel you on the wrong day.

The thought made your throat tighten.

You didn’t want to be someone he had to take care of. You didn’t want to be a weight he carried. You wanted to be strong. Capable. You wanted to be the person who watched his back, not the one slowing him down.

But right now, sitting with his hand warm and steady at the nape of your neck, you let yourself be this version of yourself.

Joel didn’t treat you like glass. He didn’t fuss, didn’t ask if you were okay. He just kept moving the brush through your hair with a quiet kind of tenderness that made your chest ache.

His thumb brushed a damp strand from your cheek.

“There, sweetheart,” Joel murmured, so soft you weren’t sure you’d even heard it. It brushed against the air like a secret meant only for you.

He set the hairbrush down on the nightstand, the faint clatter louder than it should’ve been in the thick quiet. Then he came around to stand in front of you, his gaze searching your face.

“Since when did you get so patient?” you asked, trying for teasing, for some version of the old you, but your voice came out thin, brittle. The weight in your chest wouldn’t budge.

A small smile ghosted over Joel’s lips. “Only for you, darlin’,” he said, and it felt like the world hadn’t come apart for a moment.

But it didn’t last.

Your thoughts turned, sharp and ugly. The heaviness settled again in your chest, curling like smoke in the back of your throat. The knot of guilt, grief, and fear was winding tighter with every heartbeat.

You wanted it to stop. You wanted it to go quiet. You tried to stop feeling like this broken, lesser thing. And beneath all that, the sharp, unbearable ache of what if he doesn’t want me like this?

The words slipped out before you could catch them.

“Do you still… want me?” you whispered, barely able to look at him.

Joel’s breath hitched, and his eyes darkened — not with pity or shock, but with something rough and fierce.

“Hey,” he said gently, crouching in front of you, his hand brushing your thigh. “Ain’t a thing in this world could make me stop wantin’ you.”

You bit your lip, fighting the burn in your eyes.

“I’m not—” you started, but he was already shaking his head.

“Stop,” he rasped, his hand cupping the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You’re still you. Every goddamn piece of you.”

He reached for your injured arm, his touch light, seeking your permission in the flicker of your gaze. When you gave the faintest nod, he carefully unraveled the bandage. The sight of it — raw, red, wrong — made your stomach turn, but Joel didn’t flinch.

Instead, he lifted your arm, what was left of it, to his lips.

And he kissed it.

It was slow, tender, like it wasn’t something to pity but worth loving. His mouth brushed the skin just above the wound, and your breath shuddered out, something in you breaking loose.

His other hand cradled the back of your neck, guiding your forehead to his. He kissed you deeply and slowly until your mind stopped spinning and his warmth was all that existed.

The world dulled, the panic pulling back like a tide.

“I got you, baby,” he murmured against your lips. “Always.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering open to meet his dark hazel eyes burning with something that made your skin prickle and your stomach tighten.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, barely more than your breath.

Joel’s jaw clenched, something sharp and desperate flickering in his eyes at the words. Before you could second-guess it, your fingers brushed across the hard line of his chest, tracing the dip of a scar, feeling the steady drum of his pulse beneath your touch. You let your hand trail higher, curling around the back of his neck as you pulled him down onto the bed.

The mattress gave way under your combined weight; the worn cotton of Joel’s shirt brushed against his bare skin. He settled over you, bracing himself on his forearms so he didn’t crush you, but his body pressed against yours.

“Christ, baby,” he rasped, leaning down to kiss you again, this time deeper, rougher. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger edged in tenderness, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, lazy drag that made your toes curl.

You arched into him, needing to feel every inch of him against you. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers dragging over your ribs, tracing every curve. His touch was reverent, but possessive too — like he was reminding himself you were still here, still his.

Joel pulled back just enough to look down at you, his thumb brushing your lower lip, swollen from his kiss.

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he said, voice gravel-soft and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your breath trembled as you reached for him again, hooking your good hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down until your lips brushed his ear.

“Then show me,” you murmured, voice breaking on the words, equal parts plea and challenge.

Joel leaned down, kissing you breathless, his mouth rough and tender all at once. Every brush of his lips against yours made the rest of the world slip further away — the fear, the grief, the ache you hadn’t known how to name. There was only him—the weight of his body, the scratch of his stubble, the warmth of his skin.

You parted your legs wider, instinctively, needing him closer, and he slid between them like he belonged there, like it was the only place he was ever meant to be.

His hand skimmed up your thigh, his calloused palm leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You shivered under his touch, a soft gasp catching in your throat as his fingers reached the curve of your bare hip, pushing his — your — shirt higher.

The fabric bunched around your ribs, the cool air kissing your skin where his hand had been, but the ache between your legs only grew sharper, needier.

Joel’s gaze dropped, the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. That soft, wrecked look in his eyes didn’t fade, though — hunger threaded with affection, like you were something sacred and he was starving for you.

“No underwear, pretty girl?” he murmured, voice dark and low, the words thick with fondness and something rougher beneath it. His fingers teasingly dragged along the edge of your hipbone before sliding lower.

You felt your breath stutter when his touch reached the slick heat between your thighs, the lightest brush of his fingers against you sending a pulse of pleasure up your spine.

“Smart girl,” Joel rasped, eyes locked on yours as his touch moved in slow, unhurried strokes, like he had all the time in the world. “Makes it easier for me to take care of you.”

Your hips arched, chasing his hand, your skin flushed and tingling. A soft whimper escaped you, half pleasure, half relief — because this, this , you could feel. This made you forget the space at the end of your wrist and remember what it meant to be wanted.

Joel leaned in, kissing the corner of your mouth, jaw, throat — all those places he knew made you tremble. His free hand cradled your cheek, steadying you.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispered, dragging his lips against your skin. “Gonna make you feel good.”

You whimpered, your head tipping back as his finger slipped inside you, the stretch sending a pulse of pleasure straight to your core. His thumb brushed over your clit in a slow, deliberate circle, and your breath hitched.

“ Joel ,” you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a plea, your hips rolling helplessly into his hand.

His lips ghosted against your neck, hot and damp, and then he kissed you, open-mouthed, lingering, his tongue flicking against your skin. Each kiss left behind the faintest sting, tiny marks he knew would bloom later, little claims only the two of you would know were there.

His pace increased, finger moving with a little more intent, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the space between you, mixing with your soft, breathless whimpers.

Then another finger pushed inside you, the stretch making you moan, your thighs trembling around him. He groaned low against your neck at the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel rasped, his voice like sandpaper, thick and low in your ear. “So goddamn sweet for me.”

He kissed the underside of your jaw, his stubble rough against your flushed skin, while his thumb kept that steady, perfect pressure on your clit, making your head spin.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your throat, and it wasn’t a command. It wasn’t possessive in the way it might’ve been years ago. It was a promise. A reassurance. A tether.

Like he was reminding you — this is where you belong, right here, with me, alive, wanted.

The words sent another wave of heat through you, your body arching into him, a soft cry breaking free as your muscles tightened.

Joel’s free hand came up to cup your cheek, tipping your face toward his, and he kissed you deep, his tongue sliding against yours as his fingers drove you higher.

“I got you, sweetheart,” Joel breathed against your lips, his voice rough and deep, sending a shiver down your spine. “C’mon… let go for me. Be a good girl.”

Your name rumbled out of him like a prayer, his lips brushing yours as he spoke it, wrecked and reverent.

His fingers quickened, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision while the wet slide of his hand made your thighs tremble. Every stroke sent sharp, electric pulses through you, your body arching helplessly into his touch.

Your breath hitched, a soft sob escaping as the pressure built fast and sharp, coiling low in your belly, tighter and tighter until it was almost too much.

“Joel—” you gasped, your voice breaking as your muscles clenched around his fingers, your hand fisting in the sheets.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, pressing a searing kiss to your jaw, his stubble scraping your skin most deliciously. “Let me have it. Just like that.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit hard, your entire body jolting as white-hot pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your hips bucked, your toes curling, a strangled cry spilling from your lips as your vision blurred. It felt endless, sharp, wet, and overwhelming in the best way.

Joel held you through it, his fingers working through every last tremor, his hand cradling your cheek, grounding you as your body shook.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, his voice thick, raw with affection and hunger, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your throat as you came down, your chest heaving, skin flushed and damp.

You sagged against him, boneless and spent, the world blurring at the edges as his hands never stopped moving, soothing now, one brushing sweaty hair from your face, the other trailing soft circles against your thigh.

And in his arms, you felt whole again.

Desired.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

The aftershocks still rippled through you, leaving your limbs heavy and your skin fever-hot, but beneath it all was a deeper ache — the desperate, clenching need to have him inside you. To feel him, to be filled, to remind yourself you were alive, wanted, his.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice ragged and needy against his ear, “please… I need you.”

His breath stuttered against your skin, a low, broken sound that made your stomach clench again. He kissed your jaw, then your throat, the scrape of his stubble making you shiver as he gently guided you up the bed, your back sinking into the cool sheets.

“You got me,” he murmured, the words more promise than reassurance.

His hands were quick, slipping under the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down and off with a rough, practiced ease. His cock sprang free, hard and heavy against his stomach, the flushed head already slick.

Joel caught your gaze. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown, and heat and tenderness tangled together in his expression like a storm barely held in check.

“You sure, baby?” he asked, thumb brushing over your cheek, giving you one last chance to stop him and choose something else.

But you didn’t hesitate.

“Joel,” you whispered, your good hand reaching for him, curling around the back of his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “I’m yours.”

That wrecked something in him. You felt it.

His mouth crashed into yours, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongues tangling, and then he was settling between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. The stretch of him was slow and so good it made your eyes flutter shut, a moan breaking from your lips.

Joel swallowed the sound with a kiss, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other fisting the sheet by your hip as he pushed deeper.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his breath hot against your ear. “Fuck, baby…you feel like heaven.”

“Move,” you moaned, your voice raw and desperate. “ Please, Joel… move.”

You didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to feel anything but him — filling you, stretching you, breaking you apart in the way only he could. You just wanted your mind to go quiet, to drown in him.

Joel let out a guttural groan, his jaw clenched tight as he slowly sank deeper, your wet heat gripping him like a vice. The stretch burned in the best way, the drag of him against your walls making your back arch off the bed.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel hissed through his teeth, his voice shredded and reverent. He pulled out to the tip, your body clenching around nothing, desperate for him, before he pushed back in hard and deep, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the dim room.

His pace built, each thrust dragging a broken moan from your throat. Your legs fell open wider for him, greedy, needy, the ache in your belly twisting tighter.

You clawed at his shoulder, your good hand fisting in the muscle there as you gasped, “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

“Not fuckin’ stoppin’, baby,” he gritted, leaning down to mouth at your jaw, your throat, his teeth scraping against your pulse point. “Not ‘til you fall apart for me again.”

The hand that had been fisting the sheets moved — strong, calloused fingers trailing up your thigh, leaving a tingling heat in their wake. Then he pressed his thumb to your clit, circling it in tight, filthy little strokes that made your entire body jolt.

A sharp cry tore out of you, your hips bucking, chasing his hand as your muscles fluttered around him.

“Yeah,” Joel rasped, his pace rough and perfect, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs. “That’s my girl. So goddamn good… fuck , you’re killin’ me.”

Your head lolled back against the pillow, your vision blurring, the coil inside you wound so tight it was painful.

“Joel—” you sobbed, the pleasure tipping toward unbearable, your body trembling. “I—I need—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, circling your clit faster, grinding into you deep, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made your stomach clench.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he rasped, lips brushing your ear. “Let it go. Lose yourself for me.”

Your orgasm ripped through you hard and fast, your body locking up, thighs shaking, mouth falling open in a wordless cry as wave after wave of white-hot pleasure crashed over you. Joel cursed, his hips stuttering as you clenched around him.

Joel groaned low in his throat, pulling out quick, his cock slick with your arousal as he worked himself with a rough hand. His eyes never left you, his gaze heavy, filled with something more than lust. A beat later, he came with a hoarse curse, thick ropes spilling into his fist, his chest heaving, skin flushed and damp.

You watched, your breath catching, teeth sinking into your lower lip at the sight. The ache between your legs pulsed, overstimulated but wanting, and for the first time in days, your mind was quiet. Empty in the way you’d needed, filled only with the sight of him, the man you loved, wrecked and beautiful like this.

You thought he’d be done. Thought surely a man in his fifties would be spent now, and maybe he was, but the look in his eyes as they dragged down your bare, flushed body was anything but finished.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” Joel said, voice rough and reverent. He let his hand settle on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles against your damp skin. “How you feelin’, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, your gaze trailing over the broad line of his chest, the dark dusting of hair, the old scars, the way his stomach rose and fell with each breath. “I’m… better,” you managed, the words soft, a flicker of uncertainty still clinging to the edges.

Joel’s brow twitched, like he could hear everything you weren’t saying.

Without a word, he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water and rustling fabric following him. A moment later, he was back, a warm towel in one hand, a stubborn glint in his eyes.

“What are you—” you began, your brow lifting as he lifted your hips with surprising care, his touch gentle on your overly sensitive body.

Your clit throbbed at even the faintest brush of cool air.

“Gonna break my fuckin’ knees makin’ sure every ounce of doubt’s gone, pretty girl,” Joel murmured, settling back between your thighs like it was the most natural place in the world. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, the scrape of his stubble making your skin tighten.

You shook your head, chest tight, a sharp ache blooming in your throat. “Joel… I’m okay. You’ve proven your point,” you whispered, your voice shaking as you raised your arm — the stump was a brutal reminder. “You still… desire me even though—”

Your words broke off, your lip trembling, a wave of raw emotion crashing over you as your face crumpled.

Joel’s eyes softened, his hand cradled your jaw, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“Even though what?” he asked, voice low and rough, but not unkind.

You swallowed hard, unable to say it.

He kissed the inside of your thigh again, slow and tender, then rested his cheek there, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I didn’t stay alive this long just for your pretty face, sweetheart,” he rasped. “I want all of you. Every inch. Every scar. Every fuckin’ piece. You hear me?”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you brushed your tears away with your good hand, the rough pads of your fingers catching on your damp cheek.

But Joel wasn’t letting it slide that easily.

“Repeat it,” he said, his voice not a demand, but filled with tenderness. A tether pulling you back to him, grounding you in the heat between you.

Your chest rose and fell in a shaky breath, and your eyes locked on his. He waited patiently, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your thigh.

“You… you want all of me,” you whispered, your voice raw but steady, the weight of the words thick in the air between you.

Joel’s gaze softened, something warm and wrecked flickering in his eyes, and a small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Good girl,” he rasped, and the praise made your stomach flutter, your pulse quicken.

His mouth lowered again, trailing soft, lingering kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Each brush of his lips was a quiet promise, a reassurance. His stubble scratched just enough to make your hips twitch, your breath catching.

“Every inch of you, sweetheart,” Joel murmured against your skin, his lips warm and steady, his hand sliding up to rest over your hip, holding you there like he’d never let go. “Every scar, every soft spot, every breath you take… mine.”

You bit your lip, blinking against another wave of tears, this time for a different reason entirely.

You felt wanted.

Whole.

His.

And you let him you until the ache eased, until your breathing slowed, until there was nothing in the world but the quiet hum of his mouth on your skin and the steady weight of his hands on you.

taglist: @televangrl @burntsaltsblog @bowsnbang @yvonne-dump @salingers @unadulteratedcoffeetastemaker @amoooeba @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @bitchyfestnight @daddypascal17

321 notes · View notes

darknight3904 · 1 month ago

Text

Every Breath You Take

Chapter Thirteen- Under the Same Moon

Summary: You and Joel deal with the fallout of Nathan's actions

Warnings for this part: Canon typical violence, themes, language, gore, and horror. SA mention. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

Word Count: 4.4k

Previous Part / Series Masterlist / The Last of Us Masterlist

January 2014 Boston QZ

Boston's dreary sky stares at Joel as he walks quickly along the sidewalk. He hugs his coat tighter to his body as the cold air slices through the fabric and right into his aging bones.

Joel hasn’t felt this angry in a long time. He storms off towards your place, leaving you in Tess’s capable hands. You’re not staying at your fucking place anymore. He’ll be damned if he lets some fucking rapist hunt you down and hurt you in your own home.

Nathan. Nathan. Nathan. 5 '9 blonde hair, green eyes, tan skin. Probably Fedra. The moment Joel got his fucking hands on him he was going to—shit.

Joel hadn’t expected your apartment to be so…empty. The last time he’d seen it, it’d been fully furnished, paintings on the walls and a shitty record player in the corner. Now it was empty save for a nest of blankets and what looked like half a yoga mat. Three shirts hung in the closet along with two pairs of pants. Joel stuffs your only clothes into his bag, moving to survey the rest of the bare home.

He felt guilt build in his chest. You weren’t his to take care of but fuck, it felt like he should’ve done something for you. Empty cabinets, a single sleeve of stale saltine crackers, and a can of sardines is the only food you have. He finds a small stack of ration cards and shoves them into his back pocket.

You’d been with Tommy for ten years, Joel had known you as a teen, invited you into his home to watch his kid and here you were, twenty-nine and nearly starving, trying to sell yourself to make rent so you could avoid the shitty group homes the QZ had.

Sarah wouldn’t want anything to do with you.

Tommy’s words echo in his mind as Joel curses, you’d been his daughter's friend and at some point probably would’ve ended up his sister in law if his brother hadn’t jumped ship. Fuck, you were the last thing he had that was close to family here in Boston and he’d sat around, drinking and popping pills while you sold everything including yourself to get by. Tommy was right, Sarah wouldn’t want anything to do with him, not if he sat around and let you rot away in your apartment across town.

Joel slams the door to the apartment shut. Fedra can have your blanket nest and stale crackers; you were never coming back here, not if he had a say in it.

He returns home to you asleep on the couch again, Tess across from you, a worried look on her face. Joel drops the bag at one end of the couch, you can empty it out later. He looks down at you, your chest slowly rises and falls in your sleep. You’re practically swimming in the t-shirt he’d loaned you, something right out of his own closet.

“Gave her some painkillers.” Tess says, “She’ll probably be out til’ the afternoon.”

Joel nods; he doesn’t mind that Tess has dipped into their profits. Joel thinks the pain must’ve been awful as his mind replays the way your face had been scrunched up and your arms cradling your lower half.

“Listen, we need to talk to Chuck about finding a Plan B for her or something. And when she does wake up, I need you to convince her to check herself into one of those Fedra clinics.” Tess says

“How bad is it?” Joel hesitates for a moment, unsure if he really wants to know

“Could be worse. She’s got bruises on her torso, I’m more worried about the bleeding and the internal pain.” Tess says, her eyes drifting to you, “Shit, I don’t like her much but she doesn’t deserve any of this.”

“I’ll take her when she wakes up.” He grunts, “Drag er’ there if I have to.”

When you were 15, you broke your arm roller skating. It was a warm spring day, and school had just let out for Easter break. Your dad was inside, on an important work call and he and he’d told you a thousand times before to put the protective gear on before skating around the cul-de-sac. Of course, you’d ignored him, and ended up wiping out, landing hard on your side, right at the end of your driveway.

It wasn’t the fall that scared you, but rather the image of your arm being awkwardly bent at an odd angle. You’d started crying, the pain registering as soon as your eyes made contact with your limb. Struggling to stand back up on the skates, you yelled for your dad, hoping he’d hear you inside the house. Instead, the sound of a truck’s brakes squealing had you looking up.

Joel had just gotten off work, picking Sarah up from the school’s after-hours program, and he’d had a whole night planned. Hamburger Helper with apple juice for dinner, maybe a beer for him, then a movie he’d rented from Blockbuster, and finally, he’d tuck his kid into bed at precisely 9 pm. A good night's rest was important for his little girl.

What Joel hadn’t counted on was his new neighbor's kid being flat on her ass in her driveway, forearm twisted in a weird way while she cried for her dad, bright pink skates still on her feet. He’d pulled the keys from the ignition, telling Sarah to sit down on the porch before quickly jogging over to his neighbor.

“What the hell is goin’ on here?” He asks, approaching you

You’re sniffling, face scrunched up in pain as you look up at him, “Joel! Can you help me inside? M-My dad's on a work call.”

Joel nods, crouching down to pull the evil skates off your feet, tossing them into the grass as he looks at your arm closely, careful not to touch, as your nose wrinkles.

“Gonna need to go to the hospital for that one, kid.” He says

“You think it’s broken?” You ask sadly

“There’s a lump in your arm, I’m no doctor but you definitely knocked something loose in there.” He says

You mumble a curse under your breath.

“Watch your language.” He teases

This earns him a small smile, you wipe at your eyes, trying to get them to stop watering.

“Alright, up you go.”

Joel had just planned on pulling you up, no sense in picking you up, you weren’t a little kid. Perhaps it was just instinct for what he’d do if Sarah was in your position, he found himself lifting you up, arms hooked under your legs and wrapped securely around your shoulders.

“C’mon let's go get your old man.” He says

Your father is frantic, instantly hanging his phone up when he sees Joel holding you, you cradling your arm close to your chest. Joel helps you into the car and promises to lock the front door for your dad as your little car jets down the road.

Joel watches the car disappear down the road, taking a right at the stop sign in the direction of the local hospital. Sarah stands next to him, her little hand wrapped around his as she looks up at him.

“Daddy, why’re you making that face?” She asks

“No reason.” Joel says, ruffling her hair, “Just…don’t like seein’ our neighbor in pain like that. Makes me wonder what I’d do if you were hurt like that.”

Sarah glances across the yard to your home, “Well then I won’t roller skate. Ever.”

Joel laughs, picking her up. “Sounds like a plan, babygirl.”

The walk to the clinic is a slow, agonizing one. Joel walks slowly next to you, his eyes fixed on the passersbys just in case someone who looked like Nathan happened to stumble by. If he were smart, he’d skip town before Joel was able to get his hands on him. No person deserved to call himself a man if he hurt a girl like that.

Joel waits for you in the little waiting room, plastic chair groaning if he shifts too much in it. Hopefully he doesn’t end up on his ass if this chair decides to break into a million pieces.

You’re quiet on the walk back, eyes fixed on the sidewalk as he matches your pace.

“Listen,” he says, “You’re gonna be stayin with me n’ Tess from now on.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Joel puts his hand up, cutting you off.

“Already got your stuff from your apartment. I can’t sit around and let you starve to death, my brother would tan my hide if he found out how you were livin’, sleepin’ on the floor and eating like a damn bird.”

You scoff, bitter and angry, “Tommy doesn’t give a shit about me or you. Why else do you think he ran off? He’s tired of us.”

Maybe you’re right Tommy might not give a shit anymore but Joel does. He won’t say it aloud, but he doesn’t want you living in that grim apartment, unable to make ends meet, starving as you sell yourself off to men. Maybe it's whatever is left of his fatherly instincts, but he can’t help but see you the way you used to be back in Texas. The kid of the single dad next door, maybe you and your dad were some older version of him and Sarah, a version Joel never got to see thanks to the universe’s shitty plans.

Maybe in another life, he got to see Sarah graduate from high school; she was brilliant, Joel was sure she would’ve gotten some fancy full ride to some big-time university. If he closes his eyes he can imagine moving her into her dorm, lofting the bed and sweating his ass off trying to help her organize all the shit she packed into his truck bed. Eventually, he’d watch her walk the stage at college graduation, a few more greys in his hair, eyes squinting at the program trying to find her in the M section. She’d have her degree in hand, smiling for the camera, something he’d never pursued in the interest of caring for her after her mom ran off. Of course, even if she never did any of those things, Joel would’ve been proud; he loved her no matter what she got into.

Joel coughs, itching a nonexistent itch at the back of his neck, snapping himself out of his thoughts. Too many what ifs, he’s getting stuck in delusion. Dwelling on Sarah was useless, she didn’t get to college or high school graduation, never even got out of Austin that fucking night,

“Tommy doesn’t matter right now. You’re stayin’ with me till’ you’re healed and back on your feet.” He coughs out, hoping you can’t see the tear that’s escaping the waterline of his eye.

“Fine,” You relent, “Did you at least grab all my clothes?”

“You mean all three shirts and pants?” He asks

You give him a glare, which he ignores.

“What’d the doc say?” Joel changes the subject, hoping whatever has happened isn’t too bad.

“I’ll be fine. Just need bed rest, and to take these twice a day.” You say, shaking a little bottle with blue pills inside, “She said I should eat more, too. Oh she gave me one of those birth control pills so you and Tess don’t gotta worry bout’ trading shit for one for me.”

You pause for a moment, unsure of continuing, and Joel nudges you, “Give me everything.”

“No uh, sex for six weeks, I’ll spare you the details, but it’s uh messy down there right now. Nothing life-threatening, just like some internal…tares, I guess you could say.”

Joel nods, he doesn’t need details. The moment Joel meets him, Nathan is a dead man either way.

“Let’s get you home then.” He grunts

Somewhere in the Midwest United States…

Tommy sighs deeply. Today has been a long one. Too many infected to count, not to mention a few of the others were sick with some cold that was going around. He lay in his sleeping bag, head propped up by his backpack; at least he wasn’t on patrol tonight.

His mind wandered at times like this, when the day had ended and the quiet lull of nighttime fell over his companions. As usual, his mind drifted to you. He wondered what you spent your days doing. Probably still working at the orphanage. He wondered if you ever talked to Joel or Tess, you’d been so uninterested in their smuggling, the chances were low.

Tommy hoped Joel was checking in on you, making sure you were okay. Jealousy swarmed in his chest as he thought of his brother caring for you. Of course, maybe you’d moved on, entirely forgotten about the stupid Tommy Miller who ditched you for a dream.

Yeah, somehow that seemed worse than Joel hanging around you. Tommy stares up at the moon, brilliant white looks back at him. He wonders if you’re awake right now, too, staring up at the same moon, wondering what has happened to him. He runs a hand over his face, to no avail trying to swallow the sadness that wells in his chest whenever he thinks of you, fuck he misses you.

2017 Boston QZ

Life wasn’t so bad with Joel and Tess. Sure, they were both early risers, waking you up by rummaging around the apartment and talking just a bit too loud, but overall you couldn’t complain.

Nearly three years after you’d moved in, you were still here, curled up like a happy cat on your little cot Joel had found for you after claiming the couch “wasn’t a good bed”. You watched sleepily as Joel sat at the table, counting pills out into a little ziploc, Tess’s voice filling the air as she talked about what Bill and Frank needed from the QZ.

Joel’s eyes fall to you as he notices you shift under the blankets, “You ever gonna get up? Gotta be out before the sun rises.”

“Yes, sir.” You grumble, untangling the sheets from your legs, righting yourself.

Normally you were content with letting Tess and Joel handle all the deals with the actual people, you’d count shit for them and keep a little written record of who owed them what. But, today was special after Joel handed that bag off to whatever Fedra grunt wanted it, you were all headed to Bill and Frank's.

You loved leaving the QZ behind for the sleepy little town of Lincoln. Most of all though, you liked getting to see the two guys that lived there. Sure, Bill was a total hardass who regularly told you that you were in the way, but Frank made amazing conversation and even better paintings. Oh of course there was the fact that Bill’s cooking was to die for, he might be the meanest man alive but he made a damn good meal.

“Don’t forget to double up on socks this time.” Tess reminds you as you slip into the bathroom

Jesus, those two, always hovering like concerned parents.

Tess had a certain soft spot, you realized it during your first week in their home. She wasn’t the total bitch you’d imagined while you were still with Tommy. Sure, it was her way or the highway most days, but she wasn’t that bad. You suppose she also liked the extra cards you brought to the table, your payment from the orphanage had helped supply your home with shit you didn’t technically need but it made life more comfortable. For example, the watermelon-scented body wash you’d traded for was your new favorite thing.

You pull the curtain shut on your little corner of the apartment. It was a few sheets that Joel had rigged up on some rope, nothing fancy, but at least it was some privacy. You’d ask him to help you after you dropped your socks into the toilet, trying to get changed while he sat on the couch one morning. Now, your sheet covered corner was your little oasis away from the world.

You’re like 99% sure Tess and Joel are fucking. You’ve never caught them with their pants down (literally), but you’d definitely seen them emerge from the bedroom together, messy hair and heavy chests to match. They didn’t seem like they were actual romantic partners, though. They never kissed or hugged in front of you, the most you’d seen was Tess patting Joel’s back one day. Although they seemed to like to spoon a lot, you’d peered into their bedroom one early morning and seen it, who knew Joel would be the little spoon?

You snicker at the thought of big, bad, Joel Miller cuddling up to someone half a foot shorter than him.

“Quit laughing and’ get dressed.” Joel's stern voice called

The downside to your sheet oasis was that it wasn’t soundproof.

The hike to Lincoln got easier each time you did it. You learned to love the way the sun felt on your face and the way the clean air smelled as it filled your lungs. Your eyes were fixed ahead as you walked beside Joel, Tess, a few feet ahead of both of you.

“You think Frank will have that painting done for me this time?” You ask

“Maybe.” Joel grunts

God, he was a terrible conversation partner. Did Tommy inherit all the people skills or something? Joel was so fucking boring sometimes it made you want to die.

“What’s that look? Your feet hurting again? Tess told ya’ to wear two pairs of socks.” Joel scolds

“Ugh, no!” You roll your eyes, “I have the socks on I swear. Was just thinking about how your brother is better at making conversation.”

“Yeah, well, he ain’t here,” Joel grumbles

You’re tired of him talking to you like you’re the same teenager he used to be neighbors with. You were 34 now, and Joel definitely still saw you as some kid who didn’t know her left from right.

“You ever wonder what the hell Tommy’s been doin’ all this time?” You ask

“Livin’ somewhere out in Wyoming last I spoke to him.” Joel says

“Gotcha—Wait, spoke to him?” You stop him, grabbing his forearm to prevent him from taking another step, “When the hell did you talk to him? Was he back in Boston?”

“Nah, radio. Left the Fireflies bout’ a year ago too.” Joel says, pulling his arm free

“And you didn’t think to tell me this?” You ask

“Thought you’d let him go. Saw ya with that guy, what’s his name?” Joel says, “Sides’ Tommy isn’t that interesting anymore

“Wyatt? We’re just friends.” You say quickly

Joel blows a raspberry with his lips, “Better tell him that, kid.”

Joel starts walking away from you, long legs taking big strides that you have to work double time to catch up to.

“Stop calling me that.” You groan

Loud whoops of happy kids filled the halls of the orphanage. Tomorrow was Christmas, which meant no school for them. You and Ophelia were slowly working your way down a hallway, mopping the old linoleum. As you turn the corner, pushing your bucket along, a kid runs into you, the sudsy water tips over, splashing all over the peeling floor.

“Hey!” You groan, “Watch where you’re going.”

“Fuck…” The kid groans, rubbing her tailbone from her place on the ground

You right the bucket, a deep sigh leaving your lips as you stare down at all the water. Ophelia is already complaining about the mess from where she is twenty feet behind you. You glance down at the girl you ran into, her dark hair is pulled into a short ponytail, choppy bangs falling over her face as she glares up at you.

“You alright?” You ask

“Fine.” She grumbles

Great. A kid with an attitude.

You watch her walk off down the hall, converse squeaking as she walks over your hard work. You curse her out in your mind, wishing you knew her name so you could complain to whatever officer was incharge of her.

“That's the second time that kids have done shit like that.” Ophelia says, “Gonna complain about her after our shift ends.”

“How?” You snort, “We don’t even know her name.”

“It’s Ellie. Heard some other girl say it to her a few weeks ago, after she accidentally tipped over a full garbage can cuz’ she tripped over her untied shoelaces.” Ophelia reports

“Ellie.” You mumble, “Ellie, Ellie.”

Oh you were definitely reporting her clumsy ass.

The first time you talk to Tommy, it's unbearably awkward. The two of you spend three full minutes discussing the weather. He won’t tell you where in Wyoming he is, just that it’s apparently cloudy there. You don’t tell him about Nathan, he doesn’t need to know.

It’d take a few weeks for you to gather the courage to speak to him, eventually psyching yourself up to beg Joel to let you talk to him. Now you owe Boston’s grumpiest smuggler the next bag of coffee you came across.

“So uh. You seein’ anyone?” Tommy asks

“We have five minutes on the radio, and you wanna talk new partners?” You ask incredulously

“I’ll take that as a no.” Tommy says

You can practically hear his smirk through the little speakers in front of you.

“Fuck off. How do you know I’m not just workin’ on myself?” You ask

“Cuz’ I know you, you think you’re inherently perfect.” Tommy says

“Alright fine, you caught me.”

You want to ask Tommy if he’s seeing anyone, Joel said he was living with some group of people, perhaps one had caught his eye. You never do, instead you blabber about the Ellie issue you faced a week ago, an officer dragging her to apologize to you and Ophelia for interfering with your work. For a ten year old she caused a lot of problems.

Tommy found that amusing, just like you anticipated, his warm laughter crackling over the speakers and filling your heart up.

Sometimes you wondered if you’d ever really be able to move on from him. He’d been your first real boyfriend after all. Late at night you’d lay surrounded by your sheets for walls and started up at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing with his time now. Did he ever think of coming back to Boston? To his brother? To you? Perhaps he thought there was nothing left for him here.

You bury your face in the pillow, wrapping your arms around your body trying to replicate the feeling of him wrapped around you. You missed the days you used to spend in the Pennsylvania countryside. When baby cries where your only real problem in life.

A sigh slips out of your lips as you listen to Joel and Tess’s hushed mumbles from their bedroom. You wondered what they talked about late at night. It always seemed to be all about business with them. Perhaps they were gossiping about you, or maybe Tess was telling Joel to quit leaving the toilet seat up before she falls in. You really hoped it was the latter, that man had a problem, living with two women and constantly leaving the seat up.

Tess kept a careful eye on Joel and you. It’s not like she didn’t know who you were, she trusted you enough to keep your mouth shut about the whole smuggling business. She just couldn’t help it, she hated the way he looked at you.

Joel reminded her of some gruff bear while you might as well be some wounded baby deer he found out in the cold and brought into his den. It’s not like she was going to turn you out now, you were actually pretty helpful around the apartment, cleaning and cooking not to mention the once in a blue moon help you supplied for deals. Three sets of hands was always better than two.

She swore up and down it wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be, not when she and Joel weren’t…well she barely knew what the hell they were, but still, she wasn’t jealous.

It’s just that he was always fucking staring.

He’d filled her in on your shared past, told her all about how you used to be neighbors and shit. Tess just wished he wasn’t always hovering over you the way he did. At first she’d thought it was some paternal thing, a way to connect with that dead kid of his, the one he mumbles in his sleep about. Then, she’d caught him one day, holding a shirt of yours to his nose, chest slowly rising as he took a deep inhale, his shoulders visibly loosening as he did. That was the day she realized it wasn’t some surrogate father situation, even if Joel tried his hardest to make it that way, calling you kid and reminding you about brushing your teeth.

She was guilty of it too, telling you shit like you were some kid in need of mothering, she just couldn’t help it sometimes, you were just so damn forgetful. How you survived out on the road surprised her everytime she thought about it too hard. Tommy and Joel were some damn good body guards.

Tess watched as Joel moved slowly around the bedroom. His nightly routine was the same each night.

“So…her and that Wyatt guy, you think they’re fucking?” Tess asks, watching Joel carefully

His shoulders tighten, freezing for a moment before he goes back to unbuttoning his dark green shirt. “What makes you think that?”

“Well today while you were out at work, I stopped here, needed to piss before my shift started and the two of them were here, chatting it up in the kitchen.”

Joel looks at her for a moment, slipping a dark blue t-shirt on, his face disappearing for a second, “Doesn’t mean they’re together.”

Tess snorts, “They’re 34, they’re not celibate nuns, Joel.”

Joel sighs, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, climbing into bed beside her. Tess can tell she’s gotten under his skin. Yeah, it’s definitely not platonic, at least not on his side. She had no idea what ran through your head,

“She can do whatever she wants. I ain’t her dad.”

No, you’re not.

That’s what she wants to say, call him out for ogling his brother's ex, they’d taken out of the goodness of whatever was left of their hearts. Instead, Tess agrees, switching the lamp on her nightstand off, plunging the room into darkness.

Next Part

Season Finale tonight, then we gotta wait 2+ years for more...

Fyi, I'm writing Nathan's death scene right now. It's quite fun.

Comment to be added to the tag list. This tag list is not chapter by chapter; I carry the tags over to each part.

@freythecrazyfae @rae-gar-targaryen @keseqna @eniepascal @jakecockley @aphroditesblunt @soberbabes @daisyhams

@h0neylemon @womenlover0 @ghostofseattle @endurexxsurvive

@ashhlsstuff

#joel miller #tommy miller #joel miller x reader #tommy miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #joel miller x female reader #fanfic #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #jackson joel x reader #pedro pascal #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller slow burn #gabriel luna #joel miller angst #tommy miller angst

100 notes · View notes

muneca-lemon-steppa · 1 year ago

Note

hello!!! hope you’re doing great, I kinda wanna ask about Thomas x Sister Shelby if you do that ? And if you do I’m thinking she’d be smart, has a very quick tongue and she wants to get out of the Shelby business to marry the love of her life (alfie😝😍) so she fakes her death and ofc everyone is distraught and angry than after a few years Thomas sees alfie at his home and than comes his sister who he thought had died and he berates her than she says something like you’re a worse person than me always killing for money like he can’t live without a war. Also I am in the mood for a very angst ending

A/N: Hello my love! How are you doing? I am so so sorry that this has taken forever. Truthfully, I had no clue how to do this. I thought about this long an hard, and though some things I switched up, I hope you enjoy this. I feel like this got me to stretch my writing muscles, and it was really fun. Let me know what you think darling!

Run Away With Me Darling

Alfie Solomons x Fem! Reader; 3.8k words; fluff, angst

Warnings: language, contentious family relationships, arranged marriage???

It started innocently enough.

You bringing tea and biscuits to meeting rooms where the men started their schemes. Listening and taking notes alongside your ever watchful Aunt Polly. Sneaking glances at the big brute in the chair across from your big brothers.

“Thank you treacle. Yeah that’s real kind of you.”

That brute is the only man that would say thank you for the tea you bring by. And when you go to pour more for him, he’s the only man who says, “No need for that darling. Grown men can pour their own tea yeah?”

It wasn’t meant to be anything more than professional. But you should’ve known. Known from that first encounter outside those Shelby walls… you and Mr. Solomons shared a single soul… and heaven nor hell could keep you from each other’s grasp.

It was hot. London is not a tropical city by any means. But the sheer amount of bodies, activity, and warm rain, had transformed the city into a sauna. The wisps of your hair along your neck and forehead are plastered to your body. Rivulets of sweat sneak down your chest. The heat could only be described as oppressive. You were counting down the steps till you could go home.

On the one hand… it was strange having a home all to yourself. Truthfully, it was the Shelby homestead in London, where the family would stay when business needed attending to. However, when they all left, you stayed. Carrying delicate messages. Keeping a close pulse on the going’s on of the city. And perhaps most importantly… remaining a pretty show pony for the Shelby family.

You hated to admit it. But you were desperately jealous of Ada. She had the guts to sneak past Arthur, Tommy, and John. She had the foresight to marry her true love before Tommy could marry her off to the highest bidder. You had no such luck. No childhood love. No sweetheart to campaign for. The boys had made sure of it. Despite Ada and your protests, and Polly’s discrete ploys; Tommy had decided. The sweet, pure, and innocent youngest Shelby girl will be auctioned off to the richest and most lucrative partner for the Shelby Company. And she will remain pretty and docile. A prize.

The mere thought made your stomach twist and churn and burn.

You loved them. Your family. More than most love their family. But you could barely breathe under their watch. Even in another city you felt the reach of their eyes. Felt the whisperings of potential matches for your hand and womb. The sweat on your brow burned your eyes. Taking place of the unshed tears you long abandoned.

All you longed for was cold water. A cool bath. Anything to scrub off the sweat and dirt and exhaustion. However, shade covered your front door, casting a shadow over the threshold.

“Sweetheart! Been waiting a bit for you!”

No matter where you see Mr. Solomons, he seems to take up all the space. You don’t know how he is able to stand the heat, with his coat and hat and bushy beard. But he looks unfettered. Cool even. You finally felt the kiss of the breeze on your neck as you approached.

“Mr. Solomons. How can I help you?”

“You going to invite me in like a good girl?”

“I’m not in the business of inviting strange men into my home.”

“You think me strange?”

“Oh Mr. Solomons you are the strangest man I’ve ever met.”

“Makes you a little excited though don’t it? A hint of danger yeah? Big brute standing at your door.”

You stuck your chin out, staring directly into his stormy eyes. “I’m not afraid of you Mr. Solomons.”

His mouth quirks up in the corner. A twinkle in his eyes, and your breath hitched as he leaned into your space, “Oh I know sweet. You ain’t like the others ain’t ya? I saw it… the first time I laid eyes on you I knew you were different. Those boys… cold blooded little snakes… you… nah… there’s a flame in you treacle…and I look forward to see you set things aflame.”

Before you could respond in any way, he leaned away, smiling at your response. He pulled out an envelope from his coat and handed it to you, “Contract and information for your devious brother my sweet. Don’t worry, put a little something in there for you too for your trouble.”

You snatched the envelope from his hand. Unsure of how to respond to his… behavior. His rumbling laugh set a shiver down your spine, but you pushed it down as you appraised him, “This seems below your job description… don’t you have messenger boys?”

He further smirked, “I hope you’ll forgive me, that I want to keep you to myself.”

“I’m not a kept girl.”

“That you are not. Just have to inform your brothers of the fact don’t you?”

Hot shame rose in your cheeks. The envelope in your hands crinkling sharply. You felt the cool brush of gold rings on your cheek, “I have a standing dinner every Thursday evening. Let it be our little secret, hmm?”

Before you could react, a coarse kiss is pressed to your knuckles. As he started walking away, you called out, “And if I don’t show up? What then?”

He turned, with a boyish smile, “You’re not a kept woman treacle. Not my business. I’ll just send my messenger boys in my place.”

That was a year ago. Things were so simple then. Secret dinners. Secret mornings. Secret dalliances and outings around town. And when the family came to town, you placed that mask back on. Sweet, innocent, and docile Shelby girl. Ready at the beck and call of her family. And when they left, you ran right into the arms of Alfie. Because where it all started as something to feel disobedient, it grew into something deeper and more ancient. You felt your soul intertwine with his, as if it was always searching for him. In the evenings when he whispered his love for you and kept you close, you had never felt safer. Never felt more alive.

But dreams are not forever. Sooner or later the bubble must pop.

“You’ll need to come back to Birmingham dearest.”

“For how long?”

Everyone looked up at Tommy. Tommy didn’t even look up from his dinner plate, “Permanently. I’ve got a husband for you.”

Your fork dropped. Your heart stopped beating.

You faintly hear Aunt Polly call your name.

“Husband?” You whispered.

Tommy sighed, “That is what I said. High time you married, you’re old enough. Mr. Gorman has multiple factories both here and in the states, and his son is set to inherit them all. It’s a good match, it’ll be very beneficial to the company.”

“Tommy I don’t even know him.”

“You have your entire life to get to know him. Now finish your dinner.”

“So you just decided is that it? You just decided to that I’d belong to some man? Tell me Tommy… how much did you sell me off for? How much is my womb worth?”

“Watch your mouth!” Polly hissed, with Arthur wincing at the cutting words.

“I’m not going.” You stood from your chair. Preparing for battle.

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“I’m not going! You cannot make me!”

Tommy rose from his seat, John putting his head in his hands with Arthur knocking back a drink. Low. Deadly. Tommy always could command a room with his voice. Cold finger pointing at you like a deadly weapon. “You will do as you’re told. This is not about you. This is about the family. In a week, I will come fetch you. I will drag you back to Birmingham if I have to. And you will marry the young Mr. Gorman, and you will have as many of his fucking babies as he chooses. You will be rich. You will be safe. And you will be set. I am not about to argue with a child.”

You felt the tears well up in your eyes. Sorrow. Mourning. Hatred. “I hate you Thomas Shelby. I hate you.”

“You will get over it.”

You ran to your room. Weeping the rest of the night.

Because how can your body and name be given to a man, when your heart and soul belonged to another?

They left the next morning. Arthur knocking on your door to announce the departure, and trying to convince you, “He’s a good lad darling. Trust Tommy alright? Wouldn’t let nothing bad happen to ya, even though it seems like right shit. Don’t be too angry at us. We’ll all still be close. And anyway… it’s what’s good for the family.”

You didn’t look at him. Not even a hum of acknowledgment when he kissed your hair tenderly. A regretful sigh leaves his body as Arthur walked away, taking one last look at your quivering body on your maiden bed. Arthur always had a soft spot for you. Always defensive for you unlike your other siblings. He had tried in vain to get Tommy to rethink the arrangement. You didn't need to get married. The company didn't need such an alliance. They'd get by as they always have. But Tommy's sights were set much higher. He wanted that name of honor. And to get it, he was willing to play by the rules of old money. Tommy had convinced Arthur enough. Enough that you'd eventually forgive them all.

The orange sky illuminated your bedroom in a bloody hue. Your throat dry and head hot and pounding. The creaking and settling of the house had become a steady ring in your ears, you didn't even hear the bedroom door open.

"Treacle. What are you doing? Eden said you haven't left since last night. You ill?"

Maids hear everything, you think bitterly. But you couldn't be too cross with Eden. Not really.

"He's done it Alfie."

Alfie toed off his boots after the hat and coat. Sinking into the too ornate duvet. "Who treacle? What happened?"

You faced him, deep creases of the duvet threads divide your hot wet cheeks. Lashes clumped together and soaked. "Tommy... he... he finally did it. He's married me off. In a weeks time I'm to belong to some... Mr. Gorman. His father owns factories, and I suppose that's enough for my bride price."

You feel your body being gently tugged up and into Alfie’s embrace. Despite any protest from you about how it may affect his back, he shushes you instantly, “Now now my little dove. Nah you ain’t going back to Birmingham. You ain’t getting married to some prick. Nah you’re staying here with ol’ Alfie.”

You force your face under his chin, letting his unkempt beard absorb your sobs, “No Alfie it’s true! Tommy told me yesterday at dinner! He… he’s taking me away Alfie! I hate him. I hate him so much. I don’t want to marry some man I don’t even know!”

“I already told you darling, you’re not going to! It’s not happening.”

You push his shoulder, “You’re not listening to me! Tommy said-“

“I don’t give a shit what Tommy said! You’re not marrying the shit because you’re marrying me!”

Like an unpracticed magician, he pulled out a gorgeous diamond and sapphire ring. Its glimmer and fractals made it look as endless as the night sky. You felt the breath in your lungs catch, anger and fear simmering down and cooling. You dared not touch something to precious, “Alfie Solomons…”

“Was my mother’s. Gave it to me when I came back from the war. On her death bed. Made me swear that I wouldn’t give it up for any pretty girl on the street. Had to give it to the one.”

You struggled to meet his gaze, “And I-“

“The one treacle. If you’ll have me.”

He shifted you in his lap, fully facing him, “Now… I had a whole event planned out. Garden stroll. Drinks. Music playing. And I know I’m a sorry old monster and you have loads of suitor-“

“Alfie-“

“But I swear on my life treacle, you’ll never want for anything. You will have freedom to do whatever you would hope to do. We’ll go anywhere. I’ll love you till the stars go out-“

“Alfie! Yes! Yes yes yes! I’ll marry you! You silly old man!”

You pushed him back and kissed him fiercely. With all the passion you had been hiding from your family for years. Until the acidic burn of reality came down, “But what about Tommy? Alfie you hate each other, he’ll never let me go.”

Rough hands running up and down your thighs, gazing in awe at the fiery halo surrounding you. “I was willing to go in and threaten blessing or death.”

“I won’t have you put in danger for love. This isn’t Shakespeare.”

With a laugh and kiss to your fingertips he whispers, “You got any ideas? I’m all ears.”

You try to think, but kept coming across a wall. Any option you thought of ended in bloodshed. You fell into the bed next to Alfie, curling into his chest, “I wish we could just run away.”

His arms tighten around you, “What if we did?”

It would happen three days before Tommy would come to fetch you. You dismissed Eden with an oath to secrecy, and for four days you played the part of excited bride to be. Purchasing things for a new marital home, a wedding dress and new wardrobe. Who cares if the detail of the lucky husband was slightly off?

Whenever your family called, you lied happily through your smiling teeth. At first you felt a twinge of guilt. But in the end, they stood by as your brothers sold you off. They lost the right to the truth. They hated Alfie, said as much any time they came to the house. They would never understand. They would never allow it. But this was your life. And you would be damned before you were cleaved from your beloved.

The men from the distillery made regular visits to the house in the middle of the night, picking up your things to take to Margate, dropping off love letters and updates from Alfie. With each passing day, your heart became lighter. The binds lessening. Freedom was right on your tongue.

Three days before Tommy, Arthur, and John are to pick you up, the horrific news explodes through Birmingham. The Shelby home in London: set ablaze. No survivors. The beautiful bride, burned alongside her wedding dress hanging in the window. The youngest Shelby girl, an angel amongst demons, taken too soon from the earth from a horrific accident. The fire so destructive, not even a body is there for a proper burial. Just ash and a memory of that sweet face. The funeral is horrible. Wailing and weeping from all of Birmingham. Aunt Polly could barely keep it together, blaming Tommy for it all. Even business acquaintances from London and beyond come to pay their respects. The most shocking visitor, was Mr. Solomons, who paid for the funeral itself, “I’m sorry Tommy for your loss. I really am. She was a sweet girl. But… she’s in a better place I’m sure.”

And what a better place that is. White washed home right on the beach, windows open at all times, with the sea breeze billowing pristine gossamer curtains in the wind. You spend your days reading and writing to your heart’s content, strolling the beach, playing with Cyril like a child. As Alfie settles affairs in Camden during the week, he visits during the weekend, serving and worshipping you like a goddess. He never gave you information about the family. You didn’t want it. That was your old life. A you that you couldn’t recognize. Here, in this life, you were free. Free to speak. Free to argue and give your mind.

After a month, Alfie permanently moves to Margate. Home. Retired from the gangster life with enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life, with more than enough to comfort when he’s gone.

And the years pass blissfully. Just how it was in the beginning. Kisses and dancing and laughter and arguing and love and joy. 3 years of absolute heaven, you had nearly forgotten how it all was almost taken from you.

But the past does have a way of rearing its ugly head doesn’t it?

It’s the dawn of summer. The final kisses of spring bringing crisp clean air through your marital home. Alfie had never felt better. The pain in his body had long left him, only flaring during the coldest evenings. The dark circles under his eyes have dissolved. His face and body, fuller, firmer with the glowing health of a man at peace who works for life not death. You were upstairs, searching for the a particular spool of thread you had been working with for a blanket you had spent days on. But it needed to be done soon. Alfie shifted through the records you both had been collecting. Symphonies had become his special interest in the recent months, and he was looking for a particular composition that he felt would make your heart sing.

The heavy knock on the door sent the hair on his neck stand at attention.

Only one demon knocked like that.

His eyes shifted to the stairs. He could still hear you moving things around. Searching tirelessly for that spool. You’d be missing for a couple minutes. Enough to rebuke the vile creature from the door without your discovery.

With a deep breath, Alfie tries to remember the armor of his past. The Mad Baker. Just as another round of knocks was about to come, Alfie opened roughly, “Tommy! What are you doing here? Gates of hell need their master don’t they?”

He looked thinner than normal. It’s been years since the men had seen each other, but the difference was still shocking. Those icey blue eyes even more haunting than they were at the funeral. Gaunt cheeks and pale skin made him look like a living corpse. A flicker of a flame winked behind those eyes. Hope for another fight. Something to set him aflame. “Hello Alfie. Enjoying retirement?”

“Yeah actually I am so whatever you have up your sleeve I want no part in it so if you’ll just fuck off.”

Before Alfie could slam the door, Tommy stuck his foot in the door, “Not that simple Alfie. Worlds gone to shit and it needs Solomons to set it to right.”

“Your world not mine. Now get out.”

“I’m not going to leave until you let me in Alfie.”

Your angelic voice danced on the breeze down to the front door, “I found it! Alfie you would not believe where it was! I swear I’m losing my mind.”

Tommy’s face some how went paler. As if he heard Satan’s whisper of condemnation. Alfie tried to push the door closed, but with the strength of a mad man Tommy pushed past the threshold.

Tommy almost fainted.

This must be hell.

He must have died.

It’s the only rational idea.

God chose to lock him in the home of his biggest agitation, with the ghost of his dead baby sister.

But this couldn’t be your ghost. Your swollen belly proves this.

“Holy shit.” You drop the tea cup in your hands when you see Tommy. Tommy who wasn’t supposed to be here. Tommy who saw you buried and dead.

Alfie rushes in, pulling you behind his broad frame. Through his linen shirt, you feel the ragged breath and hammering heart of your husband. You feel faint. “Tommy… you need to leave right now.”

“You paid for the funeral.”

“Tommy we can do this later but you need to get out right now. I’m asking nicely.”

“You knew she was alive… you knew.”

“She is very delicate right now she does not need any excitement.”

“You fucking made her delicate! You compromised her you fucking bastard!”

You cried out as Tommy lunged for your husband, “Stop it Tommy! Enough! Get out of my house!”

Tommy stumbled, pointing at you, “You… you’re fucking sick. You’re demented! You caused Polly a near heart attack. You are disgusting!”

You push past Alfie, who is left watching, “I’m disgusting! You sold me off to some man. And for what? To get people to see you as a big man? Guess what Tommy, you will NEVER be good enough for them! They’ll always see people like us as trash! But you don’t care. Anything to get ahead right?! You’ll stoop as low as you need to ahead.”

Tommy laughed bitterly, holding back the urge to spit, “And what about you yeah? So spoiled that you throw the biggest tantrum of the century. Whore yourself out to the Mad Baker, and get knocked up with his bastard.”

“I’d stop talking if I were you Tommy.”, Alfie snarled darkly. Fists curling in. Like a wolf ready to devour.

“I’d rather be his whore than be a part of any family of yours. You can’t leave well enough alone. Murdering and slaughtering for some honor so quick to tarnish and fade away. You tried to lock me away, never taking a care to what I wanted or thought. But you can’t do that to me anymore. I’m a Solomons, and I carry his child. You can’t touch me.”

Tommy settled, steel washed over his face. “They have a right to know.”

“You all have a right to nothing. I’ll see the family when I’m good and ready.”

His eyes shift to Alfie, “You are evil incarnate. You are cursed.”

No sign of mirth reaches Alfie’s eyes when he smirks, “Careful Tommy. You know what they say about curses. Especially when you curse family.”

Without another word, Tommy storms out. As soon as the door slams, shaking the lamps, you let out the breath in your heavy lungs, “Holy Shit”.

Your knees give out from under you, and cold shakes roll through your body. Alfie grabbed your body, helping you into a chair. “Settle my love it’s alright he’s gone. What do you need? Baby ok?”

“No I’m ok thank you my love. I just… I need air. I can’t believe he came here. He knows. They all know.”

“Hush darling, breathe for me, settle your nerves, you don’t need to worry. They know but they can’t touch you. You’re my wife and they can’t get to you. You are your own woman. You are safe.”

“But what are we going to do. What if they come?”

“Then we’ll deal with them. I’ll have some boys come in, set up a watch. We won’t be caught off guard ever again.”

You nodded. Trusting the words of your husband. You felt an affirming kick in your ribs. The rushing of your heart. You had paradise for three years. You couldn’t run forever, no matter how far you got. The bell had finally tolled, and it was time to face it.

#alfie solomons #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons x you #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons x y/n #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders

501 notes · View notes