alwayslurkinginthebackground

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

I rarely reread my own stuff but I saw Materialists for the second time tonight and now I’m crying because even back when I wrote this in October, I already knew why it would break me now.

Love doesn’t have to be romantic and the pain we feel in the absence of it is just as real.

Different - A Pedrotober Drabble

Day Fifteen of Pedrotober: The Materialists Pedrotober Hosted by @norththelemon and @alyssamariag. View the full prompt list HERE and view my entire Pedrotober drabble catalog HERE.

Pairing: [I can't believe his name is] Randy x reader - UPDATED 3/2025 BECAUSE HIS NAME IS HARRY THANK GOD!

Rating: I'm going to rate this one M. Heavy depictions of depression and heartbreak (romantic & friendship) are basically the focus here, so please read with caution if these themes may impact you.

Word Count: 1156

a/n: Since we haven't seen the film yet, I played heavily on the assumption that Randy (Harry) is the heartbroken one when we reach the conclusion of The Materialists. Past Lives messed me up in the best way possible and I already am well aware that this film will do the same. As I meditated on my own experiences with heartbreak, this is what came to me. I pulled out my old journal, and some of the lines you see here are from very real, incredibly raw moments in my own life. Another you may just recognize, and I've included it because it made past me, and the present me that still dwells on the past, feel significantly less alone. I think I needed to write this for myself, but I hope it resonates with someone else, too. That's the only goal a writer ever has.

It feels different. This feels different.

Then again, everything feels different now.

The hotel bar you find yourself at is stereotypical. Lighting that gives the room a melancholy glow. Stools that are just far enough from the ground for you to swing your feet back and forth when you slide into one. A mirror behind amber bottles of liquid, perfect for reflecting the pitiful excuse of the person you've become. At least, according to them.

You motion to the bartender, but he's either purposefully ignoring you or is so invested in the woman a few seats down from where you now sit that you've actually become invisible. Though, in the grand scheme of things, that might be preferable.

"He won't hear you."

You hadn't particularly noticed the man one chair down from you, but you notice him now. His gaze is focused on the swirling liquid in the crystal tumbler he's holding, his voice rough and devoid of emotion. "He's been mooning over her for the better part of an hour."

A long sigh resonates through your body. "Just my luck, honestly."

"Mine too."

Overwhelmingly enthusiastic music, some kind of jazz, fills the silence between you, but when you get up to leave, resigning yourself to raiding the hotel room bar you remember seeing upstairs, he stops you with a hand on your arm. He's already out of his seat, moving down the counter to say something to the bartender. You watch the exchange, taking in the sour expression of the man behind the counter when he finally pulls himself away from the woman long enough to pour a glass of red wine.

It's in your hand a moment later.

"Thank you," you note quietly when he hands it to you before silently returning to his chair. "You didn't need to..."

The stranger shakes his head, "you look like you need it as much as I do."

He's right about that.

The stem of the wine glass is smooth under your fingers, and you gently turn it in circles against the wooden counter. "Well, thank you again..."

"Harry," he mutters, so softly you almost don't hear him.

"Harry?" your eyebrows raise. "You don't particularly look like a Harry," you continue after clearing your throat.

He shrugs. "It wasn't mine to pick."

You wait to see if he'll ask for your name in return, but he doesn't. When you offer it anyway, he only continues to stare at the glass in hs hands. The music changes - and doesn't change at the same time - to another overly ardent tune as you take a sip of wine, letting the liquid warm your throat.

"So, who broke your heart?" he asks, the question more direct than you would've expected based on the little he's offered in the way of conversation. "Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Partner?"

You shake your head to all of them, the emotion beginning to swell inside you, still too raw and close to the surface as the conversation speeds toward the one thing you came here to forget. You answer his question anyway. "Best friends, actually. Could've been worse."

"Probably hurts all the same, though."

It does.

The sound of the flirting couple nearby invades your conversation, the woman giggling loudly as she throws her head back, overreacting to something the bartender said.

"What about you?" you question, studying your wine.

"Fiance," he spits out the word like it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. "Left me for an old flame."

For the first time, you let yourself look at him. Really look at him. He looks like the kind of person who belongs in a hotel like this, extravagance radiating from his very being. Unlike you, the outsider who was only staying here because your friend - correction, your former friend - insisted that you stay at the best hotel in New York. At least you were the one with the room key and reservation. But there's also something about the way he's still considering the bourbon in his glass, about the tone of his voice, that makes you wonder if you're more alike than you are different.

"It kind of feels like the end of the world, you know?" His words thrust you back into the reality of the last 24 hours. Because you do know. And it does.

"I think for me it's more like a flood. Sudden and overwhelming."

He lets out a breath that you can tell he's been holding in for far too long. "Like you want to go home, even when you are home?"

"Or that feeling when everything you see only reminds you of them..."

"Because their memory is so imprisoned in your mind that you can never escape," he finishes for you. It causes something to break inside your chest.

"I can't even tell if I'm happy anymore." It's a whisper, but it's an honest statement. The utterance of the thought that's been lingering in the back of your mind. "Or if I am, it's usually only for a fleeting moment before the darkness steps in again."

Tears prickle at the edge of your view, one falling in a line across your cheek. He's quiet, and so are you, but you don't really hear anything anymore anyway, the world drowned out by the pain.

The air is punched out of your lungs as you press your eyes tightly shut. You know you're crying, and you're already beating yourself up for losing control in front of a stranger. But then he takes your hand in his. You look at him through the haze of your tears. "I shouldn't be this upset. I should be comforting you. I'm not the one who got broken up with."

"Friendships can cause heartbreak, too."

It's what you need to hear. The acknowledgment that what you're feeling is real. That you're allowed to be just as shattered by this as he is by whatever fractured him. That you aren't alone, not even in this moment when you're questioning everything and you wish more than anything that the chair you sit on would swallow you whole.

"How do you just forget the hurt and anger?"

He squeezes your hand. Once. Twice, and you grip it like it's the only thing still grounding you. "You don't. You can't."

Every emotion you've experienced comes boiling to the surface. Loss. Betrayal. Pain. Resentment. Deception. Regret. Shame. Weakness. Failure. The words swirl like a hurricane in your mind, like you're trying to navigate through the densest of fog.

"It feels like there isn't any moment past this one," you tell him, this stranger you sit with at the bar you shouldn't be at. The man you barely know who somehow knows you. You tell him because his heartbreak mirrors your own, and despite being different, despite your entire existence shifting in the moments leading up to your gravity coexisting with his, you're somehow the same.

He grips your hand tighter.

"There is."

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

The Cabin - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: E for what Else would it be? Unprotected p in v, oral (fem receiving) Word Count: 1505 a/n: This one is for my very dear friend on their birthday! I hope it has been the most lovely day and I love you so very much!!!

The first thing you're aware of when you return to consciousness is warmth, and it takes only seconds to understand why.

You're tucked tightly against his chest, helpless to do much of anything but take in the filtered light shining through the window in the corner. It's nearly impossible to tell what time it is with the storm raging outside, the wind still howling the way it had when Joel ushered you into the ancient hunting cabin the night before. He'd mumbled something about body heat when he'd crawled in beside you, wrapping you both in the thin blanket he'd found in the closet before securing you in his embrace.

An embrace that you're still wrapped in now.

It feels foreign, the way his arm is slung over your waist like he's trying to protect you from the world outside. You'd never asked for that, you would never ask for that, even if it's what you want more than anything else in the world, because it's easier in the alternative, where you tiptoe around whatever your relationship with Joel is or isn't rather than give into what would be easy.

He's been your partner for what feels like far too long, but never like this. Never in a way that feels too intimate and more than a little too real. It's enough to send your mind into overdrive, carefully extracting yourself from the bed in the hope that he won't notice when you pull away.

But, of course, he does.

Joel tightens his grip in response, nuzzling his nose subconsciously against the back of your neck, his breath against your skin a stark contrast to the way your own fogs lightly in the stale air. He whispers something that you can't quite make out, murmuring as you shift in his arms so you're face to face.

He looks calm, even as he fights off waking, his body tensing around yours as he stretches and sucks in a deep breath. Gently, you reach across the space between you to push the curls back from his forehead, waiting for him to come back to you.

And when he finally opens his eyes, you're the first thing he sees.

You don't say anything, not at first, and neither does he, both of you seemingly afraid that if you do, the singular moment you've allowed yourself to share will end before you want it to, but you can hear him anyway. He's fearful, just as much as you are, for all the same reasons you've both been fearful for years. That this won't work out. That being anything more will end the partnership that's gotten you this far. That giving in will result in you walking different paths that never align again.

But there's something that feels like hope, too, and you can see it in the way he's looking at you, his gaze tracking down to your lips and back up to your eyes. Hope for something more, for the very thing you've both denied yourselves for years. Hope that this would work out, and that you could spend whatever time you have left in this world with someone you love at your side.

"Joel?"

Your voice is just a whisper, but it feels louder in the relative quiet of the cabin, your words mixing with the creak of the old wooden boards and the abrasive wind outside. You don't elaborate. You don't ask the question you want to ask. But just as you can hear him, he seems to hear you.

"I know," he returns, voice low and rough with sleep. He tightens his arms around you so you're pulled flush against his chest, your head tucked underneath his chin as he murmurs again, "I know."

"Do you think it would fuck things up?" you ask, tucking your arms between you and reveling in the heat radiating off his body. "If we were to..."

"Do you think it would?" Joel is quick to ask after you trail off, his hand running softly up and down your spine.

You don't know how to answer him when you know that it would. Sleeping together, giving into whatever is lingering between you, would completely change your relationship, your life in Jackson, and everything about the existence you've carved out for yourself. But none of that seems to really matter right now, not in the little cabin in the middle of the woods where you're stuck because the storm outside is too thick for even the infected to trek through.

"It would," you return finally as you trace along the fabric of his shirt, "but would that be such a bad thing?"

He doesn't move, and your heart beats wildly in your chest as you wait for him to say something, but then he's shifting you, rolling you onto your back so he's hovering over you, your legs immediately spreading to accommodate him. "No, I don't think it would be."

You look up at him, breathing heavily as you try to comprehend what's about to happen, and you don't stop him when he slots his lips against yours. They're rough, weathered from the cold and the dry air, but you're winding your arms around his neck, hands gripping fistfuls of his hair to hold him against you.

What follows feels like a dream, the way he grinds slowly against you, pressing against your core until you're wrapping your legs around his waist. He breaks the kiss only to trail down your jaw, working across your skin until he's nestled behind your ear.

"Do you want this?"

It's impossible to say no, especially when wanting this has felt like your religion for the entirety of the time you've known him. You know he needs you to say it, to give him the definitive answer that he can move forward, but the words feel caught in your throat. It's only when he pulls back entirely with something that again looks like fear in his eyes, that you manage to get the words out.

"Yes. I want this. I want you."

He moves quickly, tugging at your sweater until he's pulled it over your head, your fingers working deftly to shed his shirt. The kisses you share in between feel stolen and neither of you pay any attention to the cold of the room when it hits your skin, too intent on making the most of every second. By the time he's rid you of your jeans, you're a whimpering mess, hips arching up to where he hovers over your core.

"You're so fucking wet, Sweetheart," he murmurs, eyes raking over you like a man dying of thirst. He meets your gaze seconds before he finally rewards you, diving in and holding you steady as he licks a stripe through your folds.

It's everything, the way he eats you out, his nose pressed against your clit. You swear you hear him whispering, too, murmured affirmations about how good you taste echoing in the small space. His fingers join the mix a moment later, easing one, then two into you slowly until you're coming hard around them.

"Joel," you breathe out, clawing at his shoulders as you drag him back up to settle against you. You're not sure when he unbuckled his jeans, but you're immediately aware of the way his cock is pressed hard against you when he lets you taste yourself on his tongue. You're certain he's going to give in and finally press inside when he pulls back, arms braced on either side of your head. "What?" you ask, breathing heavily.

"I don't want just this."

It takes you aback, horror settling into your stomach as your mind reels. He's here, between your thighs, the way you've wanted him to be for so long, and he's telling you that he doesn't want this. That he doesn't want you. That...

"Hey, hey, hey," Joel whispers, stopping your train of thought in its tracks as he presses kiss after kiss to your cheekbone, "come back to me."

"You don't want this?" you ask tentatively, still trying to work out where you went wrong in this moment.

He laughs in response, pulling back to look down at you with a smile. "I said I don't want just this," he repeats.

And then it all sets in.

You stretch up to kiss him and he follows you back down, his cock slowly sinking into you as he does. It's a stretch, but you barely notice, not when his weight settles atop you and you feel complete for the first time in years.

"I don't want just this, either," you confirm for him when you come up for air, and then you're encouraging him to move, his pace fast from the beginning as he sinks into you time and time again. It's overwhelming, both the feeling of him sliding against your walls and the realization that you'll both leave this cabin differently than when you walked in.

Because this isn't the end of something. It's the beginning.

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

This aged well.

All I do is cry about Joel Miller.

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Hey so how did I know about that line about when you love someone you can see their face because I genuinely didn’t and now I’m crashing out.

Memories Fade - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader Rating: M because it's sad and deals with some dark themes. Word Count: 251 a/n: I am so sorry for this.

SPOILERS FOR TLOU PART II AND SEASON II AHEAD!

You sometimes wonder if you’ll forget his face. If, in a house that was once a home, so devoid of photographic evidence of his existence, he’ll fade from your memory the same way the little signs of him disappear from the world around you.

First it’s the people. The ones that checked on you every day, appearing on your doorstep with casseroles and pies you never asked for, the cookies you didn’t want. Their presence, in the beginning, is overwhelming, and then dissipates to a dull roar, only to be reduced to a soft trickle before nothing.

Silence. Blessed silence.

It taunts you though, the same calm you seek, mocking you as his scent begins to fade from his flannel, his robe, and the pillow you rest your head on each and every night. Where you beg for the voices to stop, you plead with the universe to let the reminders remain.

The freshly washed coffee cup, still next to the sink.

His hat, the one he left behind that day, sitting carelessly on the bench by the door.

A guitar, one that’s missing all its strings, discarded on the workbench where he’d left it.

People stop talking, stop mentioning his name. The scents fade. Someone moves the hat.

Each time you close your eyes in some desperate attempt to remind yourself of his face. To prove to yourself that he’s still here, in your memory, at least, because you can see him.

And then one day you realize you can’t.

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Ginger Ale - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: No Outbreak Joel Miller x reader Rating: Sigh - fluff again. Word Count: 2932 a/n: I started working on this one weeks ago and kept picking it back up and putting it back down until the last of it finally worked its way out of my head this week, just in time for our collective mental breakdown. :)

You're not sure who else to call, not when you'd only arrived in Texas a few months ago and know maybe a handful of people in the entire state, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Not that it slows the beating of your heart when you hit the call button.

You'd met Joel and Sarah the day you moved in, when you'd been struggling to get your bed frame through the front door. The younger Miller had appeared to offer her help, and between the two of you the frame was quickly set in place. Joel found his way over soon after in search of his daughter, and in the weeks that followed, you'd both begun to toe a line that neither of you seemed ready to cross, not fully at least. Chance encounters at your mailboxes, your offer to help Sarah with homework, his to fix up the fence in your yard. Stuck in a delicate balance that has you ridden with anxiety at the mere thought of hearing his voice. Thankfully, when the other end of the line clicks on, it's Sarah that answers.

"Hey Sarah," you start, but you're only able to get two words out before a cough consumes your entire body. It overtakes you completely for a moment as you struggle to let yourself breathe.

Sarah responds before you catch your breath. "You're sick."

"You guessed it," you laugh, careful not to trigger another fit of coughing. "I've been down for the count all day, but do you think you could do me a favor?"

"Of course!" Sarah eagerly replies, and you can't help but smile. It's been evident in the short amount of time you've known her that the teenager is eager to prove herself, and you have a sneaking suspicion that your arrival in their lives also provided an opportunity for her to be helpful to someone other than her father and uncle. "What do you need? Kleenex? Soup? Crackers? When I get sick usually my dad gives me ginger ale and..."

"Soup would be lovely," you reply gently, unwilling to tell her that you already have a cabinet full of canned chicken noodle and that the purpose of your call is to ask her father for something. "Is your dad still at work?"

Her response comes with a slight side of attitude, one that you know has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the fact that Joel works incredibly hard to support them both. You catch his truck rolling into the driveway late most nights, and while you're aware that Sarah understands, and that Joel loves her more than anything, you also know that it doesn't make it any easier for either of them. "Yeah. He promised he'd be home by eight."

"Do you think you could give him a call and see if he'd grab me some cold medicine?" you ask, anxiety suddenly spiking. It's a perfectly normal request, and you're in no state to drive, already dizzy just from standing to make the phone call, but it still feels like a step too far. "It's alright if he can't though," you add at the last second.

"I'll call him and check. He probably will though because it's for you."

Sarah's comment catches you off guard, but she doesn't give you time to contemplate, already onto asking you what kind of soup you'd prefer before promising to be back soon with everything you need.

By the time you make it back to the couch, your head is spinning, both from the sickness and the suggestion that while Joel wouldn't do this for just anyone, he would do it for you. Sarah's words echo in your mind until she appears on your doorstep, an overflowing shopping bag in hand. She launches into an explanation of everything she got you before she's even through the door - tissues and cough drops, multiple flavors because she wasn't sure which you'd like best, and snacks galore. "To make you feel better," she insists when she pulls the cookies out last, the grin on her face doing more than the sweets ever would to make you feel better.

After insisting that you drink the ginger ale that she brought like it's some kind of miracle cure, you shoo her out, intent on preventing her from catching whatever it is you have. Reluctantly, she heads home, but not without the assurance that she'd call in a couple of hours and that her dad would drop by with the medicine on his way home, just as she figured he would.

Once the door is closed behind her, the remainder of your evening passes in a hazy blur. Sarah does call to check on you, but then you're passed out on the couch, your body suddenly too weary to do anything else.

It's a heavy knock at the door that jolts you back awake.

It takes you a moment, long enough that he knocks twice more, before you make it to your front entry, unlocking and swinging the door open with the last bit of energy you seem to have left. "Hey Joel," you sniffle, willing yourself not to cough.

"You look like shit."

"Straight to the chase, Miller," you frown, rolling your eyes before they land on the bag in his hand. "Is that my medicine?"

Joel looks down as though he's completely forgotten what he's here for, grumbling a bit as he holds it out to you, "per the doctor's order."

You take it gratefully, turning on your heel to head to the kitchen, but the action causes your head to spin and you stumble, barely catching yourself with a hand against the wall.

"Hey, slow down," Joel warns immediately, his voice dripping with concern as he steadies you with firm hands on your waist. "You okay?"

Nausea spikes in your stomach, just a symptom of the way the world is spinning more than anything else, and for a moment you wonder if you're about to throw up on him. "Yeah, I'm fine...just a bit dizzy."

Your vision continues to turn about as he guides you back toward the couch, settling you down before taking the bag back from you. "I'm gonna get you some water, alright?"

You nod again, dropping your head into your hands as you ward off the black at the edge of your vision. You can hear him rummaging through your kitchen cabinets as you sit, and the next thing you know he's back at your side, ripping open a package of the medicine so he can hand it to you with the glass of water.

"Thank you," you whisper, trying to ignore the way your fingers brush against his. "And uh...thanks for doing this. For getting the medicine, that is," you continue awkwardly, avoiding eye contact as you swallow the pills. "Let me know what I owe you for what Sarah got me earlier, too."

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. Thank you for letting her help. You could've just had me pick everything up but you didn't."

"She's a good kid, Joel," you remind him with a soft smile, the authenticity of your statement requiring you to finally meet his gaze because you know that just as much as Sarah wants to feel helpful and independent, he needs the occasional reminder that he's doing a good job as her dad.

There's a beat of silence, the two of you sitting quietly on your couch, before he clears his throat. "You gonna be alright?"

"I've survived this long," you tease him, even if at the next moment the world begins to sway again. He watches carefully, worry still evident. "I'll be fine," you reassure him again.

He doesn't look convinced, staring at you with an unreadable expression until he sucks in a breath. "I'm gonna go over and let Sarah know I'm gonna keep an eye on..."

You're suddenly short of breath as you're left to stare at him like a deer in the headlights. "You don't have to..."

"I want to," he cuts you off, tone firm, and it's enough for you to reluctantly agree. He leaves a moment later, promising that he'll check in on Sarah and be back soon, only departing after giving you clear instructions to stay put on the couch. You follow them easily, wrapping yourself in a blanket as you hit play on You've Got Mail for the third time today.

The movie is barely a half hour in by the time he's back through the door.

"Sarah okay?" you ask instantly, guilt creeping in that instead of spending his night with his daughter, he's about to spend it with you.

Joel nods, hands on his hips. "She's fine. Worried about you more than anything else, I think." You hum a response, too weary to do much else, but then the tension begins to fill the room again. You focus on the screen as he continues to stand in the doorway, like neither of you are quite sure what move to make next.

"I could get you some soup, if you'd like," he offers, toeing off his boots and turning toward the kitchen before you can even respond.

"Soup would be nice," you call out, "and maybe one of those ginger ales that Sarah brought earlier?"

His head pops back up the doorway, laughing. "She brought you some of that? I used to pretend it was real medicine that she'd have to take after the actual stuff just to stop her grumbling."

"Did it work?" you ask as you watch him move back into your kitchen like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Like a charm," he shouts back before reappearing a moment later to place a can of the soda on the table in front of you. If he notices the flush that rises to your cheeks, you're hopeful that you can pass it off as a fever, but he doesn't linger long enough to say anything, returning to the kitchen with the intent of getting something of substance into you.

The movie plays on as he brings you both food, dropping to the couch next to you despite your protests that he'll catch your cold. He does maintain a respectable distance between you, but he looks comfortable, and you curse the universe for making this the situation in which Joel Miller is sitting across from you. It could've been any other circumstance, but instead you look and feel like death and he's next to you eating soup.

It's almost domestic, the way he takes your dishes back to the kitchen when you're done, washing them like he's done it a hundred times before. You're half asleep by the time he gets back, but he maintains the distance, saying nothing as your eyes flicker closed and he hits play on the move again.

When you wake it's to the repeated sound of the main title screen. The living room has grown dark, and for the first time all day you realize that you're comfortable. The pressure on your chest has eased, your nose seems clearer, and you're no longer freezing.

In fact, you're warm.

It's only when you become conscious of the arm slung around your waist and the legs tangled with your own that you realize why.

Joel Miller is no longer just on your couch. You're sprawled out on top of him.

Your head is settled softly on his chest, and under any other circumstance its slow rise and fall would likely be soothing enough to lull you back to sleep. Instead, you panic, immediately attempting to extract yourself from his grip.

"Go back to sleep," he mumbles, roused by your movement, and it's unclear if the way his arm tightens around you is something he's conscious of.

With hands positioned on either side of his head, you push yourself up. "Fuck, I'm so sorry, Joel. I didn't mean to..."

"Will you cut it out?" he assures you with a deep laugh, his eyes finally opening to meet yours as he runs a hand up and down your back, the motion causing you to freeze.

"But I fell asleep on you and you should've been home hours ago and I'm so sorry and..."

"Stop. Apologizing," he urges you again. You open your mouth to continue your protesting, but he cuts you off once more, "it was the only way I could get you to stop coughing in your sleep."

"Oh," you reply simply, and then you're letting him slowly pull your body back against his. You say nothing more as you settle your head against his chest, although your breathing remains erratic as you try to count just how many lines have been crossed tonight. When you'd called Sarah that afternoon it was just for a favor, and now you've gone from nervously asking your neighbor to buy you medicine to passing out on top of him.

Now, it feels like everything that's been lingering between you for months is finally coming to a head.

Joel continues to run his fingers up and down along your spine in some sort of lazy pattern, his other hand carefully tucking the blanket back around you both. The couch isn't really big enough for both of you, but with your body settled between his legs and his arms keeping you securely on top of him, he makes it work.

"You stayed," you whisper when the quiet becomes too much, your heart still pounding hard enough that you wonder if he can feel it too.

"I told you I wanted to," he replies just before you swear he presses his lips to the crown of your head.

"What about Sarah?" you question further. "Don't you need to get home? It's..." you glance at the clock on the wall, "fuck, Joel, it's nearly two in the morning."

"And? I told you I was going to stay and I did. Plus, I wasn't about to leave you here dying."

You frown. "It's just a cold," you point out, because it's not like you're actually in any imminent danger, especially not after the medicine has calmed some of your symptoms. Well, either that or the nap you just took against him or perhaps the ginger ale Sarah swears by. "You should get home."

There's silence again, but his movement doesn't cease, hand still trailing across your back. "I should, shouldn't I?" he agrees eventually, even though there's nothing about his voice that's convincing.

"Yeah," you repeat, even though you were the one to suggest it and you also haven't done anything to move from where you're draped across his chest. In a way, it seems almost easier to stay secure in his embrace than to confront the realities that will crash over both of you when you part. The questioning of what he's really doing here, on your couch, and why he was so intent on staying. Why Sarah had said earlier that he'd do it just for you.

Never mind the ease you feel now that he's here.

You can hear the seconds tick by on his watch, but neither of you move. Your breathing evens out to the point where you start to feel the heavy tug of your eyelids, and just before you will yourself to move, you press yourself just a bit closer. Your cheek flush against his chest like you're certain you'll never have this feeling again and you want to cling to it for just a moment longer.

He doesn't say anything when you do pull back, and he remains quiet as you untangle yourself from him to stand. The cough returns almost instantly, lungs wheezing when you double over, and you don't flinch when his hand rubs between your shoulder blades to ease your breathing.

When it calms, you step away, Joel's hand falling back. He mimics you, standing and hesitating before grabbing the blanket from the couch to wrap around your frame. There's something in his expression that you try not to read into, but the hope that blossoms in your chest betrays you anyway.

Not that there's anything you can do about it. Nothing you can say, nothing to do other than to continue treading the fine line.

"Thank you again," you say softly as he tugs his boots back on by the door, "for the medicine and for staying."

"Don't worry about it. Thanks for letting Sarah help, too," he responds, his words echoing earlier statements.

"She's welcome over here any time," you reply immediately, only to fail at containing the next words that spill from your lips, "you both are."

Joel smiles, warmth radiating from him as he slowly reaches to tug the blanket around your shoulders a little tighter, the silence settling as you both seem to push off the inevitable. Eventually, though, he shifts, fingers reaching for the doorknob, the door swinging open, his boots hitting the porch outside. It happens quickly, and you simultaneously feel like something has ended as something else begins.

This evening, the unspoken words, the way he'd held you so carefully, paving the path for the potential of something. Nights in his arms, Sarah at your kitchen table, ginger ale when one of you is sick. All of it suddenly on the horizon in a way you'd only let yourself fantasize about before.

He's halfway down your walk before you stop him. "Joel?"

"Yeah?" he pauses, turning back with an expression seemingly just as hopeful as your own.

"Tell Sarah the ginger ale helped."

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Memories Fade - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader Rating: M because it's sad and deals with some dark themes. Word Count: 251 a/n: I am so sorry for this.

SPOILERS FOR TLOU PART II AND SEASON II AHEAD!

You sometimes wonder if you’ll forget his face. If, in a house that was once a home, so devoid of photographic evidence of his existence, he’ll fade from your memory the same way the little signs of him disappear from the world around you.

First it’s the people. The ones that checked on you every day, appearing on your doorstep with casseroles and pies you never asked for, the cookies you didn’t want. Their presence, in the beginning, is overwhelming, and then dissipates to a dull roar, only to be reduced to a soft trickle before nothing.

Silence. Blessed silence.

It taunts you though, the same calm you seek, mocking you as his scent begins to fade from his flannel, his robe, and the pillow you rest your head on each and every night. Where you beg for the voices to stop, you plead with the universe to let the reminders remain.

The freshly washed coffee cup, still next to the sink.

His hat, the one he left behind that day, sitting carelessly on the bench by the door.

A guitar, one that’s missing all its strings, discarded on the workbench where he’d left it.

People stop talking, stop mentioning his name. The scents fade. Someone moves the hat.

Each time you close your eyes in some desperate attempt to remind yourself of his face. To prove to yourself that he’s still here, in your memory, at least, because you can see him.

And then one day you realize you can’t.

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Trans women are ALWAYS included when I’m referring to women

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Rules - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: E. Smut is backkkkk baby. Fingering, unprotected p in v, the usual. Word Count: 2829 a/n: Someone destroy the USB before episode 6 premieres or I fear I actually won't make it past next Sunday. Anyway, here's some smut!

“So what’s he like?” you ask, trying your best to sound nonchalant. “You know, when he isn’t being an asshole?” 

Maria follows your line of sight, right to where your gaze is fixed on the two men across the street, chopping up the tree they’d spent the afternoon taking down. “Joel?” she asks, and you know she’s looking at you now, but you don’t acknowledge it, keeping your focus on the flowers you’ve been planting in your front yard. 

You only hum in confirmation. 

“He’s pretty closed off,” she sighs, “but I can’t say that I’d expect anything else. He’s been through it according to Tommy.” 

“We’ve all been through it,” you fire back, perhaps with a bit more venom in your voice than you want. You let out a breath to calm yourself, “I mean, it’s just…he’s…not a bad neighbor so I was just wondering.” 

The woman at your side smiles, letting out a soft laugh as she plants another bulb in the soil. “You should go talk to him,” Maria comments, a suggestion that finally has you staring at her like a deer in the headlights. 

“Why the fuck would I…” 

She raises her eyebrows in question, effectively stopping you. “You know as well as I do how…” she trails off, contemplating her words, “...unwelcoming people in this town can be sometimes.” 

“I know, but…” 

“But what?” she cuts you off again, “you can’t talk to him because of your dumb rule?” 

“It’s not a dumb rule,” you counter, shoving a plant into the ground with a bit more force than necessary. “I think it’s rather smart, actually.” 

Maria laughs again, loud enough this time that it causes Tommy to pause and look in his wife’s direction. There’s love there, in the way he looks at her, the same kind of love that you swore off a long time ago. The kind of love that was scary enough to think about without the outbreak and the constant threat of loss. It’s why you made an oath to yourself to avoid men years ago, a rule that had been easy to follow since a relationship of any kind hadn’t really even crossed your mind until you found a relatively normal life in Jackson.

Or until Joel Miller moved in across the street. 

You’re prepared to argue, conscious of the way your friend stops what she’s doing to turn in your direction, but her voice is soft when she continues. “Do you want my honest opinion?” 

You let out another sigh, already well aware of what she’s going to say, but you nod anyway. 

“You, my friend, need to get laid.” 

As if he can hear your conversation, Joel chooses that moment to slice through a piece of wood with near perfect accuracy, a loud crack sounding from across the street. It’s enough to make you jump, eyes darting back to him, and this time they meet his, both of you freezing. 

Maria chuckles from beside you, already turned back to her work. “I’m just saying you should think about it. He's a good guy, you know,” she continues, as though she needs to add more fuel to the fire. “Tommy wouldn’t have let him in if he wasn’t, blood relation or not.” 

Your eyes are still locked on the man in question, who seemingly forced himself to move on to another thick cut of wood, ax swinging through the air. There’s little you can do to argue with her, though, on either point. Joel’s given you no reason to believe that he isn’t someone you can trust, no matter how quiet or unsocial he might seem, and you can’t deny the dull ache that lingers when you watch the way his muscles move beneath his black t-shirt. 

“Just think about it, okay?” Maria comments again, right before the two of you fall quiet with only the occasional echo of splitting wood filling the silence. 

You know he’s home. 

The light is on in the kitchen, with the soft glow leaking into the living room. Ellie is out somewhere, you know that too, because you saw her leave earlier. 

Not that you’ve been watching or thinking in the slightest about what Maria had said. 

After all, you have a rule, and that rule has a purpose. There’s enough of an opportunity to be hurt in your world without adding a relationship, or even just sex, to the mix, and after all, you’ve been fine this long without someone in your bed, much less him. 

But you also can’t help the way your mind wanders back to that afternoon. To the way you could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow from across the street. To the sound of his grunt with each swing of the ax. To the way each move he made somehow seemed to make you more desperate for something you've denied yourself for far too long.

Maybe Maria was right. Maybe you do just need to get laid, and maybe this is the perfect opportunity. Joel hasn’t seemed like someone on the hunt for a relationship either, even as women flock to him at The Tipsy Bison. Not that you’ve noticed. 

As you try to pry your eyes away from where they’re locked on his living room window, you see him. He’s changed into a different t-shirt, this one white, and his hair is slicked back from the shower he must’ve taken once he’d finished outside. For a brief moment you wonder if he’s going to go to bed, but then he sits on the couch.

And in the next second, you’ve left yours. 

The walk across the street and up the steps of his porch has your heart beating like you’ve just run a marathon, and you will its pace to slow as you stand in front of his door. You tell yourself you should turn back, follow your rule, go home, and you’ve just about convinced yourself when the door swings open. 

Joel looks understandably surprised to find you in front of him, a guitar in his hand as he stares at you the same way you’re staring back.

“Hi, Joel,” you manage to get out, wringing your hands at your sides. “I was just…Maria said that I should…”

“Maria?” he asks, cutting you off with a gruff voice. 

“Yeah,” you continue, “Maria said that I should come and just, I don’t know, say hello? Welcome you to Jackson?” 

“I’ve been here five months and…” Joel trails off before letting out a huff, one hand running through his curls, which you can now confirm are still damp. He sets down the guitar before continuing, “Tommy told me that I should come over to your house and introduce myself. Get to know people.” 

It takes you aback, and suddenly everything seems to click into place. Maria’s insistence that you plant flowers today, the same day that Tommy happened to insist on taking down the tree in Joel’s front yard. The way she’d been so quick to suggest that you check in on Joel, and the way she met Tommy’s gaze from across the street. An interaction you’d initially read as a simple exchange between two lovers suddenly more clear. 

They’d set you up. 

“I can’t believe them,” you laugh, hands slapping against your thighs as you pace back and forth slightly. “See, this, this is why I don’t do this. Why I have a rule.” 

Joel’s quiet, but the look on his face reads as confused when you finally stop rambling. “What rule?”

You let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand down across your face. “I don’t date. I don’t…get involved with people. I don’t do this,” you explain, your hand swinging back and forth between the two of you as though that will somehow make it all clear. 

It doesn’t. 

“And just what is it that you think this is?” he asks, his hand mirroring your own, "because last I checked I wasn’t necessarily interested either.” 

“Who said I was interested?” 

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he challenges, accompanying his words with a step toward you. “Why?” 

Your breath hitches. “Maria said…” 

Joel shakes his head. “Yeah, and Tommy said the same thing to me. Said that you’ve always been a bit of a loner, that you don’t date, but maybe if I just walked across the street and knocked on your door I’d find something I haven’t thought was possible in the last…” 

He stops, then, cutting himself off as he looks down at you, something shifting, and then he’s turned away, stepping into the living room and leaving you with your thoughts. 

It’s enough to keep you quiet for a moment, your attention focused on his footsteps as they trail back and forth in front of the couch. “I’ve seen you,” you continue eventually, stepping into his house, your voice soft, “with the women.” When he doesn’t respond, you continue as though you need to elaborate further, “at the Bison.” 

“I know damn well where you’ve seen me,” he retorts, swinging around to face you. “And I know you’ve also seen me turn every one of them down.” 

“Why is that?” you can’t help yourself from asking, the words out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Joel crosses the room again to stand right in front of you, closer than before. 

“Because I have rules, too.” 

You don’t stop to consider your next move. In fact, you’re barely conscious of what it is you’re even doing until after your lips are already on his, hands woven into his hair as he cups the back of your head, holding you firmly against him. It’s only when his tongue trails along your lower lip, seeking entrance, that you pull back forcefully. 

“Fuck, wait,” you breathe out, desperately trying to put some space between you in a half-assed attempt at reminding yourself that this is the absolute last thing you should be doing right now. 

He doesn’t push you. He just stands there, staring, breathing just as heavily as you are as you both try to figure out what you’re supposed to do next. What you’ll allow yourself to do next. 

But your body chooses for you. 

The next thing you know, you’re on the couch, trapped between his body and the back of the sofa. His lips never leave yours, devouring you like a man dying of thirst as his hand trails lower. You don’t stop him when his fingers tease the edge of your jeans, and you definitely don’t stop him when they slip beneath the waistline, hot against your skin. 

“How long?” he asks when he lets you come up for air, his lips still marking a path along your jaw. 

“What?” you ask, too focused on the way you’re already arching against him when his fingers find your core to fully comprehend what he’s asking. 

It’s with a breath hot against your neck that he explains, “since someone touched you like this. How long?” 

At first you can’t tell if your lack of response is because of the way he’s moved onto circling your clit or the sudden realization that you’re about to tell Joel Miller that you haven’t been properly fucked in twenty years, but every thought leaves your mind when he pulls back. 

“What the fuck, Joel?” 

“Tell me,” he insists, teeth grazing your collarbone and nipping at the skin there as his fingers trace against your stomach. “How long has it been?” 

“Outbreak Day,” you murmur, hopeful that your response will have him resuming the motion between your legs. Instead, he stops entirely. 

“Outbreak Day? God, baby, no wonder you’re so fucking wet.” 

A groan leaves your lips a moment later when he resumes his mission to make you come on his couch, fingers swirling around your clit as he returns his lips to yours. You battle against one another, your hands roaming across any part of him that you can reach, until you’re left motionless by his fingers teasing your entrance. 

He slips two in easily, your body going rigid as he holds you steady. “Easy now, not yet, baby," he murmurs, letting you adjust. When he starts to move, it’s slow, a steady pace that allows him to learn what each sound that falls from your lips means. The way you whimper when he curls his fingers just right, the catch in your breath when you’re close, and the groan that escapes when he stops, leaving you teetering on the edge of bliss. 

“I fucking swear,” you breath out as he laughs against your neck. “This is why I don’t do this. Easier to just take care of…” you trail off, words lost as he adds a third finger to the mix, pace suddenly faster than before. His lips are hot against your ear as his thumb finds its home against your clit.  “You sure about that?” he whispers just as he finally lets you tip over the edge, your hand tightening against his bicep as he guides you through it, only pulling back when you’re pushing him away, overstimulated.

The world is still a bit black around the edges when you hear the clink of his belt and the pull of fabric, and you’re barely aware of the way you tear at your shirt and push at your own jeans, frantic to rid yourself of them. The haze lingers when he settles between your legs, looking down at you, and the world only clears when you realize he’s staring.

“What?” you ask, voice soft and a bit rough from the strain he’s already put on you tonight. You look down to where his cock hangs heavy and hard between you, and you know now that he does want this just as much as you do. 

“You sure? Because we don’t have to…this doesn’t…” he fumbles over his words, “this doesn’t have to mean anything.” 

You’d had your fair share of one-night stands before the outbreak, and maybe it was the fact that the world you lived in now was very different from the one you lived in then, but you wonder if he can feel it too. The sense that that isn’t what this is. 

That somewhere between his front porch and his couch, both of your rules had been broken, and that neither of you are really sure what to do about it.

Instead, you guide him closer, your hand reaching for his length so you can guide it to your entrance, letting your actions answer his question instead. When he slips inside, it’s in a singular motion, his hands coming to rest on either side of your head. His eyes are shut tightly, enough to make you wonder how long it’s been for him, but then he continues with a precise snap of his hips. 

You thought you remembered how it felt, how this would feel, even after all this time. But as he fucks you into the cushions you start to wonder if you do, because this feels like something else entirely, something you can’t quite explain. 

Joel is grunting against your neck, lips buried into the skin he finds there as each shift of his hips hike yours further up the couch. Your shoulders, and then your back, catch on the arm of the sofa, and you hold on, one arm wrapped around to claw against his back and the other desperately holding to the fabric. You can tell he’s barely hanging on by the way his thrusts grow more erratic. 

“Joel, it’s okay, you can…” 

“You first,” he insists, reaching between you to thumb at your clit again. It’s enough, pleasure sparking in your veins until it settles and you’re clenching around him, just for a moment before he pulls out. You whine at the loss, but he’s quick to replace his cock with his fingers, working you through your orgasm as he wraps his other hand around his length. 

He spills against your stomach seconds later. 

The room is left with just the sound of your heavy breath when you both come down from the high, his fingers slipping once more from your heat as he stands, retrieving his t-shirt from where he’d thrown it to the floor. With a gentle touch, he wipes it across your stomach, cleaning his spend from your skin. 

When he's finished, you start to move. “I should…”

“Stay,” Joel surprises you by saying, and you swear you catch a hint of a smile on his face as he runs his thumb over your lower lip. "You should stay."

Something in the back of your mind triggers an old alarm bell that sounds the warning that this isn't what you do. You don't get involved. You don't do this.

But as he offers his hand to help you stand, gathering your discarded clothes before he leads you to his bed, you wonder if, perhaps, rules are made to be broken.

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Snow - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader Rating: Fluff for the wives, I love y'all so much. Word Count: 454 a/n: Here's some fluff I wrote earlier this week and also THAT FUCKING EPISODE I AM FLINGING MYSELF INTO THE SUN I'M FINALLY HAPPY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN TWO WEEKS.

It's one of the few things that you can count on to make you happy. Still, after all this time, after everything that's happened.

"Hey," Joel whispers, voice rough as he attempts to rouse you from sleep. It's warm in your bed, safe in the home you share with him, but you wake easily without his arms around you.

"What?" you grumble, initially groggy as you roll over to find him out of bed. He's got his jacket on over his t-shirt and you startle, heart racing as you realize that his sweatpants are tucked into his boots. "What's wrong?" you ask immediately.

It's his gentle laugh that soothes you, "everything's fine." His hand smooths over your shoulder and down to your hip, settling there as he eases you out of the bed. "Come on, got something to show you."

"It's the middle of the fucking night."

"Just come on," he insists, and you follow reluctantly, swinging your legs over the side and letting him pull you up against him. He's got your jacket and boots already waiting, and you slip into both quickly before he guides you out of your bedroom and down the stairs.

"Joel, what the fuck are we doing?" you question again, the exhaustion sneaking back into your body with each step. You yawn as your boots hit the bottom, your husband already a few steps ahead of you, hand on the doorknob.

"You'll see," he says softly just before opening the front door, a wash of cold hitting you as he does so. The moonlight illuminates the world outside, but it's only when you finally step out into the night air that you finally realize why Joel woke you.

You're out in the front yard before he even has the door closed, Joel slowly making his way down the front steps as you lift your head up to look at the small white flakes falling from sky.

"Told you," he breathes out and you turn to look at him, just a few feet away, a smile on his face as he watches you. "Thought you'd want to come out and see it."

"Damn right I did," you laugh, finding your place at his side once more so you can wrap yourself around him, arms snaking beneath his coat when you pull him close. There are snowflakes on his eyelashes when you glance up at him, the white cloud of your breath mingling with his just before you kiss him.

His arms surround you in warmth when he deepens this kiss, holding you against him like you're the most previous thing in the world, and you realize that there's something else that you can always count on. Someone else.

Him.

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Hehe I’m in so much danger

New Materialists video

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Just a little morning reblog because this one’s gonna be special to me for a bit. Maybe 5 minutes before I sat down to write this I had the horrid thought of “What if I’m so upset about Joel that I can never write him again?” This is an insane thought, of course. I’ve known about him the whole time (a former friend spoiled it for me 5 minutes after Pedro’s casting announcement). But in that moment the thought crossed my mind anyway.

Then I sat down, turned on the desktop, and churned this out in under 90 minutes.

I’m gonna be just fine. We all will be, in time, even though in true TLOU fashion it won’t be time, but rather our little community, that does it.

Rest - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader Rating: We all need fluff right now and that's what this is. Word Count: 1133 a/n: I hope everyone is surviving out there. In an attempt to halt my near-constant crying I wrote this. Note that there are two little references in here that will hopefully help everything feel a little bit better are also little spoilers for Part II, so if you want to avoid any and all spoilers, let that be known. It's pretty darn tiny though.

"Joel?"

Your voice is soft, but it still feels obtrusive as you sneak your way past the door to his office. It's actually pretty spacious, the space his brother has set up for him amidst the growing town of Jackson, but in the quiet of the night, even though you know you're not bothering him in the slightest, it still feels almost like you're intruding.

He's at the desk, though, right where you expected him to be. His glasses are perched low on the bridge of his nose and you can see the tension in his neck and shoulders, a sure sign that he's been focused on the plans in front of him for far too long.

"Hey," he breathes out, looking over at you with what seems to be relief. You knew from Maria that he's been bombarded all day with everything from questions to problems to Tommy's constant insistence that they have to work faster. You and Joel could both easily admit that there was an obvious need for additional homes, but you were also aware that construction takes time. One would think Tommy would understand that, especially considering his own background and the fact that none of this is what it was before, but you'd also known from the look in Maria's eyes and the lateness of the hour that Joel was the one putting it on himself to try and make it happen.

The door closes softly behind you as you move to his side, setting down a thermos on the desk next to the multitude of renovation plans. "Brought you some coffee. I thought it might help."

"Come to check on me is more like it," he jokes, but he's already taken off his glasses and is reaching to draw you into his lap. You don't argue, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you settle onto his thighs, a light kiss pressed to his forehead as he buries his face against your neck.

"Maria told me Tommy was on your case today," you explain simply, fingers running carefully through his curls.

Joel nods. "Maria and I met this morning about the houses on Clark Street, but then her idiot husband had to come in here and give me a debrief of everything we'd already covered because he missed the meeting. Wasted nearly a fucking hour of my day."

It makes you laugh, the way the rivalry between the Miller brothers seems to transcend all reason, even if at the heart of it you knew they love each other more than either would be willing to admit. "Is that why you're still here working when he's at home?"

There's no response from him, just quiet, and you know you've hit the nail on the head. This isn't the first time, and you knew it wouldn't be the last, that Joel took the needs of the town on his own shoulders. You needed houses and somehow he always made it happen, even if it meant stretching himself too thin.

"You know what? Come on," you continue suddenly, pressing another kiss to his hairline before standing. "Let's go home."

The protests begin immediately. "I really need to..."

"Joel," you return sternly, already grabbing his coat off the hook. "Home. Now."

There's a long sigh and then he stands, turning off the desk lamp and crossing to take his jacket from you. He shrugs it on and then his hand finds yours, fingers woven together as you lead him from the office and out into the cool night air.

Spring hasn't quite set in yet, but the harsh realities of winter are finally behind you. It's one of the reasons the council has been pushing for new houses, almost too aware of the fact that construction is easier with the warming weather and with new people showing up every day it's become a necessity to move as quickly as possible.

Not that Joel needs to be thinking about that right now.

"I made some chicken for dinner," you tell him, swinging your arms about just slightly in the way that makes you both feel like you're simply two lovers on an evening stroll. You do your best to find these kinds of moments, the ones that remind you of the good, because if you didn't you'd simply spend your whole existence dwelling on the opposite. On the constant weight of ensuring the survival of a community twenty-seven years after the end of the world. "I could heat it up for you when we get back."

"Sounds nice," he returns, his pace slowed to match yours as you make your way home. There are still a few people out and about, but not many, and it almost makes your town feel small again, in the way it had when you'd both first arrived. You're quiet, even as you pass to the edge of town and eventually find your way along the dirt path that will guide you home. The house you share sits in the distance, unassuming amidst fields that will soon blossom into a lush green landscape.

He doesn't let go of your hand until you're both through the door, only relinquishing his grasp after you kiss him quickly and head to the kitchen to find him some dinner. You hear him sit on the bench by the door, removing his boots with a huff, and then the unmistakable creek of the floorboards as he transitions to the living room.

You talk to him absentmindedly all the while, about your day, about watching JJ for Dina and Ellie, about what you're hoping to plant in the garden this summer, but it's only when the chicken is plated that you realize he hasn't said a word.

"Joel?" you question, making your way back to the living room. "Baby?" you ask again, crossing the threshold to find him sprawled out on the couch, sound asleep.

It's peaceful, really, the way he seems to soften in slumber, and it makes you relax, too. Your feet carry you to his side, abandoning the food on the counter as you grab the blanket from the back of the couch. You shift him slightly, just enough for you to wedge onto the sofa next to him and drape the afghan over both of your bodies. He wakes, ever so slightly, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you back against him, nose tucked into the back of your neck as he drifts off once more.

And the next day, when you wake to find him already gone, the blanket wrapped tightly around your body and a note on the coffee table that reminds you he loves you, all you can hope for is that the coffee in the thermos still on his desk isn't too cold.

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This is crazy and I love ittttttttt.

Miguel O’Hara swimsuit trend that’s been around on X

Buy me a coffee! • Linktree • Open Commisions

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Rest - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader Rating: We all need fluff right now and that's what this is. Word Count: 1133 a/n: I hope everyone is surviving out there. In an attempt to halt my near-constant crying I wrote this. Note that there are two little references in here that will hopefully help everything feel a little bit better are also little spoilers for Part II, so if you want to avoid any and all spoilers, let that be known. It's pretty darn tiny though.

"Joel?"

Your voice is soft, but it still feels obtrusive as you sneak your way past the door to his office. It's actually pretty spacious, the space his brother has set up for him amidst the growing town of Jackson, but in the quiet of the night, even though you know you're not bothering him in the slightest, it still feels almost like you're intruding.

He's at the desk, though, right where you expected him to be. His glasses are perched low on the bridge of his nose and you can see the tension in his neck and shoulders, a sure sign that he's been focused on the plans in front of him for far too long.

"Hey," he breathes out, looking over at you with what seems to be relief. You knew from Maria that he's been bombarded all day with everything from questions to problems to Tommy's constant insistence that they have to work faster. You and Joel could both easily admit that there was an obvious need for additional homes, but you were also aware that construction takes time. One would think Tommy would understand that, especially considering his own background and the fact that none of this is what it was before, but you'd also known from the look in Maria's eyes and the lateness of the hour that Joel was the one putting it on himself to try and make it happen.

The door closes softly behind you as you move to his side, setting down a thermos on the desk next to the multitude of renovation plans. "Brought you some coffee. I thought it might help."

"Come to check on me is more like it," he jokes, but he's already taken off his glasses and is reaching to draw you into his lap. You don't argue, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you settle onto his thighs, a light kiss pressed to his forehead as he buries his face against your neck.

"Maria told me Tommy was on your case today," you explain simply, fingers running carefully through his curls.

Joel nods. "Maria and I met this morning about the houses on Clark Street, but then her idiot husband had to come in here and give me a debrief of everything we'd already covered because he missed the meeting. Wasted nearly a fucking hour of my day."

It makes you laugh, the way the rivalry between the Miller brothers seems to transcend all reason, even if at the heart of it you knew they love each other more than either would be willing to admit. "Is that why you're still here working when he's at home?"

There's no response from him, just quiet, and you know you've hit the nail on the head. This isn't the first time, and you knew it wouldn't be the last, that Joel took the needs of the town on his own shoulders. You needed houses and somehow he always made it happen, even if it meant stretching himself too thin.

"You know what? Come on," you continue suddenly, pressing another kiss to his hairline before standing. "Let's go home."

The protests begin immediately. "I really need to..."

"Joel," you return sternly, already grabbing his coat off the hook. "Home. Now."

There's a long sigh and then he stands, turning off the desk lamp and crossing to take his jacket from you. He shrugs it on and then his hand finds yours, fingers woven together as you lead him from the office and out into the cool night air.

Spring hasn't quite set in yet, but the harsh realities of winter are finally behind you. It's one of the reasons the council has been pushing for new houses, almost too aware of the fact that construction is easier with the warming weather and with new people showing up every day it's become a necessity to move as quickly as possible.

Not that Joel needs to be thinking about that right now.

"I made some chicken for dinner," you tell him, swinging your arms about just slightly in the way that makes you both feel like you're simply two lovers on an evening stroll. You do your best to find these kinds of moments, the ones that remind you of the good, because if you didn't you'd simply spend your whole existence dwelling on the opposite. On the constant weight of ensuring the survival of a community twenty-seven years after the end of the world. "I could heat it up for you when we get back."

"Sounds nice," he returns, his pace slowed to match yours as you make your way home. There are still a few people out and about, but not many, and it almost makes your town feel small again, in the way it had when you'd both first arrived. You're quiet, even as you pass to the edge of town and eventually find your way along the dirt path that will guide you home. The house you share sits in the distance, unassuming amidst fields that will soon blossom into a lush green landscape.

He doesn't let go of your hand until you're both through the door, only relinquishing his grasp after you kiss him quickly and head to the kitchen to find him some dinner. You hear him sit on the bench by the door, removing his boots with a huff, and then the unmistakable creek of the floorboards as he transitions to the living room.

You talk to him absentmindedly all the while, about your day, about watching JJ for Dina and Ellie, about what you're hoping to plant in the garden this summer, but it's only when the chicken is plated that you realize he hasn't said a word.

"Joel?" you question, making your way back to the living room. "Baby?" you ask again, crossing the threshold to find him sprawled out on the couch, sound asleep.

It's peaceful, really, the way he seems to soften in slumber, and it makes you relax, too. Your feet carry you to his side, abandoning the food on the counter as you grab the blanket from the back of the couch. You shift him slightly, just enough for you to wedge onto the sofa next to him and drape the afghan over both of your bodies. He wakes, ever so slightly, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you back against him, nose tucked into the back of your neck as he drifts off once more.

And the next day, when you wake to find him already gone, the blanket wrapped tightly around your body and a note on the coffee table that reminds you he loves you, all you can hope for is that the coffee in the thermos still on his desk isn't too cold.

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

All I do is cry about Joel Miller.

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Feeling sad today? Maybe this will help. :)

Birds - A Raindro Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: G. The fluffiest fluff that we need for today. Mentions of pregnancy. Word Count: 1385 a/n: I'm typing this 40 minutes before episode one of season two of TLOU drops but I'll post this immediately after. I'm lingering somewhere in the space between here and the planet Saturn. Up is down, down is up. I hope this fluff helps us all. This one is for Joel's wives. Written in conjunction for TLOU Sundays and Raindro 2025.

You remember the morning he finishes setting it up because you feel sick. Joel had done his best to convince you to stay in bed and had tried to get you to allow him to stay with you, but you'd protested until he left the room, insisting that you were fine and that the stomach bug you had would just go away on its own. He only half listened, finding someone else to take his patrol so he could stay home with you, always within earshot even as he stepped outside to hang the little birdhouse from the tree in the yard.

It was the first project he'd completed with your nephew, the two of them holed up in the studio as Joel taught Ben the basics of woodworking by building the simple structures. They matched, the two little houses, one hung proudly outside of your home and the other outside Tommy's.

"Looks nice," you comment when he finds you in bed later, your stomach still tied in knots even as he snuggles in behind you.

Joel kisses the back of your neck leisurely, "thought about pulling some of that old corn we have in the shed to feed them. Kinda lure them over, you know?" His grip around your waist tightens and you sigh, loathe to admit that you feel better simply having him next to you. Doing so would only prove him right when he'd insisted as much earlier.

Now, you simply agree with him.

"That would be nice," you whisper, just before your eyes fall shut.

"Saw some robins this morning," Joel notes the second he's through the door, pausing only to pull off his jacket and boots before crossing the kitchen to kiss your cheek. His stubble scratches your skin, but you lean into him anyway.

"Maybe that means this winter will be over soon," you laugh, suddenly turned in his arms so he can kiss you properly. It's slow and passionate and enough for you to wrap your arms tightly around his neck, holding him against you with fingers threaded through his hair.

He hums when he pulls back, his gaze immediately dropped between you, right where the slight curve of your stomach presses against his. "How's our little bean doing?"

You kiss him again. "We're good," you promise him, hoping that the reassurance will quell some of the anxiety you know he feels. It wasn't something either of you were trying for, much less ever expecting to happen, but now that you're here, with the newest Miller on the way, he's been more protective than normal.

"You sure? You don't need anything? Wait, maybe you should sit down and I'll finish..."

"Joel," you scold, although there's a hint of teasing evident in your voice. "I mean it. We're just fine. But if you do want to finish making dinner, I'm not about to complain," you laugh, already shifting away from him to move toward a chair.

He tugs on your hand before you make it too far, though, pulling you back into one last kiss before he lets you go.

He's out there again, feeding the birds when you come home with an oversized bag in your hand, gifts from the baby shower Maria had thrown you tucked inside. Joel had stayed home, insistent that you should enjoy some girl time, although you sensed that his absence was more of a result of the stress he so often felt at town gatherings.

"I saw a few blackbirds this morning before I left," you inform him, waddling over to kiss him hello as he lets the feed fall from his fingers.

Joel nods, "they flew off when I came out just now. Haven't seen them around before." His eyes fall to the bag. "What's in there?"

You smile. "Gifts."

He looks curious, scanning the contents of the bag before settling on the item thrown on top. "Is that..."

"A baby harness," you note, setting down the bag so you can pull out the item in question. "One of those things they used to have so you could strap your baby to your front while you work."

He narrows his eyes, "who the hell had one of those hanging around 25 years after the end of the world?"

You shrug, because you honestly can't answer that question. There had been so many people at the party that you couldn't even begin to try and remember you brought what. "Not gonna strap your kid to your chest?" you ask playfully.

Joel huffs, "did just fine without that the last time."

There's a beat of silence, the same one that always lingers whenever he brings up Sarah, and then you're kissing his jaw softly. "You'll do just fine this time, too."

It becomes a part of your routine as the months pass by. You find your way to the front porch to sit in the rocking chair, a cup of herbal tea in your hands. You're more or less stuck at home these days, Joel insistent that you follow the doctor's instructions to take it easy until the baby comes, which means that your morning escape to watch him feed the newest residents in your front yard truly is a breath of fresh air.

"We're gonna need to plant more corn at the rate you're feeding them," you shout, watching as he scatters the grain on the ground below the birdhouse. He was halfway through helping Ben make a bird feeder to go along with the house, preparation for the winter when it would be significantly harder to scatter feed on the ground with a thick layer of snow covering it instead.

"We'll have plenty," he insists, grabbing an extra handful to throw on the growing grass. "Plus, we have the sunflower seeds too, you know."

You consider this, head tilting to one side as you watch him work. He did insist on planting the entire packet of sunflowers, and while you'd assumed it was because they were your favorite flower and he was just doing his best to make his wife happy, you hadn't considered that he could have ulterior motives.

"Your birds are more important than me enjoying my flowers now?" you tease, and you smile when he smirks back at you.

"Never."

It's the sound of birdsong that awakens you, some of the first of spring. The robins have returned in the last few weeks, a sign as sure as the melting snow that warmer days were ahead. The house is quiet, though. There's a slight breeze that causes the old structure to creak, but that's about it.

The sun is barely up, soft pastel light filtering into your bedroom as you notice the empty space beside you and the equally empty crib at the foot of your bed. You stand, pulling a blanket around you as you find your way downstairs to where you know you'll find them. It's chilly when you step outside into the morning air and the porch is cool even through the thick socks on your feet, but you barely notice, too distracted by the sight before you.

Joel sits on the front steps, still in his sweatpants that are haphazardly tucked into his heavy boots. His hair sticks up at odd angles and his thick coat is draped over his shoulders, unzipped so he can cradle your daughter against his chest. She's bundled up, too, and while she's more than secure in the harness he's wearing, his hand still holds her close against him.

They're watching the birds, the ones eagerly snacking on the fresh seed the two of them have likely just added to the feeder. Your little girl watches with equally eager eyes as her father explains each of the tiny animals fluttering before you, and you listen as he describes each.

"The robins are a sign of good luck," he explains, and she coos softly as though she understands every word that falls from his lips. "And that one with the red wing over there symbolizes protection."

You shift to sit next to them, leaning against his shoulder without a word. He pauses for a moment to press a kiss to the side of your head, but then continues, pointing out each new set of wings that arrive on the branches.

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Someone Like You - A Raindro Drabble

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader Rating: I'm gonna say mature. There's a hell of a lot of swearing in here, as well as some more mature themes including violence against Lucy, but nothing explicit. Word Count: 2138 a/n: Raindro concludes with RED and we're just pretending that everything is fine today and nothing bad happened ever hahahahahahaha. Anyway, this was actually a request that came to me from a dear friend, and the moment we began discussing the plot it occurred to me that it might work incredibly well for this final day! I'll admit that this challenge has been a difficult one, but it's also been so fulfilling to try and make each piece feel like the color. I hope, in some way, I've been able to do that. Anyway, without further ado, here's a bit of Harry Castillo to round things out!

You're not exactly sure what color it is that you're seeing, but then again, you're not sure you're really seeing anything at all.

The fucking audacity of this woman. How could anyone be so fucking self-centered, especially someone who claims to be helping people? Honestly, how anyone managed to find a soul mate with her assistance was beyond you, but this? This was a step too far.

"You left him," you shout, far beyond any level of anger you've felt in recent years. "You stood him up at the alter after cheating on him with your fucking bartender boyfriend and now you think you can just waltz back in here and claim him for yourself?" Fierce loyalty is basically written into your DNA, and you'd had enough of her shit even before she'd dumped your best friend, but usually you were able to remain calm and collected, even in the heat of the moment.

Right now, though, you're livid.

Lucy looks shocked, not just by your outburst but by the fact that for the first time she's not in control. "I made a mistake," she emphasizes as though it will do anything to change your mind, her voice lowering as a few people around you at the party begin to stare. She obviously doesn't want to make a scene, but you couldn't care less, especially if it proves to every single person at this wedding that she's shit at her so-called job.

"So what?" you return, teeth grinding and fists already clenched as you try your best to hang onto the single ounce of control you have left, "you think he's just gonna come running back to you?"

"Well," she pauses, drawing out her next words as though she's enjoying this far more than she should, "it just makes sense. We're a perfect match and..."

You don't let her finish, and you're no longer sure if it's adrenaline or loyalty or jealousy that's powering the crunch of your fist against her jaw. There's no pain, none that you can feel in the moment at least, your opposite hand returning with another crushing blow that has an old woman nearby screaming for help.

"What the fuck?" Lucy shouts, stepping back as quickly as she can in a feeble attempt to get away from you. She's clutching at her face, a red mark already forming on her otherwise perfect skin, and it only fuels you further.

"You don't deserve him," you argue as you take another step toward her, landing a strike against her ribs before you even realize what you're doing. She fumbles, just for a second, and then she's fighting back, a scream erupting from her lungs as she lunges at you.

Predictably, she goes for your hair, tugging at the loose strands of your updo until the bobby pins are pulling tightly against your scalp. It causes you to cry out, head thrown back as you try to free yourself, a punch to her stomach doing the trick a moment later. She's yelling, and so are you, as the circle around you both grows, drunken spectators tuning in for the evening's entertainment.

"He's meant to be with me," Lucy shouts, one of her heels flying off as she attempts to knee you. It doesn't work, your body just far enough out of reach that it allows you to land a hit to her shoulder instead. "I know he is."

"Is that why you left him, then?"

Someone in the crowd makes a sound, their surprise evident as you reveal a plot point of the story unfolding in front of them.

"Is that why you led him on for months only to fuck him over in the end and leave him heartbroken?"

Lucy stares at you, breathing heavily. "I didn't mean to..."

"The fuck you didn't," you cut her off again, kicking off your own heels before beginning to circle her. No one in the crowd makes any effort to stop you since the old woman from earlier has presumably gone to find help, so you keep going. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you landed in someone else's bed, only to leave me to pick up the pieces for Harry."

"Oh I'm sure you loved that," Lucy scoffs. "You think I didn't see the way you look at him? Like you couldn't wait for me to leave just so you could sneak in? Like you didn't want to fuck him the entire time?"

There's a whisper of damn from somewhere around you, but you pay it no mind. She's right, of course. You've been in love with Harry for longer than you can remember, emotions disguised as friendship, but that's beside the point. You didn't sleep with him when he was still in a relationship with someone else.

Hell, you haven't slept with him period.

The blasting beat of the DJ surrounds you, your eyes locked on hers, and you know what's coming next before she even says it. In fact, you will her to say it, to give you an excuse.

"Too bad he'd never actually want someone like you."

The crowd roars when you're on top of her again, fully blinded by the pure rage in your veins when you tug at her hair. Lucy scratches along your face, managing to land a decently sized cut on your lip, and you fall back when her elbow makes contact with your side. She doesn't fare any better, your fists pounding against any part of her you can reach, wedding guests chanting around you as the fight continues.

It's only when strong hands tug you backward that you start to break from the haze, even if your arms still flail wildly. You're barely conscious of the fact that someone is pulling Lucy away too, removing her from the conflict as the circle quickly begins to dissipate, and soon you find yourself ushered to a stairwell, the concrete walls immediately dulling your senses.

"What the hell just happened in there?"

You turn, for some reason surprised to see Harry staring down at you even though you came to this wedding together and you just spent the better part of ten minutes fighting with his shitty ex-fiancé. "She had it coming," you spit out before running your tongue over your lip, the metallic taste of blood lingering.

He sucks in a breath, some of your own anger reflected in his gaze, and for just a second you're almost frightened. It's never something you've felt from him before, but just as quickly as the emotion appeared on his face, it's gone, replaced once again by the soft understanding he so often wears.

"Come on," he whispers before grabbing your hand tightly, pulling you carefully down the stairs. They're easy to manage, your heels long forgotten back at the reception, and by the time he has you out in the chilly night air something that feels a little like guilt begins to settle in your stomach.

Harry says nothing as he calls his car, ushering you into the back seat in silence. The ride is quiet too, all the way back to the massive apartment he barely sees these days, more apt to arrive on your doorstep than to invite you past his own, but you suspect he has his reasons for bringing you here instead. You settle on a chair at the oversized dining table when he quickly disappears into his bathroom, returning a moment later with a damp washcloth and a first aid kit that was probably given to him as a shitty congratulations gift for purchasing his twelve million dollar apartment.

He removes his suit jacket and drapes it over a nearby chair before beginning his search through the array of bandages and gauze. You wait, watching as he finds what he needs, your eyes meeting his when he kneels in front of you.

Your breath catches, and so does his. Years of friendship and understanding and shared experiences and heartbreak leading you both to this moment.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, even though you really aren't. But at the same time, you're well aware that he didn't deserve any of this. Not Lucy, not the breakup, and certainly not you fighting his battles for him with legitimate violence.

He remains quiet, carefully reaching out to dab at the cut on your lip with the washcloth. You can feel the pain now that you've finally calmed down, and it causes you to flinch, head shifting away from him for just a second before he tries again, gentle as always.

"You didn't have to do that," Harry whispers eventually, focus locked on his work. "She knows what she did, and she has to live with it and that has to be enough for me."

This causes you to pause, because he's right, and also because you're not really sure when he got so wise.

"She was going to come after you," you explain, as though that will make all the pieces fit together in his mind. Like it will offer some kind of reasonable excuse for your actions, even though he's not asking for you to give one. "I just wanted to..."

"She's not worth it," he cuts you off, grabbing your hand and guiding it to hold the already bloody cloth against your lip before he stands.

"No," you agree, mumbling a bit as you try your best to speak without further irritating your wound, "she's not." You watch as he finds another towel to fill with ice, slowly making his way back to your side as you contemplate your next words carefully, "but you are."

It's unclear if he's even heard you, although you don't see how he wouldn't have. Not when he's kneeling in front of you again, gently exchanging the cloth in your hand for the one filled with ice. But still, he remains quiet enough to unnerve you, and it's only when your eyes lock again that you finally understand.

He wasn't worried about himself. He wasn't worried about Lucy either, or the way your outburst would likely be the talk of New York for weeks to come. No, Harry was worried about you.

You set the ice down on the table before cautiously reaching out to curl your fingers in the hair just behind his ear. He's nearly eye-level like this, bent down on one knee, which makes it all too easy for you to pull him closer. You drop your forehead against his, eyes falling shut.

"I'm sorry," you say again, your voice just a whisper this time, but the intention behind the statement is far more true than when you uttered it earlier. "I really am."

Harry doesn't respond, not at first, your heart beating loudly in your ears as you wait, but you find some comfort in the fact that he's not pushing you away. He's here, his hand gently finding yours so he can run his thumb over your bruising knuckles.

"She's wrong, you know," he murmurs eventually, close enough that you can feel his words against your lips. Your mind races through the evening, trying to pinpoint exactly what he could be referring to, but he clarifies before you can ask.

"I would actually want someone like you."

The cut on your lip stings a bit as you break into a soft smile. "I didn't think you'd heard that part."

He hums, squeezing your hand, "I did. I heard most of it, actually." His nose nuzzles against your own, the tips brushing in a way that makes you feel giddy. You struggle to contemplate the reality of this moment, so incredibly close to him that you can smell his aftershave and the expensive cologne he only puts on for weddings. You've longed for this for what feels like forever, spent countless nights imagining what it might feel like, but nothing could have ever compared to this.

"She was right about one thing, though," you admit, leaning just a bit closer so your lips brush against his when you speak.

"What's that?" Harry asks, his hand weaving into the hair at the back of your head.

"I did want to fuck you the whole time."

You both laugh, smiles erupting on your faces even as he captures you in a kiss, holding you against him. It makes the cut sting, but you're too lost in the moment, in him, to really care.

"But for the record," you continue when you come up from air, "I want a lot more than that, too."

Harry stands quickly, a grin still on his lips as he maneuvers you into his arms, one tucked behind your back and the other under your knees. "I want that too, love," he confirms as he escorts you to his bed, "I want that, too."

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Somehow this week I went from literally some of the worst writer’s block I’ve had in months to churning out four different fics for four different characters in under 30 hours? How the hell did that happen?

Writing is so weird, y’all.