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bohemianblasphemy · 1 month ago

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Yall hear me crying?

❝ THE PILLOW WAS ALWAYS COLD ❞

─── BLUEMERAKIS

synopsis. joel mourns the loss of you.

─── warnings. joel miller x fem .ᐟ reader. pre-apocalypse. childless joel. established marriage. mentioned fluff. grief. angst.

word count. 1.1k

✉️ 𓏧 notes .ᐟ my first joel miller anything. & ofc it’s sad shit. pls go easy on me LMAO

THE FIRST HINT OF DAYBREAK poured in through the bedroom window, seeping through the slit of the worn, frilly curtains. The selfish sunlight settled over Joel’s face like a heavy blanket, but the reality woven into its touch was far from warm and comforting—it was cold, empty, cruel. Where a sunrise was meant to promise a new day, he couldn’t help but feel as though it was a taunt to every person who remained trapped in the muddy pits of the past.

Somebody like him—who, no matter how hard he waded through the mud, could never seem to escape the bottomless void your death had left him in.

He shifted beneath the comforter half-strewn across the mattress’ edge and rolled onto his back with a grunt, his eyes hazy as he blinked away the restless night. He brought up a hand to wipe a clumsy line down his face, coarse skin grating over the unkempt mass of his beard. His gaze flickered up to the room’s ceiling, the movement sluggish with the exhaustion lurking on the horizon of his eyelids like a heavy storm cloud.

But the feeling was no stranger to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night uninterrupted.

That was a lie; he remembered perfectly.

Nights used to pass like a fleeting breeze when had his body curved around yours in a sensual spooning, one arm slung over the bare skin of your waist with his fingers tracing aimless lines over your stomach, while the other played pillow to the cosy nook of your neck. He’d rest his jaw against the crown of your head, nose nuzzled into your swath of hair until he drowned in the scent of your conditioner. It lulled him like the spell of lavender, easing him into a sleep so deep, he’d only wake up hours after you’d abandoned the sheets for work.

He never imagined the loss of your warmth would become so permanent.

It was easier to forget he’d ever known a good night’s rest than remember that you were the sole reason for it. To remember that there’d once been a time where he didn’t wish for an extra hour of sleep when losing it meant a late night conversation with you. It was easier to pretend that this had always been the way things were, because the cost of remembrance meant forgetting what purpose his existence still served outside of you.

Living for you.

‘Til deal do us apart—that had been the vow. Joel hadn’t realised just how selfish he’d been when he’d carefully slid that ring onto your finger. How selfish he’d been to claim the very hand that had held his through every hardship, guiding his lost voyage amongst the sea of life like a lighthouse in the distance. How selfish he’d been to strike you with a vow so foreboding and violent when you’d done nothing but nurture his wounds—the stings of wooden splinters left in the wake of a hard day’s work.

Maybe death—ever the vicious competitor of life—wouldn’t have claimed you if he hadn’t made the mistake of claiming you first.

Joel never thought he’d have lived to see the vow through.

He’d imagined you’d grow old together in matching rocking chairs, perched on the porch of the house he’d have built for you in the heart of the countryside. He’d have a beer to cool one palm and your hand to warm the other, frail fingers woven together while you watched the sun set on another day—tallying the long years of your marriage.

The sun and her daily treks was supposed to be a witness to your happy life together, not the lurking grim reaper dressed in light and warmth and trailing after Joel’s every move like a gloomy reminder of your fate, and his new reality. She came each day asking for you, knocking on a door she knew only he could answer.

It was cruel. Painful.

He turned a cheek to glimpse the bedroom window, teary eyes focusing on the curtains patterned with small, faded bees and swirled, dotted lines that were meant to represent their erratic flight path. He always thought it was a stupid choice of decor—a quaint thing that only quainter people would enjoy, but it made you happy, so he’d begrudgingly agreed to it. You’d loved bees so much, you’d needed to see them in everything you owned. And it was just as fitting that you were the type of sweet that honey would grow bitter over.

Now, the curtains had enough holes to mock beestings, letting in more light than it could manage to keep out. It was reason enough to finally rip the damn thing off the rails, but the mere thought of it felt like kicking dirt over your grave—like burying you deeper than you’d ever been before. Besides, he had this nagging feeling that it was by design—that the curtains were meant to let in all the light that would keep him from drowning in the darkness of his own mind. Like it was fulfilling your dying wish that he continue to live after you. In memory of you.

But he was no museum. He couldn’t have honoured you even if he’d tried.

He’d thought about it once—carving your face into a slab of wood he’d polish and hang as a memoir of you. But you were the type of beautiful that was difficult to capture, features too delicate for a pair of hardy, rough hands like his to recreate. And he couldn’t bear the idea of tracing every line of your face for one last time when it would be a feeling as lifeless as wood.

He wasn’t strong enough. It was a splinter he’d never heal from.

His gaze drifted from the window to focus on the pillow across from him, his heart staggering over a pang of pain before he hesitantly reached out a hand to grab it. He pulled it against his torso—a routine he’d frequently practiced on you—and gently cradled it between his arms. His eyes fluttered closed, chin dipping in the slightest movement to burrow his nose into the pillowcase.

It still smelled like you.

He heaved a deep breath, willing the sweet smell to overtake his every sense until he could picture that you were still alive and laid beside him. But even as he held the pillow against him, trying to fill the very space you’d left behind, no part of him felt comforted, fulfilled. If anything, he only felt more hollow.

Where the scent of you still lingered, your warmth no longer did. And no matter how many mornings he reached for your pillow, wishing to brush his knuckles against the warm skin of your cheek—

The pillow was always empty.

The pillow was always cold.

tagging some mooties that i know live for joel miller. @inbred-eater @bohemianblasphemy @violent-darkness @littlesoulshine @cherrygirlfriend <3

icons taken from gif by @bratmillers !

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bohemianblasphemy · 2 months ago

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being approached by a tipsy soldier boy at a bar while playing pool with your friends, large palm edging into the corner of your vision as he cups the rim of the pool table with intent. his large frame hovers beside you at a distance far enough to be considered mindful—but not shy—the cool beer bottle he’s got in clutch ghosts up your back as he casually beckons for your attention. his lips find your ear almost effortlessly, a charming smirk perking the corner of his lips once you spare him a glance over your shoulder.

“next game’s on me, sweetheart,” he declares loudly through the bustling atmosphere, hot breath caressing your temple while the scent of one-too-many beers strangle your senses. he’s intoxicatingly bold, that’s for sure. “if i win, there’s a bathroom round back that you ‘nd i can get real cosy in. but if you win, feel free to tell me to fuck off like every other sorry dickhead who’s tried their luck this evenin’.”

you’re an inch away from being nose-to-nose with the unknown, albeit attractive man, but for some reason, you don’t attempt to put any space between your bodies. if anything, there’s a magnetic air to him that keeps you drawn in—close and personal—like a planet doomed to crash into the centre of it all.

was that what he was—trouble? you don’t need to ponder that question for long, not when you’re close enough to study every hypnotising feature on his face—the devilish look to his eyes, the beckoning glint to his perfect teeth, and the way his lips hover ever so loosely, like he’s waiting to claim a taste of you.

and just for tonight, you’re offering.

you angle your torso to face him more directly, but he doesn’t move to give you the space. doesn’t even attempt to. and he’s got a lazy, lopsided smirk plastered to his lips as he studies your every feature, head tilting slightly, like he’s just waiting for your inevitable fall into his arms.

“please,” you huff mockingly, hand clutching your pool stick firmly. “i come here enough to know who’s the reigning champion of the game, and it’s kinda hard to miss your face when it’s plastered to the posters stuck in every corner of this joint,” you point out. “you’ll win me for sure.”

he listens closely, head subtly lowering into your space—like he’s latching onto your every word, and then cocks an eyebrow at your statement that tells you he has zero intent to be humble about his title.

“well, that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me, now would it, sweetheart?” he drawls with a throaty chuckle, chin perking as he glares you down with silent resolve. “c’mon, all i’m askin’ is that ya entertain a bored man on an even more borin’ night—i’ll take it easy on ya. promise,” he adds with a sly wink, gaze narrowing expectantly as he lifts his beer to his lips for a greedy swig.

for a moment, neither one of you say anything further, but the air between you thickens with the silent tension. you return his calculating stare with your own, like you’re weighing the risks of his offer. not that it mattered, really, because the answer had already been decided. you’d come here for a night of fun, and you’d be damned to let the first exhilarating opportunity slip away.

“okay,” you say finally, head tilting mischievously as your hand tightens around the tip of the pool stick. “challenge accepted,” you chirp, to which he raises his half-emptied bottle in a triumphant cheers. “but don’t you dare take it easy on me,” you add with a challenging smirk, your hand making a suggestive stroke down the stick. “i can handle myself. i’m not a sore loser, but i am a generous winner.”

his eyes track your motion intently, his motives rather focused despite the way his pupils are blown wide with liquor and irrationality alike. he drags his lazy stare back up to eye-level, the corner of his lips quirking. “was only ever being courteous, doll,” he says lowly, finally pushing himself from the support of the table.

he twists around briefly to grab a stick from the opposite table before facing you with a jut of his chin. “my bad for thinkin’ that a gal like you needs the easy handout. i’ll be sure to sport my fuckin’ a-game,” he says with a wink, shifting to brush past you before he reappears at your other side. his lips find your ear once more, beer-adorned hand coming up to brush your hair out of gloat’s way. “easiest win o’ the night,” he murmurs smugly before retreating from your space with the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth.

you whip around to face him with an amused shake of your head. “oh, it’s so fucking on,” you chuckle in disbelief, the grip on your pool stick firming up.

“now that’s what i’m fuckin’ talkin’ ‘bout!” he says loudly—like he’s announcing it to the rest of the bar. a few heads turn to look, but he doesn’t spare them a second of the night. he’s got all his focus on you. and his gaze doesn’t once stray, not even has he brings his beer to his lips to drown what thawed beverage remains to free his hands for the game.

and then it finally commences.

he didn’t go easy on you, that’s for sure. hell, he doesn’t even go easy on you now as he practically drags you along to the bar’s bathroom, large hand clasped around your wrist. his free hand comes forward to push the door open, and it swings back in an effortless surrender before he slips inside and you’re tugged along after him like a dog on a leash.

he spins around and pulls you into his torso with a practised ease, taking full advantage of your position to reverse you into the door until it slams shut like a blaring announcement to all the bar’s inhabitants to stay clear of this space. your back presses against the cool wood, his hands trailing from your waist to grip at the hems of your dress, where he tugs until it’s lifted over your head. it’s tossed aside almost instantly before his hands find your underwear, and his lips dive in to find the skin of your neck.

his lips slur kisses along the flushed skin while his fingers hook into your waistband, tugging in a notion for you to shed the coverage. he breaks away only to allow the shimmy of your legs, your lace bottoms pooling at your feet before he dives right back in to claim ownership of your lips with a kiss that leaves you utterly ruined. his hands slither back up to your hips to grip and squeeze the fat, eventually pulling you from the kind support of the door.

he breaks off the kiss with an impatient grunt, twirling you around and ushering you toward the counter with a palm to the small of your back. your hips collide with the rim, and he wastes no time in bending your bare body over the cool marble, your stomach pressed flat against the surface.

“now ain’t this a familiar view,” he laughs darkly, hand gliding up your back to hook a finger under your bra. “help a man out, would ya, doll?” he asks with a pointed yank of the clasp.

normally, you’re content to let men suffer and figure it out. but right now, you’re impatient and squirming, eager to have your own win of the night. so obediently, you twist your hands backwards to grab ahold of your bra’s clasp, where you work to undo it while his touch retreats and he shifts behind you to match your effort in undoing his belt.

it’s not long before his erection slips between your thighs and burrows into the slicked heat of your cunt, the cramped space echoing with the strained grunt that brews in his throat. his hands take up grip on either hip as he hollows you out with the first of his thrusts, the motion brutal as it snaps your lower half into the counter.

“you’re a mess down here,” he chuckles, the sound somewhat impressed. “a hot, wet mess. thought you seemed all worked up out there. guess you’re more o’ a sore loser than ya thought,” he adds with a satisfied scoff, squeezing your hips to add to his point before he pulls your body further his exploration and thrusts up into you.

you let out a broken gasp as your cheek presses against the marble, eyes fluttering closed around the sensation of your walls being stretched out—his to mould whichever way he pleases. and he seems hellbent on doing just that—internally branding you.

he glides one delicate hand over the curve of your ass before settling at the small of your back, where he presses your stomach into the countertop to maximise the pressure he’s subjecting you to. the sensation is godsent in combination with his thrusts, and you find yourself clenching around his every movement.

“told ya you’d be the easiest win o’ the night,” he taunts lowly—the sound strained and slightly breathless.

you strangle a moan before finding your tongue. “i’m not easy,” you protest indignantly, but the sound comes out weak. flustered. your palms find purchase atop the slippery field of marble as you arch your hips into his with enough force to temporarily subdue his thrusts, lifting your cheek to cast a challenging glare over your shoulder.

he meets your stare with one of warning, but the gesture hardly has time to translate before the hand on your back glides up your bare skin and over your shoulder, where it wraps around the front of your neck. there, his grip on you firms up enough to choke the air—and the nerve—right out of you, before he uses the unfair leverage to tug you off the countertop.

your back crashes back into his clothed chest, the contrast in modesty burning your cheeks hot. but the grasp on your throat doesn’t leave you enough air to complain—about the crudeness of it all, or about the way he’s gripping you as surely as he’d held his pool stick during the last round.

his head lowers to your level, his lips wrapping around the lobe of your ear for a quick nibble before retreating to whisper, “you’re easy enough.”

your hands wrap around the arm that imprisons you, your throat bopping beneath his grip with the silent plea for air. but he’s surprisingly quick to relent as he finally loosens his hold on you, hand tracing over your collar bone and across your breast for a snarky squeeze before he shifts to bend you over the counter once more.

“you look better bent over the bathroom counter than you do over the pool table—sure as hell perform better here, too,” he remarks suddenly, hands finding a steadying grip at your waist as his thrusts make a brutal comeback. he lifts a hand only to whip it across your ass cheek in a spank, urging a strangled moan from your lips. it’s a sound ridiculous enough to make him chuckle before he rubs a soothing line over the skin, almost gentle enough to make you believe it was an apology.

“not a sore loser, huh?” he recalls your words from earlier. “i want ya to show me that ya ain’t all talk, sweetheart. i want you to come for me—all over my fuckin’ dick. can ya do that for me, hm?”

you wince at the rapid pace he adapts, and the way he seems to excavate your core like a starved man searching for gold—like he’s already made up his mind for you. your palms sprawl across the counter before you, your vision becoming blurry with the mingle of pain and pleasure that burns your eyes teary. at this rate, it’s not if you can come completely undone for him—it’s when, and how many times.

“god—yes,” you sputter out breathlessly, your walls clenching around him with every second that passes.

“atta girl,” he praises gruffly, fingers tightening into the flesh of your hips as he drives your body into the counter. “god, you feel so fuckin’ good. so fuckin’ tight,” he breathes into the space, folding over at the waist to press himself against your back—like you’re finally wearing him out for a change. his jaw finds the slope of your shoulder as he settles his full weight over you, but his pace below doesn’t stutter. it wouldn’t dare. “knew i was right to take a fuckin’ chance on ya. prettiest girl in the room with a cunt slicker than any o’ my shittiest pickup lines. gonna come inside o’ ya—fill ya up real good. you want that, huh?” he grunts against your slick skin.

you utter a string of moans in acknowledgment, but your high is too close to allow any tangible words to part your lips. you’re overwhelmed with the pleasure, your body completely surrendering to him with a malleability that rocks your forms in unison. it’s a clear enough answer that has him grunting with every thrust, desperately chasing the high that’ll finally snap the string that winds both your bodies taut.

and then his tip finds your cervix in one final bruising motion, forcing a broken gasp from your lips. “oh, fuck!” you breathe out, and he harmonises with his own broken grunt, the grip on your body bruising as he latches onto something—anything that’ll ground him in the midst of his climax.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he pants against you, one hand releasing your waist as he lifts it to brush back the hair cascading over your collapsed head. he lets out a soft chuckle as he catches a glimpse of your red-tinted cheeks, his head tilting to get a better view of the absolute mess he’s reduced you to. “now that’s what i call a real fuckin’ win,” he says haughtily. “looks like i’m two-for-one this evenin’.”

“so charmingly humble,” you scoff weakly against the counter.

he leans in to place a kiss on your neck before retreating from your proximity, leaving your back bare and exposed. the inner of your thighs are slick with the mingle of your juices, seeping through the crevices of your plugged entrance like a testament to the pleasurable moment. for a few seconds, he hovers within your warmth, hands lingering against your back, before he finally pulls himself from your entrance with more caution than he’d exercised this entire evening.

behind you, the sound of his belt clinks into the space as he makes himself proper, and you push yourself off of the counter to face him. he catches your eye with a douchey smirk, hand coming forward to pinch your chin.

“you’re a shitty soloist, sweetheart,” he says, and your face contorts with an affronted expression, but he cuts you off before you’re afforded a comeback. “but a goddamn good team-player. i’d wish you better luck next time, but for my sake, i hope you suck just as much.”

he drops a suggestive wink before releasing your chin, briefly trailing his knuckles down your jaw before turning his back on you. he reaches for the bathroom door, clicking it open and slipping through the crack without so much as a second glance back.

a/n. not proof read soz

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