kiraavi

[kiraavi]

Just read this series in one sitting and... well, how am I to recover from this?

chapter 10

series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst & fluff, violence, blood and gore, main character death, animal death (im so sorry), Pre-Boston QZ, Stockholm Syndrome, slow burn, raider!joel, captor!joel, homestead, kidnapping, dark themes, I also just learned what whump means so we're including that too || a/n: this is unlike anything i've ever written, and this is the scene the entire story was written around. please heed the warnings as this is a very heavy chapter. sorry to those who wanted to see joel kicking ass, he does it but you can't see bc im so bad at writing action lol / yes the formatting is intentional. yes i know it hurts. please be kind in your comments, I'm just a baby

It all happened very fast.

And yet it felt like it was all in some horrible, mind altering slow motion.

The handlers at the edge of the clearing let go of their leashed infected like hellhounds surging forward, screams and snarls excited by the sudden noise. They ran into the clearing as gunfire cracked through the trees. Your vision didn’t catch up with it all until Joel moved, turning on the spot and shoving you hard toward the porch, yelling for you to Run!

You stumbled up the steps, heart jackhammering, the world turning into sound and chaos behind you. You crossed the threshold, barely turning the knob with your sweat slicked hands, and were halfway through the door when you felt something rushing past you in a big, furry blur—

Samson.

He shot around your legs with a burst of movement, all muscle and fury, teeth bared as he tore toward the sound of Joel’s voice, toward the chaos.

“No, Samson!” you cried, reaching too late.

The dog vanished into the fray just as the door slammed behind you, Joel still outside. You could hear the crack of his revolver now that he’d reached the porch steps, but there was no time to dwell. He told you to hide, to get into one of the rooms, to lock it behind you.

And so you did– you turned and ran, nearly tripping as you flew through the house, ducking into the first bedroom and throwing the lock shut behind you. Your breath came too fast, too thin, lungs barely working as you collapsed to the floor and backed up, feet sliding across the floor until your spine hit the old radiator.

You sat against it gasping. Hands fumbling, you reached for the knife in your pocket, flipping it open with a trembling thumb. You stared at the blade, its cold, familiar edge waiting for the threats that screamed outside the house.

Your heart slammed into your ribs like it was trying to punch its way out. You stayed locked in that room, pressed to cold iron at your back, while Joel fought outside. While Samson tore across the dirt, brave and loyal and so, so stupid.

And you—what were you? You felt like a child hiding beneath the covers, a coward with a blade she barely knew how to hold. You told yourself you’d be ready, that you’d be strong when it mattered. But now that it was here, you were trembling alone, praying as if that alone might be enough.

You sat there with the knife clutched in your fist, pressed so tight your fingers had gone numb. The room felt like it was shrinking, the edges blurring, and the only thing keeping you grounded the rhythmic pound of your own heartbeat slamming against your ribs. The radiator dug into your spine, but you didn’t move. Your mind wouldn’t let you.

And after a while of only being able to hear your own blood roaring in your ears, you realized the chaos outside had gone quiet.

No more shouting. No more gunfire. Just a hollow, buzzing silence. Your ears strained, clinging to any sound, but all you could hear was the rasp of your own breath and the thud of your pulse in your neck.

Maybe it was over. Maybe Joel had driven them off. Maybe he’d already be climbing the porch steps, bloody but alive, Samson at his side, ready to take you into his arms and tell you it was done.

Please, you thought. Please let it be done.

Then came the sound of shattering glass.

You flinched hard, knife jerking in your grip, nearly falling from your grasp, but you kept it tight. Somewhere outside the door, a window had broken, the sickening crunch of splinters and shards spraying across wood. You could hear footsteps, but— no, not quite footsteps. A scraping sort of noise, a slapping of feet, wet and off-rhythm, stumbling too fast, like something wearing a human body but not quite knowing how to use it. You got up, slowly crawling to the door, and pressed your ear to the wood.

You could hear the ragged breaths, those waterlogged lungs breathing in the air of the house. It was a low, starved, inhuman rattling of breath.

Your blood froze.

No. No, no, no, no—

But then, there was more. A padding of movement suddenly on the glass, the infected screaming at the sound of it, and a snarl matched it, loud enough to travel through the door and shake the walls of your heart. And you knew. Knew who it was. Samson’s bark echoed through the house, sharp and feral. He was after it. That sweet, dumb, brave boy had gone after the infected. You heard his claws scraping against the floor, the snarl in his throat, the heavy thump of his body throwing itself toward the thing that dared to trespass into your home.

Samson’s voice, if a dog could even have one, went raw and ragged, erupting into a series of snarls and screams so violent they didn’t even sound like him anymore. And as you pressed your ear harder to the wooden door, the sound of him rattled around your skull like a loose train over rusted tracks. You felt it in your bones, could hear the wet thud of bodies hitting wood, the skitter of claws trying to find purchase on the floor.

But worse than that, worse than a dog fighting for its life, fighting for your life is that high, shrill, gut-wrenching cry that cuts clean through the noise and leaves silence in its wake. It shattered you—froze your lungs mid breath.

And suddenly, when your lungs filled again, it wasn't with air, but with cold, burning dry ice fury. You realized you didn’t care that you could die, that if you opened the door, there was a strong possibility of a nightmare on the other side.

You ripped the door open, slamming it on its hinges. The creature turned unnaturally fast, all instinct and no humanity. As soon as it saw you it lunged, and its body collided with yours so fast it knocked the air from your chest. It was heavier than it looked, wiry and wrong, all muscle and hungry hungry hungry. Its hands clawed at your shoulders, jaws snapping inches from your face, bloodied teeth gnashing as it screamed that shrill, inhuman sound right into your skin.

You hit the wood floor hard, but the pain didn’t matter. All you could feel was that earth-shattering vehemence—the kind that made your blood churn and your vision blur. A scorching ice storm tore through your veins, wild and merciless, for your dog, for your home, for this sacred little life you had carved from the dirt with blood and sweat and aching hope. Anger for Joel, who had fought tooth and bone to keep you safe. And as the infected’s face loomed closer, snarling, breath rank with rot and death, all you could think of was him. Joel. Your Joel. The man who thought he was no good, who still stood between you and the fire, who was out there now, doing just that. You hoped he was still breathing. You prayed. And as you prayed for his life, you screamed and sobbed and thrashed beneath the weight of that thing, your hands searching with desperation. One found its jaw and shoved, just enough to shift its balance, just enough to move. The other rose like instinct, like fury given form, and drove your blade up through its mouth, straight into the soft ruin of its brain.

It collapsed on top of you all at once, heavy and lifeless, and still your sobs came wracking, splintering through your ribs, aching deep in your chest. You shoved it off with trembling arms, gasping as you scrambled backward, until your spine met the cold, comforting iron of the radiator once again. You pressed against it like it could hold you steady, like it could anchor you to something that still felt like home.

By the time your breathing began to steady, your body came alive with reality. You ached in places you hadn’t even felt the impact. Your skin prickled with heat and cold in turns, a clammy sheen sticking to your neck and chest. A buzzing sensation crept through your limbs, like your nerves were trying to fire all at once. Just the adrenaline wearing off, the shock. 

But as you waited there and the silence thickened, your heart began to beat harder again, not with panic now, but with fear. Real fear. The kind that settled into your bones, the kind that felt like knowing. Where was Joel?

As if your prayers were suddenly answered, you heard the front door open, accompanied by low and steady footsteps padding through the front room. But then, that instinctual part of you that was responsible for keeping you alive shot a flare of panic through you. You clutched the blade tighter, heart thudding like a war drum in your throat. What if they had found you? What if they’d killed Joel and they were coming to finish you off now?

The footsteps were slow and uneven, floorboards creaking under their weight as they got closer. There was no voice, no words, just the echo of boots and the soft drag of an undeniable limp.

You saw the shadow looming closer to the doorway before his familiar, big, rough hand pushed the door wider and stepped through. He was looking down at the body on the floor, the blood that was pooling around it, before looking up at you.

Joel.

His shoulders filled the frame, blood smeared all over him as his face was drawn pale and utterly familiar. He held his hand against his side, cuts all down his face and neck from the fight. For one fleeting breath, your soul unclenched. He was alive.

But then he stepped forward, and your breath caught like a fishhook in your chest. Your spine went stiff.

“Stop,” you gasped, “Don’t— just stay back, don’t come any closer.”

Your hands came up between you like a barrier, shaking but firm, with eyes wide and glassy. His boots halted on the threshold, and for a moment, he looked like he’d been shot. Your pulse skyrocketed again, fear icing your veins and blood rushing to your ears. You couldn’t tell if the light headedness was from being forced to the ground in the attack or the panic that thrummed through you now.

“What—?” he began, stepping forward again, both of his hands reaching, open and supplicating.

“Joel!” you shrieked, scrambling and keeping your hands up, one with the knife still clutched tightly, “I said stay back!”

He stopped cold, breathing hard, and for a moment, something flickered behind his eyes, something more painful than all the cuts and bruises and wounds on his body. You wondered, then, if he remembered the way your voice echoed the same way against the walls when you demanded for him to let you go all those months ago.

How that felt like such a far, far away dream now.

Your chest heaved, skin feeling lit on fire, feeling like it was screaming, wanting to peel away from the inside. The adrenaline was fading, and what was left behind felt like flames in your blood.

“What happened?” he asked, void of softness and gentleness now. 

You didn't answer. 

Instead, you reached for your shirt, bloody fingers pulling at the collar, and shifted it aside.

His eyes dropped, and all the color drained from his face as he exhaled every ounce of air left in his lungs, “Oh, Christ.”

It was as if his entire demeanor crumbled in front of you. He remained standing, but his face fell into an awful, splintered, painful look of grief, so pure and immediate. Like the pain was so sharp it gutted the breath from him.

You watched, frozen, as he sank to his knees in front of you, looking at the angry, blistering red bite on your shoulder.

“Baby…” he breathed, voice cracking on the word. It nearly shattered you then and there.

“I’m sorry,” your voice broke, lips trembling as tears blurred your vision. You looked at him, at this man who had lost so much, survived despite it all, and fought so hard to feel again, now sat in front of you unraveling.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, a useless whisper, “Is Samson…?”

He closed his eyes, answering only in the way his jaw tightened, his head dropping forward with a silent sigh.

You let out a strangled sob, knees curling into your chest as it hit you all at once. The dog, the bite, the way Joel picked his head up and looked at you like he couldn’t bear to breathe without you.

He began to crawl forward, reaching—

“No!” you cried out, jerking back so violently your shoulder throbbed with pain against the radiator behind you.

“Please,” he said, breath stopping in his lungs, “Don’t do this.”

“Stay back Joel,” you warned again, voice stern and barely holding together, “I mean it.”

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. 

He shook his head as if trying to wake from a nightmare, eyes locked on you with that same desperate ache that once made you fall for him,

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whispered, voice small and broken. 

“I don’t care.”

He pushed forward again, steady and unstoppable, like he’d decided if this was it, he’d meet it holding you.

You shoved at his chest as he got close enough, dropping your knife with a clattering to the floor, “No! Joel, stop! I said no—I don’t want to hurt you!”

But he was stronger, always has been. And now his arms wrapped around you, holding you like he’d try to keep you tethered to him, to the world.

You still shoved at his chest fruitlessly, sobbing as he said, “Stop fighting me, please, baby, just—just let me hold you.”

He didn’t flinch against your weak punches, he didn’t move, just held onto you tighter, soothing you with soft whispers, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

You were shaking, every part of you trembling like your bones wanted to come apart when finally your hands stopped fighting him. Like whatever had sunk its teeth into you was burrowing into the deepest parts. But Joel��s arms never loosened, if anything, they held tighter, his hands splayed across your spine, touch heavy and grounding.

“Please,” you whispered, though you didn’t know what you’re asking for anymore. For him to go. For him to stay. For this to not be real.

But Joel just pressed his lips to your temple, to your hair, to the damp skin at your hairline. Again and again and again. His breath stuttered against your scalp as he kissed you like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone.

“It’s okay,” he breathes, “It’s okay. I ain’t gon’ leave you.”

You let out another sob, quieter this time. Less wild, the panic still there, coiled tight in your chest, but it dulled beneath the weight of him, his body anchoring yours, his voice soft and sacred.

Your hands gripped the front of his shirt now, no longer pushing, just holding, clutching fabric like a lifeline as your head sank against his chest. His scent wrapped around you, that firesmoke burn, the smell of sun kissed leather and something undeniably him. The most familiar thing in the world.

You cried into him, hiccuping as his hands slid up your back, one cradling your head, the other splayed wide over your spine. He didn’t tell you to stop, to breathe. He just held you, steady and unshaken, as your whole world caved in.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, barely more than a whisper.

You lifted your eyes to his as your sobs slowly began to fade, your breath still stuck in your throat. His hand came to your face, cupping you so gently, so softly you almost started to cry again. Your hand came up in return, fingers red with blood, cupping his face back.

“I’m s–”

He shook his head, cutting you off, “‘Nough of that, please,” he whispered, hazel eyes pained and aged, “This ain’t your fault, baby. I’m sorry I wasn’t here in time. I should’ve…I could’ve…”

It was turn to cut him off, but this time you leaned up, kissing his lips so, so gently. 

You pulled away just to meet his eyes again, and they glistened, but no tears fell from them. 

“I love you.” you whispered.

His mouth pulled together in another tight frown, chin wobbling, his hand petting your hair over and over like he was trying to soothe the both of you.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” he whispered to you, kissing you back. His mouth was shaking, breathing uneven as his lips molded to yours.

He eventually lifted you off the ground, carrying you with the intent to make your way to the bedroom. But you stopped him suddenly as you came into the main room, your hand finding his chest.

“Will you…” you looked over at the chair, old and worn by the empty hearth, “just one more time.” you whispered.

His hands tightened around you, and he nodded, “Yeah, alright.”

He set you down, not before making sure the moth-eaten blanket was down so your knees were comfortable. He began to bring over the firewood, pushing it into the hearth and getting it lit. The warmth was welcome against your clammy skin, your blood beginning to heat and make your skin rise in goosebumps.

When the fire was lit, he moved to sit behind you, and called to you.

“Come here.” His voice commands. Though it’s…soft. Not cruel, not mean.

Not anymore. 

It hasn’t been in a long time.

You move without hesitation, the old floorboards warm beneath your skin as you settle in front of him. The fire in front of you reminds you of everything that’s come before this. The first day, when every snap of the burning wood made you flinch, uncertain and raw. Of each quiet meal shared in the hush of survival, each pot of water boiled for a bath, a kindness, a ritual.

It glows now, steady and golden, casting both of you in ribbons of amber and shadow despite the afternoon sun still reaching through the windows. And for a moment, it feels like time has folded in on itself, like you're still there at the beginning, and somehow at the end all at once.

Joe’s old armchair groans when he shifts, knees spread, a hand already reaching. His fingers are warm and gentle when they gather your hair, undoing your braid. The brush is missing bristles after all this time, its wood worn soft. 

He doesn’t speak. Just parts your hair, gently combing through it in slow strokes, smoothing it back from your damp temples as if this were just another morning, not the end of anything.

With each stroke, your body melts more and more. When the brush catches slightly on a knot near the base of your skull, to the side of your neck where your skin throbs and screams, you flinch slightly. Your breath hitches, the pain searing through you. Slowly, he pulls the knot free, keeping your locks away from your shoulder, and you exhale, your eyes locked on the flames.

When he finishes, you don’t move right away. Just sit with him in the hush, the fire casting flickers of gold across your faces. Then, quietly, you turn toward him, not yet reaching, though every part of you aches to. 

“Joel,” you say, soft as breath.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are fixed on the fire, like he’s been staring into it for years.

Then he blinks and looks at you with silent reverence.

“You promised me,” you murmur, voice tight with everything you’re afraid to say. “You promised that if—”

“I know.” His voice breaks like a snapped branch. Just those two words, and already it sounds like the weight of them might crush him.

That’s when your hands move. Shaking, you cup his face, thumbs brushing over his thick beard, the roughness of his face. His eyes shut hard, lines deepening across his face as if he’s trying to hold something back. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer until you’re leaning into him, flushed against his chest.

You lean in, resting your forehead to his, and for a beat, neither of you speak. There’s just breathing—yours fast and shallow, his slow and unsteady.

“There’s so much you don’t know,” he whispers, “so much I could’ve shown you. I should’ve taken you away from here when we had the chance, taken you far—”

You kiss his lips gently, only brushing against him to silence his anguish, “Stop,” you whisper, “Everything you’ve done, everything we’ve done…it’s been…I never thought I’d have a life like this Joel.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, pulling you into him completely, his head tucking into the crook of your neck. After a moment, his hands wrap around you, and he lifts you into his arms.

You curl into him automatically, arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you. Your cheek presses against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you breathe him in. Sweat, firewood, the faint scent of your soap still lingering in his shirt from the last time he washed it. The smell of home.

He carries you to the bedroom upstairs and lays you down like something sacred, like setting you down too fast might shatter you. The covers rustle around you as he tucks them in tight, one hand smoothing over your arms, your chest, as if he could keep everything from unraveling if he just holds you close enough.

You’re trembling now—harder. Your skin burns, sweat trickling down your temples despite the way your teeth chatter.

He slides in beside you, wrapping his arms around your shaking body, cocooning you in the warmth of him. The way your body interlocks with his, chest to chest, belly to belly, your arms around his waist and his around your shoulders, your head between his jaw and shoulder. It couldn’t be coincidence, could it? You were meant for this. To be here, with him. To be held by him. Like your bodies had always known how to find each other, like they'd been waiting their whole lives to remember.

And for a few minutes, there’s nothing but silence. His heartbeat thuds steady and strong where your palm rests against it, your breath stuttering in your chest.

But then the dizziness starts.

The edges of the room blur. The floor tilts. You shut your eyes tight, trying to force it away, but it doesn’t stop.

Joel feels it and he shifts, hand sliding to your cheek, tilting your face toward his. “Hey. Hey, look at me. What’s wrong?”

You try to speak but your tongue is heavy and throat thick. “I feel…” you breathe, voice shaking as you shake your head, “something’s happening.”

Your eyes flutter open, vision swimming, but he's right there, face close, eyes wide and scared.

“I can feel it,” you whisper. 

Joel swallows hard. You can see it in his throat the way his jaw clenches, his hand flexing against your back like he’s bracing for impact.

“You have to,” you say, voice breaking. “Joel, you promised.”

“I–I…” he says, the words stuck in his throat.

“I can’t be one of them. I won’t. I won’t hurt you.” You try to keep your voice steady, but it fractures, your lip wobbling as tears rise fast. “Please.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares at you, his face lined with pain, his mouth pulled tight like he’s holding in a scream.

“I always wondered,” you whisper, “how much of the person is still in there. In those first moments. When they’re still… runners. The way they sound, Joel…when they’re screaming and crying while tearing into someone. Do you think it’s the real them in there? Watching it all?”

Joel shakes his head slowly, his eyes steady on you, “I don’t know,”

“If I turn… if I see myself hurting you… if I know it’s happening and I can’t stop it—” Your voice cracks and you cover your mouth as a sob punches out of you. “Don’t make me live through that, Joel. Please.”

Tears stream down your cheeks, warm and silent, soaking into the pillow beneath your face. You don’t even feel them anymore. Your whole body is pulsing with heat, the fever blooming beneath your skin like wildfire.

Joel doesn’t speak right away. He just pulls you into him like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together—his arms crushing around you, chest to chest, heart to heart. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to commit it all to memory.

“I won’t let nothin’ happen to you, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, shaking, lost. “I promise. I promise.” It sounds more like a prayer than a vow. Like he’s begging God for more time, even though you both know it’s run out.

Your body shakes in his arms, but slowly, the violence of your cries dull. His warmth seeps into you again, grounding you for just a few more moments. Just enough to open your eyes and look at him, your lashes heavy, breath shallow.

Your voice is barely more than a whisper when you say it for the second time.

“I love you,” you whisper. “I don’t say it enough. I didn’t tell you how you saved me—how much of my life has been because of you. And I want you to know... even after everything, even now—I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, Joel.”

His throat works, his eyes shining. He nods, just once. Like that’s the most sacred thing he’s ever been told.

“And I’m yours,” he says in return.

You both fall quiet again.

For a moment, there’s peace. Just the rhythm of Joel’s hand on your back. The warmth of his chest against yours. His mouth brushing your forehead, your hairline, the corner of your eye. He kisses you like he’s trying to chase the sickness from your skin, as if he could just hold onto you hard enough, it won’t take you.

Your breath stutters. The heat becomes unbearable—coiling in your stomach, your spine, spreading through your limbs like liquid fire. Your fingers twitch, and at first you barely register it. Just a flicker, a reflex.

But Joel goes still.

You feel the shift in him. His breath catches, his hand falters.

Another twitch. This one stronger as your arm jerks, your leg following. Your muscles pull in ways you’re not asking them to.

No. No, not yet.

You force your eyes open. The room spins and blurs around the edges, but Joel’s face is there, close and stricken. Your vision swims, but you find him. You always do.

“Joel…” you whisper. It comes out garbled, slurred, like your mouth doesn’t quite belong to you anymore. You can’t stop shaking. Your hand fists in his shirt like an anchor, like maybe he can keep you here if you just hold tight enough.

His voice breaks as he leans in, as his hands cradle your face. “I’m here. I’m here, baby. I love you. I love you, I love you—”

Your limbs jerk violently. Your jaw tightens until your teeth grind. Your head lolls forward, then back. A low groan builds in your throat—not yours, not really, but it comes from you all the same.

Still, you feel him. Hands on your face, his lips at your temple.

“I love you,” he’s whispering, again and again, panicked now, broken. “I love you, I love you—”

You try to find him again. Just one more time. Your fingers claw weakly at his shirt, but you can’t see his face anymore. Can’t see anything through the blur and fire and blood pounding in your skull. There’s only heat, only screaming inside your veins.

You don’t hear the whisper of metal against cotton, the shift of weight as he reaches for his knife.

You’re somewhere else in your mind, through the fire and the heat. Lost in the noise, the tearing of your own mind. In the last fragments of what made you you. Like sinking below the surface of a lake in winter—frozen on top, black and endless underneath. Your mind is a room with all the windows shattered, wind howling through the broken panes. You're still there, somewhere in the wreckage, but your body is a distant thing, just meat and memory.

But you can hear him, from somewhere above the frozen ice in your mind. Joel’s voice moves back through the static like warm water through it, slow and thick, muffled at the edges but still his. Still him. It trembles, low and wrecked, but it reaches you, finding some last corner of your mind not yet taken. 

“You’re okay. You’re so good. So good, you hear me?”

You think you try to nod. Maybe you do.

“I love you,” he says, as if it’s the last time he’ll ever be allowed to speak it aloud. 

“I got you. I got you.”

You want to tell him it’s okay. That you’re not scared anymore. That he made this life feel like something real. That even if it was short, even if it ends here, it was still worth it. Because it was him.

But you can’t. Your lips won’t move.

And his voice starts to drift, the edges blurring like it’s being pulled back into that darkness, that lake. 

Then, with a quick pressure to the back of your skull, there was nothing.

No darkness.

No light or sound or warmth.

Nothing.

As if someone pulled the cord to the stars.

taglist: @orcasoul, @ilovetoomanymen, @niceforcum, @glaszdoll, @therewastherewas, @axionn, @aleariixx, @izzy698, @shivispunk @demonsasss, @pedropascalsbbg, @urlivingdeadgirl, @televangrl, @mani-pedro, @erska777, @samarav, @levlli, @harriedandharassed, @tomie-it-girl, @streamermattsgf,@uravitsy, @lostinthestreamofconsciousness, @umadirectioner, @quistals, @cinnxmxngxrl, @ithinkimaslutforharry

[kiraavi]

those damn puppy eyes always get me on my knees

[kiraavi]

[kiraavi]

I swear trying to write smut feels like:

His hands were hands and then the fingers were in the hand and the hand was with the fingers and the fingers had the hand in the other hand then the fingers dragged to the hand with the fingers and it was hot

[kiraavi]

i love when fics put an emphasis on how hairy joel is 🤭 like yes i wanna read all about his delicious chest hair and happy trail AND YES HIS PUBES THERE I SAID IT. Nah bc he’s just a big man covered in fur he’s like my lil bear ❤️

[kiraavi]

let you wash all over me

summary: you spend a well earned day of rest at a lake with Joel, away from Jackson and your responsibilities. warnings: age gap (unspecified), my attempt at southern slang, unprotected p in v, I'm too tired to tag this properly but it's mellow and sweet

note: for the lovely anon who requested this – I hope it's what you imagined <3 inspired by Ethel Cain's Family Tree

"C’mon, sweetheart, gotta get there early."

You don’t argue with Joel, because you know he’s doing this for you – well, and for Tommy. You haven’t been in Jackson long, and with summer on the brink of arriving this trip is long overdue. So you let Joel help you onto the back of the horse and run your fingers through its satiny fur, so white in the rising morning sun it almost hurts your eyes. Joel hands you a backpack and you put it on, then scooch to make room for him. Perhaps another day he will teach you how to ride, too, so you don’t have to burden the poor animal with both your weights in this heat.

The sound of the hooves on the soil is soothing as Joel guides the mare trough the woods with steady hands. You’re both quiet, not because there’s nothing to talk about, but because that’s the sort of effect these morning hours always have – everything is waking up, still sluggish from the dark, fresh and new. You close your eyes, the flecks of sunlight painting a mosaic of color on the insides of your eyelids, and rest your cheek against Joel’s back. Here, away from prying eyes and judgmental stares it’s easy as breathing, and from time to time you feel Joel’s fingers ghost over your knee, as if to check you haven’t fallen off.

It’s still cool enough to enjoy the ride, the breeze and shade of the trees offering solace from the heat. You sleep with your windows wide open each night to let the house cool down. You get to do that now. It took a while to sink in, but after a couple of months you didn’t fear the immediate outside anymore, only what lies behind the wall. But even now, even outside of Jackson, you can’t bring yourself to be afraid, not with your arms wrapped so tightly around the body you trust the most in the world. Perhaps you should be more alert, but there haven’t been a lot raider attacks recently. With the weather always comes an abundance of food, so even the most unfriendly of people in the woods don’t need to cause trouble right now. You’re protected by the seasons, at least until this new luxury of food practically running right into your mouths loses its effect. They’ll want something again, weaponry for instance, but if you’re lucky you get to spend this day with Joel in peace.

You press a kiss against his plaid-covered back, hear him hum contentedly in response. Even grumpy Joel Miller melts a little bit in the sunshine. You smile to yourself, open your eyes again and watch the blackbirds in the trees, singing to announce the start of a new day that doesn’t include a fight for survival.

"I’m happy," you whisper, aware that Joel can’t hear you over the sound of the woods. Your face is turned to his bad side, the one he always tilts just slightly away from you when you speak, so as to hear you better. Your happiness feels like a secret, like something you’re not entitled to in his world, but it’s real and glowing and warm and wears Joel’s scent and colors.

"Won’t take much longer now," Joel tells you, his voice softened by the peace of the past hour, and although you’re not particularly looking forward to learning how to fish, any time spent alone with Joel is precious to you.

He was right – after ten minutes you arrive at a little clearing and when you peer past Joel, you see the lake Tommy described to you, fed by a small river glittering in the sun. It’s so untouched by humans you feel almost guilty for disturbing it with your clumsy limbs and too loud voices. But when you slide off the horse, you spot a squirrel and its marble eyes are unafraid. You might be clumsy and human and loud, but you’re a part of this earth, however much humanity tried to rebel against it.

Joel guides the horse towards the lake, lets it drink languidly and ties it to a nearby tree so it can rest in the shadow. He pats its neck gently, a quiet thank you for getting you two here safely, and turns around to look at you.

"What?" he asks when he finds you already looking at him with a smile on your face.

"You like that horse."

Joel doesn’t seem embarrassed anymore when you notice these things about him, just turns towards the animal again and runs his big palm over its fur.

"Yeah, I do. I like you, don’t I? You’re a good girl," he mumbles, watching as the mare starts sniffing the ground in search of something edible. 

The two of you sit down by the lakeside for a couple of minutes and you get out your water bottle, offering it to Joel, but as always he lets you have the first sip. It’s not yet warm from the day as you let it run down your throat. Joel watches you quietly.

"You ready to fulfill your duty to Jackson?"

 At his question you shrug, eyes drifting over the lake.

"I’m not overly fond of hunting," you admit. Joel chuckles.

"You’re the only girl still alive who has a problem with killin’ animals."

He’s right and you know it makes you soft. But you just can’t imagine running an arrow through that squirrel you saw, not when animals are so much better than people these days. You aren’t above violence, wouldn’t be here if you were, but living in Jackson means you have the luxury of morals again, and you’d rather work in the greenhouses or kitchen than hunt or fish, though you you’d never turn down a hot meal. It might be hypocritical to eat but not want to kill them, but you don’t care. Joel’s hand finds your waist, and he presses a kiss to your temple.

"I like that about you, honey lamb."

That nickname he started calling you not too long ago, when your relationship turned into what it is now. It reminds you of where he’s from, his life in the south before the world turned cruel, and you know it takes a lot for him to bare that side of him so incidentally. You rest your forehead on his shoulder, inhale his sweat and soap, let him pull you close to him.

"How about we spend the day just swimmin’, hm?"

At that you look up and into his kind whiskey-eyes.

"Tommy would kill us."

"Ain’t no need for Tommy to know. I’ll take you again next week, tell him you need a bit more practice."

A whole day in the sunshine with Joel, swimming and eating the food he packed, without worrying about fishing or food or raiders or patrols. It seems too good to be true, but you won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead, you press yours against Joel’s, his graying beard scratching your skin softly, and run your fingers through his hair.

"Alright, hoss."

Joel laughs, cups your face in his hands and kisses your forehead.

"Take off your clothes, then, little lady."

You raise an eyebrow, cheeks pulled taut with your smile, and Joel shakes his head.

"You got a dirty head on your shoulders. Can’t go swimmin’ in jeans, can you?"

"Can’t go swimming at all," you admit, "I don’t know how."

For a beat, Joel just stares at you. Then he gets up, joints cracking, and crosses his arms I front of his body.

"You tellin’ me nobody’s ever taught you how to swim?"

You shrug, then shake your head. Joel holds out his hand to you and pulls you to your feet.

"We can’t have that," he says decidedly, and runs his finger over your cheek. "Can’t have my girl drownin’ on me."

***

"Alright now. First thing, you ain’t gonna sink. I gotcha."

Joel’s hands are on your waist, you’re in the water to your bellybutton. It’s cold, but not cold enough to drown out the heat of his skin on yours.

"Don’t let me go," you mutter, your torso tense with anticipation, and Joel squeezes you just once.

"Not gonna let go, I promise. You don’t gotta trust the water if you trust me. Just ease on in, I’m here."

You breathe in and focus on the warm feeling for Joel you harbor in your chest, then let yourself sink into the water. It’s shallow, you know you could always touch the ground with your feet, and Joel’s hands hold you steadily, dependably. But suddenly something slimy touches your foot and you flinch, your arms and legs paddling wildly. Joel wraps a strong arm around your middle and pulls you towards him, until you’re upright again, your back against his front, though you won’t let your feet touch the ground.

"’S just a weed, sweetheart."

"It – it wrapped around my leg!"

"Might be a fish tryin’ to flirt."

The amusement is evident in his voice and you aim a kick at his shin, which earns you a rumbling laugh in response.

"Easy, baby, you’re okay. Ain’t nothin’ down there that wants a piece of you, I promise."

Slowly you extend your legs again until your toes dig into the soft sand. You breathe out shakily and Joel paints soothing circles into your skin with his thumb. You try again, now reassured that Joel will catch you if you panic, and this time you stay afloat for a couple of seconds with Joel still holding you securely.

"Good, that’s good. Now kick them legs, baby, and sweep your hands through the water. That’s it, easy does it."

It works – you’re moving through the water on your own, Joel still holding onto you and walking next to you, but more for reassurance than to help you stay afloat. It’s an exhilarating feeling to glide through the water like a fish, to trust that you will float.

"See? You got it."

He doesn’t let go just like he promised, and when you kick your legs towards the ground and turn towards him, he pulls you close to his naked chest. His eyes flicker downwards and he thumbs the strap of your bra.

"That thing turns see-through in the water," he informs you, his eyes light and twinkling with pride and something else.

"Does it now?" you breathe, legs still kicking with the effort of staying afloat. Joel hums, then pulls you up and towards him so you’re half lifted out of the water. His lips touch yours, and he tastes like lake water and sunshine and so distinctly like home. You melt against him, trust that he will hold you, and go still in his arms. Joel moves his mouth over your cheek to the point right below your earlobe, over your neck up to the soft part beneath your chin so you crane your neck for him.

"Wanna have you right here," he mutters, "give the fish something to talk about."

You chuckle, but his words barely register with how quickly Joel’s mood changed, how quickly he has you unravelling in his arms.

"Please," you mumble, and Joel moves his hand towards your crotch, pushes the fabric of your panties to the side, and runs his thick fingers through your folds. He prods at your entrance softly, rubs your clit lazily until you’re pliant and relaxed for him, then pushes two of his thick digits inside of you. You put your forehead on his shoulder and wrap your arms around his neck, panting into his wet skin. As always he’s slow with it, and for once you really are unhurried, even though it’s the middle of the day. Your fingernails dig into his neck when he curls his fingers against that spot inside of you, your wet chest pressing against his.

"There we go," Joel mumbles, working his fingers relentlessly until you barely register coming, your orgasm an easy flutter deep in your stomach. You whine when he slips his fingers out of you, and instead reaches inside his boxershorts.

"You ready to come like you oughta?"

"Yes," you answer breathily and feel him align himself with your entrance. There’s no slippery mess between your legs like usually, not while you’re in the water, but it only hurts for the first couple of seconds. He pushes into you slowly and you ease your hips towards him until he’s fully sheathed inside of you, letting you breathe for a moment. It’s quiet around you, the only sound the water whenever you move and the birds in the trees.

Joel fucks you slowly, and your eyes fall closed after a couple of thrusts, the sensation of the cooling water on your skin and his cock deep inside of you relaxing you completely. He’s soft with you, letting you go limp in his arms and doing almost all of the work, his hold on you secure.

"Hm, honey lamb? You gonna come for me again?"

His voice is so close to your ear you shudder and he presses a kiss to the shell, little groans floating right out of his mouth and into your ear.

"Yes," you moan softly, angling your hips as Joel’s thrusts hit your spot every time, and he reaches down to rub at your clit with one hand, holding you up with his other arm.

It doesn’t take you long, and you bite into his shoulder when you do.

"I love you," you mutter into his skin, and as always those three words are what gets Joel there. His hips stutter and he pumps his load deep inside of you, cock twitching and throbbing and not pulling out.

"I love you too, my darlin’."

***

The rest of the day you lie around on the sun-warmed flat rocks at the edge of the water, letting your underwear dry and Joel ogle you freely, not another soul in sight except for your horse. He feeds you slices of apple and bread, traces the little flecks of sunlight on your bare skin, kisses your eyelids when you drift off some time in the afternoon.

When you wake up again, he is swimming, his strong shoulders and legs moving through the water and exuding power the way a big cat does. You watch him dive, come up again and shake his head like a dog, then float on his back for a while. He’s enjoying this day just as much as you are, you can tell. Head of patrol, brother to Tommy, partner to you – he has got a lot of responsibility. You’re glad he gets this day to relax and in the quiet of the afternoon you think he might be humming to himself, though he’s too far away for you to be sure.

He gets out of the water when he notices you’re awake, dripping all over the rocks, and you shriek when he reaches you.

"No – no, Joel, I just dr-"

But he’s already on top of you, his full body weight pressing into yours the way you like it, and his lips find yours. Your protests are muffled and even though you shiver from the cold water, you melt under his mouth. He kisses you for what feels like hours, drags his mouth over your shoulders and collarbone down to your ribcage and stomach. You let him, close your eyes again and are half asleep when his mouth finds your core.

It’s not really about coming, more about closeness, as he sucks on your clit, your brain halfway between pleasure and sleep. It’s lazy, indulgent, slow. He nips at your inner thighs, spreads one big palm over your stomach. You sigh, and weave your fingers through his locks of hair.

When you’re done, he kisses you again, and you taste yourself on him, as he slowly pushes his tongue into your mouth. You spend ages like this, perhaps years or millennia, you aren’t sure.

"I love you," he mumbles into your mouth. "Gonna take you here every year."

You smile.

"Gonna tell Tommy I forgot how to fish each year?"

Joel hums and drags his nose over your neck.

"Gonna tell Tommy to fuck off and let me have a day with my girl."

You chuckle and kiss his cheek.

"Alright, hoss," you say again, just to hear him laugh at your impression of a southern girl.

"Alright, honey lamb," he answers.

[kiraavi]

Tank top Joel 🤭

[kiraavi]

you know he had the best night sleep that first night in Jackson

[kiraavi]

When Ellie tells Joel "I was supposed to die in that hospital. My life would've fucking mattered!" and Joel just says he would do it all over again if he had the opportunity even though he knows they will fall out...basically telling Ellie that her life already did matter. It still does, and it always will to him.

[kiraavi]

Sleeping beauty 😴✨

[kiraavi]

Good Girl

Summary: When you push Joel past his breaking point, a late-night drive turns into something far more sinful.

Pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

Word count: 1k

Content warnings: smut, good girl praising, pet names used, riding, no y/n used, no reader description, established relationship, truck sex, p in v sex, no protection.

A/N: inspired by doja cat's song freak. umm...very self indulge too. sorry, not sorry. divider by @saradika-graphics.

“Joel,” you whined, fingers trailing up his thigh, nails teasing over the rough denim.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles going pale as a sharp hiss left his lips. “Honey,” he warned, voice thick and strained. “Don’t start somethin’ you know I can’t finish. Not here.”

You pouted, pressing your palm against the heat of his growing bulge. “I need you.” Your voice was breathy, needy, and you knew exactly what it did to him.

“Fuck,” Joel growled, his jaw clenching as his eyes flicked from the road to you, dark with hunger. “Be a good girl, alright? We’re almost home.”

But you weren’t feeling patient. The ache between your legs was unbearable, your soaked underwear proof of just how desperate you were for him.

“No,” you murmured, sliding your hand away from his thigh and under your skirt. “I can’t wait. Need to ride you so bad, cowboy.”

Joel groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that sent a pulse straight to your core. His free hand shot out, trying to grab your wrist, but you batted him away with a teasing giggle, fingers already slipping beneath the damp lace of your panties.

“Jesus Christ,” he gritted out, his hips shifting in his seat like he was fighting against every instinct in his body. “Just wait a goddamn—”

The truck swerved slightly before jerking to a sudden stop on the side of the empty road.

In a blur of rough hands and frantic movements, Joel had his jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock, thick and flushed, already leaking for you. Before you could even process it, he was yanking you onto his lap, big hands gripping your hips, pressing you down against the aching length of him.

You gasped, thighs trembling as the head of his cock nudged against your entrance, the stretch sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body. Neither of you knew who had shoved your skirt up or moved your panties to the side, but it didn’t matter.

Your nails raked down his chest as you rode him, chasing the delicious friction, your moans swallowed by the humid air inside the truck. His t-shirt was the next to go, your fingers greedy as they tugged it over his head before you buried your hands in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan.

“Such a good girl,” Joel praised, voice thick with admiration as he watched you move for him, take him so well. His fingers dug into your hips, guiding you. “Goddamn, sweetheart, you were made for me.”

You whimpered, soaking in his words, the heat of his body, the roughness of his hands, and the way he looked at you—like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

“Just need my cock so bad, huh?” Joel rasped, his voice wrecked, heavy with amusement and something darker. His hands gripped your hips tightly, rough fingertips pressing into your skin like he wanted to brand himself into you.

“Yes,” you moaned, rolling your hips faster, chasing the friction, the stretch, the way he filled you so perfectly. The truck’s worn leather seat creaked beneath you, but all you could focus on was the thick heat of him, the way your body welcomed him. “Fuck, Joel, feels so good.”

He let out a strained chuckle, but there was no humor in it—just a man on the edge of losing himself. “Honey, slow down,” he groaned, his hands fighting against the rhythm you set. “Ridin’ me like a goddamn horse.”

You didn’t listen. Couldn’t. The pleasure had taken over and made you greedy. You dug your nails into his shoulders, drinking in how his muscles flexed beneath your touch.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel growled, one hand flying up to cup the back of your neck, dragging you down to him. His lips crashed into yours, rough and unrelenting, swallowing every moan and every gasp like he needed to consume you whole.

You whimpered against his mouth, your movements turning frantic, desperate, grinding down against him. His cock twitched inside you, and you felt him shudder beneath you.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he panted, breaking the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, his breath hot, ragged. “Takin’ me so damn well. My perfect, filthy girl.”

His praise sent another jolt of pleasure through you. Which made you clench around him, made him groan deep in his chest. His hands abandoned your hips, skimming up your back, slipping under your shirt, calloused fingers dragging over feverish skin.

“Need to feel you,” he muttered, voice thick with need. Then, with a flick of his wrists, he yanked your top over your head, his lips immediately finding the soft skin of your throat, biting, sucking, leaving marks—proof that you were his.

You cried out, your fingers tangling in his salt-and-pepper hair, pulling just enough to make him grunt. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot beneath your ear before he pulled back, eyes dark and wild, locked onto yours.

“Gonna be a good girl for me?” he murmured, teasing, coaxing, voice dripping with praise. “Let me take care of you.”

You nodded frantically, gasping as his hands slid back down. He gripped your ass, guiding your movements making you feel every inch of him, every delicious drag and thrust.

“Good girl,” he breathed, voice almost reverent. “That’s my girl.”

You didn’t last long—not with Joel beneath you, filling you so perfectly, not with his rough hands guiding your hips, making you feel every inch of him, not with the way his voice wrapped around you, thick and intoxicating.

“That’s it,” he rasped, his fingers digging bruises into your skin. “Use me, honey. Wanna feel you come. Wanna feel you make a mess all over my cock.”

A desperate whimper tore from your throat as you rode him harder, chasing the heat pooling low in your belly, the unbearable pressure building with every slick roll of your hips. The truck’s windows had fogged up, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the air, but all you could focus on was him—Joel, wrecked beneath you, his jaw clenched tight, his dark eyes locked onto yours like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

You could feel how badly he wanted to let go, how much restraint it took to let you take control, to let you set the pace. But he was holding back, waiting for you.

Always so good to you. Always putting you first.

That thought alone sent you over the edge.

Your body tensed as pleasure crashed through you, white-hot and consuming. A cry tore from your lips, your walls fluttering around his cock as your orgasm ripped through you. Joel groaned deep in his chest, his grip tightening as he fucked you through it, his pace turning rougher now, more desperate.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, watching you fall apart, his voice raw with pride and hunger. “So fuckin’ pretty when you come for me.”

You barely had time to recover before he gritted out a curse, his body going rigid beneath you. His hips jerked up, driving deeper as his own release hit. A wrecked moan fell from his lips, his fingers locking around your waist as he spilled inside you, filling you with warmth, his breaths ragged and uneven against your skin.

Neither of you moved. You just stayed there, chests heaving, your bodies still trembling from the aftershocks. His hands softened on your hips, no longer gripping, just holding, as if he couldn’t bear to let you go just yet.

“Jesus, honey,” he finally muttered, pressing a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone. “Damn near lost my mind.”

You smiled breathlessly, threading your fingers through his damp curls. “I like making you lose your mind.”

He gave a low chuckle, his hands roaming up your spine, tracing soft, absentminded patterns over your heated skin. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Neither of you was in a rush to move, to break the spell of the moment. The truck, the road, the rest of the world—it all felt miles away.

Joel held you close, pressing another kiss to your bare shoulder, murmuring against your skin.

“My good girl.”

[kiraavi]

as much as i love dbf joel and older bf joel i want to see joel with someone closer to his age

someone who’s lived through shit, someone’s who seen the world before clickers and runners and bloaters, someone who knows all his favorite artists and hums along to the country songs he plays on a cassette player

someone who he feels easy with and can hold hands with at the saloon without looks from others making him uncomfortable

joel with someone who makes dinners with him and sits on the front porch wrapped in a blanket and understands the problems he has sleeping on his side because they can’t either

i think older bf and younger gf is so cute for fanfic but i need my old man to feel seen and heard and loved

[kiraavi]

Requests/Suggestions Open!

Lowkey might have to use this banner for a fic

Hi, I just wanted to pop in to say that my asks are open! I'm currently writing for Joel Miller, my ultimate muse at the moment.

Though smut appears to my m.o. lately, I'm open to writing fluff and angst as well!

I say 'requests' tentatively because I can't guarantee I'll complete each one (if folks send any in to begin with :'>)

My motivation can be wishy washy, and inspiration strikes in mysterious ways, so I think I prefer to call them suggestions!

I also wanted to thank everyone for all the love I've received on my fics. Ahh it makes me so happy that people enjoy them!!

Much love, Kirav 🩷

[kiraavi]

banana cream pie

Summary: Joel is heading home after another long haul when he pulls into the travel center for the night. He's been struggling with his attraction to the waitress that works at the diner there, and is tempted to avoid you completely. The promise of coffee and an opportunity to stretch his legs, however, lures him in on a night you just so happen to be working the graveyard shift. CW: smut, pwp, unprotected piv, creampie + related innuendos that may or may not be cringe but I had to commit to the bit, oral f!receiving, a metric fuck ton of dirty talk, implied but unspecified age gap, (Joel is in his 50s, reader's age can really be anywhere from 20s-30s), rough and tough fuckin' with trucker Joel (he's lowkey a bit of a perv), exhibition, dumbification, hairpulling, overstimulation, wee bit of pussy pronoun usage. [No outbreak AU] Note: the demons took over... and I'm gonna be honest, this is 100% pure smut, no additives. It's got the cheesy porno plot and everything. I've been picking away at it for a week, and it's the longest smut I've written thus far!! As always, this was written with my beloved, game Joel (Goel), in mind. Also, reader is written to be plus size/chubby cause I felt like it! Comments, reblogs, and likes are all so incredibly appreciated! I'm always overjoyed to receive feedback. It means a lot to know that people have taken the time to stop by and read my fics. Lot's of love to y'all and happy reading! Word Count: 5.1k Ao3 Link: read here!

For a moment, Joel thinks about retreating into his bunk and winding down for the night, but his eyes dart back to the diner. The welcoming light that pours from the large windows, and the flickering neon open sign. Goddamn does a warm cup of coffee, and the opportunity to stretch his legs after a long drive sound good right about now.

His eyes dart back to the beat up blue hatchback parked around the side. He recognizes it, or rather, he recognizes who it belongs to. He feels like a teenager—you make him feel entirely out of his depth, and he’s not sure why. There’s nothing between you.

You’ve never been anything but friendly and accommodating toward him. You know exactly how he likes his coffee and make for good conversation. The problem lies in what you don’t know—in the moments between a sip of coffee in the diner, and before he passes out in his bunk. The secret between his fist and his cock when all he can think about is you—you in that fucking dress, you with that gorgeous smile, you who treats him with genuine interest. He’s pathetic. As mindless as a moth to a flame. As dumb as a fool to his execution.

When he finally finishes stewing in his guilt, staring blankly at the blinking amber lights of his dashboard, he musters up the courage to leave the comfort of the cab of his truck. He makes the walk across the parking lot a quick one—beneath the light drizzle of rain drops prickling his skin. He forgot his jacket in his truck, but he knows if he returns to his rig now he won’t be able to convince himself to venture back out.

Joel shoulders open the door with a huff as cool air rushes inside with him. The door falls shut and warmth envelops him in its place. He dares a glimpse at his reflection in the smudged glass and cards a hand through his unkempt hair. Turning, he surveys his surroundings for the first time, tamping his boots on the door mat. 

Booths are nestled along one wall, their red pleather upholstery spiderwebbed with fissures that reveal the foam cushioning beneath. Chips and scratches litter the table tops, the varnish worn around the edges where elbows have often come to rest. The checkerboard floor is weathered all the way down the aisle, certain tiles marking the well trodden path. The walls are covered in all sorts of dusty relics; old license plates from various states, road maps, and flags. Posters peel away from the wall at their corners and photographs have yellowed with the years.

He’s certain that this place hasn’t been renovated since its opening. It’s dingy, and unremarkable, and most things here have been wasting away for decades. The diner itself isn’t why he keeps coming back, though. He could just as well head over to the convenience store next door for a quick meal and a drink.

His eyes land on you. You’re standing behind the counter that runs the length of the room, chrome stools with red tops line the other side. You wipe down the surface with a damp rag. The radio crackles, crooning some tune that you’re too busy humming to notice his entrance.

It’s late and the place is empty—as desolated and deserted as the parking lot outside—a far cry from the bustling morning rush on those days when he’s barely able to get a word in while you rush around, topping up coffees or balancing trays of food. But now, you’re lost in your own world, and Joel finds himself hanging onto every second that you’re unaware of his presence because the view is a bit like art; a painting that he wouldn’t mind having hung in his home, or permanently etched into his mind’s eye.

You’re entirely unlike everything else in this tacky, run down diner. You are bright. You radiate warmth. You are something to be admired, cherished, and held dearly, or placed upon some pedestal. And he thinks that he might’ve spent an eternity memorizing every facet of you—every line that makes up your face, every contour that shapes your body—if you didn’t look up just then.

The smile that lights up your face is nothing short of a privilege to witness. He has half a mind to throw a glance behind him because it certainly can’t be for him—he can’t be the reason for something so beautiful. He doesn’t warrant that kind of look, but he’s the only one here and he doesn’t want to make himself look stupid, so he gives a curt nod.

Clearing his throat, he takes a stilted step towards one of the tables before settling into the booth. He watches as you disappear into the kitchen, and return with a coffee pot and mug in your hands. Dutifully, you set the mug in front of him and pour him a cup. The steam curls up into the air and one of his hands wraps around the ceramic mug, feeling its warmth. He glances back at you. You’re still standing there and you look a little antsy. He gets the feeling that he might be your only customer for the night.

“Workin’ the graveyard shift, huh?” He asks, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip. He pulls a bit of a face and sets it back down. The coffee is just okay, always has been, but the coffee isn’t why he keeps coming back. Again, his eyes flit to you.

“Yeah, I needed the extra shift,” you say as you set the coffee pot onto the table before sitting down across from him. He feels your knee brush his beneath the table and his jaw clenches. “And you? Heading home or heading out?”

You lean forward, bracing your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hands, as if preparing yourself to cling to each word he has to say. The angle provides him the perfect vantage point. His eyes naturally snag on the pillowy tops of your breasts and the hidden valley between them. His fist knocks the table as he leans back against the seat, shifting uncomfortably. They look about ready to spill out of that dress with the first two buttons undone. Fuck, had it been unbuttoned when he’d first walked in? Surely.

“Home. Gotta week ‘fore I’m on the road again,” he grumbles, lifting his gaze away from where they definitely shouldn’t be. It means a week before he has a chance at seeing you again. For some reason that thought stirs an ugly feeling within him, twisting and unfolding in the pit of his stomach. The silence stretches between you, and neither of you reach to fill the void. He notices your nails are painted a baby blue to match your dress. Cute. 

The quiet becomes too much and he decides to put an end to it. “What’s the pie of the day this time?” It’s a question that he’s made the habit of asking, but he’s never made the habit of ordering a slice. A little routine between the two of you, and one that instantly has a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You hum as you think it over, making an effort to recall it, and the moment you do, your eyes light up. “It’s banana cream pie.” “Ah? S’it any good?”

“Oh, um, I’ve never tried it before,” you say and your leg jolts against his, your bare skin grazing the denim of his jeans. “Does my opinion matter? Unless you’re actually planning on ordering it this time?”

There’s something about you then—that glint in your eyes, the subtle curve of your smile, the teasing lilt of your voice. You’re adorable. He wants you all to himself. But he can’t have what’s out of reach. He’s struggling to keep up this act around you. The facade that he’s normal about you because he’s anything but normal about you. There’s nothing normal about his feelings for you at all. He is a beast that wants to swallow you whole and you are too naive to see it. Right? He blinks, eyes catching on the low dip of your top again, and then he feels your leg rub up against his once more. The touch feels almost purposeful, but he tries to convince himself otherwise. His imagination, his desire must be conjuring things—gleaning want where there is none. His throat goes dry and he swallows hard. 

“Nah,” his eyes lower to his coffee, still full, but he stands anyway, and you’re standing up with him, looking confused. “I should get goin’, it’s been a long day.”

“Really? Stay and finish your coffee at least, Joel,” you say, stepping closer. He locks up, muscles going rigid. It’s both a curse and a blessing to have shared his name with you last time. The way it floats from your lips, something wispy and reluctant, and in that dulcet tone. It’s euphonic. It does things to him—terrible, awful, thrilling things. 

He swivels around and you’re mere inches from him, peering up at him all doe eyed. He doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with this right now, but you look up at him like that—like a lost puppy trailing after him, and he knows deep down that he never really stood a chance. Not when it comes to you. It’s just been a matter of time—of how long he can manage to convince himself of his own lies and turn the other cheek.

”Did… Did I do something that bothered you?” Your voice wavers. It makes him feel like an ass for ever making you question yourself because there’s not a single thing you’ve done to upset him. The only upsetting thing is the way he feels about you, the way want and desire roil in his gut the moment he so much as sees you, or remembers the fact that you exist. It’s purely impulsive and frustrating, and the most blissful feeling. He never wants to feel this way again and he never wants to stop feeling it simultaneously. Two opposing outlooks at an impasse within him.

“No- No ‘course not,” he says, waving his hand dismissively but you still look so unsure, and his hand lands on your shoulder in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture. His thumb rubs a gentle circle there because he can’t stop himself. “Like I told you, just been a long day.”

You blink, your lip wobbling as you search for your next words. “Oh… it’s just that I was really enjoying your company.”

The last thread of his restraint pulls taut, the flame of tension between you whittling it away, and singeing one tiny, miniscule fibre at a time. You look upon him like he’s something worth a dime—someone of value who merits praise and admiration, but he isn’t. He’s sure that he isn’t anything more than a dumb, pathetic bastard too far ahead of himself to turn back now.

He knows that he’d be a fool to mistake your kindness for interest but, hell, if the way you bat your lashes at him, and worry your bottom lip between your teeth, and sway your hips with every approach isn’t interest, he’s not too sure what is. 

So the thread snaps, giving way to that searing fire and he surges forward, all but stumbling into you. His lips are on yours, clashing with yours—hot and heavy as he licks into your mouth. His breath is hot and laboured, fanning over your face.

You shake in his hold, your hands hovering and unsure of what to do. He pulls away and takes in the sight of you. Flushed and warm with those glossy, wide eyes staring at him in surprise. But you shouldn’t be shocked. You’ve seen this coming, haven’t you?

“You’re just a little fuckin’ tease, ain’t you?” He asks, and you have the audacity to look bewildered, lips parted in a soft exhale. You are good at this innocent act, he’ll give you that. “Knew what you were doin’ the whole damn time, I bet.”

“Yeah, bet you like havin’ that kinda control over a man like me, huh?” He questions, taking a step forward and into you, crowding you against the table. You’re stunned and locked into place, hands falling to grasp the lip of the table. You make no move to push him away. And that’s the confirmation he needs. He’s right. He knows he’s right and it only emboldens him. “Well, are you gonna say somethin’ or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He’s sapped the air right out of your lungs.

“Bullshit, you’ve had me dreamin’ ‘bout this cunt for weeks now,” he scoffs, spinning you around and pressing a hand firm to your back, bending you over the table's edge. He’s got you pinned there.

“Joel…!” You squeak, gasping out.

“Fuck… been achin’ to taste it,” he says as he sinks to his knees behind you, and flips the back of your skirt up. His hands skim up your legs, lingering on the plush of your thighs in gentle up and down motions before grabbing a hold of them and prying them apart. His fingers graze your cotton panties—they’re that same baby blue, he notes. He clicks his tongue when his fingers come away damp. “Yeah, you’ve been drippin’ since I walked through that damn door, haven’t you?”

Your reply comes out as a weak, wavering sound—somewhere between a whimper and a mewl. Not very talkative, huh? There’s none of that denial anymore. No, he’s worked you into submission in a few measly seconds. But this is what you’d wanted. It’s what you’ve been getting at—been wanting some grizzled, old man like him to fuck you until there isn’t a single thought left floating around in that pretty little head of yours. Blissful oblivion.

“You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you, sweet girl?” He asks, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, and dragging the flimsy fabric down your legs. He smacks the side of your thigh when you don’t reply.

“Mhm!” You hum, not so subtly pushing your hips back toward him. Eager little thing. But he’s not one to make things quick. He won’t give you what you want just ‘cause. He’ll relish in it—in the things he can do to you not only with his touch, but the things he can do to you with the absence of it.

“Gotta use your words f’me…” he coos, his thumb pressing into the tender skin where your thigh meets your most intimate place, parting your lips gently. He exhales sharply at the sight—pink and glistening just for him. Precious. “C’mon, be a good girl.”

“Please-! I need you,”  you keen above him, and he can hear the unadulterated desperation dripping from your words. It feeds into him and into his ego—into the beast you’ve created of him.

“Need what? Oughta be specific. ‘M no mind reader,” he murmurs, moving his hand to slide two fingers along your slit as he asks his next question. “D’you need my fingers?”

“My mouth?” Next, Joel leans in close to press a kiss to your inner thigh, just shy of your pulsing heat. He feels your legs quiver at the daring proximity—so achingly close to where you need him and, yet somehow, incredibly far. “Or does this greedy cunt need somethin’ more…?”

He is rock hard in his jeans, uncomfortably so. His erection pushes against his zipper but he ignores it, keeping his sole focus on you—the object of his desire, already weak and warbling from a few infinitesimal touches.

“Uh huh- please, anything…!” You beg so pretty, and how can he deny that? He has you in the palm of his hand, your muddled mind incapable of making a simple decision. You’ve relinquished control and deferred all choice to him. He relishes in it and he takes the responsibility in stride. 

“Poor thing can’t even make a decision for herself,” he says as he draws nearer to lay a kiss over your dripping folds. He flicks his tongue out and his thumbs part you at your seam. You squirm and a moan falls from you. He can’t see your face right now, but Christ, does he wish he could. He’ll just have to settle for his imagination which is something he’s not entirely unfamiliar with.

“That’s okay. You don’t gotta think too hard when I’m here, just have to sit there and take what I give you, right?” He pulls back to whisper, the bridge of his nose ghosting over the sensitive skin. “Just gotta stand there bein’ good and dumb for me…”

Joel doesn’t bother waiting for a response before returning his mouth between your legs. He marks a trail of kisses all the way back to your cunt. And when he tastes you again, he lets out a languid groan, tongue flattening over your clit. He laps and suckles at it, siphoning shuddering moans from your lips. Your hips jolt and he moves higher, prodding at your entrance, flicking his tongue there.

He doesn’t belong here. Nothing he’s ever done renders him deserving of this blessing, but he’ll earn it. You whimper above him—tiny, bitten-off whines tumbling from you over and over as he licks into you, laving over your clit again and again. The sounds are downright obscene, filling the empty room as he feasts on you like it’s his final meal and he’s to die tonight—his last will and testament. His fingers dimple the flesh of your thighs, wrenching you open wider and nudging your entrance again.

You’re close. He can tell in the way your legs begin to tremble and your knees threaten to buckle. His hands lower to brace you, a silent gesture, as if to say ‘I’ve got you.’ And he does. He’s not letting you go until you’ve reached that peak and then some. He returns all his attention to your clit, swirling his tongue and suckling—working you up, up, up and coaxing you over that crest.

“Oh…! Nghh, Joel-!” You wail. Your orgasm is a wavering, jittering thing. He can feel your muscles convulsing against his tongue. He grunts and works you through it, drinking up every last drop. 

It’s too easy to push you down and wind you up. Your body is pliant, willing, and accepting of everything he gives you. Even as it spasms and jerks, a weak sound of protest falling from your lips as he refuses to let up.

This moment, right here in this empty diner, is limbo—a space between two destinations in which time ceases to exist. He can’t get enough of you. He never will. He’s addicted, so he continues to take and take from you. The pleasure he imparts unto you is his own, his cock twitching in his pants.

Joel mouths at your pussy. He does not stop to breathe. He smothers himself in your wet, messy folds, teasing and licking—pushing and pulling. Raising you up and bringing you back down each time he diverts his attention to another sensitive place.

You are a mess. A heap of shaking limbs, sinful sounds, and babbled words—garbled and disjointed pleas. He doesn’t think you realize your own contradictions. A quiet ‘I can’t-’, a stuttered ‘no more’, followed by a ‘please don’t stop!’

He won’t. He will not stop until he’s torn another orgasm from you. He knows that you’re capable—you’ll give him what he wants and comply with his whims because you’re his good girl. You will give him another whether or not it��s dredged from you weeping and tremoring.

And you do. Your body coils like a spring, his hands move to your hips, tugging you closer against his face. One more pass of his tongue and your body unravels, unwinding and releasing all that tension.

“Oh God! Ah- Joel… fuck!” you cry out. When he pulls away, his face is slick with your arousal, droplets clinging to the scruff of his beard. He stands up behind you, his hands coasting up your sides as he does. You’ve gone limp, still folded over the table.

Shucking off his belt, Joel pushes his pants down alongside his boxers, freeing his painfully erect cock. It’s flushed and leaking, aching to be inside you already. He shuffles behind you, guiding his cock between your legs and dragging it over your seam, and slipping it between your pussy lips.

“You let any man have his way with you?” he questions, tapping the bulbous tip against your clit before sliding it back and notching it against your entrance. “D’you spend weeks practically beggin’ for it? Temptin’ any bastard that happens to pass through?”

“No! No, just you, only you.” you say, breath hitching and eyes watering.

“No? Just me? That’s damn right.” He grins and begins to sink inside, drawing a ragged moan from the both of you. Your pussy hugs his cock as it cleaves you open. “This cunt belongs to me.”

He starts off slow, bringing his hands to rest on your waist as he eases in and out of you, feeling your warm, tight walls clutch and flutter around his shaft, seeming to cling and suck him back in each time he pulls out.

“Fuck yes, baby…” he croons, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to set a faster pace. The mug and coffee pot rattle with each thrust that jolts your body against the table. The mug inches closer and closer to the edge. His hips meet your ass, bottoming out with each drive forward. Opening his eyes, his gaze lands on the window in front of you. The two of you look out onto the empty parking lot.

“Would you look at that, darlin’…” he remarks, giving your hip a squeeze to grab your attention and direct it forward. “Anyone could walk on past and see you gettin’ railed… you like that don’t you, though?”

There’s truth to his words. The looming threat doesn’t take away from it. No, your cunt contracts around his shaft, dragging him deeper at the acknowledgement of such an indecent thing. You enjoy the risk—you both delight in it.

To be caught now would be so easy. You’ve been put on display, vulnerable and exposed, beneath the glaring lights reflecting off the glass. Rivulets of rain water slip down the wide, open pane. All it would take is one lone traveler pulling into the parking lot, or the convenience store cashiers switching shifts, and a singular glance in the diner’s direction. 

Just like that, and they would know that you’ve let this man defile you at your place of work. They’d know what a dirty girl you are. But it’s not off-putting in that way that it should be. It’s exhilarating.

“Mhm, you get off on it, filthy girl,” he teases, rolling his hips into you. You’re a wordless, mindless jumble of nothingness beneath him. Completely and utterly drunk on his cock, and unable to string together a single thought, let alone form a coherent sentence. You speak only in helpless mewls and keening moans. His focus is trained on your dazed, dumb expression in the reflection. You look fucking divine.

“Well, go on, look.” He reaches for your hair, tugging it and forcing you to face your mirror image. “Watch me fuck you.”

Joel knows he shouldn’t be so rough with you. You’re fragile and teetering, but he wants you to witness the sight—to face the image of what you’ve been taunting him with for weeks. You’re a work of art. He wants you to know that and remember the reflection in the glass in case this is the last time he bears the privilege of having you in such a manner. 

“Joel, please!” you whine over the wet plap, plap, plap of his thrusts, your hands grappling with the flat table top. He’s not sure what you’re pleading for and he thinks that you might not even know yourself.

He hums, rubbing his hand up along your spine and then back down to the knot of your apron. He tugs it loose, and pulls you upright and against him, tossing the apron aside. Sliding his hands around you he undoes the rest of the buttons of your dress in quick succession until your breasts spill out. 

“My beautiful, fuckin’ perfect girl,” he whispers, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of your neck and then another one as his hands cup your tits, kneading them and feeling the way you shudder against him. 

Joel tips your head back, running his fingers along your jaw in a tender caress. They curl there as he thumbs your bottom lip, prodding and encouraging you to open up before tucking two thick digits inside. Obediently, your mouth closes around them as though it’s a habitual act. He smooths them over your tongue, unable to stifle the strained noise that escapes him.

The silky heat engulfs them and you practically purr, dissolving further into his arms. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a schlick. His hand then slithers down your body and slips between your legs.

He feels the way you’re stretched wide around his girth, wedged open in a way he’s certain you haven’t been before. He continues to rock up into you as he seeks out your swollen clit, fingertips circling the bud in small, vigorous circles. His head drops to your shoulder, feeling that tight, delicious clamp of your pussy. Quiet utterances and muttered curses stashed under his breath flitter over your ear.

“So good… you feel so fuckin’ good, baby…” He drawls, fighting to keep his eyes from clenching shut because he wants to savour this moment and you. Blissed out and empty-headed, taking each inch of him. He adores you—everything about you. Every curve, and dip, and extra bit of plushness.

“You’re so damn perfect,” he moans, his thrusts turning sloppy. If he had the time to dedicate to worshiping every aspect of you he would. He’d spend hours working you through orgasm after orgasm, but you haven’t got the time, and he can feel himself inching closer and closer to his own.

“Shit, I’m close-!” he mumbles, folding you over the table again and following suit. His chest is pressed to your back, and his cock sinks deeper somehow, hips bumping yours against the lip of the table. You slap a hand over your mouth in an effort to suppress your moans.

His arm winds around you, curling beneath your stomach. His hand, large and roughened, fans over the plumpness there—so often hidden by the flared skirt of your dress. He squeezes gently. Groaning, he saws his cock in and out, feeling the unhurried, slick glide as the crown passes over that delicate and sensitive spot inside you. He feels you tense beneath him, another one of your sweet sounds is muffled against your knuckles. His free hand grabs yours and shoves it flat to the table.

“None’a that, darlin’. Lemme hear every damn sound,” he grunts, pressing his palm firmer against your stomach. “Ya feel that? Feel me right fuckin’ here?”

“Yes! Yes, feel you so deep, mmph…!”

“Where do you want it?” he asks, feeling that pressure brim and ache. “Tell me or are you too dumb and drunk on my cock to make up your mind?”

You babble beneath him—a jumbled mess of pleas and yesses, but no definitive answer to the question he has posed. He’s right. You’ve been reduced to a brainless, insatiable, needy thing. Hopelessly keening for more and more even when your body can’t take it.

“It’s alright, baby… I’ll just have to give you a taste of that cream pie you said you’d never tried,” he murmurs, continuing the staggering rhythm of his thrusts.

“Inside’s where ya need it, filling up this greedy cunt, hm?” His voice is hushed, dropping low and husky. The words are like a secret for your ears only. He feels you tense beneath him, a strangled cry is pulled from the depths of you as your walls convulse around his cock. He moans at that sensation. It’s addictive. It’s incredible. You’re writhing and unfurling for him—fracturing into pieces atop quaking legs. “Uh huh, can feel her sucking me in. She’s begging for it, ain’t she?”

“Please, give it to me…” And that’s all the permission he ever needs—that breathless, resigned request.

It’s uncontrollable. The pressure erupts as he bottoms out one last time, nestling deep. His cock swells and twitches, balls drawing tight as relief finally sweeps over him. His hips involuntarily jerk as the first jet spurts inside of you. He sucks in air through his teeth, suddenly feeling deprived of oxygen as his head spins and his mind goes blank. His pelvis spasms, grinding into you. His eyes fall shut and a groan tumbles past his lips. He stays there, shooting warm rope after rope, until he has nothing left to give and then a few moments longer.

When Joel peels himself from you, he slides himself free. Instantly, his eyes catch on your cunt and the way your entrance contracts around nothing. His spend oozes out in what can only be described as an obscene display. 

You lay there panting until you find the will power to stand up and face him. Your legs wobble and you lurch, but he’s there to catch you, propping you up against him. “Easy now,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to brush back a stray hair. 

“Right, sorry,” you say with a giggle, hands braced on his shoulders as you look up at him. You’re damn near delirious. He’s the one who’s brought you to such a state. His stomach churns. His eyes dart between yours and your lips then out the window to his rig in the parking lot. It doesn’t feel right to up and leave, so he makes the decision that he won’t. Not yet.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he murmurs, cupping your face and tilting your chin. You smile up at him. It’s set in stone. He’s set in stone. There’s no pulling him from this moment anytime soon.

“I could go for another cup of coffee,” he says, glancing at the abandoned mug settled right near the edge of the table, its contents now sitting cold, “and I think I’d like to try a slice of that banana cream pie too.”

[kiraavi]

pedro look alike contest this pedro look alike contest that WHERE IS MY PIXEL JOEL LOOKALIKE CONTEST

GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEEEEEEEED

[kiraavi]

the lack of game joel miller fics is fucking criminal

[kiraavi]

I'm not crying, you are!! 🥹

‘i miss you, i’m sorry.’

summary ۶ৎ in which, reflecting on the past only causes more heartache.

warnings ۶ৎ 18+ content/minors dni, grief, whole load of sad writing, dead!joel, nightmares, mentions of violence, fluff and slight steaminess ( in flashbacks ).

word count ۶ৎ 2.8k

𝓐/n ۶ৎ first time writing for joel so ofc i had to make it depressing. please don't copy, translate or repost my work to any other platforms. and please be kind; if you don't like it, simply move on. thank you for taking the time to read this ♡

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

‘everywhere i go leads me back to you.’

grief is an excruciating way of showing you loved someone.

you’ve experienced it before on numerous occasions, but none have ever so profoundly affected you until now. you wear it like a second coat. your limbs are limp as if there’s no life in them anymore. it’s like you were a puppet, but suddenly you’re strings have been ruptured. now, you’re falling into an endless abyss, and he isn’t there to catch you this time.

each step you take against the cold, wooden floors is forced, your cerebellum clouded by an overwhelming darkness that’s ready to die out and reunite with your soulmate in another life.

yet, you keep moving. your movements are light and unimposing. you’re a ghost in your own home, drifting through and reliving what was. the warmth of the miller’s home is no longer present. a coldness is replaced, the light of the sky shining through the windows gloomy and dull, as though the world is wallowing in regret, knowing it stole someone too soon.

the door to you and your husband’s bedroom creaks as you slowly open it, but you remain frozen in place. you can’t enter. you won’t allow yourself to. the last time you inhabited it, you weren’t alone. you were safe in his arms. you were happy under his gaze. you were loved.

now, there’s nothing but emptiness.

that safe haven disappeared when his arms fell to his sides. that happiness was crushed at the same time his head was. that love…that unconditional, pure love, which you only thought people experienced in romance novels, followed him into the afterlife and left an aching void behind.

taking a deep breath, you enter, and something so raw and and powerful claws at your chest, ripping out a quiet sob. your eyes, once full of ardour, now glisten with unshed tears as they land on his guitar.

your heart guides you, your feet following. quivering fingertips trace the sapili wood, the same way you’d touch the lines on his forehead. there’s a small, fleeting curve of your lips, one no one would notice unless studying you like you’re art.

art.

when joel played, it was art.

the gentle breeze washes over you, wisps of your hair dancing under the sunrise. the fresh brew of coffee sitting in your mug flows into your senses, heating your palms up. you never take your mornings in jackson for granted, allowing yourself to feel and notice every little thing. the peacefulness is a welcoming contrast to the fight for survival outside those walls, and the company is greater too. instead of those monstrous beings, beside you on the porch, in his own respective rocking chair, is joel.

you wake up earlier than most, bad omens sprouting into your sleep like a drug spreading and jolting you back to reality when it’s faded. he never lets you bear it alone, nor does he fall back asleep. he starts the day when you do.

he cradles the instrument the same way he does you, with a caring and gentleness others wouldn’t assume a grumpy man can harbour.

shifting so his body is in your direction, joel glances up from his guitar to you. without fail, he makes you feel seen, as though your soul is laid bare and he’s worshiping every single part. “y’know, i was thinkin’ about this song earlier. reminded me of you.” he speaks, his texan drawl softened a smidge from the lingering morning voice.

joel’s never been good with words. he’s more of an action man: ensuring you have your hat, gloves and scarf on a winter’s day so you have protection against the bitter nature, or returning on a patrol with a new book for you to get lost in then he’ll intently and admirably listen as you analyse and rave about it later on.

with music, however, he discovers the perfect words to explain how deeply he feels for you.

“are you going to sing it for me or be frustratingly vague about it?” you tease, earning a roll of his eyes and a nudge of his boot against your own foot.

clearing his throat, he exhales a breath, and his calloused fingers begin playing against the chords. it’s a gentle dance, the movements careful yet in-sync, and it reminds you of how he danced with you inside town hall during a christmas celebration.

it’s then you realise you’re the music to his life.

the tune is pulchritudinous, and the way he plays could’ve risen him to fame before the outbreak, but it’s when he hums, working up to vocals, that every other noise fades. the rustling of leaves in the nearby trees have ceased to listen, the noise of people starting their day paling. nothing else matters now except him, and if you had the choice to hear only one thing on earth, his voice, deep and rugged, but reverent and tender, would be the winner.

“the smile on your face lets me know that you need me.”

“there's a truth in your eyes sayin’ you'll never leave me.”

“the touch of your hand says you'll catch me wherever i fall.”

the strongly-felt lyrics wrap around you like the warmest hug. you relax into your chair, admiring everything about him; to the lilt of his voice, and to the way his salt and pepper curls sway to the song.

you’ve never felt this before with anyone. never been an artist’s muse. but, as his eyes occasionally flicker upwards, consuming your smile that lets any remaining tension in his bones melt away, your heartbeat mirrors the cadence, and one thought remains front and centre of your mind: you’re the luckiest person in the world.

silence.

your mind, a blank room, is silent.

there’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow down or around, so it just sits there as you retreat from the object, not wishing to poison the adoration seeped into its make with your anguish.

you move on, but not in the sense where people expect you to do so after loss. they expect you to grieve then continue with life like how the world keeps spinning.

instead, you visit the past, because he won’t be in your future.

his work station, full of talented crafts and unfinished projects, is calling you. the chair he’d sit in during late evenings with you nestled upon his lap awaits to be used again, but it never will. then, a groan in the floorboards guides you towards the walk-in closet instead.

the left side yours. the right side his.

you were pinned to the ground on the left, while breath was leaving him on the right.

a shiver crawls down your spine, as if spider leg’s have tickled you. your skin pricks with goosebumps, blades embedded under your skin, ready to cut at the slightest chance. the darkness is enclosing you in at all sides. there is no light anymore. even when you turn the light switch on, you’re still lost.

yet, you bury that feeling down. because all you feel now is joel’s flannel shirt against your cheek, rubbing the fabric against your skin like a cat in need of affection, acting as if it’s his chest when you’d grow sleepy in his arms.

it still smells like him. earthy woods and spice. your shoulders slowly fall, the invisible weight you’ve been carrying momentarily lifted. the fabric is soft, with the edges rough and threadbare.

sounds like someone you knew.

you never thought you’d use a knife like this again. instead of using it to protect yourself, you’re chopping it into carrots.

it’s domestic; cooking dinner for your husband and ellie, who’s the closest thing you have to a daughter. the warm lighting of the kitchen. the quiet bubbling of the pot on the stove. the aroma of fresh food recently cropped from the fields.

then, strong arms encircle your waist from behind. a heartbeat, one you’ve claimed, is a steady thump against your back. “smells nice, darlin’.” joel murmurs, resting his chin upon your shoulder.

you relax against him, exhaling a soft breath. you know that whatever happens, you can always lean against him. he hums appreciatively and glides his hand down your side, tugging the edge of the flannel you’re wearing. “this mine?”

tilting your chin up, catching his gaze, you smile slyly, “technically, what’s yours is mine and vice versa.”

“that right?”

heat rushes to your cheeks at his voice, rose petals blooming on your skin. it’s like whiskey: smooth, but burns you in the most delicious way.

“y’look good in it. how long you plannin’ on borrowing it for?”

his large hand encompasses yours, taking the cutlery away so he has your full attention, and slots his fingers through yours against the countertop.

“until you take it off me.” you smirk.

the air in the kitchen, one that was light and homely, twists into a heavy tension that needs release. a groan tumbles out of his mouth, and he slowly tugs down the collar of the flannel with his free hand. his fingertips brush against your skin, featherlight yet enough to make your breath hitch.

his lips press open-mouthed kisses against each patch of tepid skin that’s revealed, his knee sliding between your legs. your mind grows fuzzy, embers re-sparking throughout your veins.

“god, yer so beautiful. wanna worship this pretty body of yours forever.”

you’re about to speak, an order for him to whisk you away to your room on the tip of your tongue, but another voice, one that widens your eyes, is heard.

“eww! get a room, guys. need to scrub my eyes with bleach now.” ellie exclaims, dramatically, from the archway.

joel sighs, dropping his forehead to yours. you cover your mouth, halting yourself from giggling, and in unison, his chest rumbles against your back, stifling a chuckle.

“it’s not funny! i’m traumatised now.”

the warmth of his body heat lingers as he backs away, planting a kiss on your cheek before crossing his arms and facing ellie. you force yourself to ignore his biceps pulling taut against his shirt, and how he still towers over you while leaning against the counter, crossing his leg over the other. “you’re traumatised? how ‘bout that time i caught you with—”

“you said you wouldn’t bring that up again!” she groans, throwing her head back in feigned annoyance. she moves to your side and wraps her arms around your waist. “this is why you’re my favourite.”

you grin, patting her back and glancing at joel. his deadpanned expression is the opposite to your cheeky demeanour. “hear that? i’m the favourite.” you tease.

he shakes his head, amusement dancing in a subtle smile, but there’s a dark glint leftover swimming within his chocolate eyes which points towards you, and you’re aware he’s not finished with you.

you don’t ever want him to be.

loneliness comes crashing into you like a harsh tidal wave meeting the shore. you slip the flannel off the hanger and wear it, the memories sewn in each thread covering the crawl in your bones.

you sniffle, but that only worsens your stuffy nose. you want his scent to consume you again, but your body, exhausted and depleted, has other plans.

deciding to lay down, you embark towards the large bed. yet, instead of choosing the side you usually sleep on, you rest your head upon joel’s pillow.

it’s cold. unused in days. you’ve been slumbering on the couch since he passed. the neck pain is bearable compared to the suffocating reminder of your loss.

you can almost feel his arms around you. you yearn for it, so desperately you hug yourself. but it’s not enough. nothing will ever be enough anymore. the last memory of him holding you is like smoke. you reach for it, for him, but it slips from your grasp.

your bottom lip quivers, your mind conjuring flashes of his bloodied body on the floor instead of his clean body curled around you.

you don’t know what to do. you’re unsure of how to be okay again. but, you inhale deeply, just how joel taught you too when it felt like your ribs dug into your lungs and your oxygen was thinning, and exhale a shaky breath.

even in death, he’s still guiding you.

when you jolt awake, the moonlight glowing through the thin curtains nor the rustling of the duvet as your legs thrash against an invisible shackle is what you comprehend. it’s a pair of arms wrapping around you, guiding you back to the moment and not the ghastly nightmare is what you notice first.

“hey, hey. shh.”

your eyes dart around, wide and frantic, until they land on your home. the rays of silver accentuate his worried features, and he already appears awake and alert, as if knowing this would happen. your heart hammers against your ribcage like a drum, your breathing is laboured and uneven, and you’re trembling can almost rival an earthquake occurring.

“joel…” you choke out, and he immediately guides your head against his chest, rubbing your back gently.

“it’s okay, sweet girl, it’s okay. you just focus on my heart beatin’, alright?” he murmurs and kisses the crown of your head.

the steady thump of his heartbeat is a lullaby, soothing you into a tranquil state. his arms are a protective bubble that you never wish to pop. you listen to the proof he’s alive, your body melting into his embrace while your breathing aligns with his.

“that’s it, atta girl.” he praises softly, and you soak in the warmth he radiates, the brush of his salt and pepper beard against your forehead, the circles he traces on the ridges of your spine.

when you’re lost in a ravaging storm at sea, he’ll always be your anchor.

a silence settles, comforting and cosy. it’s one that doesn’t need to be filled, enough being spoken by actions. the remnants of your nightmare still lingers, stalking you in the shadows, but joel is the light pulling you away from it, because you’re reality isn’t clouded with darkness, but enthralled with glowing moments angels are jealous of.

he doesn’t delve into what happened in that beautiful brain of yours. you stubbornly won’t let it leave your tongue, so it dies there, only returning to haunt you when night falls.

“i’m sorry.” your voice, no longer carrying it’s usual teasing undertone, gently breaks the silence. “you must be losing sleep because of me.”

pulling back slightly, he tilts his chin down, his thumb and forefinger lifting yours up to meet his gaze. you see the soft furrow in his brows, the meagre downturn of his kissable lips. his thumb caressing your cheekbone is a relief compared to the agony you experienced in that dream.

“you ain't the reason why i’m losing sleep, baby. i ain't upset at you because of a nightmare you have no control over. hell, i’d lose a thousand hours of sleep just to make sure you're okay after one.”

“promise?”

he seals his promise by brushing his lips against yours. the kiss is slow and soft. you can taste his love—a love you’re so thankful to receive. it plants in every corner of yourself and grows wonderful, flourishing flowers. he waters them by showing his devotion, and the light they seek shines when you grace his presence.

your warm and delicate breaths mingle as the kiss parts, and he presses an everlasting one your forehead. turning over, your back meeting his chest, his arm encircles your waist and pulls you close with your legs entangling.

there’s the saying ‘the calm before the storm’, but no one talks about the calm after.

this is what it feels like.

you’re unsure of how much time has vanished, enough for the owls to hoot and the sky to grow darker, but words, so soft that they’re almost inaudible, flow into your ears.

“i love you.” joel confesses. “i ain’t never known love like i do with you.”

your smile growing mirrors your heart expanding. your smaller hand rests upon his that’s stroking your stomach. “i love you too.”

his movement falters. he must not have expected you to still be awake. his cheek nuzzles in your hair. “you hear all that sappy talk i was whispering?” he asks lightly.

you nod.

a beat passes.

“good. i was just bein’ honest.” he whispers, his hand moving once more in a tender touch. “get some sleep, honey. you’re safe. ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you while i’m around.”

and he was right. now he’s gone, everything hurts.

tears trickle down your face, seeping into the pillow and will forever be there. you never discussed your tormented dreams with him because you worried it’d come true if you voiced it aloud.

maybe it was your silence that killed him, because you’re now living your nightmares.