miss-celestial-being

[miss-celestial-being]

Happy father's day to all the daddies୨ৎ

[miss-celestial-being]

[miss-celestial-being]

well now i just need a part two

Now That You’re Here

Summary: Eddie and you were childhood friends, but when you move away due to the death of your uncle Benny (yes benny from S1) that leaves Eddie alone for a few years until he hits high school. However, one day when he’s taking a drive past the old burger place he notices it’s all fixed up and there are cars in the lot and sees a familiar face leaving the building.

Warnings: none to report!!!

A/N: heyyyyy guys!!!! I’m back… after almost a year lmao😔😔😔 anyway… i promised yall an Eddie fic and im finally delivering!! I lowkey might make this into a series because of the way the ending is so… enjoy!!! I will be putting out more stuff just not as frequently as last year I fear idk tho! Anyway, enjoy!!!!!

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The road stretches on for much longer than Eddie rememberers as he drives faster than he should. His speakers are straining as they emit the loud instrumental part of the song he’s listening to and he drums his fingers against the top of the steering wheel. 

The full green trees blur past as his speedometer climbs upwards. A bug splats on his windshield as he turns a small bend and he turns on his windshield wipers. His eyes aren’t on the road for a few seconds but when he looks back he finds a car turning out in front of him. He slams on the breaks as to avoid rear ending the vehicle. 

“Go!” He tells the car as it slowly gains speed. He pressed on the gas and looks to the left where the car pulled out of a parking lot. 

A neon sign is glowing green in the window, telling the world they are “open” while cars are parked in almost every parking space. 

Eddie furrows his brows and focuses on the building for the time he can as he keeps driving. 

The exterior is painted a dark blue with white trim on the windows and the sign above the door is still red like it always has been, reading “Benny’s Burgers”

He quickly looks down at the doors once more with strained eyes to watch a young woman, who is his age, exit through the front door with a contempt smile. He recognizes her and looks forwards. He knows her but he doesn’t know from where. 

————————————————————————

Hours later when he’s working on his van, uncle Wayne pulls into the gravel driveway and gets out of his car. 

“Hi, Ed.” He greets. 

Eddie waves with his hand that isn’t working inside of the engine, though it’s still smeared with black grease that is sure to leave a stain. “Hey. Where were you?” He wonders as he looks down at the engine once more. 

Wayne approaches to stand nearby. He sighs in contempt before he speaks. “Benny’s Burger’s.” He holds up a paper bag with the small beginnings of a grease stain at the bottom. “They’re back open believe it or not. And with the same family, being run by the brother of that friend of yours who moved away some years back.” He looks away in thought, not paying any mind to how Eddie hits his head on the hood upon hearing of his old friend. “She’s a very nice young lady now. She graduated last year from high school down in California. She actually just bought a trailer down here a few weeks ago.” Wayne continues on. Eddie watches him speak with wide eyes and a hand pressed to the top of his head. His uncle sighs. “Anyway, I brought you dinner.” He places the paper bag on top of the toolbox nearby. “I’ll be leaving for work in about an hour.” 

Eddie watches his uncle walk off without another word, only a tired sigh and an unintentional slam of the front screen door behind him. 

He sighs with a small furrow of his brows. His hand goes up to scratch at his chin where he leaves a smudge of grease behind unknowingly. 

Is his old friend really back home? He wonders to himself with a quick turn of his head back to his engine. He grabs a tool and gets to work again, still thinking about her. He used to call her Bat, because she really liked bats. 

He glances down at his bat tattoo in distraction, accidentally nicking his hand somewhere inside the complicated metal structure. He carefully retracts his hand to examine the slice in the side of his hand right below his pinkie. Blood drops down onto the top of his headlight and he pulls a face prior to wiping the crimson liquid away. “Shit.” He mutters.

Gravel crunches behind him from the road. “Is this the Munson house?” A female voice wonders. 

Eddie turns away from the inside of his hood to face the voice, immediately meeting the eyes of a young woman in a long black skirt and a large band t-shirt. A brown leather bag hangs from her shoulder. Her hair is down and she sends him a smile.  

“Yeah, this is.” He nods and turns around all the way to face her. 

Her kind smile very quickly turns to relief. “Good, I didn’t want to ask the wrong person.” She approaches Eddie with a few strides. Her eyes peer at the engine for a brief moment. “Is Eddie around?” 

“I’m Eddie.” He nods at her, recognizing her now that she’s so close. She was the one he saw leaving the diner. “I didn’t know you were back.” He tells her. 

She nods up at him, studying his face and his hair. It was short, buzzed all the way down to his scalp when she left. “You… look different.” She smiles. “In a good way, of course. Your hair.” She puts her weight on one leg and pops her hip out to the side as she stares up at him. “I like the look.” 

He smiles sheepishly down at his feet for a moment. That isn’t people’s reaction to him, but she’s known him from before he can remember. “Thanks.” Is all he says at first. “You’ve changed too. You’re very pretty.” 

She smiles brightly and looks down at herself. “Thank you!” She reaches up to adjust her bag on her shoulder. 

Eddie leans on his van and crosses his arms. “When did you get back?” He asks her and his eyes slowly look her over.

She widens her eyes and nods as if remembering she did leave. “A few weeks ago! I stayed with my parents until Jimmy finished the restaurant and they helped me get my trailer down the way.” She answers him. “I work at Benny’s with Jimmy, and I’ve been volunteering at the animal shelter, because the cats are cute and I want one.” She smiles big and it’s contagious to Eddie, making him smile as well. He admires her rambling speech. “But yeah. How about you Ed’s, what has my ol’ pal been up to after all these years?” Her eyes wander his face in curiosity.

Eddie exhales, not realizing how much he dreaded this question. He hesitates. “Well… not much actually.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m in a band, we’re called Corroded Coffin and we have some gigs at the hideout sometimes. I’m taking another shot at senior year.” 

“Im sorry.” She frowns a bit. “Do you have a job, or need one? We have a few positions open at the restaurant if you’re interested.” Her thumb goes up to gesture behind herself. 

Eddie shrugs and scratches the back of his head while looking away, avoiding her sure to be confused expression. “I… do my own thing, to put it lightly. But yeah a job sounds great. I have the get this baby fixed.” He pats the side of his van twice. 

He watches her nod while she looks the van over. She doesn’t judge it or him and it makes him relieved. “Well, we have a dishwasher or a closing shift position open. If you want either one I’ll tell Jimmy.” 

Eddie smiles at her, which seems to be constant throughout the entire conversation. “How’s Jimmy?” He asks, although he’s never been fond of him. Jimmy would scare him years back, but that could have changed. He also wants to know how your family is.

She sighs. “Well… he’s engaged, so that’s something.” She offers a smile which gives him the impression that she doesn’t like her soon to be sister in law. “But he’s good. He’s been working very hard to get the place back up and running.” 

He nods. “Wayne said he came in earlier.” 

“Oh yeah! We talked for a while, said you were doing good but that I should come by and see you after all this time.” She smiles at him with quick nods.

Eddie nods yet again. “I’m glad you did. I had… a hard time after you left.” He admits with a sheepish smile. 

She frowns at that. “I’m sorry Ed’s.” She reaches out hesitantly to touch his forearm that is hanging at his side. He feels his skin heat where her hand touches him. When she retracts her hand she speaks. “Maybe we can go out sometime. You know like… dinner or something, tell each other about the time apart.” She shrugs her shoulders and watches his face eagerly. 

“I’d like that.” Eddie nods a bit too quickly, also eager to get to know her better now that she’s back. She’s been gone for so long and he wants to know every little thing that she did. Has she dated anyone? Does she have a boyfriend? Is she going to go to college? Is she looking for someone to date?

She’s smiles up at him excitedly and snaps him out of his trance. “Awesome! Here, I’ll give you my number so you can give me a call when you’re not busy.” She goes to dig into her bag for a pen and a small sliver of paper that is wrinkled but it will do. 

Eddie watches her write her number down before he talks as she hands the paper to him and their hands brush and he swears her skin is the softest he’s ever felt. “I’m never busy.” He laughs to himself. “Just school, the band and D&D.”

“Not a bad gig though.” She shrugs. “Call me later?” Her eyes are hopeful.

Eddie nods and folds the paper into his pocket, making sure to remember it as she slowly walks backwards from the driveway. 

“I’ll see you later, Munson.” She waves. 

He nods and says back, “I’ll see you later, Bat.” 

She laughs in remembrance of the nickname and turns away, walking down the street until she is out of view of his eyes. 

He notices how dark it’s become and decides it’s time to go inside. So he quickly shuts the hood of his van, hides the toolbox away and then takes the bag of cold food inside. 

“Have a good shift tonight Wayne.” He tells his uncle who is enjoying his last moments before the night shift. He smiles and then retreats into his bedroom. 

The bag of food is dropped onto his bed before Eddie digs into his pocket for your phone number. He quickly places the sliver of paper beside his phone. He’ll call you later, but for now he’s going to relish in the fact that you’re back in his life, and nothing has changed. Well… besides the fact that you both grew up and have grown as people. But he’s dying to know who you are now. 

[miss-celestial-being]

a bad pic of my cat

a bj's menu

a teapot decoration i painted

a quilt i made

my 17th birthday cake

my homemade coraline doll of myself

tag- @fandomdemigirl @thehalfbloodedwitch +anyone else who wants to

6 non selfie photos tagged by @rayyzsteeze 🤞🏾

Tagging @ladygem1ni @chroniclesofnadia111 @510315 @m0untainslut @gothluv @uncensoredhijabii @godisofthelotus @occvltswim

[miss-celestial-being]

I smile like an idiot when I see my man, who’s not my man, on my television screen.

[miss-celestial-being]

nobody has been there for me like the ‘x reader’ tag has been there for me

[miss-celestial-being]

schools out and i need fic ideas!!!!

[miss-celestial-being]

as soon as finals are over ill write something, i swear!!

[miss-celestial-being]

I’ve missed you sm bee how are youu??

omg im sorry im just seeing this now!!

ive missed you so much too!!!! im pretty good, tho my finals are coming up which sucks :/

how are you??

[miss-celestial-being]

I just can't get over how beautiful they arrreeee it makes me cryyyyyyyyy 😔 😢 😍

[miss-celestial-being]

saw a post on tiktok that said that the original version of abby was meant to be joel’s love interest who infiltrated jackson. now i am in desperate need of a double agent! reader bent on destroying joel and ellie, only to fall for joel. when she starts to fall for him, peeling back his many layers, he figures out why she’s really there. a REAL lovers to enemies situation.

[miss-celestial-being]

happy birthday!!! this was amazing

Cake and Candles

Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Joel never forgets your birthday.

Warnings: fluff, reader is implied younger than joel through one piece of dialogue, Joel's love language being acts of service/gift giving, reader had a mom, dad and little brother

ITS MY BIRTHDAYYYY!!!! ellie birthday episode and my birthday being in the same week was too much fate for me not to write this.

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It had rained the night before, which meant the alleys smelled worse than usual — sour and metallic, like the city was rotting from the inside out. The puddles on the concrete looked more like oil than water and the sky hung low and mean.

The drop was supposed to be quick. A supply run from an abandoned ration depot near the North Wall to a safehouse two zones over. Painkillers, batteries, something with an industrial chemical label that Joel warned you not to breathe near.

You were three hours in, already soaked through, and the mood had turned to shit.

Joel barely said a word the whole time. Tess did most of the talking, leading the three of you through narrow side streets and broken corridors like she’d lived in the bones of this place for decades. You kept your eyes up, finger close to the trigger. Your boots were too loud, your nerves too exposed.

“Two more blocks,” Tess muttered, crouched beside a rusted-out vending machine. “Then we sit tight.”

You nodded, Joel only grunted.

And you told yourself not to think about it. About what day it was. About what it used to mean.

But you did. Of course you did.

The thought kept coming back like a compulsion: If things were normal, I'd be home right now.

Your mom would’ve been waking you up early — warm kitchen light, the smell of sugar and cinnamon, her telling you not to peek while she decorated. Your little brother would’ve made some half-glued card with stick figures and misspelled words, and your dad would’ve tried to act cool while holding out whatever he'd managed to barter for that year. Cheap jewellery. A book. A cassette tape. Whatever felt like something.

Now the idea of cake and candles made your stomach hurt.

But still. You remembered. You kept track.

You weren’t even sure why anymore.

Tess glanced over her shoulder as you cleared the alley and stepped into the shadow of a half-collapsed parking garage.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, voice low.

You tried to shrug it off. “Just tired.”

But her eyes narrowed, suspicious in that way she got when she knew you were lying but didn’t feel like calling you on it yet.

“Alright,” she said slowly. “But don’t lose your edge. We’re not safe yet.”

Joel gave you a sidelong glance, like he’d caught the lie too.

The handoff went fine. Quick, quiet, almost clean. You met the contact in an old laundromat with half the ceiling caved in. Joel stood near the back, one hand resting casually on his pistol, eyes cold and distant.

You did your job. Took the crate. Loaded the bags. Moved through the checkpoint tunnels without drawing attention.

You didn’t say a word the whole way back.

By nightfall, you were holed up in the safehouse near the old subway tracks. It wasn’t much — one small room, a gas lamp, sleeping bags, and a metal table with one leg shorter than the others. But the door locked, and now that was enough.

Tess peeled off her jacket, wrung out the rainwater, and looked between you and Joel like she was trying to decide which of you would implode first.

“Alright,” she said, grabbing her pack. “I’ve got another deal to check on. You two hold down the fort. Try not to brood each other to death.”

Before she left, she paused in the doorway and shot you a look. Her voice softened.

“You doing okay?”

You hesitated.

You could lie. But something about the way she looked at you — not pitying, not prying, just… knowing — made your throat go tight.

“It’s just a day,” you said finally.

Tess nodded slowly, her gaze flicking briefly to Joel. “Yeah. That’s what we all tell ourselves.”

Then she was gone.

You sat on the edge of the sleeping bag, staring at your hands.

Joel was already at the table, stripping and cleaning his gun with mechanical precision. Every movement deliberate. Detached.

You listened to the sound of metal clicking, cloth brushing steel.

Finally, he spoke.

“You gonna tell me what the hell’s eatin’ at you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Your jaw clenched. “It’s nothing.”

He snorted. “You’ve said less than ten words all day. Even Tess noticed. And she’s usually too busy talking to hear herself breathe.”

You huffed, reluctant, but the words were already pushing forward.

“It’s stupid.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just waited.

You looked down at your hands again.

“It’s my birthday.”

That made him pause. He set the cloth down slowly and looked up. Something flickered in his expression, gone too fast to catch.

You laughed, but it was hollow. “I know. Dumb thing to care about now. I just— I always used to. My family made a big deal out of it. Even when we didn’t have anything. And now… I don’t know. I guess part of me keeps expecting someone to remember. Even though they can’t.”

Joel’s mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. Not quite anything. He looked away. “Birthdays don’t mean much anymore.”

“I know. That’s what I keep telling myself.”

You stood, pacing now, energy suddenly too restless to hold.

“But it’s like… this twisted kind of hope, right? You spend all year just trying to survive, and then one day rolls around and you remember you used to feel important. Used to feel seen. And now it’s just another reminder that you’re alone.”

Joel’s jaw worked.

You didn’t see him move at first — just the rustle of his coat, the sound of the door unlatching.

You turned. “Where are you going?”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled on his jacket and stepped outside.

You sat in the dark, listening to the wind rattle the window boards. The minutes stretched. You tried not to think about him. Tried not to wonder if he’d come back, or if maybe you’d said too much, crossed a line he didn’t want crossed.

Then the door creaked open and Joel stepped back in, face cold, holding something wrapped in a rag. You blinked as he walked past you, set it down on the table, and unwrapped it slowly.

A dented metal can.

You stepped closer.

Peaches.

The label was torn, but you could still make out the picture — bright orange slices swimming in syrup. It looked like something out of a dream.

You stared.

Joel didn’t meet your eyes.

“Found it near the East checkpoint. Took it off some jackass who was trying to trade it for antibiotics. Almost got himself shot.”

You swallowed hard.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “It’s a one-time thing.”

You sat slowly.

He cracked the can open with his knife. The scent hit instantly — sweet and sharp, syrupy and thick. It brought tears to your eyes before you could stop them.

Joel handed you a spoon.

“Happy birthday,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.

You looked up. “Thank you.”

You didn’t talk much after that. Just sat and shared the can between you, passing the spoon back and forth in silence. It was too sweet, too sticky, but it tasted like something close to memory.

You should’ve left it there—quiet and safe, something unspoken you could both pretend didn’t matter tomorrow.

But the sugar and the warmth of it, the bitter nostalgia curling behind your ribs, made your guard slip. You stared down at the last peach in the can, barely more than syrup and pulp now, and said it before you could stop yourself.

“Do you remember yours?”

Joel didn’t look up. “My what?”

“Your birthday.”

He stilled. Spoon halfway to the can, hand clenched just a little too tight.

“You don’t have to answer,” you added quickly. “I just— I don’t know. You did this for me. Made me feel like I mattered today. Thought maybe that meant birthdays meant something to you, too.”

Joel exhaled through his nose. The sound was flat. Dry. Almost a laugh, but not.

“They don’t.”

You looked at him carefully. “But they used to?”

He stared ahead like he wasn’t really seeing the room. His fingers drummed once against the table, then stopped.

“Long time ago,” he said. “When things were… different.”

“Family?”

His jaw tightened. You regretted asking, wanted to take it back.

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes looked deeper in the lamplight, carved in by time and grief and things he’d never said out loud.

“Had a daughter,” he said finally. Voice low, rough-edged. “She used to make me pancakes. Every year. Even when she burned ‘em.”

Your breath caught.

Joel didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on some point far away, like the past was something he could still see if he squinted hard enough.

“After… everything,” he said, “I stopped keeping track. Seemed easier that way.”

You were quiet for a long time.

Then he said it. Quiet. Flat. Like something he’d rehearsed in his head a thousand times but never let pass his lips.

“September 26th.”

You felt the air shift. The weight of it settle between you.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Joel didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry.”

He just gave a small shake of his head, like he didn’t know what to do with your sympathy. Like he didn’t think he deserved it.

“I was at work,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere far away. “Didn't mean to be that late. My daughter wanted to bake something, asked me to bring a cake home. She was real excited. Kept asking me to stay home that night.”

You didn’t breathe.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then let it drop.

“Anyway. It was that night."

You nodded, throat tight.

Joel reached out and pushed the last piece of peach toward you with the spoon.

You took it.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For this.”

“Won’t make a habit of it,” he muttered.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You woke before the sun, the cold biting at your nose through the cracked window. The room was dark, quiet — just the soft hum of wind threading through boarded slats. Another day. Another job. You told yourself it was just that.

You sat up slowly, pulling your jacket closer, and tried not to think about the date. But of course you did. The date. It nestled in your jaw like a bad tooth, aching every time your mind circled back.

It was your birthday.

You hadn't told anyone. Not this year. Not after how last year had gone, with Joel’s voice going flat when you asked about his own birthday, the air going still when he’d muttered September 26th, and your stomach flipping when you realised why that date mattered. You hadn’t meant to open a wound — you’d just wanted to share something.

So this year, you didn’t bring it up. You told yourself it was fine. That birthdays didn’t mean anything anymore.

Still, you hoped — foolishly, silently — that someone might remember. That Joel might remember.

“Pack light. We’re headin’ to Bill’s.”

You glanced up from where you were tightening the strap on your boot, heart giving a soft lurch. “Supply run?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt — not exactly a yes, but not a no either — and turned back into the hallway without another word. Typical.

You exhaled slowly. Today of all days. You couldn’t decide if it was a relief that he didn’t remember or if it stung more because you’d spent the last few days nervously rehearsing whether or not to bring it up. Your birthday had crept up again like it always did now — not with excitement, but with that same sharp pang of twisted anticipation that you couldn’t fully shake.

The truck ride was long and uneventful. Joel didn’t say much beyond the occasional grunt when a pothole jostled the tires or a flick of his hand to indicate a change in route. The countryside passed in blur — dead trees, skeletal remains of billboards, rusted-out signs and roads that had long since stopped leading anywhere. He’d said they needed extras. Ammo from Bill, spare wires, maybe some of Frank’s dried herbs.

You kept your face turned toward the window and tried not to count how many birthdays you’d had since the world ended. It didn’t matter.

Bill and Frank’s compound came into view as the sun was dipping into its late-afternoon golden hour, the light casting long shadows across the fence line and orchard. The gate creaked open automatically — someone had been watching. Of course they had.

Bill met you at the entrance like he always did: with a gun over his shoulder and a permanent scowl on his face.

Joel nodded at him. “Need to pick up some things.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bill muttered, but his eyes flicked to you briefly. Something unreadable passed across his face.

Frank, ever the gracious one, stepped out onto the porch and beamed at the sight of you. “Oh, good! You made it.”

You were still pulling your pack off your shoulders when you noticed something strange: the smell. Not just smoke or stew — something sweet. Spiced.

“What's that smell?” you asked.

Frank smiled wider. “Dinner. You’re just in time.”

Joel clapped a hand on your back — that rare kind of Joel-touch that said move along without words — and steered you toward the house.

You turned to him, brow furrowed. “I thought we were here for supplies?”

He didn’t answer. Just opened the front door and motioned you inside.

And then… you saw it.

The table was already set. Not with mismatched tin and rusted forks like you were used to, but with real plates and silverware. Frank had pulled out linens — actual cloth napkins, even candles in old mason jars. There were roasted vegetables, a stew simmering, warm bread, and at the centre of the table — a cake. Small, imperfect, decorated with little wildflowers and what looked like foraged berries.

It took a moment to register. You stared, heart pounding in your ears.

Tess was already inside, leaning back in one of the chairs with a glass of wine, smirking.

Joel brushed past you with a low, almost dismissive grunt. “Figured we’d eat while we’re here. Been a while.”

You stood there frozen for a second too long. You didn’t know what to say. The warmth in your chest warred with the confusion, and just behind it, that flicker of shame — for hoping. For thinking it might mean something.

“Frank,” you said slowly. “What… is this?”

He beamed. “A proper meal. For a proper occasion.”

“What occasion?”

Frank glanced at Joel, then at Tess. Neither of them said anything. Tess just raised her glass.

And you knew.

You swallowed hard. Your throat felt suddenly tight. “Tess,” you said quietly, “Did you—?”

But she cut you off. “You hungry or not?”

The meal passed in a haze of laughter. Frank filled everyone’s glasses with the wine he’d been saving for a “special occasion,” and even Bill joined in with a dry story about nearly electrocuting himself fixing the generator.

You smiled and laughed where appropriate, but your mind kept wandering — back to the cake, to Joel’s deflection, to Tess’s knowing glances.

You still thought Tess had orchestrated it. It was the kind of thing she’d do, drag Joel into playing along.

It wasn’t until later, after the plates had been cleared and Frank had started a record in the other room, something jazzy and low, that you found yourself alone with Tess in the hallway. The candlelight from the kitchen cast her in soft gold, and she was sipping from a chipped cup, arms crossed, watching you with that same half-lidded look she always had when she knew something you didn’t.

“So,” she said. “Nice night.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It is. Sorry I'm just overwhelmed— Thank you, honestly.”

“You think I planned all this, don’t you?” she asked.

You blinked. “Didn’t you?”

She scoffed lightly and shook her head. “Hell no. I just helped Frank make dinner.”

Your stomach dipped.

She tilted her head, her voice quiet now. “This was all Joel. Every bit. He’s the one who remembered,” she said. “He’s the one who asked Frank to make the cake. Told Bill to keep his mouth shut. Hell, he even insisted we make it look casual so you wouldn’t freak out.”

Your heart stopped.

“He said he didn’t wanna make a thing out of it,” Tess added, “But he’s been planning this for weeks.”

You were quiet for a long beat.

“But… he didn’t say anything,” you said, the words a whisper.

Tess’s smile turned a little sad. “He’s not good at saying things, but he remembers.”

Later that night, when the others had drifted off and the music had faded into the background hum of insects and wind in the orchard, you found Joel on the porch. He was leaning against the railing, watching the dark. You stepped beside him, your heart thudding hard enough to drown out the world.

He didn’t look at you when you approached. Just spoke low.

“You enjoy dinner?”

You nodded. “It was perfect.”

A pause.

“You remembered,” you said.

He didn’t look at you. “Wasn’t hard.”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “I didn’t want to make it weird again, like last year.”

His voice was low. “Wasn’t your fault.”

You turned to him. “Thank you.”

You reached for his hand. You didn’t expect him to take it — but he did.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft, slow, uncertain — but it wasn’t one-sided. Joel met you there, warm and still, his hand brushing lightly against your back like he’d been waiting, too.

When you pulled back, he kept his eyes on yours.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

This time, the words didn’t hurt.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

It rained for three days straight.

The kind of cold, spitting drizzle that soaked through your coat no matter how tightly you cinched it, that made your boots squelch with every step. The wind howled through broken barns and trees stripped bare, and every shelter you found smelled like old rot and abandonment.

You trudged through it with your shoulders hunched and your hood pulled low, your boots squelching with each step. Every now and then, Ellie would grumble something under her breath, mostly complaints about the cold, or how the rain made her hair look like a wet mop, or how she was going to die of trench foot.

Joel, as always, didn’t say much. He just led.

You were somewhere in rural Pennsylvania, miles from anything even remotely familiar. The landscape blurred — trees, collapsed fences, skeletal houses too picked over to be worth stopping for. You’d passed a rusted water tower around midday and Joel had muttered that there was a town not far off.

No one said it, but you were all tired. Supplies were low. Joel had slept in fits, always with one hand on his rifle, and you could see the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen by the hour.

Your back ached. Your ribs still twinged from a bad fall two weeks back. You could feel the day’s date sitting heavy on your tongue.

You weren’t sure if he’d forgotten this time. Or if he remembered, and just decided this year, there wasn’t room for sentiment. It was stupid to care. It always was. Especially now. Anyway, it wasn’t like you could blame him. You hadn’t seen anything resembling a candle in months.

Still, it sat in your chest, heavy and hollow and echoing.

You didn’t say anything about it. Not this year. Not with Ellie around, and Joel already stretched taut with exhaustion and responsibility. You hadn't said anything last year either, but back then it had been different — the ghost of a good night with Bill and Frank, a flicker of something soft in Joel’s eyes, a secret truth Tess had given you like a gift.

This year you felt like a burden for even remembering.

By late afternoon, you reached the outskirts of the town Joel had mentioned.

It was nothing more than a collection of crumbling buildings, storefronts with glass long shattered, faded signs swinging in the breeze. A gas station sat caved in at the edge of town. A church steeple leaned crooked over a few blocks like a snapped spine.

Joel’s eyes swept the horizon. “We’ll hole up here tonight. Find shelter, stay outta the open.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. Ellie sighed and muttered something about praying for a haunted mansion.

What you got was a busted-up diner with broken windows, a torn-up vinyl booth, and a kitchen that smelled like grease and mildew. But it was dry, and it had a back room with a door that locked. That was enough.

Joel checked the place with his usual precision — every room, every corner, even the roof. You stood in the center of the kitchen, dripping water, hands shaking with cold, watching the ghosts of an old world flicker in your memory.

You remembered diners.

Birthday pancakes. The sound of your mom singing off-key while stirring coffee. The way candles flickered when the waitress brought out cake with sparklers on top.

You shook your head. That was gone.

You shrugged off your pack and sat on an overturned crate while Ellie stretched out on a dusty counter, flipping through one of the comics she’d scavenged.

Joel stood by the window, arms crossed, scanning the street.

Ellie rolled out her sleeping bag and plopped down onto it with a theatrical groan. “So glamorous. When do the spa treatments start?”

You laughed, sitting beside her and rubbing warmth into your frozen fingers. Joel didn’t smile, but his eyes flicked to you for a half-second.

Then, abruptly, he muttered, “I’m gonna check for propane. Maybe see if there’s any storage behind the hardware store. Stay in here. Lock the door behind me.”

You perked up. “I can come.”

He shook his head. “No. Stay here. Get warm. Lock the door behind me.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “You already said that.”

Joel shot her a look and was out the door before either of you could respond.

The rain slowed around dusk. The wind picked up, scraping against the glass and groaning in the walls. He was gone longer than you expected.

The minutes crawled. You tried to help Ellie pass time with a round of card games using a half-destroyed deck she found in a laundromat weeks ago. Her jokes got weaker. Her eyes drooped. Eventually, she curled into her bag, comic book in hand, and let sleep claim her.

But the silence in the room settled heavy. And with every passing minute, you grew more convinced Joel had forgotten.

The funny thing was, you weren’t even angry. You didn’t expect anything — not really. What could anyone do? You were in the middle of nowhere with a teenager, a man whose burdens you could feel like a shadow following him, and enough food for maybe two more meals if you stretched it.

But it still hurt — that tiny, stupid ache under your ribs.

You told yourself you were being childish. That birthdays didn’t matter anymore. That survival was the only thing worth counting.

But then the door creaked open, and Joel stepped inside, soaked from the knees down, his coat dripping. He was carrying something wrapped in a tarp and a small dented tin. He didn’t speak right away. Just crossed the room, dropped the bundle near the fire, and lowered himself with a quiet grunt.

Ellie stirred but didn’t wake. The fire crackled. Joel adjusted the tarp and looked over at you with that same unreadable expression he always wore.

Then he pushed the tin toward you across the floor.

You looked down. “What’s this?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a nod — go on.

You opened it slowly. Inside, nestled in worn paper, was a chocolate bar. Slightly melted, slightly warped, but real.

You blinked at it.

You blinked at it.

“I—what?” You looked up at him, heart stuttering. “Joel…”

“Found it in an old vending machine. Back by the rail yard.” He cleared his throat. “Still sealed. Figured it might be okay.”

“Joel… I haven’t had chocolate in—”

“I know.”

You stared at him, dumbstruck. Then he reached for the tarp and unwrapped it with deliberate care.

A book. Its spine was cracked but intact, the cover a faded storm-blue cloth with the title in gold: Wuthering Heights.

You gasped. Your hand went to your chest.

“Are you serious?”

He nodded, glancing down. “You told me once. That your mom used to read it to you. I saw it a few weeks ago in some house. Had to double back. Took a while to get to it.”

“You… you went back for this?”

He rubbed his thumb across his knuckles. “I wanted to get you somethin’. I know it don’t fix anything. But…”

His voice trailed off.

You stared down at the book and the chocolate, your throat thick with emotion.

Joel shifted again. Looked at you, then quickly away.

“I know you didn’t wanna bring it up,” he said, voice low, “and maybe you thought I forgot.”

You felt your chest cave inward.

“I don’t know what this day means to you now. But I know it ain’t right that someone your age has to spend it freezing in some busted-up diner with nothin’. You should’ve had… more.”

“I had this,” you whispered. “This is more.”

He gave a dry, almost-bitter smile. “Maybe I just… I’m glad you’re still here. That we’re still here.”

Silence.

Then, hesitantly, like it hurt to say: “I look out for you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart in your throat. “I know.”

“And it ain’t just… ‘cause of Tess. Or the job.”

Your eyes lifted to his. The firelight flickered across his face, deepening every line of sorrow carved there.

Your hand moved to his — fingers wrapping over his, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to say anything else. I know what you mean.”

He swallowed, jaw tight.

You shifted closer and leaned in. Your lips brushed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. A test. A promise. When he didn’t pull away, you kissed him softly — long, tender, and steady.

His hand came to rest on your back, warm and protective, holding you there for just a moment longer.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

You smiled, tears glistening. “It is now.”

Later, after the fire burned low and the storm outside quieted, you curled beside him on your sleeping bag, the book tucked between you, the warmth of his body pressed into yours.

And for the first time in a long time, you fell asleep not with a rifle in your hands — but with his arm around you, your head tucked beneath his chin, the steady thrum of his heart keeping time with yours.

You didn't even care about the jokes Ellie would make.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You knew what day it was.

You didn’t need to mark it on a calendar. It lived in your chest like something raw and coiled, like a bruise you’d pressed your thumb into just to see if it still hurt.

Even in the early years after the world ended, you'd tried to mark the day — a scavenged piece of candy, a lucky pair of socks from a trading post. Something. A way to remember who you were, who you used to be, before the world fell apart and took your family with it.

And then you'd met Joel. And Tess. And Ellie. And for the first time in years, someone had remembered. Joel had remembered.

Although, Joel had said nothing last night. He’d eaten dinner with you like he always did and kissed your forehead on the porch before heading to his own cabin across the way. No words. Just warmth, familiarity.

You didn’t know what that kiss meant anymore. If he kissed you because he loved you, or because it had become habit — part of the quiet routine you’d built together.

Routine had settled into your bones. You worked supply runs twice a week. Helped repair fencing. On Sundays, you took guard shifts with Maria. You had a room in one of the old lodges — warm blankets, real soap, even a bookshelf that you slowly filled with whatever Joel found for you.

You and Joel hadn’t put a name on what you were.

You’d shared nights. Touched hands in quiet kitchens. Kissed, softly, like it might break something inside you both. But life moved differently now — slower, more careful. Sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something and couldn’t. Sometimes, you did the same.

It was two weeks before your birthday when you first noticed Joel acting strange. He was quieter than usual — and for Joel, that was saying something. He didn’t meet your eyes as often. His hands lingered on tools longer than needed when you passed them over. He volunteered to help with fence repairs even though Tommy had told him to rest his knee.

And then he did the one thing that gave it away: he started asking questions.

“What kinda food d’you miss the most?” he’d asked one night, seemingly out of nowhere, while you washed dishes in the lodge kitchen.

You shrugged. “Pasta, probably. Like… real pasta. With too much cheese.”

He grunted. “Noted.”

Two days later, he wandered into the rec center where Ellie and a few others were playing cards, and asked what kind of music you liked.

She later told you — with a devilish grin — that he pretended it was about planning a patrol route and needed to know how to boost your morale. Ellie lived to embarrass him now.

But you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t bring up the date.

Last year on the road had meant more than you could put into words — the chocolate, the book, the warmth of his body beside yours. And the year before that, Bill and Frank’s. But this time felt… heavier. Safer, sure, but somehow harder.

Because now you were stable. And that meant facing things you used to avoid — feelings, fears, memories that hadn’t knocked for years.

You let the covers fall off your shoulders and sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from your arms. You dressed in silence, pulled on your boots and stepped outside.

It was still early. The sky was the color of ash, the town wrapped in the hush of morning. Smoke curled from chimneys in slow spirals. Your breath fogged in the air as you crossed the quiet streets, your boots crunching softly beneath you. A few neighbors nodded as you passed. One of the children in the community handed you a tiny knitted bracelet without a word and ran off. You stared at it for a second before tucking it into your pocket.

You slipped into the warmth of the dining hall, nodding to a few early risers. Maria stood behind the serving counter, already ladling out bowls of oatmeal and pouring coffee.

She spotted you and smiled. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said with a shrug. “Habit.”

Her smile widened just slightly, as if she knew something you didn’t. “Big plans today?”

You blinked. “Uh… no. Just patrol, I think.”

“Mm. Right.” She slid a mug of coffee toward you.

You sat at the corner table, your usual spot, and picked at your breakfast. The oatmeal was warm, sweetened with something, but you barely tasted it.

Then the door opened, and there he was.

Heavy boots. That worn flannel you liked. His hair still damp, his jaw clenched in that familiar Joel way. He walked over to you, slow and purposeful.

“Morning,” he said, voice low.

“Morning,” you returned, wary.

He looked around, then leaned down a little. “Got a job. Maria wants us to check the old supply cabin. South side of the river.”

You furrowed your brow. “That hasn’t been used in months.”

He gave you a blank look. “Still gotta check it.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “On foot?”

“Nah, horses. Not far. But we gotta leave now.”

You stared at him, heartbeat skipping.

“Is this about today?”

His brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

“Nothing.” You stood slowly, collecting your tray. “Let me get my gear.”

He nodded, mouth pressed in a firm line. But his eyes lingered on you as you turned away.

It was just the two of you on horseback. The trees lining the trail were coated in snow, branches low and heavy. Joel rode ahead a few paces, occasionally glancing over his shoulder.

It felt normal, and that made it worse. You didn’t know if you were mad at him for pretending today didn’t matter — or mad at yourself for still hoping he’d remember.

But then Joel turned off the main trail.

You frowned. “Joel? This isn’t toward the storage cabin.”

He didn’t look back. “Shortcut.”

“Uh-huh.”

You followed him another five minutes until the trees thinned out and you saw it — a small cabin tucked between two birch trees. Smoke rose from the chimney.

You halted your horse. “Joel, what is this?”

He dismounted. “C’mon.”

You followed, suspicious.

Inside, the cabin was warm. The table was set and steam rose from a pot in the center. The scent of tomato, herbs, something rich and warm hit your nose.

He walked in behind you, rubbing his hands together. “Figured if I tried to do this in Jackson, or if I told you, you'd find some excuse not to come.”

You swallowed hard. “You cooked?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Kinda. Got help from Maria. Ellie made fun of me the whole time.”

He stepped closer, slower now. “I know we don’t always say things the right way. I don’t. But you’re…” He looked down, jaw working. “You’re important to me. And this day’s important. Not ‘cause of cake or candles or whatever. But because you made it. You’re here.”

“Joel…”

He finally met your eyes. “I’m glad you’re here. Still.”

You took a shaky breath. “You remembered my book last year. The chocolate.”

His voice was low. “That wasn’t enough. Wanted to do somethin’. For you.”

“I told you I didn’t need anything.”

“I know. That’s why it matters.”

You blinked back sudden tears.

He stepped closer, voice softer now. “I remember everything about you.”

He took a deep breath, as if deciding something. You looked at him, eyes wet.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small box — old, metal, a little rusted. You opened it carefully. Inside was a ring. Simple, silver, with a faint scratch on the band. It was beautiful.

“It’s not for anythin’ fancy,” he said quickly. “Just… wanted you to have somethin’."

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I love you,” he said, low, like he’d been holding it in for years. “And I’m not good at this. But I want more. With you. Here. However you want it.”

You stepped forward and kissed him, fiercely, your hands curling into his jacket. He held you like he was afraid you’d disappear, his mouth slow and reverent on yours. You wrapped your arms around his waist. He stilled — just for a second — before his arms came up and folded around you.

You stood like that in the cabin’s quiet warmth, holding on.

“I don’t need big things,” you whispered into his chest. “Just this. Just you.”

He didn’t respond right away. But his grip tightened. His lips brushed your hair.

“Then you got me,” he said. “Today. Tomorrow. Long as I’ve got breath.”

Later, after dinner, after laughter and a glass of something Joel had insisted was aged but clearly wasn’t, you sat beside the fire with a blanket draped across both your legs. He rested his hand on your thigh.

And when the fire burned low, and your eyelids drooped, you leaned into his shoulder and let yourself fall asleep there — warm, safe, remembered.

[miss-celestial-being]

Flinch

Summary: Joel finds out what your previous partner did to you, and has trouble dealing with it. Based on this request.

Warnings/tags: mentions of abuse, age gap relationship, jackson joel, comfort, established relationship, joel is obsessed, 50s joel, 30s reader

MASTERLIST

Sometimes, you flinch. Just a little. If someone reaches quickly for something near you, or raises their hand to adjust their glasses or hair, you’re unable to stop yourself.

It isn’t like you completely back away, or have some kind of full body reaction. You just wince a little, shut your eyes tight and brace yourself for only a second, until you realize a blow isn’t coming.

It’s been two years, but the habit is hard to break.

Most people don’t notice, anyway. Except Joel.

It takes him a few months. You’re still sort of getting to know each other, but it feels deeper than that. You could both tell, right away, that there was something pulling you together.

A string, tied to your wrist, that led to his. Every moment of your life, as terrible as it had been, leading you here.

To safety. And you know Joel is safe. There are some men who hurt women, and some men who don’t. You know what kind Joel is. Even after everything he’s done. You know.

He brings it up, eventually. It’s late spring, the air is getting so warm now, you can wear shorts instead of jeans and don’t need your woolen hat and mittens every time you walk the streets of Jackson Hole.

The air smells sweet, and the weeds and flowers are blooming.

In the early evening, you and Joel sit on his porch, rocking gently back and forth in companionable silence.

He reaches to the table between you. He’s only reaching for his drink, but he does it a little too quickly.

You flinch. It’s so small. Barely perceptible, but his hand freezes.

“You do that sometimes,” he says after a long, tense pause. His voice is deep, and serious.

“Do what?” you ask, avoiding his eyes.

“Someone reaches for you, or near you, and you act like…”

Finally, you turn to him, your eyes narrowed. “A hit dog.”

All the breath leaves your lungs in a quick, painful exhale.

“Well, that’s quite a way to put it.”

He has the good sense to look ashamed of himself, but he doesn’t look away or back down.

“Is that it? Someone used to hit you?” There’s a hint of a challenge in his voice, but you know it’s not meant for you.

“Yeah. Someone used to hit me.”

Joel doesn’t pry. He sits back in his chair, eyes still on you, his expression wary. The air between you is tense for the first time, and your palms feel clammy.

It’s long minutes before you finally speak, but you can’t look at Joel while you say it. “In the QZ, I… was with this guy. Militia guy. Thought it would keep me safe, it was tough in there. You know. But, he liked to hit women. I was just a target for him. We were together a year. He…” You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands balling into tight fists. “He broke my arm twice, among other things. Until I left. Found my way here.”

It’s quiet again. You can’t say anymore, don’t want to go into details about the things he did to you, the things he forced on you. You’re not sure you’ll ever speak them out loud. It feels scary, but kind of good, to tell Joel a little about it.

“Where is he now?” Joel asks finally.

A sardonic laugh leaves you. “Dead. That’s why I left.”

You dare to look at Joel. He’s tense all over, his brow furrowed, gripping the edges of his chair so hard you fear it’ll splinter.

“You killed him?”

You clasp your shaking fingers in your lap. You can still hear the gunshot, feel that fear and desperation. It was forever ago, but it was yesterday.

“He was gonna kill me.”

Joel’s chair creaks as he rises from it. Your chest sinks as you think at first that he’s leaving, disgusted with you.

Instead, he kneels in front of you, between your knees, and pulls your hands into his. He doesn’t seem to care that they’re sweaty and shaking.

“Good. I’m proud of you for it.”

You haven’t cried over this in a long time. Truly, you feel as if the work you’ve done to move past it and heal yourself has been effective.

But seeing Joel there, kneeling at your feet, looking at you with such a strange mix of anger and awe, the sealed dam breaks again.

You fall forward, pressing your forehead to his, and the tears fall between you.

“I know you’d never do that. I don’t mean to flinch,” you tell him with shaky words. “I just, it’s a reflex I can’t get rid of.”

He squeezes your hands, then wraps his arms around you, pulling your chest to his.

“I’ll be more careful,” he says. His voice is thick with emotion. “Move more slowly. I’m old so it won’t be hard.”

Through your tears, you chuckle, and it helps to break the tension you’re still feeling. It means more than you can express that Joel would do that for you, would try to be so conscious of his movements.

Your face is in his neck, the scent of him filling your nose as he holds you so tight, tighter than he ever has.

“If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him,” he whispers, and you grip him tight. You pull away, just a little bit, so you can see him but stay in his arms.

“He died like a bitch. Crying, begging for his life,” you say, and Joel just nods, as if to tell you that was the right thing to do.

He presses his lips to yours, softly, once and then twice, and then urgently, as if to reassure you this way that you’re safe, that you’ll never have to go through that again, so long as you have Joel.

“This ain’t the right time to tell you,” Joel says when he pulls away and leaves you breathless, “but I’m in love with you.”

Your grin is ear to ear, and tears seep out once more. “There’s no wrong time to say that. I love you too.”

His small smile fades into an expression as serious as death. “I’ll never let anyone touch you, not ever again.”

You run your fingers down his cheek, and he leans into your touch.

“I know,” you whisper.

When he rises and extends his hand to you, you don’t flinch.

[miss-celestial-being]

dw abt it, lovely

its my birthday!!

[miss-celestial-being]

its my birthday!!

[miss-celestial-being]

polaroid hearts

pairings joel miller x reader

summary during a quiet patrol, you and joel find a working polaroid camera at a gas station. later, you discover he’s been secretly taking pictures of you.

tags established relationship, slow-burn, tender moments, filled with cuteness overload, fluff, and sweet romance as joel secretly cherishes the memories you create together.

masterlist

it happens on a slow day. one of the rare ones.

the two of you stumble on the gas station, half-collapsed but still standing while on patrol together. it’s one of those quiet, golden afternoons, where everything feels just a little softer.

no infected, no people. just you, joel, and the crunch of gravel beneath your boots.

inside, the place is mostly ransacked, long picked clean by the past patrol.

you and joel knew but for some reason decided to check inside.

“i’ll check the back,” he says, brushing his hand across your lower back as he passes.

that little touch. simple and instinctive still gives you butterflies.

you sift through shelves, overturned display racks, old register drawers. you’re about to move on when something behind the counter catches your eye.

a polaroid camera.

“no way…” you murmur, pulling it out carefully. joel hears you and rounds the corner, shotgun lowered but alert.

“you find somethin’?” you hold it up.

he pokes his head around the doorway, rifle slung over his shoulder.

“a camera?”

“polaroid,” you say, tapping it with your knuckle.

“retro as hell. wonder if it still—” you press the button. the machine clicks loudly, a little wheeze and miraculously a photo begins to slide out.

“no way,” you whisper, grinning like an idiot. “it works!” joel eyes it with suspicion. “that thing still got film?” “got two whole packs, looks like. better make ‘em count.” joel chuckles low in his throat, leaning against the counter with arms crossed, watching you with that soft, fond look he probably doesn’t realize he wears just for you. “okay,” you say, turning toward him, “your turn.”

his smile fades a little. “nah. i’m good.”

you walk toward him slowly, raising the camera. “just one. for me.”

he sighs, not quite meeting your eyes. “i look like hell.”

you lean up on your toes and kiss his cheek. “you look like you. that’s what i want.” joel lets out a soft huff, but the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little.

“alright, fine. go on, then.” you raise the camera and snap the shot just as he squints at the light, caught between a smile and a protest. he’s caught mid-squint, sun in his eyes, standing near the light coming through the shattered window. there’s the hint of a smile on his lips

the photo slides out with a buzz. you hold it delicately, waiting for it to develop.

“now i can remember this face when you’re grumpy tomorrow,” you say, giving the photo a dramatic little wave.

“i’m not grumpy.” he crosses his arms but doesn’t say more.

you tuck the picture carefully into your pocket, joel watches you do it.

“you’re keepin’ that?” he asks, voice softer now.

“of course i am,” you say without hesitation. “you look…so damn handsome.”

joel shakes his head, but you can see it—the blush he tries to hide behind a chuckle.

that same week —

the fire crackles, sending flickers of amber light across joel’s front porch. the night in jackson is quiet as you sit beside joel, his arm draped casually over the back of your chair, fingers tracing slow patterns against the worn wood.

without thinking, he reaches for the camera.

the button clicks, and you don’t even stir.

the photo slides out, and joel takes it gently, shielding it in his hands as it develops.

you, caught mid-thought, a soft, genuine smile playing at your lips. no walls, no guarded edges—just you.

you felt it before you saw it.

you watch him, stunned into silence by how careful he is with it.

the subtle shift in joel’s posture, the way he straightened just slightly, like he was preparing for something. you caught the way his fingers lingered near the polaroid camera, the telltale glance in your direction, quick, like he was checking, like he was making sure you weren’t looking.

but you were.

when the image begins to appear, joel stares at it. a smile spreads across his face. slow, sweet, impossible to hide.

you fought the smirk threatening to rise, keeping your expression soft, easy, like you hadn’t noticed a thing.

“whatcha doin’?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you like really looks. there’s something in his eyes, something unspoken.

“you were peacefully looking at the fire’ earlier,” he says softly, lifting the camera.

“you looked… i don’t know. happy. i don’t see you like that near enough.”

“joel,” you murmur, already blushing.

“goddamn,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in quiet awe. “how’d i get so lucky?” he looks at you then.

“you. just sittin’ there. smilin’ like that.”

you don’t know what to say. your heart’s pounding.

joel watches you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back a grin.

you catch the way he glances at the camera, the way he shifts slightly like he’s debating something. so, naturally, you decide to make his choice easier.

with exaggerated enthusiasm, you lift your hands to your face, shaping them into hearts and pressing them against your cheeks, tilting your head.

“how’s this for a shot?” you tease, batting your lashes for effect.

joel exhales a laugh and lifts the camera without hesitation.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters, shaking his head. click.

the photo slides out, and joel picks it up with practiced care.

you lean forward, watching it develop, your heart hammering just a little faster than it should.

slowly, your image comes into view—that sweet pose, the warmth in your expression, the way the firelight softens everything.

but the real giveaway is joel’s face when he sees it—how his lips press together like he’s trying to suppress something big.

you poke his arm. “what? didn’t turn out?”

he shakes his head, eyes still glued to the picture. “no,” he says, voice quieter now. “turned out too good.”

you blink at him, watching the way his fingers trace the edges of the photo like it’s something delicate.

and then without a word he tucks it away in his jacket, alongside the other. “wait,” you laugh, reaching for it. “that one’s mine.”

joel leans back, smug now. “nope.”

you try again. he dodges.

“joel,” you groan, half-laughing, half-serious.

he smirks, finally meeting your eyes.

“gonna keep it with the others,” he says simply, patting his jacket.

you blink. “…others?”

joel doesn’t answer, just watches the fire again, completely unbothered by the way your mind is now racing with the thought of just how many pictures he’s been secretly collecting all this time.

you sit back, grinning like an idiot.

you’ll find them someday.

the fire has burned low now, embers glowing soft in the night. you sigh, shifting closer, and joel doesn’t hesitate. his arm settles around you, firm, steady. he’s always been solid, always been something to hold onto, even when he doesn’t realize it.

your cheek presses against his shoulder, breath evening out. joel turns slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes soft in the firelight.

“you tired?”

you hum a little, not quite answering, just letting yourself sink into the warmth of him. his fingers trace slow patterns against your arm, absentminded, gentle.

“you’re gonna steal all the polaroids, aren’t you?”

you smile without opening your eyes. “obviously.” joel huffs a quiet laugh, tilting his head back. “gotta admit, i like the thought of you keeping ‘em.”

your fingers tighten just slightly against his sleeve, something deep settling in your chest.

“you should be in more of them,” you say, voice low, drowsy. “maybe.” you know that you’ll get your chance to capture more of him.

one memory at a time.

just like he’s been doing with you.

the next week —

you and joel are back on patrol, weaving through the forest on the edge of jackson. the sunlight filters through the branches in scattered beams, casting long, golden streaks across the moss and ferns.

you’re walking ahead, checking the brush for signs of anything recent, when you hear him behind you.

“hey,” joel says, voice low.

you glance back. he’s a few paces behind, hands resting casually on the straps of his backpack. his rifle hangs across his back.

there's something about the way he’s looking at you. like he’s trying to decide something.

you slow your pace until you're side by side. “what’s up?”

he doesn’t meet your eyes at first, just studies the clearing you’ve stepped into—a little patch of light surrounded by trees, the trail winding quiet through it.

“you, uh…” he clears his throat. “still got that camera?” you pause, the mug halfway to your lips. you don’t smile. not yet.

just nod. “yeah. in my bag.” you tilt your head, curious. “why?”

joel shifts his weight, eyes scanning the tree line like he’s stalling, but there's no tension in his shoulders. “just figured…” his hand lifts halfway, then drops again. “if you still wanted a real picture. of me.”

you blink at him. “now?”

he gives a small nod, almost sheepish. “better light out here than back home. figured maybe… the trees’d look better behind me than a damn porch railing.”

you smile, slow and warm. “alright, joel. c’mere.”

he exhales like he’s already regretting it, but walks over without protest. you watch as he steps into the clearing, finding a spot where the sunlight filters through the canopy. he plants his boots in the moss and— pop.

there it is.

that knee.

he shifts his weight onto one leg, resting the other with just a slight bend, popping his knee out like he always does when he’s standing still. like it’s habit. like it’s comfort.

you grin. “you always stand like that.”

joel furrows his brow. “like what?”

you tilt your camera down, gesturing. “that knee. you pop it every time you’re trying to look like you’re not posing.”

he scoffs under his breath. “ain’t posin’.”

“mmm,” you hum, raising the camera again. “sure you’re not.”

he doesn’t argue. just lets his arms cross loosely over his chest, posture relaxed—but that knee stays popped, his weight settled the way it always is when he’s just being himself.

you look through the lens, and your chest tightens.

joel, out in the open, just him. honest. unhidden. carefree. standing there in the quiet green of the woods like he belongs to it. like he belongs here, with you.

click.

the camera clicks, and the photo slides out with that familiar little whir. you cradle it in your hands as it begins to develop, shielding it gently from the breeze.

joel steps closer, watching with quiet curiosity. you hold the picture up between you both as the image starts to form.

slow and ghostlike at first, then clearer.

joel beneath the trees, that knee popped, hands relaxed. his face half in sunlight. eyes soft. like he’s not fighting anything in that second.

you glance over. “you look good.”

he studies it for a beat. “didn’t even realize i stood like that.”

you smirk. “i know. that’s what makes it good.”

“so,” you begin, your voice teasing, “didn’t know you were such a softie, joel.”

joel’s eyes soften, a rare, quiet affection flickering there. “you got me figured out, sweetheart. ain’t nobody else sees it like you do."

“i just… don’t mind you takin' my picture, sweetheart."

you laugh lightly. "if you keep standing like that, sure."

"you’re really gonna give me crap about the knee, aren’t you?"

“hey, i’m not judging. just sayin’, it’s part of your charm,” you tease, nudging his shoulder again.

“yeah?” joel ask, looking over at him.

your heart does that thing again. just a little at his words. you keep your gaze ahead, not wanting him to catch the way your cheeks warm.

the rain starts in the early afternoon. you and joel cut patrol short before it rolls in fully, returning soaked but laughing, hoods dripping, boots heavy.

now, the storm taps gently at the windows.

joel’s upstairs tinkering with a stubborn window latch, while you curl up on his couch with a blanket and a mug of tea, the room filled with the low hiss of the fire.

you shift to get more comfortable, and something slips off the armrest with a soft thump, joel’s flannel jacket.

you lean down to pick it up. as you straighten it, your fingers brush something stiff in the chest pocket.

curious, you slip your hand inside.

polaroids.

you blink.

carefully, you pull them out, all tucked together. the edges are worn, a little soft, clearly touched over and over again. it’s you.

sitting by the fire, cheeks pink from cold. you’re laughing, eyes crinkled.

the next: you curled up in the joel’s couch, fast asleep, head tipped against the window. sunlight streaks through the glass. there’s a shadow in the bottom corner. joel’s hand, maybe. close but not touching.

another: you in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove, tongue between your teeth in concentration. light pouring in from the window. one of your socks is mismatched.

then the one, hands on your cheeks in a heart shape, eyes squinting with laughter.

you remember that one. you remember how warm he looked at you afterward, even when he tried to hide it.

you flip to the last one. you, in profile, sitting on the porch with a blanket around your shoulders. the light hits your face in this soft, golden way that feels more like a memory than a photograph.

you aren’t smiling. you’re just… peaceful.

you don’t even hear joel’s footsteps until he appears. he stops mid-step when he sees what you’re holding.

“guess you found ‘em.”

you look back down at the photos, heart full and aching in equal measure. “you’ve been carrying these around?”

he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “didn’t mean to hide ’em, really. just… i dunno.”

you trace the edge of the photo with your thumb. “these are all of me.”

joel nods slowly. “yeah.”

“you don’t have any of yourself.”

he shrugs. “don’t need any of me. i remember me just fine.”

your chest squeezes. you walk over, placing the photos gently on the table, and wrap your arms around his neck. his hands settle on your back, one of them coming up to cup the back of your head.

“you’ve been holding onto me,” you whisper. joel leans his head down against yours, murmuring into your hair. “always.”

you pull back enough to meet his eyes. “you know i’m stealing one, right?”

“figured you might.”

“this one’s mine.”

he watches you tuck it into your pocket with a fondness so open, so sweet, it leaves you breathless.

you smile at him. “don’t worry. i’m gonna take so many pictures of you, you won’t know where to keep them.”

explicit version — coming soooon!

[miss-celestial-being]

Ok genuine question for Joel writers. Why does yn have to be 18-20 in EVERY. SINGLE. Joel x reader fic

Ok over exaggeration, but it’s like 9/10 fics I see. I havent been able to find a single one where they are the same age (or even CLOSE to the same age.) the oldest I’ve seen is reader being in her 40s and Joel is approaching 60. I know it’s probably because 90% of the people writing these are in their 20s but still.

Like I’m not one to kink shame but I genuinely feel like I’m the only one who finds this kind of disgusting. I know it’s just fiction but it feels very tone deaf considering being a father is such an integral part of Joel’s character… are we all ok with writing him dating a woman the same age as his kid? That just feels.. icky…

And yes, one can argue “they’re both adults so it’s fine” which is true, and that can be applicable in some situations, it doesn’t make a 30+ year age gap any less weird and gross. Even if two characters are both adults there is an undeniable MATURITY gap that and power dynamic that comes with dating a 50+ year old man when your frontal lobe isn’t fully developed.

Anyways, this is just my opinion. Feel free to agree or disagree with me in the comments, just be kind please 🫡

(Mentioning my COLDEST take of the century that there’s a lot to be said about the casual romanization of borderline pedofilia in plenty of fandoms on this app, but I mean. Come on. We’ve all seen it)