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soulreader05 · 6 months ago

Text

I’ve been waiting for this moment.

Where the Wild Things Are - Chapter 10

Chapter Ten: Family Line

Plot: Wild men or monstrous infected creatures, the world is wild and ravaged by Cordecyps but some are raised in it and flourish becoming a wild thing.

Word Count: 4K

Pairing: Joel Miller x Platonic!Teen!Reader, Ellie Williams x Platonic!Reader

Warnings: canon-typical fighting/violence, injuries, harsh language, tw: NOTES OF SELF HARM, ANXIETY ATTACKS/RESPONSE, trauma from abusive mother, description of child neglect/abuse

a/n: I hope everyone enjoys the holiday season and here is a Christmas angsty post

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Scattered 'cross my family line.

I'm so good at telling lies That came from my mother's side. Told a million to survive

Scattered 'cross my family line.

God, I have my father's eyes But my sister's when I cry.

I can run, but I can't hide From my family line

Anything could happen. One wrong move can turn this into a bloodbath. You can see each individual, pausing at a woman who wears a balaclava covering the lower half of her face but you recognize those eyes. Lila squirms seemingly recognizing the group as the woman lowers her mask, both you and Lila saying the same thing.

“Mom..?” “Momma!”

The air is like daggers filling your lungs, stabbing you as you inhale, scraping and cutting you as you exhale. You’re not sure if she knows you anymore. Are you some fleeting memory of her poor child that left her? Abandoned her all those years ago. Do you even recognize her? Of course you do, she is the same in your memories, in your dreams and nightmares. She probably smells the same if you were to be in her embrace. The smokiness and burnt smell that others would cringe away but you seek comfort from it, the smell of burning wood always reminds you of her. The sharpness of almost rubbing alcohol changed to something more fruity whether it was wine or yeasty beer. But that smoky smell never left her. Even now breathing in fresh air you expect to get that hint of smoky. You are surely death gripping the reins as Lila vibrates in your saddle her hands reaching out to be taken…by her mother. You see the shocked looks from Tommy and Ellie as their gaze darts from you to the woman staring at you with equal shock. She finally speaks and it sends chills of fear but also safety through you.

“Y/n…is that really you honey…you’re alive?” She says and you think this a dream? As you see tears fill her eyes. The others that a with your mother lower their weapons and even Tommy and Ellie lower theirs too. You are speechless afraid if you say something you’ll wake up or she’ll disappear hearing you confirm you are the child she lost all those years ago.

“I’m sorry. I know this is all overwhelming. But it’s getting close to dark and infected tend to roam here. Look you should all come back with us to Jackson so we can figure,” Tommy says glancing over at you who is still silent dead staring at your mother someone he can’t help but feel like he knows, “Figure this all out.”

Your mother quickly wipes the tears from her face, “Yes I’m sorry. Thank you that is so kind of you.”

With that decided you all head towards Jackson. Tommy leading up front, Ellie in the middle with the other group including your mother, and you in the back with Lila. You’re sure Red could sense your complete shut off and taking over. You take in everything about her, her hair is longer and greying with age, and she looks the same but just older and weathered with time. She dressed normally for the weather nothing standing out, a sawed-off shotgun in her free hand the other holding her reins. You had so many questions since you knew that Kansas had fallen to infected where had she been this whole time? Lila yawns snuggling into your chest. When did she have time for another child, she could be old maybe five or six. She could have had her when you were gone makes sense, you wouldn’t know if your mother was pregnant when you were in the QZ. Or would you have? The way she just acted was nothing you experienced in the fourteen years with her. Was your leaving cause her change? Did she miss you? Looking down at Lila you feel your chest tighten, did having her change her? Was this child the reason she wanted now to be a good mother? You wince already remember her words at that comment. She was the best mother she could be with the resources she had. It’s your fault you made it harder on her to raise you. You wouldn’t have a better childhood if you listened more. Did Lila listen? Was she better at things you struggled to do before? Did she have your mother’s affection? Did she have your mother’s love? Was Lila being born a way to heal her broken heart from you abandoning her?

Your restless thoughts keep you occupied for the duration of the trip and when you come partially aware you are at the gates of Jackson right as the sunset dips below the horizon and the lights of the community start turning on. Watching the large gates open to a small crowd of people waiting for your return but also hearing of the newcomers. Your gaze sweeps seeing members of the council, Dina and Jesse there most likely for Ellie, and Joel and Maria are waiting in the forefront of the crowd. All your horses draw to a stop the stablehands come and start guiding the Jackson and outsider horses to the stables for food and rest. In your arms is a sleeping Lila, your pack and rifle still on your back an empty expression on your face. There might be a look on your face but you can’t think of one as you stare off as the man with the gruff voice helps your mother off her horse and you see a slight weight shift to her, something is either wrong with her leg or foot. You are motionless as everything else moves around you, Dina and Jesse greeting Ellie who seems to be keeping an eye on you. The council alongside Maria with their son as they speak to Tommy about the newcomers, his gaze also flickering back to you as you still just stand there. Other members of Jackson check out the new people the local doctor coming to check some of their injuries, especially a man who’s currently in a makeshift sling. You don’t notice Joel’s concerned gaze on you as people move around you but remain frozen with a little girl in your arms. One person comes over a nurse or someone comes and takes Lila from your arms and you slip your rifle and revolver off to someone so they can be locked up with the other weapons. You mumble lightly that she might have some minor injuries to check, but it comes out like, ‘Cuts…no bites…she’s hers.” Your gaze is still locked.

It’s a shock to the Millers and even those that know of you. Since you’ve been here, it’s harsh, bitter, curses or glares thrown. A hot temper, but then it mellowed out still a spitfire but wasn’t picking fights. This version was frighteningly silent, like the entire world around you faded away only focused on one thing, but even you didn’t dare to speak up or try and react. Joel just sees someone coming at you and he makes a step to go protect you but a woman throws her arms around your shoulders pulling you into a tight hug and crying into your shoulder.

“Oh thank god you’re alive. I thought all these years I lost you and I never forgave myself.” She sobs into your flannel her tears and snot getting on it, your body rigid hands held at your side as she holds you with such tender affection. This was the first time she hugged you, you would remember other times trying to get one only for her to push you away. It was always you trying desperate to initiate one but here she was holding onto you like you were going to crumble apart if she let go. She pulls away with teary eyes she clutches your cheeks looking over you taking in every detail of you and keeping it in your memory. You shudder at the eye contact, you don’t think she’s ever stared at you for this long and it only gets your heart racing more.

“You are so beautiful and all grown up. I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you then, but I was given a second chance now,” She sniffs and you don’t know what to say your hands clenching and unclenching trying to keep yourself grounded. A burning sensation at the back of your eyes.

Everyone could sense how uncomfortable you looked, not knowing how to act in this very emotional situation, “Tommy who is that?” Maria asks not fully able to hear every word being said but it was clear whoever this was knew you.

“The little girl, Lila that’s her mother,” Tommy hesitates in dropping this bomb, “She is also Y/n’s mother.” Joel’s eyes widen once he gets a better view of the woman immediately getting thrown back almost 20 years ago remember her. It was still early in the Outbreak with people being evacuated to other QZs. They were all together in the Dallas QZ until they got separated when it reached capacity. Tommy and he went to Boston and she went to another QZ. He wouldn’t have forgotten her.

“Tommy what did you do,” Maria asks immediately on edge. If that was your mother she knew exactly what she was capable of. Does she warn them to stop this? Had things truly changed with time? No, she abused you as a child she can’t change…but with her crying in front of you Maria felt hesitation to speak. Both Tommy and Joel give her a confused look before returning to look at what’s happening before them.

Your throat feels tight as you barely get the word, “M-mom…I..I” out and she’s all teary while you feel on the edge of having a breakdown.

“Shhh don’t worry about anything. All that matters is that we are together as a family. You, me, your sister,” Her mentioning Lila pushes you further to the edge, your hands squeeze so tightly you’re sure blood is drawn, “Oh honey you’ll love it,” She gushes. Honey that name you only dreamed she’d call you another step towards the edge.

“We’ve been waiting for this moment and…you have Derek…your father.”

You are shoved off the ledge as tears spill from your eyes but you know they aren’t tears of joy. It’s far from it as you see the gruff man with the bandana now lowered come over standing beside your mother. He rests a hand on your shoulder and you can feel it burning through your clothes and scarring your flesh.

“Hey kiddo…it’s been some time,” It’s like every warning bell is ringing in your head. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. You’re not supposed to get a face to the name ‘dad’, he was nameless. A bastard father to a bastard daughter. You were going to die and never know what he looks like conjured up some image of a man that is always changing. You shove your mother off you and she gasps as your father goes to steady her all eyes immediately on you. Your hands are clenched so hard in fists that your face tenses up with these wide frightened eyes. An almost pained noise comes from your throat like you want to scream or cry but are forcing it back.

“Honey..” “Kiddo.” Both your parents try reaching back to you but you take a clumsy step back and then book it pushing through the crowd. Your vision is a blur and you nearly run into Joel who tries to steady you but you shove him away and book it down the street darting down an alley. Your mother tries going after you but is held back by your father.

“Ellie,” Joel calls out getting the girl and her friends' attention, “Try and find her please.” The younger girl nods and the three young kids run off in search of you. Joel turns back to the couple bickering as Tommy and Maria approach.

“I told you it would all be too much,” The man says and the woman runs her hand through her hair, “It doesn’t matter now. We can’t take it back.” She turns to look over at the adults her gaze pausing on one familiar man.

“Joel Miller?” She seemed shocked to see him especially alive after all these years there almost seemed to be a twinge of fear in her eyes.

“It’s good to see you after all these years,” Joel says and Tommy looks between his brother and your mother and it clicks how he recognizes her. The QZ was back in Dallas in their early days. She and Joel were pretty close that was…like 18 ye— Immediately his gaze darts from both Joel to your mother, then to your ‘father’. His first memory of you was thinking how familiar you looked then when he came back with Joel it was like staring at a mirror from face down to attitude. Especially now looking at your ‘father’ you didn’t look a lick like him, maybe Lila did but you certainly did not. He squeezes his wife’s hand and flashes her a small ‘when need to talk’ look which she understands and squeezes back. Your mother laughs awkwardly.

“Yeah, what are the odds…anyway thank you for all you’ve done for our daughter it’s good having her safe with us.” She says and the irony from it given the fact you just ran off.

“It’s glad to see you alive and well,” Maria says fixing her grip on her son, “Y/n has said much about you…but not much about her father.” Her gaze moves from your mother whose gaze almost narrows to daggers to your father who looks a bit nervous.

“Unfortunately Y/n and her father haven’t had the best relationship but we’re hoping to reestablish that, especially in this world where anything can happen,” Your mother says smoothly and Maria tensely nods.

“Well…let’s get you situated with some food, check in on your other daughter, and then we’ll get you and your people settled for the night,” Tommy suggests, and your mother and her group all nod. Tommy begins leading them off to the Tipsy Bison. Maria goes over to Joel who watches the whole scene.

“Joel go find Y/n,” She says and Joel nods but he notices the conflicted look in her eyes.

“You know something,” He questions and she flashes him a look but sighs.

“Just give me time Joel, please. Go worry about her for now.” She pleads and Joel looks at her trying to unpick her but sighs and goes off and looks for you.

Joel hits your normal spots, the stables, specifically Red’s pen but not there, checks Maria and Tommy’s house to see if you’re there, and even goes to his home to see if you decided to run off there but no, he was going to head to the library when he runs into Dina who tells them they found her. The pair head out into the woods to reach a clearing, there’s an unlit stone firepit and some benches made my logs, he’s been here a few times with Ellie and Tommy, but this was mainly a spot for the younger kids.

“Go!” You screech like a wild banshee as a rock hits a stray tree. There he finds, Ellie and Jesse on the outskirts where the forest ends and the clearing starts. You are in the middle of it pacing and he feels a spike of concern seeing flecks of red in the snow.

“Y/n let’s just talk—” Ellie starts jumping back as another object is thrown in their direction a pained held-back scream.

“Fuck off!” You grit out. Your bloody hands grip your hair, your gloves tossed amongst the snow as you pace your heart racing and they can see you choking to get air in your system.

“Kids go,” Joel says and Jesse and Dina nod starting to trail away he sees Ellie look at him hesitant before she too leaves. Joel takes a step into the clearing the crunch of snow makes you whip to face him and he raises his hands like taming a wild beast. Your chest heaves as you eye him with sharp panicked eyes. Tears stream down your flushed cheeks as you continue making that pained noise.

“I’m not gonna do anything kid,” Joel says calmly as one of your hands that grips your hair moves to your flannel clutching your collar as if it’s choking you. Joel rushes as you drop to your knees with an unhuman cry like this tidal wave of emotions finally takes over. He pries your blood hand from your hair to stop harming yourself allowing you to death grip his sleeve as you scream this gutwrenching sound. Joel squeezes you close to his chest as your screams muffle in his coat soon it turns into a heartbreaking whimper. He has to look up to the sky to blink back the burn in his eyes holding you close to him his hand stroking your hair to soothe you.

“It’s okay…I got you,” He says as you tremble in his hold weak sobs and hiccups as you break down. It took a while for your cries to settle down just sniffles fill the clearing, the cold snow seeping into both of your pants a grounding force. Joel pulls back to get a good look at you and you see the pity frown as he takes in your bloodshot eyes, snotty and just out of it from your breakdown. His thumb swipes at your cheek to help rid the stray tears and you don’t even react to it. You don’t flinch at his eye contact unlike your mother, his contact doesn’t send pain throughout your body, your heart doesn’t race, nor does your chest tighten as he holds you. It’s quiet between you too as he helps you to your feet, shrugging his coat off and putting it over your shoulder to stop your shivering. Your stare is endless completely checked out as he rushes to collect your gloves shoving them in his pocket turning and seeing you still standing there. The coat seems to engulf you and he sees little droplets of blood fall from your slack fingers staining the pure snow crimson. Wrapping his arm around your back he begins guiding you out of the clearing to civilization. The other proof something happened would be the stains of blood that litter it. Like a sacrifice was needed to completely let yourself go.

Joel brings you to Rancher Street but instead of the home you’ve been staying at the past month he guides you up the porch steps to the place where it all started. The lights are dim as he guides you to sit on the couch before the still-crackling fire. Footsteps from upstairs and he sees a concerned Ellie coming down the stairs taking in the sight of you unmoving on the couch.

“Ellie get some blankets and a clean rag with water,” Joel says and Ellie rushes off the complete the order. Joel leaves his coat still on you but kneels to untie your boots and you do little to help just a deadweight. Your eyes were almost lifeless the flames of the fireplace flickering in them. Ellie returns with the items before heading off to the kitchen, Joel takes the cloth getting it damp before pushing back some of your hair seeing the scratches you caused, and being gentle to clean them away. You don’t barely react when he accidentally puts pressure on a cut as he cleans the blood and tears from your face. Once your face is clean he goes to work on your bloody hands when their a knock on the door.

“Joel, go I got this,” Ellie says returning with a steaming cup of what looks like hot chocolate, to try and lift your spirits. Joel lets the young girl take over heading to answer the door. There he finds his brother alongside his wife and child.

“Did you find her?” Tommy asks and Joel leads them inside from the cold but not completely in. They can see Ellie speaking softly to you as she cleans your hands but your gaze remains on the flames an exhausted look on your face. “Christ,” Tommy sighs pinching the bridge of his nose and Maria looks over a high wave of emotions seeing you completely shut down.

“Her…her mother…wanted to see know if she would be staying with them,” Tommy asks and Joel immediately feels a rush of anger, “I know it’s a stupid question.”

“Hell no Tommy,” Joel spats, “You think any normal person would react the way she did if they saw their mother and father again? I won’t let that happen.” He points at your lifeless body as Ellie tries offering you the drink but it’s like she’s invisible staring right through her.

“I know that Joel, you think I didn’t see that as well, but that’s her kid. Y/n is their family,” Tommy sighs and Joel scoffs.

“And is she not ours?! Who took care of her all these months? Who let her in their home when she thought she had no one? Who did she cry to and confided to? Us Tommy!” Joel points at himself then at his brother and wife, “Sure I know her mom and we all had our history together, but if my child tears themselves to the point of bleeding at the sight of them I’m not going to stand by.”

“I agree with Joel,” Maria's voice is smooth but a held-back anger in her tone. She holds her son with the protection of a mother and if she could she would be right over by you holding and comforting you. Both Miller brothers are surprised at Maria’s stance and Joel scrutinizes her trying to pick her apart to learn what she knows.

“You know they aren’t going to like this,” Tommy says but the looks on both Maria and Joel’s faces make him sigh. Both of them are willing to die on this hill. “I’ll go let them know that she’s already asleep.” With that, Tommy presses a kiss to his wife’s temple before leaving the home. Joel looks back seeing that you are indeed asleep with Ellie resting her head on the armrests looking over you. Maria rests a hand on Joel’s shoulder as he looks down at his sister-in-law.

“Just take care of her Joel,” Maria says and Joel nods as Maria leaves. Joel comes over to Ellie who looks over you with such genuine concern and care.

“Come on kiddo,” He says offering a hand and pulling the teen to her feet keeping her close to his chest, both drained from the high emotions.

“Will she be alright Joel?” She asks and Joel is silent looking down at you resting on the couch a frown on your face. Even in sleep, you were being tormented.

“She will…come on up to bed,” Joel says and Ellie tiredly listens heading up the stairs as Joel begins putting out the fire. He turns to where you lay lit by the sliver of light from the window and the hallway lights. His hand pushes your hair back making sure you’re comfortable, he doesn’t stop himself from smoothing out the crease between your brows and you seem to settle more a bit of tension released. A flash of Sarah covers your feature and he flinches at the resemblance of his daughter. Why looking at you brought memories of the daughter he lost confused him. There were moments when Ellie acted that reminded him of Sarah but the two of them were nothing alike, while Ellie was loud and brash, Sarah was gentle and soft-spoken This brief moment you look so young and innocent, a child that never got to be a child. You looked like his child.

“No one’s going to hurt you babygirl,” He says as he rises to his feet looking down at his daughter until he blinks and there you lay. He whispers into the air his oath to you.

“I promise.”

Where the Wild Things Are Tags

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If your name is crossed out tumblr won’t let me tag you for some reason. Sorry :(

#where the wild things are series #the last of us #dad!joel miller #boycott naughty dog #the last of us hbo #joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #i’m in my feels #found family #joel miller x teen!reader #my heart #joel miller x platonic!reader #where the wild things are #platonic!joel miller #dad!pedro pascal

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thatoneacecryptid · 9 months ago

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The focus is obviously on Roz and Brightbill’s relationship and the mother son bond that they have but I was also incredibly touched by Fink’s relationship with Brightbill as well

Fink is a fox, a predator who was intent on eating Brightbill’s egg before the little guy even had the chance to hatch. Even for the first handful of minutes introducing himself he still kinda wants to eat the little guy until Roz supplies him with alternate food sources

But Fink goes from that to violently defending Brightbill from the other geese, whimpering when Brightbill is in danger in the pond, offering words of encouragement, gleefully reuniting with him when he comes home and for goodness sakes protesting when the other animals mess with his “baby pictures”

I love that little fox so much and the fact that he was always there when Roz was training him or when Brightbill was leaving/returning was an incredibly sweet detail

#that’s a dad right there and a good one too #the wild robot #fink the fox #brightbill #rozzum unit 7134 #pedro pascal

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strang3lov3 · 14 days ago

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Rock You

Dad rocks you to sleep.

Tags - dad!joel, incest, smut, one shot, dad jokes, banter, dad!joel eats slim jim’s (sorry. they’re a certified #dadclassic), road head, blow job, cum swallowing, fingering, piv sex, creampie, cockwarming, somno-ish, Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York lol. Sweet and loving nostalgia. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND ALL CHARACTERS ARE ADULTS. 5.5k words

A/N - He’s back, daddy’s girls 🩷 thank you for your patience. And thank you to all who contributed in the #dadsnacks discussion! That was very valuable.

Joel pulls his truck up next to the gas pump, then puts the vehicle into park and steps out. With your head against the window, you watch him through the windshield that’s all spattered in gnats and flies, Dad rounding the front of his truck. He looks so handsome, brows knitted together as he untwists the gas cap and puts the pump inside, graying hair blowing in the breeze. He pulls out his wallet then, reads a little sign, and then hangs his head back in irritation. “God dammit.”

Joel taps twice on your window, voice muffled as he speaks, “Gotta pay inside,” he says. “Let’s go.”

You roll your eyes. “Dad, let me just stay,” you whine.

But Joel doesn’t budge. “No can do, kiddo. I don’t like ya out here alone,” he says. “Come with, come pick out some junk food with me, huh?”

“I don’t want…whatever.” You can’t fight the smile that grows on your face. Joel knows all too well how to bribe you, his sweet fucking girl. You unclick your seatbelt and Joel opens the truck door, and he takes your hand and helps you down.

He’ll never stop doing that, you know. He knows you’re big now, all grown up. Your legs are longer and you’re more graceful than the little punk kid you once were, but Joel will always, always help you down. You bit it one goddamn time and ended up with a big gash on your forehead and all these scrapes on your knees, and you screamed bloody murder when Joel dumped peroxide on your skin to clean the wounds. It broke his fucking heart, hurting you like that, even if it was to help you in the long run. At least he got a giggle out of you when he let you hurt him - “hurt” him back by punching him in his strong bicep. Ouch, kiddo. Uh huh. Hurts real bad. Yep, we’re even now.

Joel holds the glass gas station door open for you, then points to a stack of baskets. “You know what to do.”

Joel follows you through the gas station, loving that beautiful grin on your face as you grab his snacks first - his preferred junk food never changes. Snickers, sunflower seeds, a honey bun, a couple of Slim Jim’s and some Reese’s peanut butter cups and a big bottle of Arizona Arnold Palmer to wash it all down. You did good, kiddo.

Dad’s turn. Joel picks out Sour Patch watermelons, your very favorite. He grabs you a big bag of white cheddar popcorn, too, and some of those mini powdered donuts. You always had a thing for those donuts. Joel’s standing in front of the refrigerated section, thinking hard about what to get you to drink. You approach him and browse with him. “Could get ya Bug Juice,” he teases, nudging your arm. “‘Member those?”

You laugh out of your nose, “Ew,” you giggle, scrunching your face.

“Ya liked ‘em when you were little,” Joel replies, opening the fridge and grabbing you a cherry Coke. You smile, Dad knows you so well.

You and Joel bring your items up to the register, where the attendant scans everything. Joel reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, then narrows his eyes at an end cap that catches his attention. “Grab me one’a them Paydays, would ya?”

You raise your eyebrow and put your hands on your hips and Jesus, you truly are your father’s daughter. Same fucking mannerisms and facial expressions right there.

“Dad, no. You broke your tooth on one of those the last time you ate one.”

“It was one time,” Joel argues quietly, snatching a Payday himself, and handing it as well as a couple of bills to the attendant, who’s laughing at this argument. “Put the change on pump four, please,” he tells her.

“Dad–”

“Can it,” Joel says. “Tooth was already cracked to begin with. Thank ya, ma’am,” he says to the attendant, swiping the white plastic bags full of snacks off the counter. Then he nods his head in the direction of the door.

“It was not,” you mumble, more for the attendant’s ears than for Joel’s. You wish her a nice rest of her day.

Outside, Joel opens his truck door for you and helps you into it, then fills his truck with gas. When he’s done, he puts the pump away and joins you in the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life as he turns the key. You’re back on the endless highway in minutes, snacking on junk food together.

“And ya know the great thing,” Joel starts, pausing to take a swig of his drink, “All this garbage s’only eight thousand calories.”

“It’s not, actually.”

“Yeah, how’s that?”

You swallow the Sour Patch watermelons you were chewing. “Because it doesn’t count when you eat it in the truck.”

Joel laughs at that, eyes crinkling with his smile. “You are wise beyond your years, girl.” He’s got his window cracked, and the wind is blowing his curls back. The sun beginning to set makes his dark eyes shine a vibrant amber in its glow.

Another hour passes. You notice a Volkswagen Beetle and punch Joel in his bicep, snickering. Before he can argue, he notices the car, too. “Didn’t say slug bug, darlin’. Doesn’t count.”

“Does too.”

Joel takes his right hand off of the steering wheel and makes his pointer finger and thumb into a circle, and holds it above the floor of the truck. “Psst. What’s that, kid? That a bug on the floor?” You gasp when you look down and roll your eyes when you see Joel’s circle, and he punches you in the bicep in return, laughing triumphantly. He punches lightly, of course. Dad never rough houses too hard with you, baby girl. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, then shakes out his arm. “Goddamn, girl. Your punch is gettin’ harder.”

More time passes by, and you’re keeping track of the number of flies that smack the windshield. You and Joel played twenty questions - he was thinking about coffee, and you were thinking about a cat. He tried to play again, but you shut him down. “I’m bored,” you whined instead, and Joel told you that you could go play in traffic.

You’re flipping through radio channels now, looking for something to listen to. Remember when Uncle Tommy would sit with you in the truck with some AM station on? Joel hated that. He thinks that’s partially where you got your attitude from, or at least where you learned to argue. Uncle Tommy would beg to differ, though. He thinks you and his brother are the same fucking person. Joel can make all the excuses he wants, and it’ll never change the fact that everything he is - the good, bad, and the ugly - you are too.

Joel reaches over your head for the CD case attached to the mirror above your seat and pulls out Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York. He puts it into the disc drive, humming along to ‘About a Girl’. You don’t remember it, but Joel used to play this album for you to get you to sleep, sometimes. He’d sing ‘Where Did You Sleep Last Night’ to you, too. Not very well, but neither of you gave a shit, because it was your special thing. Just for you and him, you and Dad.

“Are we almost home?”

“Do you see our house, baby?”

“No.”

Joel gives you a silent look in response, and you sigh dramatically. “I’m bored to fucking death,” you complain.

Joel clicks his tongue. “To death, huh? S’a shame. Well, was nice knowin’ ya.”

“Daaaad.”

“Oh, I know, I know, I know.” Joel leans over and pushes open the glove box, and rummages around for a pen and some paper. He finds a napkin instead. “Draw me somethin’ pretty,” he tells you.

You take the napkin, and you can tell it’s many years old by the words ‘a note for your lunch’ that are written on them in faded ink. You chuckle and put that napkin back, and find a different, blank one instead.

You can’t believe it’s still there after all these years. When you were in elementary school, you asked your dad to leave you a note in your lunch box because you liked that the other kids’ parents would write them sweet and loving notes. Notes like, you’re gonna do great on that test! I love you!

And what did your dear old man, Joel, write? A note for your lunch.

Joel would give anything to see the look on your face when you opened it, but in truth, he could perfectly picture it in his imagination when he was at work that day. Your cute little pout, inherited directly from him. When he picked you up from school later, you angrily handed it back to him.

“What? S’what ya asked for, right? A note for your lunch?”

“I hate you.”

“Uh huh,” he smirked.

You put your pen to your napkin before you’ve even got the faintest idea of what you want to draw, you just hope you’ll end up somewhere eventually. A squiggly circle here, a wobbly line there, all accidental mistakes. You groan in frustration, then put the napkin and pen back in the glove box. “I don’t wanna draw. It’s too bumpy.”

Joel sighs deeply and puts his head against his left hand, his elbow resting on the driver’s side door. “You don’t wanna draw,” he starts, “Don’t wanna play games, either. Just wanna complain, huh?”

“Yep,” you answer, crossing your arms and resting your face against the glass window.

“Then f’ya wanna complain, I’ll give ya somethin’ to complain about.”

You look over and see Joel switching his grip on the wheel. He uses his right hand to start to unbuckle his belt, his eyes darting from his crotch to the road ahead. “Gimme a hand here, kiddo. Shouldn’t be takin’ my eyes off the road.” Another one of his do as I say, not as I do moments.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. C’mon now, don’t make me ask twice.”

You huff and puff and sigh as you unbuckle yourself to take care of Joel’s belt and jeans. You poor girl, all bored and antsy. Your generation’s gonna have a tough time figuring that one out, Joel thinks. Keeping yourself entertained without a screen in front of your face. Shoot.

He’s getting hard as your soft, gentle hands undo the leather, patting over his bulge. Joel lets out a sigh when he feels you drag the zipper down, fingers tugging on fabric to free his cock. Joel sucks in his soft belly and pulls himself out for you, giving his length a couple of strokes with his fist before letting you take over.

It’s difficult to keep his eyes on the road with you bent over his crotch the way you are, with one of your hands wrapped around the base of his cock and the other on his thigh. You begin with a couple of kisses pressed against his soft tip, moving your way down his veiny shaft. You are dad’s kind, sweet girl, through and fucking through. He keeps the fact that this is quite an excruciating tease to himself, because he likes your generous kisses, finds it cute that you do this.

You circle his head with your tongue just twice, then take Joel into your mouth completely, gagging yourself in the process. You feel embarrassed as Joel pats your back, softly warning you, “Easy - woah - easy, baby girl. Not all once, honey, that’s how ya choke.” He chuckles after he says it.

It took Joel forever to stop cutting your grapes in half.

He rests the back of his head against his chair as you try again, this time working your way down his shaft a little slower. You’re making a mess of both yourself and Joel, just like he tells you to. “With your hand, baby, just like I showed ya,” Joel reminds you. You move your hand in time with your bobbing head, and the quiet, pleasured groans Joel makes go straight to your core. “Doin’ so good, honey. Attagirl.”

He grunts in surprise when you pull away suddenly, whining his name. Daaad. Joel pulls his eyes from the road momentarily to watch you pull one of his wiry, graying pubic hairs off of your tongue. He laughs, “Oh shit, I know. My bad, kiddo, I’ll trim first thing tomorrow.”

“You better,” you murmur, wiping your hand on his jeans. You bend back over and continue pleasuring him, and look at how quickly you find your rhythm, baby girl. It’s that steady, quiet, mindless repetition that calms you down, regulates your system. Joel tries to stress the importance of slowing down to you, of getting your mind off of stuff and things. It’s those quiet, repetitive activities that help you. Folding laundry, sorting buttons. And then, your oral fixation is satiated when you bob your head up and down on Dad’s cock, too, isn’t it? And it helps that much further, pacifies you in a sort of way. Funny how that works, huh?

Joel gives your back a couple of taps to signal his impending release. You pump your fist and massage the underside of his cock with your tongue, working him to his peak. Joel moans your name with all the love in the world as he cums all over your tongue, and you taste each rope of the very spend you’re made from, swallowing it all with a hum turned squeak when Joel tugs on your hair a little too hard. “Sorry, kiddo,” he apologizes quietly. Dad always did have a tendency of being rough with your hair when he would put it into pigtails or braids, but you were always a little tender headed, too, weren’t you? Christ, he misses doing those pigtails. The smell of green apple scented Suave’s detangling spray, those colorful hair ties he was always buying. Joel always wondered where they’d disappear to.

You take a sip of your Coke, then lay your head on Joel’s lap with the back of your head resting against his soft tummy, all tuckered out, just like he wanted you to be. Dad pushes some hair out of your face and traces the curve of your ear, rubbing the cartilage between his fingertips.

Your father has such gentle, loving hands as he runs one of them down your body, tugging up on your shirt. He rubs the valley between your hip and your waist, where it dips just so, then runs his hand over the curve of your ass. He pats you in time with the beat of Nirvana playing over his tinny speakers, then lets his fingers travel lower. He traces that little diamond shape that frames your pussy so perfectly, and tugs your soft shorts and panties to the side, dipping just his middle finger into you.

Joel can feel you clenching around his knuckle as he pumps it in and out of you, and he can hear that soft murmur of pleasure you let slip. “Yeah, that feels nice, huh, baby?”

“S’nice,” you mumble in agreement, and Joel’s adding a second finger. Dad’s got you memorized by hand, and knows how to touch you to make you come undone for him like you’re meant to. A little wiggling, curling of his fingers and you’re gasping, dripping into your cotton panties. Joel pulls his fingers out and slides them up the warm, wet seam of your pussy, and he finds your clit swollen and throbbing. Poor kid, he thinks. That can’t feel good.

He rubs your clit in steady, expertly made circles to get you off. He’s not looking to make you cum especially hard or anything like that - just a soft, sweet orgasm to soothe you off to sleep for the rest of the ride.

There are days when Dad does just that to you though, where he overstimulates you and fucks you so hard you sob. Sometimes he’ll shove his fingers down your throat to keep you from making too much noise, and he’ll feel a little guilty when you gag on them. Sorry, baby. Dad got ahead of himself.

And then, there are days where you ride him until you’re out of breath and gasping for air, where Joel has to slow you down and force you to take a break. Time out and have a sip of water, kiddo. There’s no rush. Dad’s not going anywhere.

Dad’s taught you the nuances of sex, and you’re lucky for that. To learn from someone who loves you and who’s so patient and experienced, similarly to when he taught you to drive. It doesn’t have to be all rough and grabbing hands, grabbing fistfuls of hair and flesh like you see in some TV and movies. Dad’s introduced you to the simple pleasure created between a body pressing against another body, the special warmth that comes from skin resting on skin, bones resting on bones, muscle twitching against muscle. Heavy breaths syncing as his arms wrap around your shoulders and waist, holding you close. Soft, gentle, never ending orgasms simply experienced for the sake of being experienced.

Joel doesn’t change his pace at all when your clit starts to throb and pulse rapidly. “That’s it, honey. Cum for Daddy.”

He works you through your orgasm, right until you’re whimpering, “S-stop, Dad, please. M’done, all done.”

“All done?” Joel asks, and you nod. He pulls his fingers from you and sucks them clean, then puts his hand on your back again. A little bit of rubbing, maybe some scratching, and you’re out like a light. Joel looks down at your sleeping face and notices a bit of his spend still on your lips. He licks his thumb, brings it to your mouth, then wipes it away.

And wouldn’t you know it, your song is playing. Joel sings along to the lyrics, repeatedly rubbing your cheekbone with his fingers, looking down at you every so often, though he knows he shouldn’t.

Sometimes, Joel will still instinctively look into his rearview mirror and angle it down, looking for your little legs kicking in your booster seat. Those days are long gone now, but the alternative isn’t so bad, is it? His sweet little girl asleep in his lap, drooling onto his jeans. The sun’s gone down, and there’s another two hours before he’ll be home with you. Joel holds his forearm protectively around your body.

When those two hours pass, Joel pulls into his driveway, then shuts off the truck. He puts his keys into the pocket of his soft, worn shirt, and he’s gentle as ever when he lifts your head from his lap, doing this silly and awkward, careful maneuver as he opens the truck door and slides out of the vehicle. He leans over your body and grabs you in his strong arms, then carries you tightly against his chest. Joel closes the truck door shut by kicking it with his foot, then looks down at you.

Your sleeping face, knocked the fuck out. Lips plump and pouting, drooling - there’s a nice stain of spit on his jeans, too. Not that Joel minds any. Lord knows he’s cleaned up worse from you. “Ohh,” he sighs quietly. “What’m I gonna do with ya, my girl?”

Drives in Joel’s truck always put you to sleep. Joel remembers when you were a baby, and fucking inconsolable. Colicky, you poor thing. All out of sorts. Nothing worked to soothe you - not a bottle, not a story, not being rocked or bounced or anything else. And Joel didn’t have the heart to just let you cry it out, either. He just couldn’t stomach listening to you cry like that, all alone and scared because your dad wasn’t there, and you needed him.

You kept Joel awake for days at a time, screaming your little head off. Joel was at his wits end with you, and he needed a break before he screamed his head off, too. So he buckled you into your little carseat and began driving to Uncle Tommy’s. Tommy owed him one, anyway. And you always had a thing for Tommy, too, which helped. You were sweet on him from day fucking one. He just had this special way with you, where he could soothe you and charm you out of your moods in a way Joel couldn’t always do. It made Joel jealous, if he’s being honest with himself. Still kind of does.

On that particular drive, Joel had realized at a point that he could actually hear Nirvana playing on the radio, and not your agonized screams and cries. In however many minutes it was you’d gone out like a light, and it’s like everything clicked in that moment. Whenever you got too fussy to relax, he’d just drive with you, his sweet baby girl. Sometimes listening to music, sometimes not. Sometimes Uncle Tommy would come with and he and Joel would talk in whispers that lulled you off to sleep, paired with the dull roar of the truck’s engine.

Joel grunts when he carries you inside, muscles burning as he brings you up the stairs. “When’d you get so fuckin’ big, huh?” he murmurs, laying you down on his bed. He tells himself you probably would’ve ended up in his bed, anyway. Joel unties your shoes one at a time and slips them off, quietly placing them on the floor. And it wasn’t so long ago that your shoes had velcro straps and lit up when you ran, was it? Good fucking god.

Joel takes off your clothes, one article at a time. Socks and pants first, then panties. He gingerly slips your arms back through your sleeves and the collar of your shirt up and over your face, careful not to disturb your slumber. But of course…

“Dad,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“Shit, sweetheart. M’sorry,” Joel whispers, stroking the side of your head. “Didn’t mean to wake ya. Go back to sleep, darlin’. S’okay. You’re home.”

You shake your head, wiping your eyes as you sit up. “Can’t sleep,” you argue tiredly.

Joel scoffs a laugh. “Oh bullshit, yes ya can. You’ve been knocked out for a while now,” he whispers, pulling off his own shirt. “Jus’ close your eyes, honey. Be right there to snuggle ya.”

“Mm-mm. Rock me, Daddy.”

Oh, Joel knows what that means. When he looks at you, he’s met with pleading, tired, and big eyes, asking him oh-so-kindly to rock you. You’re a master manipulator with those eyes of yours, you know. It took Joel a long time to learn not to cave to your puppy eyes, and it took Uncle Tommy even longer. If you asked Joel, he’d tell you that you can still get Uncle Tommy with that look.

“Rock you, huh?” Joel’s cock jumps in his denim. “Reckon s’a little late for that, kiddo. ‘Specially for a weeknight.”

“No, please,” you beg, reaching for your dad’s warm hand and putting it between your thighs. “I need you, Daddy.”

“Y’sure like to pull your ‘daddy’ card when you’re wantin’ somethin’ from me, huh?”

Joel loves the way you can’t hide your grin from his accusation. He sighs, then bites the corner of his lip to keep himself from mirroring the same smile. It’s true what they say, about kids making you soft. “Yeah, alright. I’ll rock ya,” he concedes, already pushing down his jeans and boxers. He plops in the seat of his La-Z-Boy rocker recliner that’s been in the corner of his room since you were born, lazily pumping his own cock while patting his thigh. “C’mere.”

You groan as you stand up, pausing to yawn while stretching. “Ohh, you are not long for this world, daughter of mine,” Joel murmurs, eyeing you as you move closer to him. You straddle his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face into his neck, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of his skin. “Scoot, kiddo. C’mon, up,” Joel grunts, urging you to sit up before spitting into his palm. “Lazy ass.” You whine in disapproval but do it anyway, sighing when you feel the blunt head of Joel’s cock prodding at your folds. He passes his cock through your seam a couple of times, then lines up with your entrance.

“Careful, baby. Easy does it,” Joel grunts, easing you down his length, sighing at the feeling of being enveloped in your warm cunt, warm for him and him alone. Joel thrusts up a little to bottom out, soothing your cries with the kindest of kisses pressed against your lips. “There she is. Down here, darlin’. Right here.”

Joel wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, close so that you’re chest to chest, skin to skin. He inhales deeply the scent of the top of your head and rubs your back, propelling the rocking chair with his feet on the ground. He notices goosebumps on your skin.

Rocking used to mean one thing, a long time ago. Joel soothing you to sleep, bonding with you. Your little self pressed against him, with a blanket over your shoulders and tucked under your feet as he read picture books to you. And it still kind of does mean that, in a way. It’s different now, of course, and it was always going to change. But it’s just as special. Maybe even more so, now.

Joel groans as you clench around his length. “Bedtime story,” you murmur against his skin. You’re holding onto him so tightly, warming your hands on his soft body.

Dad chuckles. “What, am I supposed to read your textbook to ya or somethin’? We donated all your picture books to Goodwill forever ago.”

“Just wanna hear a story, Daddy.”

“Mhm.” You moan as Joel leans forward, reaching behind his head to grab a blanket draped over the recliner. He spreads it out, then wraps it around your shoulders. “Let’s see…”

Joel thinks for a moment, quietly rocking you on his cock. With one hand under your ass, he uses his arm’s strength to assist in moving you up and down on his cock, just gentle, easy thrusts. His cockhead rubs perfectly against your g-spot, like you were made perfectly for him. And really, weren’t you? Isn’t this exactly what he brought you into this world for?

One of these things, at least.

“Alright. I know one,” Joel says.

“Tell me,” you breathe.

“I lost ya once,” Joel admits quietly.

You hum in surprise, pulling away from Joel for a moment to look at him. “Really?”

Dad clutches you back against his chest, putting you right where he wants you. “Sure did,” he answers, pausing for a moment. “Felt so fuckin’ guilty, kid. I thought I failed ya.”

Your heart pangs at that. “Daaad,” you whisper sadly.

“You couldn’t’ve been older’n four,” Joel begins. “I was tryin’ to get some work done with Uncle Tommy here in the house and ya wouldn’t leave us alone.”

When you giggle at that, Joel groans softly. You clench around his cock when you laugh.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” he continues in a soft voice. “Every other minute you wanted juice or a snack or you’d be sweet talkin’ Uncle Tommy into playin’ dolls with you,” Joel says. “You were drivin’ me fuckin nuts, girl.” Joel squeezes you tighter, then turns his head and kisses your forehead. “I sent ya outside in the backyard, which Uncle Tommy and I had just fenced in, mind ya. Because of you, if you’ll recall.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never told ya?”

“Mm-mm.”

“I sent that fence up because of you, trouble. I’d be grillin’ us hot dogs or somethin’ for dinner and I’d have ya right by my side, drawin’ me pictures with chalk on the patio. Remember this?”

“Mhm,” you murmur.

“Do you remember haulin’ ass across the yard the minute I turned my back?”

You giggle, “No.”

“Mhm, well - so I’m grillin’ for us, right, and I’d turn my back and pshoo, you’d be gone at the neighbor’s house charmin’ that sweet old lady outta the cookies she made. Miss Rosie was her name, right?”

“Yeah, I remember her,” you say fondly. She passed away a few years ago. You and Joel had gone to her funeral.

Dad laughs at the memory. He remembers stomping across her lawn, “Get your little ass back here,” he’d scolded, and you looked like a deer in the headlights with chocolate all over your face. “Did you spoil your dinner?”

“No, Daddy.”

Joel huffed in frustration as he bent down to pick you up, then held you on his hip. “Well,” he’d said, tickling your chin with his finger, “What do you say to Miss Rosie?”

“Thank you.”

Joel rolled his eyes and apologized to her, but she didn’t mind your little impromptu visit. Joel maneuvered you so that you were sitting on his shoulders, your little fingers tugging at his hair, and he marched you right back home.

“Anyway, you were buggin’ me an’ Uncle Tommy so I sent ya outside to make friends with a squirrel or somethin. And sure enough, you stayed busy out there,” Joel says.

He continues, “An’ then I got nervous,” he explains. “‘Cause I couldn’t see ya, and it was quiet. And quiet usually meant you were troublemakin’, my sweet girl.” He continues, “So I went lookin’ for ya out there and you were fuckin’ gone, kiddo. Gone,” Joel enunciates. “Didn’t know if you’d snuck out through the fence somehow or if some fuckin’ pervert lured ya out with candy and snatched ya off the street. We called the cops an’ everything. Screaming your name, lookin’ for ya in the neighbors’ yards.” Joel sighs deeply before continuing. You squeeze him tight and kiss his neck, and he squeezes you back, almost like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re right here, safe in his arms, and everything’s okay. “I was a wreck talkin’ to the cops. Cryin’ and everything ‘cause I lost my baby.”

Joel inhales deeply. “And then,” he says, “A cop came up to me and asked me what shoes you were wearin’, and I told him that you were wearing your pink Chucks. He told me to c’mere and I found ya in the fuckin’ egress window. Little shoes pokin’ out.”

“What?”

“The egress window, like the basement window,” Joel clarifies. “You’d lifted up the grate and sat down there, made friends with some toads. An’ then you fell asleep, you little shit.” Joel smiles at your giggle, the same sweet laugh you’ve always had. “Oh, you scared the bejesus outta me, baby girl. Think I started goin’ gray that fuckin’ day,” he whispers, then goes quiet as the story hangs in the air. “Anyway. That’s how I lost ya.”

“Father of the year, huh?” you tease quietly.

Joel rolls his eyes. “Uh huh.” He wants to tell you how sorry he is still, all these years later. But he thinks you know. “I love ya,” is all he says when he focuses on fucking you in the rocking chair he used to soothe you to sleep in, working himself and you closer and closer to the edge. You wriggle your hand between your bodies and touch your clit, and the way Joel fucks himself into you provides enough friction that you’ll be coming soon. He can hear it in the way you moan, or rather, the way you’ve stopped moaning. When you go quiet, he knows you’re close. He is too.

It’s only one, two, three long and deep thrusts before you’re coming, whimpering, “Dad, Dad, Dad,” as Joel fucks you through it, finding his own orgasm. Fuck, coming with his baby girl. Is there anything in this world more precious and special than that?

You stay on Joel’s lap, dripping his spend. Just quietly coming down, held securely in Dad’s strong arms. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and drifting off to sleep.

“Alright. Up, baby, up.” Joel pats your ass to rouse you. “I know you’re not sleepin’.”

But only silence from you.

“I can’t stay like this with ya, honey, my back’ll be all fucked up. C’mon, kiddo. Up.”

You don’t budge. Joel sighs deeply, accepting his defeat. He’ll stay like this with you, his softening cock buried in your pussy, maybe just for a moment longer. Rocking you gently, whispering sweet nothings to you. He’s a fucking sucker for you, baby girl.

More dad!joel here and a playlist here!

Hi ♡ if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging and/or sending an ask, but reblogs are especially appreciated. I get people are hesitant to publicly engage with a fic as icky as this one but it goes a long way in breaking the stigma, because after all, it is just fiction. Strength in numbers and all of that :) It’s been a rough go for me lately. I love you, thank you for reading.

Aaaand cat tax. Say hi to Gizmo :)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #Joel miller x reader smut #joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #pedro pascal characters #dad!joel #cw incest

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damneddamsy · 4 months ago

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

EVENT HORIZON: The line crossed beyond which return is impossible.

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: this is soft daddy Joel like you've never seen before. angst, angst, angst. just heart-wrenching, gut-clenching, bucket-full-of-tears kind of flow. but I promise, I swear to you, it's going to get good!

Joel had spent the past week trying to ignore it.

The sound was distant, muffled through the walls, but it was there—constant, sharp infant's cries cutting through the night like something wounded, something helpless. The baby never laughed, cooed, or made small, gurgling noises that kids were supposed to make. Just crying. Night after night, the same pitiful wails, like it was fighting sleep and didn’t know how to be comforted.

And the mother?

Leela. That was her name. Tommy and Maria had told him her family had been here before them, before all of this, that she’d grown up in Jackson, that the big white house across from his had always been hers. He instantly believed it—her place didn’t look like the others. It was well-kept in a way that wasn’t just for show. The wood was aged but polished, the porch steps sturdy, and the windows wiped clean even in the dead of winter. A home, not just a shelter.

But it wasn’t warm.

Not with that sound in the night. Not when he never saw anyone else go inside.

No one knew who the kid’s father was, and Leela never said. She wouldn’t even let people help her—not Maria, not the older women in town who had tried, not even the ones who had kids of their own and knew what to do. And now, at the end of another long day, that fucking baby was crying again.

Joel had tried to let it be. Had forced himself to breathe calmly, stay in his house, shut the curtains, turn over in bed and pull the blanket over his head like some stubborn old bastard trying to pretend it wasn’t his problem.

But it was.

Because he could hear it. Because it sounded fucking miserable. Because he’d had enough.

When the cries began to get worse into the night, that was his last straw. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked on his jacket, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stepped out into the cold, the door crashing shut behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the road, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared. The wind blew at him, biting into his skin, augmenting his edge, and when he reached her porch, he had half a mind to just bang on the damn door until she answered.

But then—he hesitated.

There was still a kid in there. The devilkin, probably. A baby nevertheless. And it's struggling mother.

He exhaled through his nose, loosened his fingers, and reached for the old metal knocker instead. Three firm, unchanging raps.

A pause. A paddle of footsteps down the staircase inside, light and hesitant. A sniffle. A sigh.

The curtains fluttered from nearby—just a fraction, just enough for him to catch the glint of an eye in the darkness, shedding a blade of light onto the frozen lawn. And then the door creaked open.

The poor mother looked like hell.

Her eyes—pretty, brown, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded—held the kind of exhaustion that settled deep, beyond sleep, beyond fixing. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips chapped to brown, her long hair falling loose from whatever attempt she’d made to pull it back.

And the baby—the cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were worse now. Closer, desperate. The sound reached him in waves, piercing, thin, rattling against the walls of the house and clawing at something deep in his chest. A familiarity.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, barely holding together. “I just…”

She trailed off as if the words had run out, or maybe she didn’t have the strength to find them. Then the baby shrieked, and she flinched. A full-body recoil, like something had struck her. She turned away, pressing her wrist to her nose, shoulders curling inward, folding into herself as though she could disappear into the space she took up.

And Joel—well, he had been ready to lay into her. To tell her to do something, to figure it out, to stop letting that kid cry itself raw night after night. But looking at her now, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking from something that wasn’t just the cold…

He couldn’t do it.

Instead, against every instinct, every frustration, he surprised himself by saying—

“Let me try.”

Joel didn’t exactly wait for an answer.

Didn’t stop to think if he had the right or question if she would let him in, because the noise was still there, splitting the air, working its way under his skin like a thorn that wouldn’t come out. His jaw tightened once more, and the next thing he knew, he was pushing past her and her doorstep.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Well, he had been, just not anymore.

It was beyond audacity or desperation. A need to stop that noise. That noise had been giving him sleepless nights for a week now, and with it came the memories he’d spent years burying. He couldn't afford to let them resurface by the likes of this strange, terrible mother.

Leela's house smelled faintly of old wood, old cotton, dust, and a softness underneath—like sun-warmed linen, maybe the lingering scent of a person who lived there and never left. It was dark, too, save for the single glow spilling from a room upstairs. His boots were lumbering against the worn floorboards, his breaths crowding in his chest as he took the stairs two at a time. Nearly six doors on the second floor as far as he could see, but only one was open.

He stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the cradle, right in the centre of the empty room, as if placed there on purpose, a meagre little crib mobile fashioned into wooden horses, dangling mid-air.

Old. The hinges were barely holding together. The wood had whittled away from time, its edges dulled, a possible relic that had been used for generations. The mattress inside was thin, its fabric stained with age, but the flowery sheets were neatly tucked and arranged properly. Everything was in its place.

This wasn’t neglect.

This was someone trying—someone failing.

And then the baby. The newborn, should he say. No older than a month, wriggling in its white nappy, legs kicking in frantic little bursts, tiny fists curled so tight they trembled. Tears slicked its cheeks, its face blotchy and red against the tanned skin, its mouth stretched wide in a scream so raw, so piercing, that it stole the breath straight from the lungs. It didn’t take a dumbass like him to know it was starving, wasting away with exhaustion.

But goddamn, if that wasn’t one beautiful fucking baby.

Biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, glassy, glinting wet and searching. A head full of thick, dark hair, clammy and curling at the ends like downy little question marks. But it wasn’t chubby the way babies should be. Not soft enough. Too small, skin drawn tight, movements restless but weak. Malnourished.

His jaw clenched. He barely registered the sharp footsteps rushing up behind him until the mother's voice cut through the noise.

“Hey, ‘scuse me, I didn’t let—”

He cut off her protest with an abrupt, “Boy or girl?”

She stopped short, her lips parting. She swallowed down whatever she’d been about to say.

“Girl,” she breathed.

Joel’s gaze flicked back to the baby. He noticed the slight bloating around her belly, the way she arched and curled, restless, like she couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt. That explained the shrieking. Colic, for sure.

“You fed her anything?”

There was a thoughtful pause, and then, quietly—

“I—I’ve been having trouble with…” She gestured vaguely to her chest, gaze dropping, almost ashamed. “I tried some water... um... I don't know.”

Jesus Christ. Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. Too late at night or too early in the morning—he didn’t know which, and at this point, it didn’t matter. His head ached. His body ached. And this baby girl—this poor, starving little thing—had been too hapless to be born to this fucking clueless, stubborn, dreadful mother.

“Need to call Maria,” he said under his breath.

Her eyes went wide. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I'm fine.”

He let out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You don't. Your girl sure does. And try saying that when this crib empties in the next week.”

She flinched, shoulders jerking.

He barely registered his words drawing blood. He was already moving, already slipping into old instinct, the one he assumed had died a long time ago.

Stepping closer, Joel reached into the cradle, hands slipping beneath the baby’s small, rigid spine. Carefully, he eased her onto her stomach, a shush falling from his lips, settling her against his forearm, palm spanning nearly the length of her body. Christ, she was so fucking small. Too small. Probably premature. A frail, small thing, light as air, fists still curled, breaths coming out in tiny, shuddering gasps between screeching cries.

Leela stood stiff beside him, her breath as uneven as her baby’s, arms wrapped around herself as though she wasn’t sure if she should step forward or pull away.

Joel didn’t look at her. His focus stayed on the newborn. On how her delicate limbs jerked, how her cries wavered like she couldn’t decide if she had the energy to keep going.

He started rubbing gentle, calming circles against her back, one that had been taught to him by a kind nurse in the maternity ward decades ago, and as the calloused warmth of his palm pressed softly but firmly over her fragile bones, he remembered. The old, terrible sentiment stirred in him—buried deep, and it twisted like a knife. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself. He simply kept stroking, kept murmuring, low, quiet, syllables he wasn’t even aware of.

“Thatta, girl. There you go.”

“'Sokay, ssh. Ssh.”

“I got you.”

The wails started to waver, breaking apart in the middle, turning into stuttering hiccups, then snivels, a laughable baby burp that even had him breaking into a small smile. Then—

Silence. Oh, sweet, splendid silence.

Joel exhaled, keeping his touch measured as she shuddered against him, her tiny fingers twitching against the sleeve of his jacket.

“See? Just needed a little push,” he mumbled.

Leela didn’t respond. She was staring. Not at him, exactly, but at his hands, at the way he held the baby. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Observing him, learning.

When he glanced down, she was blinking up at him, half-lidded, her breath slowing, her little body going limp with exhaustion. She made a wet, little noise, almost a soft coo.

“She got a name?”

When the silence lingered, he lifted his head, caught Leela’s hollow stare, and cocked a brow when she didn’t answer. Then, she silently shook her head.

Joel’s hands closed around an imaginary gun as he frowned. “You didn’t name your kid?”

And just like that, it clicked into place. The way she stood there, arms locked tight around herself. The way she hadn’t called the baby anything, not a nickname, no endearments. The way she hadn't moved a step close to protect her baby from this stranger. The hesitation in her voice as she held herself together, unknowingly accosting a struggle.

“She’s yours, ain’t she? Whole damn town knows.”

Her gaze flickered, a firmness rising. “She is.”

After a beat, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the crisscross of stretch marks across her stomach, just above the line of her pants.

Joel sighed through his nose. His fingers ghosted over the baby’s small back before he finally let go, letting her rest in her mother's arms. It felt wrong—leaving the baby there like that—but he slipped his hand away, albeit unwillingly, and stroked her fine, dark hair once. Twice. Then forced himself to stop. Not mine, he assured himself.

He breathed out sharply, standing upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His patience was hanging by a thread. He had no business being here, no reason to care, but—

“Look,” he muttered, frustration leaching through, “you shouldn't have had a kid if you were just gonna sit around and do fuck all. Jesus, at least get yourself some help.”

Leela cringed, a barely noticeable flicker of movement, but he caught it. She turned her face away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, and bit at what little was left of her nail, worrying it between her teeth.

The sight of it—it wasn’t what he expected. He had been bracing for an argument, for defensiveness, for anger. But there was nothing there. Only the empty gnawing of her thumbnail, the restless shifting of her fingers, all of which dropped an uneasy pebble in his stomach.

He exhaled sharply. “Maria’s coming in tomorrow,” he said, and as he did, he was setting it in stone. “Whether you like it or not. She'll know what to do with... the baby.”

That made her glance up. And for the first time, he really saw her.

Not just the flawed mother behind the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, or the way she curled in on herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—but the fear. That deep, paralysing kind of fear that settled into a person’s bones, made a home there.

Then his eyes flicked downward, back to the baby. The baby girl had her mother’s eyes. Big, dark, and brimming with wildness, untamed endurance. But a fragility, caught on the verge of bolting. And in that moment, they both looked the same.

Wet. Trembling. Exhausted. Confused. Helpless.

Leela swallowed thickly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. But when she did, her voice barely made it past her throat. “Take her.”

Joel blinked. For a second, he thought he must’ve misheard.

But she was looking at him, explicit, plain—eyes wide and glistening, breaths erratic like she’d just sprinted a mile. And the way she was standing, trembling, fists curled into the fabric of her sleeves—this woman meant it. She was serious.

“You're right,” she whispered, voice barely there. “I might kill her. Just take her away, please.”

A slow, sinking dread pooled in his stomach. His fingers curled at his sides, restless, itching for a handle to hold onto.

The baby stirred weakly against Leela’s chest, small fingers twitching up to her mother's neck, dark lashes fluttering against puckered skin. She had gone quiet, her body motionless in that way newborns only got when they were too damn exhausted to keep crying.

His hands twitched at his sides. He knew exactly what he should do. He should take the kid off her hands. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? He should lift that baby girl into his arms, swaddle her in a blanket, turn on his heel, and walk out the door. Hand her off to Maria, and let someone who actually knew what they were doing step in. Hell, she’d been talking about trying to set up a proper nursery in town, get the kids what they needed—she’d figure it out.

But Joel didn't move; couldn't bring himself to move.

Because now that he was looking at her, from his conscience, he saw it—saw the fear clinging to her like a second skin. Not the blatant fear of Joel or the fear of what people might say. Fear of herself, as though he own conviction was a luxury.

Leela stood there, arms wrapped tight around her baby, herself, her body drawn inward like she was trying to make herself small as if shrinking could somehow erase the truth. The baby rested against her chest, silent now, as if sensing the displacement around her. Her mother's fingers barely touch her, hesitant, weak, the way someone might hold a delicate, jagged piece of glass they weren’t sure they could be trusted with.

Joel’s stomach turned.

“I—I'm not—I can’t do this.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper, frayed at the edges, raw like an old wound that had never properly healed.

A sharp and molten sense turned in his gut, rising fast—panic, maybe. Or that bone-deep realisation of what would happen.

“You ain’t givin’ her up.” His voice came out gruff, unwavering.

Leela let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I have a choice here?”

“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unrelenting. “I do.”

She sniffled, shaking her head again, but her fingers twitched against the baby’s blanket, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

Joel had seen this before, known people like this. People who stood at the edge of something dark, looking down, unable to turn back. He’d been one of them once. It made that ugly, cruel knot crest back in his chest, and made him angry in a way that didn’t make sense, didn’t sit right.

Because this mother—this stupid, foolish, ignorant girl—had no business being like that. She didn't even know what kind of luck she'd struck with that baby girl. He would've killed to be where she was, even if it was for a moment. To hold a second chance, brand new, all his.

"You're a fucking coward if you're thinking about giving your daughter up.” The words left him, spired as arrows, before he could stop them. “You got plenty of choices, but you're too goddamn pigheaded to make the right one."

She flinched, as if he’d struck her with all his might, like he’d confirmed every awful thing she’d ever thought about herself.

Joel’s jaw locked. It was too late to take it back; the blood had been drawn.

He should’ve stopped. He should’ve taken a breath, let the words settle and left it at that. But there was something about this strange mother, the way she stood there like she was waiting to be knocked down, made his patience snap clean in half.

“Pull yourself together,” he bit out.

And with that, he turned and walked out the door.

The flurries of winter outside were colder than before, or maybe it only seemed that way. Snow scraped beneath his boots as he stepped onto the road, his breath coming sharp, ragged pants in the quiet of the night. His knuckles ached from the tight fists he hadn't been able to loosen, his pulse still hammering.

Stupid mother. That poor child. There was truly no rest for the wicked.

He was halfway across the street when that resentment shifted.

His anger thinned, the heat of it fading just enough for everything else to creep in—her threadbare voice, her hands fluttering, the way her arms had tightened around that kid like she was afraid of herself more than anything else.

He slowed, stopping in his tracks. The big, white house loomed behind him, dark except for that single upstairs window.

Joel looked up at the home.

The cries had started again. Thin, reedy wails carried through the cold, through the walls.

He stood there, staring at the lights flickering against the frost-covered glass.

This time, jaw tight, he turned away.

That being said, Joel hadn’t slept well.

Not that he ever did, but last night was worse than usual.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was the baby’s cries again. He saw Leela’s face, dark and hollow, eyes too big for her sunken frame. He heard her voice, raw and trembling, telling him to take the kid—like it was the only way. Like she didn’t trust herself to keep her alive, already grieving her.

Even now, as he tugged on his gloves and prepared for patrol, he kept seeing the way she had watched him with her baby. He remembered the way she desperately looked at him, waiting for him to take the baby from her, as if letting go was the only mercy she had left to offer.

Maria was there now. She had let herself in, just like that, hadn’t knocked or hesitated. And Leela had not met her at the door or even bothered to lock it after Joel had walked out last night.

He adjusted the rifle on his back and breathed out the concern.

Not his problem. He shouldn't be bothered with it. He’d done his part, in fact, more than his part. He had brought help in and gotten someone else to deal with it—someone better suited for this kind of thing. Maria would figure it out. She always did, it's why the town counted on her to run it.

Still, as he swung himself onto his horse and rode out for patrol, that damn house stayed in the back of his mind. The way it stood there, silent and old, while something inside was coming apart at the seams. He related to that insentient home more than most people. Or the way Leela had stood in that dim nursery, shoulders curled inward, appearing more like a ghost than a person.

He shook it off and went through the motions. Focus on the day ahead.

Patrol was long, tedious, and more of the same—checking the perimeter, clearing out old trouble spots down his trail, making sure everything was as it should be, and scouring supplies. A welcome distraction. When he stopped by Ellie’s as usual, she narrowed her eyes at him from behind her sketchbook, muttering about how he looked like shit.

“Didn’t sleep,” was all he said. And she didn’t bother to press. Ellie was another long, welcome, more pesky distraction.

By the time evening rolled around, he’d fallen back into his routine. Routine. That was what mattered. He groomed his horse, rubbing his gloved hands along its mane just to keep them busy. He cleaned his rifle, ensuring the gears weren't easy to jam, and stopped on the way home to pick up some new gear at the store. He grabbed a whiskey—alone—just to take the edge off, slowing down for a bit. Soon enough, he was lugging a whole bottle home.

He finished the evening like always, grabbing a boxed dinner from the mess hall, not bothering to make small talk. No one asked anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. A night like any other. It was an expression he repeated to himself, to anchor himself to reality besides the weight of his breaking boots or the floor beneath.

Then he saw her. Maria was still at that house, waiting by the porch swing, face tense. She spotted him almost instantly and strode straight toward him.

Joel nodded at her in greeting, shifting the box under his arm. “You good?”

Maria didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sure. Got a second?”

He tipped his chin toward Leela’s door. “All set over there?”

“Far from it.” Her voice was edgy, a sure point of contention. “I need your help.”

Joel scoffed. “What’s the punchline?”

But Maria didn’t laugh, or even crack a smirk. Instead, she followed him inside his house.

Joel’s 'home' was nothing special—functional, practical. Just a space to exist in. A couch pushed against one wall, which he used more than the bed upstairs, a table he used out of necessity, and a kitchen stocked with the bare minimum. Not much to look at, or even stay for long. It wasn't home, but it was enough. Certainly nothing like Leela’s home, where history bled through the worn floorboards, through the walls, a place that had been lived in.

Joel didn’t let himself think about that house too much. He dropped the box of food onto the table, turning to Maria with his arms crossed.

“Well?”

Maria sighed, staring out the window toward the street, and into his neighbour’s house. The porch light flickered weakly, and the house itself looked darker than it had last night. Like it had collapsed in on itself a little more.

“She’s not okay, Joel.”

Joel huffed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, pretending not to hear the implication behind those words. “Figured.”

“No,” Maria said, sharper now. “I mean it.”

She turned back to him, her eyes shadowed with a charge heavier than concern. She looked tired—unravelled—in a way that wasn’t merely about the town or the thousand responsibilities on her shoulders. It was personal.

Joel exhaled a breath, already feeling the walls closing in on this conversation.

Maria rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s more disturbed than the last time I saw her a month ago. I don’t think she’s had a proper meal in days. She’s having trouble breastfeeding, let alone keeping herself together enough to care for that baby.” She shook her head. “Look, I can’t be there all the time. I’ve got the whole town to run, a hundred things to look after. Tommy’s drowning in work. We're stretched thin as it is.” Her eyes met his, trusting and pointed. “You’re my last resort.”

Joel frowned, jaw ticking. “And do what, exactly? Pretend like I've done this dance before?”

“Just be there,” Maria said so positively, like it wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the world. “Make sure she doesn’t slip up with the baby. Help where you can. Just a few days—until Tommy and I can step in.”

Joel dragged a hand down his beard, letting go of an infuriated sigh. “You gotta be shitting me.”

“Joel, this is serious.”

“You want me to play babysitter to that terrible mom.”

Everything in him wanted to refuse. He’d done his goddamn part here, hadn't he? He didn’t owe that woman anything. She had a nice home, a pretty face, and all that space. She had her newborn. And if she didn’t know how to handle it, that was on her. That was the hand she was dealt. He wasn’t looking to take on another burden. Christ, wasn’t he supposed to be done with this kind of thing? Wasn’t he past the point of taking in lost causes?

But Maria didn’t appear to be giving him a choice. Her voice softened, dropped several octaves, and edged with meaning. “I don’t think she had this baby with someone she knew, Joel. I know she did not.”

Joel stiffened, every muscle aching. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but there was implicit significance there, solemn enough that it didn’t need to be stated outright. Still, it landed in his gut like a stone.

She let the silence stretch, let him fill in the gaps. And he did.

“I hope you understand what I'm getting at,” she continued. “I don’t think she wanted this at all.”

Joel clenched his jaw, staring at the floor, pretending like he didn’t hear them. He didn't ask how she knew, didn’t even ask what she’d seen in that house today that had led her to that conclusion.

Because he already knew. He’d seen it, too.

The way Leela couldn’t bring herself to name the baby. The way she looked at the child was like she was something fragile, unfamiliar, and that didn’t belong to her. The way she had looked at him—not with resentment at his venomous words, but with resignation.

As if she were handing over the baby because she genuinely believed it was the only way to save her. A fist of darkness coiled around his stomach.

Joel knew what it was like to lose a child. He knew what it did to a person, how it tore through you, how it hollowed them out from the inside. But whatever this was, it wasn’t grief. This was something worse. He prayed he would never have to deal with this.

This was a woman standing on the edge of the deep and the dark, staring down into it, wondering how much further she could fall before there was no coming back. And there was a baby—a fucking baby—at her feet. Yet, she was ready to take that fall.

Joel exhaled a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

But the truth was, he’d already stepped in. Already gotten himself involved. Whether out of desperation or some obstinate, buried need to fix things that were beyond saving, he wasn’t sure. And now, if he walked away, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with the consequences.

Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls a little tighter. A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, reluctantly, he sighed. “This is a big fuckin’ mistake, Maria. I'm the last person who should be over there with her.”

Maria nodded, hearing only what she needed to hear, relief flickering across her face. “You’ll figure it out. I’ll be around if you need anything. Thank you.”

Joel didn’t answer. He didn't know what the hell he’d just agreed to, but something in his gut told him it was going to end real bad.

Dewy dawn washed over his neighbour's house, alabaster and frigid, as Joel made his way up the steps. It must’ve been the perfect oversized home once, costing north of at least five mil, back when the world was still whole—white clapboard, cavernous porch with a swingset, somewhere that had been waiting too long for someone to come back home. A place built to last. And maybe, before seasons and silence collapsed, it had.

But time had sunk its teeth in. The paint had started peeling in the corners, the wood of the steps groaned under his boots, and though the windows were clean, there was something hollow about the way they sat in their frames as if no one had looked out of them in a long time. It didn’t have the disrepair of a broken-down house, but rather the hush of a place that had lost its vitality.

And the front door was open again.

Joel clenched his jaw.

Maria had been right—that girl really didn’t have a single clue.

He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, cautious, not wanting to seem intrusive but unable to stop himself from taking in the room. It wasn’t what he expected.

Her home wasn’t cluttered, wasn’t in disarray, but there was something about it that felt… off. A life suspended mid-thought. A place inhabited by a mind too consumed to fuss over the details of living.

Against one wall, three blackboards leaned slightly askew, their surfaces dense with math—long, elegant trails of equations and symbols that curled and darted in sharp, decisive strokes, a handwriting that came from obsession, not care. At their base lay a scatter of chalk nubs and crumpled paper, some balled tight, others torn through in places, as if discarded mid-frustration into a wastebasket that stood nearby, perpetually missing its mark.

Shelves lined the walls with quiet precision—solved Rubik’s cubes, notebooks snapped shut with elastic bands, rows of empty pens jammed upright in a clay mug. Everything had a place, yet none of it did—more like artefacts left behind after long stretches of deep work. On the table, a coffee mug sat with dried stains at the bottom, an imprint of hands that had used it over and over, mindlessly, then set it aside without a thought.

Joel glared through it all, taking it in.

A fucking scientist. That was the last thing he’d ever have guessed about her. Dr Leela last-name-something, the resident nerd mom.

He didn’t know what he wished to see when he ascended the stairs, only that everything about the house still put him on edge. It wasn’t just the oddity of it—the blackboards filled with numbers, the pages of equations scattered like fallen leaves—it was the fact that none of it felt lived in. Clinical. Like the house had been built to serve a purpose, but never for a person.

He reached the top step just as he heard the baby girl’s soft fussing from down the hall. The sound made him hesitate. It wasn’t the sharp, desperate cries from the sleepless night before; this was more peaceful, almost a coo, the kind of sound that made that knot in his chest tighten before he could push it down.

Carefully, he strode forward, peering into the nursery.

Leela stood by the cradle, one hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the baby’s tiny stomach. It was almost an imitation of what he’d done the night before, but the difference was clear—where his movements had been practised, knowing, hers were unsure, a mimicry, like she was following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand.

She looked different in the daylight. Dressed neatly in a long, thin nightgown that fell to her ankles, her black hair was left loose, unbrushed, hanging past her hips in uneven waves, obviously never having seen the business end of a pair of scissors. The exhaustion was still there—was part of her, woven into how she held herself—but her face was smoother, her shoulders less rigid, like she had settled into the shape of a mother.

The floorboard groaned beneath his boot. Leela darted a glance. She even tried for a small smile. A little, ghostly quirk of her lips.

“Hello, Joel.”

He didn’t respond. Something about how she looked at him, or maybe how she looked past him, disturbed him. He didn’t like feeling that way—not in someone else’s home, not when he was meant to be in control of the situation. Instead of answering, he stepped toward the cradle, glancing down at the baby.

The baby girl let out a high-pitched whine, stretching, her fingers curling and uncurling before she kicked her little legs. Then, as if noticing him, recognising him through her childish daze, her mouth widened into a gummy, toothless grin, her round face alight, untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Joel couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched, just slightly, before he shook his head.

“Managed to—?” He gestured vaguely toward her chest before pulling his hand back, curling it into an embarrassed fist against the cradle.

Leela caught on. Her fingers fidgeted at the pearly buttons of her nightgown. A small, involuntary movement.

“Oh… Maria told me to hold her close to stimulate… secretion, you know.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I fed her one of the bottles she gave me, too.”

Joel nodded. “And?”

Leela looked down at the baby. “She stopped crying.”

He frowned. “That’s it?”

Leela’s fingers tightened against her arms. “I… don’t know how to hold her without making her cry.”

The words made a darkness flicker through him; he didn’t have the energy to name it. It wasn’t quite anger, but it was close. Frustration. Exasperation. A sharp-edged bitterness he couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

Joel scoffed. “You can’t hold your own baby?”

Leela hung her head, her heart breaking in her eyes before she managed to mask it.

Joel sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “It’s not all math. Just instinct,” he muttered.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he reached into the cradle, slipping a hand beneath the baby’s head, cradling her against his arm, gingerly, gently. He eased her up, letting her body idle against his forearm, her head resting in the crook of his elbow.

The second she was in his arms, warm, beaming, the fault line inside him splintered.

She was tiny. So fucking tiny. Tinier than Sarah had been.

Joel swallowed, feeling the light weight of her against his chest. He hadn’t held something this fragile in years—hadn’t let himself. But muscle memory took over before he could stop it, before he could remind himself that this wasn’t the same. It was already clawing its way back to him. He rubbed a slow palm over her back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She was everything akin to bedtime and warmth, her tiny fingers twitching against his shirt.

For a second—a half a second—he let himself sink into it.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered.

The scent of her, like the faded remnants of old cotton, the delicate press of her body against his. A ghost of something long lost. A time when his arms had been full like this, when his days had been nothing but cradling Sarah against him, balancing a baby bag on his shoulder, and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, loaded with groceries, with the Texas sun blistering overhead.

A different life. A different world. One he had no business remembering.

Joel forced himself to blink out of it. He cleared his throat, shifting, pressing the feeling down before it could take hold.

“And that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t that hard.”

Leela was watching him. Not like she was waiting for him to call her an idiot again—or she even expected him to. She was watching the way he held the baby, the way she settled so easily against him. Studying him, the way he imagined she studied numbers and equations, looking for a formula, an answer.

He breathed out. “Here,” he muttered, adjusting the baby carefully toward her. “You try.”

Leela didn’t reach for her baby at once.

Her hands hovered, hesitant, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure how to move them. Joel could see it—the tension coiling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. Her breathing shallowed, her chest barely rising, as if even that movement might disturb the delicate balance between her and the tiny life in front of her.

But finally, she forced herself to move.

Her hands, sporadic, cupped beneath the baby’s body as if she were handling something breakable, foreign. It was inflexible, too careful—unnatural in a way that the baby could sense. And sure enough, the second Leela pulled her close, her arms locked tight, all too unconfident, and the child stirred. A tiny whimper. Then a sharp, warning cry.

Leela stiffened, her grip faltering. The sound made her flinch, her breath catching, as though she’d been struck.

She barely lasted five seconds before her resolve cracked. She was already veering forward, pushing the baby back toward Joel, who carried her without hesitation.

“No, I can't.”

The crying stopped almost instantly.

Joel settled the baby against his chest, bouncing her gently, an informed movement. He didn’t have to think about it—his body just did what it knew, routine kicking in where hers faltered. The baby let out a soft, sighing coo, her tiny body relaxing, as if she knew she was back in capable hands.

Leela, however, looked shaken. Her hands curled into fists, pressing against her stomach like she needed to hold herself together.

Then, she winced.

Joel’s attention snapped, his gaze dropping to the way she clutched at her lower back, her body tilting forward ever so slightly like the pain had taken her by surprise.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “You wanna sit down for a bit?”

She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin.

Joel glanced around. There wasn’t much in the nursery. Just the crib, a long wooden bureau, and a mattress on the floor pushed against the far wall. No chair, nothing to lower herself onto easily.

With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his hold on the baby and stepped closer, offering an arm. “C’mon.”

Leela wavered at the suggestion. Not out of pride—he could tell—but maybe out of uncertainty, like she wasn’t used to being helped. But when she tried to move on her own, another sharp grimace crossed her face, and that was enough to let him guide her.

Joel remained prudent, supporting her weight without making a big deal of it. The baby stayed nestled in the crook of his other arm, still resting peacefully, unaffected by the movement. It wasn’t easy—manoeuvring both of them at once—but it was instinctual.

He helped her lower onto the mattress, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch before finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion. Leela eased back against the wall and settled into the thin cushion. A long, quiet sigh left her lips, her posture unwinding slightly like she’d been holding herself taut for hours—maybe longer. But even then, she still didn’t entirely relax.

Joel watched as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing back loose strands of hair, her fingers pressing briefly into her temples.

“I'm sorry, Joel.”

His brows ticked down. “For what?”

She inhaled deeply. “It’s only been three... four weeks since I delivered. I’ve just been feeling out of it ever since.”

There was no shame in her tone, no self-pity. A quiet fatigue. A statement of fact.

Joel pressed his lips together.

Four weeks. Jesus. That explained a lot. The weariness, the stiffness in her movements, the way her body still seemed like it hadn’t recovered from what it had been through. Hell, no wonder she looked like a ghost of herself. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back that fast—not without help. And from what he’d seen so far, she wasn’t the type to ask for it. No midwife, no warm meals, no one watching over her in those first brutal days. Just her and the baby and that awful, aching silence.

“She came too soon,” Joel murmured, mostly to himself.

Leela turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward him without fully meeting his eyes. “Eight months and seven days,” she said quietly. “That’s not normal, is it? That’s why she’s so small.”

Joel opened his mouth, but nothing came. What could he say to that? To her?

Leela waited a beat—just long enough to hope for something more—then slowly drew her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them, rested her chin on top, and looked past him.

She rubbed a tired hand into her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

There it was. No frustrations or helplessness. It was her calm, relinquished reality.

Joel glanced down at the sleeping baby, still curled against his chest, her little breaths unwavering and even. One tiny hand had fisted itself into his shirt, gripping instinctively—like she knew, on some level, that she had to hold on to something, someone, to stay safe. His grip on her tightened scarcely.

Leela’s words lodged in his chest like a thick splint. I don’t know how to hold her without making her cry. And now this—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He’d heard those words before, from sleep-deprived parents who hit the wall. Hell, He’d stood in that same darkness, said those same things to Tommy when the world felt like it was slipping past him. But the way she said it—flat, detached, mechanical—like she’d already stopped trying to fix it, the part of her that cared was fading out. And that left a mark.

Joel breathed out, shifting his arms so the baby settled more comfortably against him, and she felt so heavy all of a sudden.

Too much quiet, too many things unsaid pressing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to sit in it—didn’t want to acknowledge what it stirred in him. So, he broke the silence the only way he knew how.

“You could start by giving her a name,” he said, glancing at Leela. “Not that 'baby girl' is a terrible name.”

Leela blinked, then looked down at her daughter, studying her as if she were just now realising that, yes, she still had to name the kid.

After a thoughtful moment, she lifted her gaze back to him. “Do you want to pick one for her?”

Joel snorted. “Me?”

She nodded, entirely serious.

He shook his head immediately. “I think I'm gonna stick with 'baby girl.'”

Leela let out a small breath of laughter, barely there, but it softened that apathy in her face. She bit her lip, thinking of a name, then murmured, “I always liked the name Maya.”

“Maya?” He tested the name on his lips. “I like that. Maya. It’s pretty. Rhymes, too. Leela, Maya.”

Leela’s lips twitched at that, and she shifted forward, moving closer without thinking, drawn in by something unspoken. She leaned down, her head dipping toward the baby still bowed against Joel’s chest.

And for the first time since he stepped into this house, Joel saw it.

That fondness—subtle, but unmistakable. A faint, aching kind of love that didn’t ask for words. It lived in the way her fingers moved over the baby’s forehead, gentle, mindful, tracing the soft landscape of tiny wrinkles and delicate features. It showed in the subtle curve of her body, how she curled—almost unconsciously—toward her daughter. Even in her exhaustion, some part of her was always reaching, always drawn to protect.

“Maya, Maya, Maya,” she whispered, breathing the name into her daughter's ear as if speaking it into existence.

Joel watched her for a long moment, an unfamiliar phantom kick in his ribs. It was too much. Too close to something he didn’t want to touch, something that felt like the past reaching for him with cold fingers.

He should leave. He knew he should. Should’ve gotten up, handed the baby back, given some half-hearted promise to Maria that he’d check in later tomorrow, and then walked out that door.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he settled in a little more, stretching his legs out, arms still loosely cradling the baby girl. Maya.

He finally broke the silence with, “So, you’re some kind of scientist?”

Leela glanced up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m more towards math. Theoretician, perhaps.”

Joel couldn't help the roll of his eyes. Math. In a world like this?

People didn’t survive with numbers. They survived with bullets and knives, knowing when to run and when to pull the trigger. You either killed or died. You either protected or raided. You didn’t see too many folks walking around trying to save themselves with goddamned math equations—unless they were Fireflies with delusions of rebuilding the world. That was the kind of thinking that got you shot.

His gaze flickered back to the crib. What the hell kind of life was she leading before all this?

He leaned back against the wall. “And just how long have you been here alone?”

“A long time.” She didn’t elaborate. Just glanced down at the baby, adjusting the folds of the swaddle with careful fingers. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought—“Not anymore.”

Joel didn’t know what to make of that.

His gaze flicked toward the stacks of books on the baby’s bureau, thick with dust on the edges but well-thumbed through. He hummed. “And you do… math?” He made it sound ridiculous because it was.

She only nodded, unbothered. “Analytic geometry and lots of mechanics. My parents used to work at NASA. I took up their research once I was old enough to understand. They loved to teach me all about it. The Riemann Hypothesis.”

Joel blinked. NASA? Ellie would lose her little mind if she were here.

He studied her again, reassessing. She didn’t look like someone who used to be involved in something that big. Not now, anyway. Dressed in an old nightgown, her hair hanging in dark, tangled waves, bruised-looking eyes that made her seem older than she was.

He hesitated before asking, “And just how old are you?”

“I’m turning thirty soon.” She didn’t sound glad about it. Then again, no one ever did.

That number sat wrong with him, irked him. Twenty-nine. Maybe it was the contrast—how, for all her intelligence and clinical detachment, she looked so damn young beneath the weight of everything she was carrying. Or maybe because twenty-nine didn’t seem old enough to have gone through the kind of hell that made a mother flinch at her own baby.

Joel wanted to press further. Wanted to ask why she was alone, how the hell she had made it this long without the baby’s father, how a girl who could run equations for NASA ended up here—malnourished, exhausted, hunched over on a mattress like she was carrying the whole world on her back.

That was until Maya decided to stir.

A small, sleepy movement. Tiny fingers wriggled their way free from the swaddle, barely curled, stretching toward the air. The whimpering started softly, then built, that newborn cry that was both heartbreaking, needy and urgent all at once.

Leela straightened instinctively, her hands jolting toward her daughter. But this time, when she lifted Maya from Joel’s arms, she didn’t hesitate. She held her with a little more certainty, a little more care, cradling her close to her chest as if she were nestling something precious rather than foreign.

Joel let out a slow breath. Good. Progress.

Then, before he could so much as glance back up, Leela started unbuttoning her nightgown, the lapel falling open.

His eyes snapped away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. “Christ.”

“Oh, god—! I’m so sorry, Maria said to try—”

“’Sall good,” he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at her. “Just, uh—go for it.”

“I’ll cover up. Sorry.”

Joel nodded stiffly, still keeping his head turned. But in the silence that followed, his body didn’t quite relax.

He listened. Not just to her, but to everything. The rustle of fabric, the faint, uncertain exhale as she adjusted her hold, the wet, rhythmic sound of the baby nursing, the occasional tiny sigh. A noise so small it barely existed, but it filled the quiet all the same.

Joel let out a breath, sinking into himself, gaze flickering absently around the room. He took in the details he hadn’t paid much attention to before.

The crib—old, but sturdy. The mess of books stacked against the walls, as if she had been trying to build some kind of fortress out of paper and ink. The curtains were drawn too tight, like she didn’t want the outside world bleeding in. And the emptiness—the distinct lack of anything that made this place a nursery. No toys. No clutter. No warmth.

He knew that kind of space. Knew what it meant when a room felt temporary, even when someone had been in it for years.

“I’m decent now,” Leela offered.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. A blanket was draped over one of her shoulders, concealing both her and the baby beneath it. His eyes traced over her face, the way she was staring down at Maya—not with the ease of a mother who had done this a hundred times, but with the focus of someone trying to get it right. Like she was handling some delicate equation she couldn’t afford to miscalculate.

The baby suckled noisily, and Joel saw the way Leela’s fingers curled against the fabric, white-knuckled.

“Do you have many children, Joel?” she asked suddenly.

He stilled. The question—simple, almost offhanded—landed like a hammer.

His fingers curled into his knee, knuckles going white. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, but something about hearing it from her—a strange woman he barely knew, cradling a baby no more than a handful of weeks old—cut deeper than it should have.

Did he have many children? No.

But he had one. Had. That word sat on his tongue, sour and heavy, pressing against the backs of his teeth. He could say it. Could let it out, let it breathe. But if he did, it would only linger, thick and unwelcome, in the air between them.

He grunted out, “Not your concern.”

Leela nodded once, quiet and accepting. She didn’t pry—just dropped her gaze back to Maya, adjusting the blanket with slow, careful fingers.

“I understand,” she murmured.

Joel wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. Maybe it was the way she said it—flat, simple, unbothered. Not some empty reassurance, not some half-hearted attempt at sympathy.

Silence patched their looks, lingering but not uncomfortable.

Joel exhaled slowly and turned his gaze toward the window, where pale morning light bled in through the edges of the curtain. The town was stirring—people rising, stepping into their routines, moving through the simple rhythm of another day. Normal. Predictable. But this—sitting in a quiet, half-empty house with a woman he barely knew and a baby who’d already been asked to survive more than most adults—wasn’t easy. This wasn’t anything close to normal.

Then, her voice—quiet, hesitant.

“Did your baby ever feel like a stranger?”

He turned to look at her, watching as she nursed the baby beneath the blanket. Her head was slightly bowed, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against the tiny foot poking free. It was such a small, natural gesture—one he’d seen a thousand times from mothers who loved their children without thought, without hesitation. And yet, coming from her, it felt… disconnected. As if she were mimicking something she wasn’t sure she believed in.

The question slipped beneath his ribs and pressed, gently but insistently, against an old bruise.

“Never.” The answer came without thinking. Without doubt.

Sarah had never been a stranger. From the second she was in his arms, slick and tiny and furious at the world, she was his. He hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, but love—that complete astonishment had been instant, bone-deep. A gut punch. A freefall. A terrifying, irreversible thing. It had been impossible not to love his daughter.

That’s how it should feel. But Leela—she looked like she was still waiting to wake up from a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

Leela exhaled softly, barely a sound, but Joel caught it. It hit him harder than it should have.

“I wish I felt that way,” she muttered.

That did something to him.

It wasn’t pity—not quite. Leela didn’t strike him as someone who wanted sympathy. No, it was a quiet understanding. The recognition of a loss that ran deeper than words, taken from her before she ever had the chance to claim it.

Joel knew that kind of grief. He’d carried his own version of it. And while this pain wasn’t his, it brushed up against something familiar, something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.

Leela had slipped back into that blank, distant sadness, like she was stuck in it, unable to claw her way out. And Joel wasn’t the kind of man who offered words where they wouldn’t make a difference, but Maria had asked him to help, and he’d told her he would. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. He never had been. Words were never easy for him. Feelings even less so. But he knew how to read people, how to see what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

So, he did what he could.

“She looks like you,” Joel mused, almost without thinking.

Leela hesitated, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “You really think so?”

He smirked, nodding toward Maya. “Look at that. The eyes, the nose, the hair. That’s all a mama’s girl.”

She glanced down at the baby in her arms, her fingers stilling against Maya’s tiny foot. For a second, that disregard in her expression wavered—like she was trying to see what he saw, trying to find herself in this child. “Mama’s girl,” she murmured, testing the words on her tongue as if they didn’t quite belong to her yet.

Joel felt a smile in his chest, just a little one.

Still, his eyes drifted over the room, taking in the stark walls, the empty corners. The mood in here was cold—not from the weather, but from the lack of anything. There was no sign of her in this space. No warmth, no comfort, no life. It felt transient, like Maya hadn’t put down roots just yet.

Or maybe she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay in this particular room.

He tipped his chin toward the crib. “Though, she’s gonna be real disappointed when she sees the state her mama’s kept her room in.”

Leela’s brows knit together as she looked around as if really seeing it for the first time. “I tried my best. Is it that bad?”

Joel huffed, shaking his head. “It could use a little more work.” He gestured toward the crib. “Fix another one of those.” Then to the bare space near the window. “Somewhere to sit. Some shelves there.” His gaze travelled to the walls. “Fresh coat of paint. Some new lights. Some toys, clothes, blankets.”

Leela studied him carefully, her lips pressing together. “I don’t want to impose.”

He shrugged, leaning back on his palms. “You won't. I like to keep busy.”

Leela gave him a look—one of those assessing, sceptical looks he was starting to recognise from her. The one that suggested she wasn’t sure if she could trust him yet. “Are you sure?”

Joel let out a short, dry chuckle. “I was a contractor before the world went to shit, sweetheart. This is a cushy job.” Then he cocked a brow. “And I’m fifty-six, not dead.”

Leela bit her lip to hide a teasing smile. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel levelled her with a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You want me to take that crib back down?”

That did it. She laughed—an actual laugh. Not the polite kind. Not the uncertain kind. A real, full sound, one that cracked through the quietness of the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

The motion jostled Maya, making her let out a startled cry of protest.

Leela immediately sobered, her expression softening as she adjusted the nursing baby under her blanket, tucking her closer. She began to coo under her breath, “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Mama’s here.”

Joel caught it. That shift again. That slight change in her voice when she said Mama. Like she wasn’t quite sure of it yet, but it wasn’t just an obligation or just guilt, or uncertainty.

This time, it sounded like she meant it.

He didn’t say anything, only sat back and watched, letting her find her way.

Seventeen days.

That was how long he’d been here. How long he'd been wedging himself into a life that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a mother and child that weren’t his to take care of.

And yet, every night, when the baby cried, he found himself plodding up the stairs like it was instinct. He’d lean in the doorway, watching as Leela sleepily nursed Maya, her heavy arms curled around the tiny, wriggling body. Some nights, she fed her from the bottle, but as the days passed, that sippy cup gathered dust.

It was gradual. Subtle. She was feeding her baby more.

And Joel—well, he was still fucking here. He didn’t think much about the why of it because he figured if he did, it would only lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he knew was that it felt natural, falling into this quiet rhythm with them. Like it had always been this way.

The couch downstairs became his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it didn’t matter much. As long as he didn't throw his back out. It was easier than going back to an empty house. Leela, for her part, never asked him to stay, but she never told him to leave, either. Maybe that was her way of saying she wanted him around. Or maybe she just needed him to be.

“You don’t have to—” she had started one night, catching him setting up his makeshift bed.

“I know,” he cut off before she could finish.

He kept his hands busy, too. That helped a lot.

The crib came first. A slow project, one he didn’t rush, because what else did he have to do? He sanded the edges and smoothed them down so there’d be no risk of splinters. He reinforced the frame, extended the width, and even managed to track down some pink paint to liven it up.

It was a stupid thing, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Like he was helping in a way that made sense.

Leela had caught him painting one afternoon, crouched over the crib with careful, measured strokes.

“Pink?” she’d said, standing in the doorway, one brow raised.

Joel had glanced up, brush still in hand. “What? You don’t like it?”

Leela had hummed, considering. Then, softer, “I think Maya will like it.”

It was the way she said it—like she was finally thinking about that, about what her daughter would like—made him grin to himself. He continued the long stroke of paint down the crib.

Then there was Leela. It had been easier, at first, to pretend he was only here for the kid. That his concern for her was secondary. But after the first week, it became clear—that wasn’t true.

She was unraveling.

Joel noticed it even when she thought he hadn’t. The unbearable insomnia. The way she startled awake, legs thrashing in a single jerk, pushing against some imperceptible force near her, like she was being wrenched from nightmares. The way her eyes stayed shadowed, dark-rimmed and tired, and how she never seemed to eat a full meal.

Just because he tried not to bother, didn’t mean he didn’t notice. She had once fallen asleep at the kitchen table, arms folded beneath her head. Joel had set a bowl of soup down in front of her, the sound making her jolt awake, eyes wide, gasping and panicked.

She blinked at him, disoriented, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. “I—I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Alright,” he said, pushing the bowl closer. “Eat.”

Leela wavered, nose scrunching. “I’m not—”

Joel shot her a look. “Eat.”

She sighed. But she picked up the spoon.

He didn’t bother to push or pry any further. He stopped himself there. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t the kind of person people confided in. It was better off this way.

So he willfully ignored it. Turned the other way when she wiped her eyes too hard. Pretended not to notice when her shoulders trembled just slightly—barely enough to catch, unless you were looking for it. But Joel always saw more than he let on.

And he heard it, too. The way her sobs came muffled through the thin walls at night—quiet at first, like she was trying to bury them in her pillow, then deeper, harsher, like something inside her was breaking open slowly.

Every part of him—every part that still gave a damn—wanted to move. To cross that invisible line, to knock, to say something.

Instead, he stepped outside. Leaned against the doorframe. Let the cold night air scrape against his skin. Stared at nothing.

Leela cried harder.

And then—one night—the floodgates broke. Her sob, raw and sharp, now pronounced, tore itself loose on the way out. It wasn’t just grief anymore. It was wreckage.

Joel stood at the bottom of the stairs, jaw clenched, fists knotted at his sides. He stared up at the dark landing, every muscle in his body pulled taut, as if he just took one more step—

Never mind. He turned away. Walked out onto the porch and sat down on the cold wooden steps, elbows resting on his knees, breath fogging in the night. Let the chill dig into him like punishment. Good. He stayed there, still as stone, while the sounds from inside climbed and fell. That wasn’t his problem.

One unlucky day, the second he stepped into the stables, Ellie gave him a knowing, annoying look. "Jesus, what's worse than shit? Because that's what you look like."

Joel huffed, adjusting his grip on the saddle he was carrying. “Thanks, kiddo.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. “Seriously, you look like hell. Where the fuck have you been?”

Joel grunted, busying himself with the straps, not looking at her. “Been around.”

Ellie scoffed. “What the hell does that mean? You've been busy playing house with the lady at the big cabin?”

His jaw flexed, and fingers tightened on the cords. And Ellie caught it. Her smirk sharpened.

“Oh my God. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, huh?”

Joel shot her a look. “No.”

“Yes,” Ellie drawled, crossing her arms. “Dude. I knew something was up. You’ve been MIA. I thought maybe you finally croaked in your sleep, but nope—turns out, you’re off fixing pipes and babysitting.”

“I ain’t babysitting,” Joel muttered, too quick.

Ellie smirked harder and sang out, “Riiiight.”

Joel let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, shaking his head. “She needed help. That’s all.”

Ellie clicked her tongue, rocking back on her heels. “Hmm. Right. Just help. No attachment, no paternal instincts kicking in. Oh, definitely not. Not Joel Hardass Miller. He’s just the neighbourhood handyman now.”

He cut her a sharp look. “Ellie.”

She grinned, enjoying this way too much. “What? Just saying. It’s kind of adorable. Old man Joel, all domesticated. It's nice.”

Joel muttered something under his breath and turned away, ignoring her. Oh, but she was far from done.

“So, uh…” she cleared her throat. “How’s the baby?”

He hesitated.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d started watching that kid. Listening to her. He knew Maya’s different cries now—hungry, fussy, lonely. He knew the way she liked to be held, the way she calmed when he rubbed her tiny back. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would hear her tonight, whether he was there or not.

“She’s uh, good,” he said finally. Kept his voice level, unaffected. “Stronger. Sleeps better.”

Ellie studied him. “Bet she likes you.”

Joel shrugged, trying to play it off. “Babies like warm bodies, Ellie. Ain’t that deep.”

Ellie snorted. “Sure. And you're a warm bundle of joy.” And then, just when he thought she was about to let it go—“You’re gonna miss her after, huh?”

Joel's hands dropped to his sides. Ellie wasn’t teasing anymore. Her voice had gone softer, something knowing creeping in.

And he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t about to start thinking about that. About leaving. About hearing those cries and knowing he wasn’t supposed to be the one answering them anymore.

Joel slowly adjusted the saddle and grunted. “You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help me get this horse ready?”

Ellie sighed, shaking her head, but didn’t push. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad.”

“Knock it off.”

But she was already cackling her goddamned head off. “This is rich. Daddy Joel.”

Still, Joel stayed in that big house. Just a few more days. And the more he stayed, the harder it became to keep his distance.

It had started small—fixing things around the house, making little adjustments to help Leela care for the baby, and bringing her food. He fashioned a sling for her out of an old scarf and showed her how to wear it. At first, she’d been rigid, reluctant. But Maya—baby girl took to it immediately, burrowing into her mother’s chest, small fingers grasping at the fabric.

Joel wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but something about that moment had stuck with him.

Because for the first time, he saw Leela hold her. Not just carry her.

And then there was Maya herself. The little ray of sunshine was growing, filling out. No longer that fragile, underfed thing he’d first seen in the cradle. Her limbs weren’t so thin anymore, her eyes brighter, more alert. She’d started watching things with intent—fixating on his hands when he worked, tracking his movement around the room, watching the light filter through the window, making little fists and clumsily bringing them to her mouth.

She smiled more, too. At him, all the time. And it did something to him. It shouldn’t have.

He shouldn’t have felt that warm pull in his chest every time her tiny mouth curled into something resembling a grin, flashing her gums. Shouldn’t have liked the way her whole body wriggled when she was excited. Shouldn’t have let himself get used to the small weight of her when Leela, in her exhaustion, wordlessly passed her to him, and he found himself rocking her without thinking.

But it had happened, slowly and without permission. And now, when he held her, it felt natural.

Maya knew him. Trusted him.

That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

And then, on what must’ve been the third week, Tommy and Maria showed up at the door. Joel knew it the second he opened it—that this was an extraction.

Tommy stood there with that damn smirk, the same one he used to wear when Joel got him out of trouble—except this time, it wasn't his brother who had been looking for a way out.

“You're officially relieved of duty, big brother.”

Joel grunted, letting his brother pull him into a quick hug. He clapped him on the back, but his grip was just a little too firm. A little too final. “Didn’t know I was on duty.”

Maria stepped in next, squeezing his shoulder, her eyes warm with something Joel didn’t want to name. “Thanks a lot, Joel.”

He didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t say anything at all. Just gave a small nod, because that was easier than acknowledging the importance of what he’d done. No need to attach importance to what he was walking away from.

He felt Leela before he saw her.

She stood behind them by the front door, her arms loose at her sides, watching but not interfering. She was dressed in a warm sweater and pants this time, although he liked seeing her in that long nightdress of hers, the one with the pearl buttons.

She didn’t say anything. And neither did he. Because there was no point in goodbyes.

Instead, he gave her a nod—brief, almost impersonal—and then he turned, stepping off the porch, his boots heavier than they should’ve been.

Maria’s voice, quiet but clear, carried behind him as she spoke to Leela like she was approaching a wounded deer. “You feeling okay, baby? Come on, let’s talk.”

Joel kept on walking. Crossed the street.

And for the first time in seventeen days, he realised—he didn’t want to go home. Because home meant silence. Home meant absence.

Home meant walking into a house where there was no tiny, fussy cry in the middle of the night. No bleary-eyed woman fumbling with a bottle, no soft, small weight curled against his chest when exhaustion finally won out.

For seventeen days, he had fallen into something. A tempo. A system. A purpose. A role. And now, as he stepped through his own front door, into the empty space that used to feel routine, Joel realised he’d done something reckless. Something he never should’ve allowed.

He’d let himself care.

[I really like this one, so much! I love how sweet it turned out, how JOEL of him it is, and how Leela is just that sweet, confused mother. I think I'm going to really love building on this one! ]

[ taglist : @cuntstiel , @bubblegumpeeeach , @evispunk ]

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preciosapascal · 3 months ago

Text

Trouble

Summary: You planned to spend the summer at Sarah's, but you show up a day early and she’s not there. Joel doesn't mind.

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Best Friends Dad!Joel Miller x f!reader

Warnings/info: 18+ MINORS DNI, pics for mood only, no outbreak au, reader is early-mid 20's and Joel is 47, pet names (darling, baby, ect), SMUT, unprotected p in v (reader is on the pill), one or two uses of pussy pronouns, dirty talk, alcohol consumption, Joel is a lil bit of a perv

A/N: i'm honestly blown away by the amount of love my last story got! thank you so much! been on and off writing this one for a couple of weeks. i hope you enjoy, feedback is much appreciated! if you're interested in my other stories, here's my masterlist 💝

Being best friends with Sarah has it's perks, main one being that she's an amazing friend and you've been inseparable since you met a couple years back in college. Another being you got to spend the last two summers at her house. And the other perk being that her dad is hot. Like really hot.

When you first met him, you thought he was a grumpy bastard, and he can be, but he warmed up to you the more time you spent at the house. You'd share beers with him some evenings, Sarah there too - and tell him all about college, your family and anything else that came up during the conversation.

You once mentioned to Sarah that you thought her dad was 'handsome', putting it lightly, and she laughed her ass off - then told him. You could've died on the spot when she brought it up over pizza that night but you stood your ground, fighting the embarrassment.

"Just being honest." you shrugged, nudging Sarah before glancing at Joel and trying to gauge his reaction. He just laughed quietly, shaking his head. He liked it, whether he'd ever admit it or not.

You laugh at the memory as you drive to their house to stay for the summer for the third year running. Music playing, windows down and a duffle bag full of half of your closet in the trunk. When you arrive you decide you'll grab your bag later and lock your car before walking toward the front door and knocking.

Joel answers after a few seconds, a small smile on his lips. "Afternoon, trouble.”

You're very thankful for the sunglasses that sit on your face as you fully check out the gorgeous man in front of you. Plaid shirt, blue jeans, greying hair combed back. How does he look better every time you see him?

"Sarah's out, staying with Tommy and Maria to babysit while they renovate, not due back till tomorrow mornin'. She not tell you?..."

"Ah shit, no no - she did, I completely forgot." you reply, realising you mixed up the days. The original plan was to come today until Sarah texted you last week to make it a day later, which slipped your mind.

Joel leans against the doorframe, arms crossing over his broad chest; a sympathetic smile graces his lips. He eyes you for a moment, taking in your appearance.

You sigh, pushing your sunglasses up to rest on top of your head. Joel stifles a small chuckle, making you laugh and then pout. "Not funny."

He can’t help but laugh softly to himself at your pouty expression, "Poor darlin’.” he muses teasingly then nods his head into the house, “Come on in, anyway.” he steps aside, giving you room to enter.

"You sure? You don't have to invite me in out of pity." you laugh, though you're internally screaming at the thought of being alone with him.

Joel light-heartedly rolls his eyes and tuts. He gestures to the couch that peeks from around the side of the door. “Make yourself at home, m'gonna grab us a beer if y'want one?" he asks, turning to you as he walks towards the kitchen and you nod in response.

Once you get settled on the couch, Joel fully disappears into the kitchen, and reappears a moment later with two beers. He takes a seat in the chair adjacent from the couch, hands you a beer he opened for you already then opens his own.

It’s quiet for a few beats as he flips the cap off, then Joel says, “No boyfriend or anything yet then?."

You thank him for the beer and then scoff a laugh at his question. "Nah, had a few flings here and there but nothing serious, y'know?" you reply before sipping the cold beer. "

Joel takes a swig of his beer, watching you with a curious expression. “That right? Ain’t found the right guy yet? Cause I'm having trouble understanding what would make a guy not want to stick around.”

You shake your head as you swallow your mouthful, feeling a blush threatening to appear at his comment. "I’m not trying to settle down right now. Whatever happens, happens."

Joel chuckles in response then took another swig from his beer. “You're a bit of a free spirit, aintcha?” he teases, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"I guess so." you smile, crossing one leg over the other.

Joel’s gaze slowly travels down to your ripped jeans clad legs. Damn, he thinks to himself, you look good. He averts his gaze, forcing himself to think about literally anything else.

"What about you then, hm? No girlfriend yet?" you throw his question right back at him.

Joel scoffs and shakes his head. “Nah, m’not looking either.”

You huff a laugh at the similarity in your answers, yet for some reason, as if it means well for you - your stomach flutters.

"I hear ya." you say, holding your beer out towards him with a playful grin.

Joel mirrors your action and brings his own bottle up to clink it against yours. “To bein’ single, then. Damn, what a depressing toast.”

You laugh, agreeing with him. “To being single." you repeat before you both sip from your bottles.

Silence falls over the room, but it's not awkward, it's comfortable. Joel couldn’t help but steal another glance at you, shamelessly eyeing your figure for a few moments while you checked your phone.

“Guess I’d better grab my bag out of my car.” you sigh, standing up and stretching. Then you pause. “Sarah did tell you I’m staying for the whole summer again, right?”

Joel nods his head in affirmation, “She did. You're welcome to stay tonight too, sweetheart. I'll keep outta your hair."

You smile and nod, placing your beer down before he continues. "Stayin’ here for the whole summer another year running, huh?” he's immediately hit with memories of how loud you and Sarah can get.

"Mhm. Lucky you." you retort with a cheeky grin before grabbing your car keys.

Joel chuckles and shakes his head, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Real lucky.” he says sarcastically as you disappear to fetch your bag. He has another gulp of his beer, his gaze lingering on the spot on the couch where you were sitting.

Joel looks over at you with raised eyebrows when you re-enter the house, taking in how big your duffle bag is. “Geez, how much stuff you got in there?”

“Enough for the whole summer, hopefully. Gonna take this upstairs to Sarah’s room.” you grab the handles, attempting to lift it yet you struggled earlier and your neighbour kindly offered to help lift it into your car because you couldn't lift it high enough to shove it into the trunk.

Joel watches in amusement for a minute as you struggle then he stands up and walks over to you, putting a hand on your arm to stop you. "Woah, woah, hold on. Lemme help you with that, darlin'."

He gently takes the bag off of your shoulder, his fingers grazing your shoulder. "What're you packin' in here? Rocks?"

"Clothes, shoes, accessories, y'know...girl stuff." you move back, opening and closing your hand a few times to get the feeling back.

Joel slings the bag over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing, and you feel a jolt of arousal shoot though you as wonder if he could lift you just as effortlessly.

What you don't realise is that Joel can practically feel your gaze on him the whole time, making him smirk to himself. When he gets to the top he turns around with a smug smile on his face.

"See? Wasn't so hard was it?" he says teasingly, holding that bag up with one hand to prove his point.

"Yeah, yeah." you reply, waving him off.

He playfully rolls his eyes before he walks into Sarah's room, setting your bag down with a thud. You thank him as he descends the stairs before walking back to your spot on the couch and taking your beer.

Joel settles back into his seat. Another comfortable silence washes over the two of you briefly until Joel brakes it.

“Soo,” he drawls, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips as his gaze meets yours. “How much trouble you plan on causing during your lil’ visit?”

You lean back into the sofa more and exhale an amused puff of air from your nose. "Oh, tons, obviously."

Joel chuckles at your response, shaking his head slightly. His gaze remained on you longer than necessary. The way you were lounging back against the couch was making it difficult for him to think clearly.

“You wanna watch a movie or somethin' before I bore ya to death?” he nods towards the TV, waiting for your reply.

"Oh stop it, you're not boring but sure, a movie sounds good to me."

Joel stands up, grabbing the remote and takes a seat on the other side of the couch you're on this time, only so he could see the tv better, of course, then scrolls through the movie options. "You got a specific movie in mind, trouble'? Or am I pickin'?"

"I'll watch anything, you pick." you say, making yourself more comfy, shifting on the couch and tucking your legs under you.

He glances over at you, his gaze lingering on the way you nestled into the couch, legs tucked under, comfortable. He swallows, focusing back on the TV. He scrolls through the available movies, and after a few moments, settles on a comedy movie. When the opening credits begin to play he settles back into his seat, taking another swig of his beer. His gaze drifts to you every few minutes, he's hyper aware of your presence only one seat away.

At a particularly funny moment, out of habit, you reach out and grasp Joel's forearm as you laugh. It's something you've always done, something Sarah was used to. He jolts slightly in surprise, the touch sending tingles up his arm. He glances down at your hand on his forearm then back up to you. He can vaguely recall you doing this with Sarah but had never been on the receiving end himself.

You catch yourself, reminding yourself who you're with. "Oh god, sorry. I do it to Sarah all the time." you explain, smiling sheepishly and patting his arm before retracting your hand.

He slowly relaxes his shoulders, the corners of his lips tugged into a smile you apologize. "S'alright, no need to apologize." he says, his voice raspy, his southern drawl more evident than usual. In that moment, Joel realises just how much trouble he really is in.

The movie continues playing, but Joel finds it harder to pay attention. The feeling of your hand on him still lingered on his skin, and he found himself wanting more. Instead, he takes his last gulp of beer, his gaze shifting back to the TV. He clears his throat softly before abruptly standing up.

"Another?" he asks, shaking his empty beer bottle and nodding towards yours. You agree, handing him your empty bottle when he holds his hand out for it.

He heads to the kitchen to grab two more beers, taking a minute to collect himself.

He returns, the necks of the beer bottles between his fingers and hands one to you, sitting back down but just a bit closer this time. You notice his sleeves are rolled up now and you can't help gazing at his arms. You're unsure if it's just because they're attached to him or if he really does have nice arms. God you need to get laid soon.

You untuck your legs that now ache slightly and stretch them out before placing them on Joel's lap, a playful grin on your face.

Joel feels his heart rate quicken as you place your legs on his lap and he has to bite his tongue to prevent himself from letting out a single sound.

"Comfy, huh darlin'?" he asks, his voice a little hoarse.

You laugh a little, looking over at him. "I am. You make a great foot rest, actually."

Joel chuckles at your playful words. "Glad I could be of service." he replies, trying to ignore the way your laugh sends jolts of arousal straight to his dick. He takes another gulp of beer, his gaze flickering down and his hand almost moves on its own accord, lightly resting on your ankle.

Late afternoon turns into evening, evening turns into night as you continue watching movies and drink a couple more beers. He's become accustomed to your legs on his lap, and each time you return from making a trip to the kitchen or to the bathroom, he waits the few seconds it takes you to sit back down and rest your legs on him once more. You've both had a few more beers than intended. Joel is feeling a pleasant buzz, and he can tell that you are too.

As the night wears on, Joel gets more bold and starts slowly tracing his fingers up your calf. He only moves a little each time, testing the waters. He keeps his gaze fixed on the movie, but his mind is going wild, his heart thumping in his chest and his dick twitching in his pants.

You swallow hard as his fingers reach the bare skin between the rips in your jeans, while you're trying your hardest to seem unbothered as your eyes are also fixed on the screen.

It feels like you've got an angel and devil on your shoulders like those old cartoons. The angel is telling you that this is a bad idea, stop this right now, this is your best friends dad. Yet the devil is telling you to go for it, you want it, ride it out and hell, ride Joel too.

Joel’s fingers continue their slow journey upwards, tracing circles on the denim. He’s hyper-aware of every movement you make, every hitch in your breath. He knows he's playing a dangerous game, but right now, he doesn’t care.

Over the next few minutes, the movie long forgotten now, his fingers move further, now tracing lazy patterns on the inside of your thigh, just above your knee. He can feel the tension between you growing. He looks over at you, his gaze hooded and heavy.

You can feel his gaze and look over. When your eyes meet, a moment of pure heat and undeniable desire passes between you. There's a fire there, and it's growing with each passing second. Joel's hand continues its slow, rhythmic movement, his thumb lightly grazing the skin of your thigh. His gaze is intense, unyielding.

You mentally flick the angel off your shoulder and mutter "fuck it." before shifting your position so you're now kneeling beside him and turn his face toward you to press your lips against his.

Joel is momentarily caught off guard by your bold move. His mind is screaming this is a bad idea, but his body is singing a different tune. A low moan escapes him, his eyes fluttering shut on reflex.

His free hand immediately grasps the nape of your neck, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. The moment his tongue flicks out to glide against yours, his restraint snaps. He grips your hips with his large hands and tugs you onto his lap.

Suddenly his lips are hot against your neck, trailing a line of kisses as his hands slide from your hips under your shirt, resting on your bare waist.

He pulls back, breathing heavy and looking at you. "C'mon, my room. Not doing this in the family room." he mumbles, pulling you up by your hand. You understand and let him lead you to his room and as soon as you're in there, you resume the position, his back against the headboard and you straddling his lap.

You moan softly as his lips and greying scruff move against your neck again. You've only imagined this hundreds of times before and now it's happening, all reasoning and goodwill and out the window.

With how easy it is for him to slip into this, and you, you're rethinking everything that's ever happened. Everything you've ever convinced yourself was Joel just being friendly, fleeting looks, touches, everything. You know for sure now it was what you thought.

“You know exactly what you’ve been doing. A-always hovering around when I’m here with Sarah…touching my back when you walk past me…” you whisper, slowly rocking your hips against his.

“Fuck, I know.” he rasps, his hands moving up to your hips, holding you in place to match your rhythm. You take your chance to place kisses on his neck. He smells faintly of cologne and a natural manly musk that makes your cunt clench around nothing.

"Always teasing me." you murmur between kisses against his neck.

Joel lets out breathy curse and rolls his head back to give you more access. His hands slide down to your ass, gripping tightly to chase the delicious friction between you. “Teasing you? Darlin’ I was trying to be a fuckin’ saint.”

You place a couple more kisses on his neck before lifting your head from his neck, moving your arms to hang loosely over his shoulders and looking him in the eye. “Yeah? Walking around in only a towel after your shower? Leaning over me at the table to grab stuff?” you continue grinding your hips down onto his as you speak.

Joel’s eyes go nearly black as you recount his actions, and it finally occurs to him that he wasn’t nearly as subtle as he thought he was, and he loves it.

He pushes you down onto his bed on your back and lifts your tank top, his calloused fingers grazing the skin of your sides.

“What about you? When you’d bend all the way over just to grab somethin' from the refrigerator when you knew I was behind you? Paradin' yourself around my house in your tiny shorts?"

You mindlessly run your nails gently up and down his arms as he hovers over you. "I knew you were watching. Always watching when I'm here, aren't you Joel?" you ask, tilting your head.

Joel yanks the fabric over your head and tosses it to the floor, his eyes roaming over your chest covered by a lacy white bra. He leans down, chest pressed against yours, and responds in a gruff tone

“Like a damn hawk, darlin’.” His large hands trail up your sides, his head dips down to graze his lips across your collar bone. “Always watchin'…listenin' to you, smellin' your sweet perfume all over my fuckin' house.” he murmurs against you.

You think back to the fact you used to spray it everywhere, hoping to god it had this sort of affect and you almost smirk.

He hums against your neck, his hands roaming down to your jeans, finger and thumb making quick work of the button. “Thought I was going crazy.” he mumbles, tugging on the zip. “Could smell you everywhere...was like torture.” he says, moving back and pulling your jeans off, throwing them aside too.

“Fuck…I imagined us like this so many times. your big hands all over me- fuck.” you whimper as his thumbs run over your hard nipples through the flimsy cups of your bra, making your back arch off the bed.

Joel’s mind nearly explodes as you tell him your dirty thoughts. All those hours of him holding back, trying to keep his mind from wandering, and you were doing the same? He almost smirks.

He takes advantage of the fact you're arched so beautifully for him and slips a hand under you, his fingers splayed across your lower back and the other reaching to unclasp your bra. He pulls it down your arms, dropping it onto the pile of other clothes.

He pushes himself up on one hand, the other reaching down between you, fumbling with his belt as he speaks, “That right, darlin'? I’ve tugged my cock countless times thinkin' about having you like this.”

"You've stroked your cock over me?" you ask, eyes on the hand unbuckling his belt.

He looks up at you, eyes almost completely consumed with lust, as he unzips his jeans and pulls them down his thighs a little, just enough for his cock to not feel like it's suffocating in his boxers.

“Mm. Spent so many nights imagining burying my cock inside you…” he continues, and grinds his clothed length against you, as if demonstrating before continuing.

“God, the way you look at me…” he groans. “the way you laugh at my shitty jokes, those little outfits you wear…” he says, hitching one of your legs around his waist and leaning down towards you, his eyes scanning your face.

“You remember when I had that barbecue last summer? you and Sarah danced…and every time you spun…that damn skirt would ride up.”

You remember that very well…after all, you wore it on purpose. You felt kind of guilty after that, kind of parading yourself around for your besties father (even though Sarah had no idea), but knowing now how it affected him, that's the last thing on your mind.

“Yeah, I remember." you reply, wrapping your other leg around his waist and pulling him towards you more, needing more friction.

He practically loses it as you grind against him, thinking about when he sat in his backyard, trying to ignore the way your little skirt bounced, or how he would see your perfect ass cheeks peeping out of the bottom of your shorts. He was about to go mad.

“oh, I know you did. bet you fucking knew I was sitting there, trying to act normal while I’m dyin’, watching your perfect ass appear and disappear under that skirt."

You whimper as he cups one of your bare breasts, the other hand trailing downwards. “Look at these.” Joel whispers as he leans forward and takes a nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue over the bud.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me what you thought about when you were dancin', what you wanted me to do’.” he murmurs between teasing licks, his other hand teasing you through the fabric of your now soaked panties.

You let out a desperate moan, your mind begging him to do something. “I wanted…I wanted you to grab me, make me dance on your cock instead.” you say, voice strained as you try to grind yourself against his fingers.

A breathy curse escapes him at your words. He had to hear you say it. He needed to know you were thinking the same dirty thoughts as him. “You got no idea...wanted to grab you, pull your skirt up and fuck you right there.”

The mental imagine his filthy words conjure up, and his fingers teasing your pussy through your panties have you letting out a desperate noise you don't even recognise. God the noises you made. He needed to hear more of them, so his fingers slip under the side your panties.

“Y'like hearing what I wanna do to ya, huh?” he rasps as his fingers slide through your folds. “Soaked just thinking about it.”

You curse when his fingers finally make contact with your bare pussy and moan out a pathetic "Yeah."

“Fuuck, that’s it baby. Make those pretty noises for me.” Joel groans, easily slipping two fingers in your sopping centre, making you blush at how desperate you are right now. He begins to pump them and at a toe curling rhythm, making you gasp and moan his name.

He shuffles down your body, and pulls your panties aside to get a better look.

"So pretty." he murmurs, practically salivating at the sight before him, continuing his ministrations. He moves even closer, his hot breath ghosting over you, making you exhale and bite your lip.

"Tha’s right, baby. show me how bad you want it.” he says, his thumb now circling your clit. His eyes flit between your perfect pussy that's drenching his fingers and your pretty face as it contorts in pleasure. You reach behind you, grasping the edge of the mattress to ground yourself.

"Gotta taste this pussy. Can I, baby? Will ya let me?" he mumbles against the inside of your thigh before his tongue flicks out to tease the skin. He withdraws his fingers, toying with the slick, running it up and down your slit.

"ohgod...please." you almost whine. His cock is throbbing and almost hurts with every sound you make. He can smell your sweet scent and it's driving him insane. The moment you agree, his face is directly in front of your cunt, inhaling deeply.

Without warning, he licks a long stripe from your hole to your clit, tongue flat. You sigh, almost in relief at the sensation. Fuck it felt so good. He lets out a low moan, as if he were a starved man having eating for the first time in days.

His tongue dances over your sensitive little bud, his mind reeling. He never thought it'd happen. Yet here you are, legs open in front of his face and he was basking in it.

He hooks your legs over his shoulders, his lips latch onto your clit, sucking hard. You gasp and thread your fingers through his hair.

His hands trail over your thighs and then up to cup your tits, squeezing them gently. He alternates his tongues movements, licking and sucking, your moans and whimpers not helping the fact his cock feels slightly neglected now.

After a little more, he pulls away from your clit with a pop and looks up at you, his lips, chin and even the tip of his nose glistening with your juices. "She's a great kisser." he teases, wiping his face on his sleeve before slipping off the bed, rising to his feet and unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it aside. That line should've made you cringe and with anyone else it probably would've, but it didn't.

"Can I return the favour?" you ask as you prop yourself up on your elbows, wanting nothing more than to have his cock sliding down your throat.

"As good as that sounds darlin', my cocks achin' to get inside ya." he says, pulling his jeans and boxers down and kicking them aside. He gets back onto his bed, resting against the headboard. "c'mere." he beckons you over.

Your eyes trail down his body, shamelessly looking at his cock as you move towards him. He's bigger than you imagined, his balls big and heavy underneath. You don't have that much time to look as Joel pulls you over to him. "Havin' a good look there?" he teases, a smirk plastered on his face as you mount him.

"Well I mean, you just had your face between my legs, s'only fair I get a peek of what I'm about to sit on." you retort your hands on his shoulders as you hover above him, sitting up on your knees.

He lets out a low husky chuckle, the fact that you were comfortable enough to tease him back made his cock twitch and then a deep groan erupts from him as you run your pussy up and down the underside of his cock.

"You enjoy being a little tease, huh? like playi- fuck -playin' little games?" his voice is strained as you move a little further than intended, his cock nudging your entrance, making you both moan. He grips your hips, leaning back and his eyes zero in on where you're almost connected. "Again." he breathes. "fuck, do that again."

You happily comply, whimpering every time the head nudges your clit and moaning in sync with him as it prods your soaking wet hole. "Jesus-" he grunts, his head falling back. It feels so fucking good but it's taking everything in him not to drag you down onto his cock.

He can't take much more, and you're right there with him. Desperate to feel him properly. He wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you and grabs the base of his cock to line himself up. "you ready, baby?" he murmurs against the skin of your shoulder.

"mhm." you hum as his hands grip your hips. "but, slow...at first. been a while." you mumble, cheeks flushing.

His lust filled eyes soften for a moment at your confession. "you just take what you need, however you need to. we got all night, sweetheart."

Your heart flutters a little at that. This man just told you how much he's dreamed of fucking you, that he's been playing with his cock to the thought of you, yet being so understanding on top of that makes him even sexier.

You nod, before lowering yourself down on him. He closes his eyes, jaw ticking as he tries to stay still, the urge to buck up into your tight heat almost to much. "tha's it, baby...just like that."

You can't help the string of noises that escape your lips as you slowly sink onto him. When you reach the bottom, you rest your forehead on his shoulder.

"You okay?" he breathes out, one of his hands moving from your hip to trace his finger tips up your spine.

"m'fine. just needed a second." you say, fighting the embarrassment. It's not like you've never rode a dick, but it's just been while and jesus was this one bigger than the others. You suck it up and lift your head to meet his eyes, giving him a nod to let him know you're good to go. You slowly start to lift, with Joel guidance, before moving back down.

You moan together as you move, his eyes glued to your face. One hand still on your back and the other on your hip to keep you steady. "you feel so fuckin' good...don't stop. keep goin'..like that." His words only encourage you, your pace picking up as you ride him, the lewd sounds of your bodies coming together filling the air.

He starts to move his hips, matching your movements and hitting that spongey spot inside your cunt, making your eyes roll back. He takes advantage of that fact, watching your tits bounce in his face as he tries to catch a nipple with his tongue.

"Oh god...Joel..." you moan, leaning back and grasping his thighs behind you.

"Tha's right, beautiful. Fuck yourself on your friend's old mans cock." he says, watching your body move. His words are disgusting, they should turn you off, yet they make you tighten around him.

"Ah, you like that don't cha? Dirty fuckin' girl."

You nod, the embarrassment shooting straight down to your cunt. "Yeah?" he coos, pressing you, wanting to hear you say it.

"Mmyeah." you whimper pathetically as you continue moving up and down his thick cock.

"Look at me, baby girl. I wanna see that gorgeous face." He says in that deep, gravelly voice, his hand moving to your chin and tilting your head down to look at him. As soon as your eyes lock on his, the intensity makes you moan. "There she is..." he says, looking at how fucking wrecked you look. Pupils blown, cheeks flushed, hair dishevelled.

Your chest flutters and cheeks burn a little darker under his gaze. God, you always imagined you'd be more confident if you ever got to fuck him, thought you'd be calling the shots. But he's got you, and you're lost in it.

He starts to meet your movements, lifting his hips to bury himself to the hilt over and over. His hand moves from your chin to your neck, his fingers wrap around it. Your breath hitches and it makes he smirk again. "This what you want?" he murmurs, giving your throat a light squeeze.

"Mmmm, yes.." you mewl, barely able to talk. Your mind is swimming in lust and desire, our thoughts consumes by the man in front of you. He tightens his grip around your neck, his thumb pressing on your jaw to keep your gaze locked on him.

"What about last fourth July? remember that?" he asks with his signature gruff drawl.

You know exactly what he’s talking about and it makes you moan. "Mmh- yeah…" you manage. "I remember."

He gives a low, amused chuckle as he recalls the memory. "You in that lil’ blue bikini...walkin’ around my place, all tan and wet." Every other word he speaks is met with a harder thrust, making you whine.

Memories of that day flood your mind and heat pools in your belly. That was the first time you noticed Joel stare at you in a way that wasn't how your best friends dad should.

"Joel...I need- please I-" He takes the hint, shifting your position so you're now on your back on his bed, his cock still nestled deep inside you.

"I know, baby, I know." He purrs, his face going between your neck and collarbone, nipping and sucking all the sensitive skin he can get his mouth on. He lifts your left leg and drapes it over his hip, then he quickly buries himself in your tight heat again. "Fuuuck you're so tight.." he moans, head falling back.

His cock constantly hits the right spot over and over, you're sure your vision will go white any second. "So good...mmfuck, Joel..."

Your hands that look small in comparison to his, grasp his biceps and pull him down for a desperate, messy kiss. Joel's body covers yours, his muscular form surrounding you. He kisses you feverishly, every movement of his tongue and lips making that feeling in your gut coil tighter and tighter.

"Joel-” you gasp as the feeling in your stomach gets stronger. He can already feel how tight you're getting around him.

"Gonna come ain'tcha? C'mon baby, lemme feel you." his own breathing is ragged, he's not far behind you. He leans down, pressing kisses to the column of your throat as he fucks you faster.

You're unable to form a coherent sentence anymore, just needy sounds escaping you as he fucks you good, your walls tightening around him and making his hips stutter.

"There ya go...keep squeezin' me like that.." he encourages, hips moving impossibly faster.

"M'so close." you whimper, nails leaving little crescent indents in his back.

"Mmyeah, I know baby...can feel it. Gonna fill this lil' pussy up. That what you want? Wanna be full of me?" he grits, lifting his head up from your neck.

"Shit...yeah, I want it. Give it to me, please." you beg in your lust filled haze. You're right on the edge now, just needing a little something to help you over.

A gravelly moan rumbles in his chest at your words. "Look at you...wrecked and begging for my come." Those words have you clenching him again. He's so fucking close but wants to make sure you get there first.

You only whine in response, unable to come up with words as that tightness in your stomach gets so tight, you feel like you'll snap. It's like he's everywhere at once, the sensations are overwhelming and you can barely take it.

"I got ya, baby. C'mon now. Need t'see you fall apart on my cock." he murmurs.

That's it, that's all it takes. Your thighs are trembling, vision hazy, back arching, toes curling, all the orgasm cliches you'd never experienced with these frat boys who just want to get their dicks wet.

Joel watches you in awe. "Oh fuck...there we go, jus' like that." That was it for Joel too, watching you fall apart sends him over. His head drops down, hips stuttering as he rides through it with you, his movements slowing.

You're both trying to catch your breaths, sweat covers your bodies. Joel's still on top, supporting his weight with a hand on either side of your head. He lifts up slightly so he can look at you, a smirk plastered on his bearded face.

"Looking real happy with yourself there." you say, letting out a small breathy laugh.

He chuckles, the sound deep and satisfied. "Can ya blame me?" he murmurs, his head dipping down to press a kiss to your cheek, his beard scratching your skin.

But the sounds of the front door opening downstairs makes you both freeze and then Sarah's voice rings out, calling for you both. She'd have seen your car outside.

Fuck.

#joel miller #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #the last of us hbo #fanfic #joel tlou #joel miller x reader #tlou #best friends dad #bfd!joel #smut #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fic

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lazysoulwriter · 2 months ago

Text

you've GOT to be kidding me. - pedro pascal.

specially requested! thank you for sending, hope you like it, love.

---

The first time you got pregnant, it had taken months of tracking apps, fertility tests, and quiet heartbreaks. So when your daughter was born, a chubby, sleepy miracle who preferred Pedro’s chest as her pillow, you both assumed you had time. Time before thinking about a second. Time before your life shifted all over again.

So yeah, you weren’t being reckless, just… human. Tired. In love. Closer than ever. And maybe a little too confident that history wouldn’t repeat itself so fast.

Which is why now — sitting on the cold bathroom floor, face against your forearm after your third round of throwing up that week — you absolutely refuse to admit what Pedro is starting to suspect.

He kneels beside you, gently rubbing slow, grounding circles on your back. “Breathe, baby. I got you.”

You groan. “Maybe it’s a bug. Or something I ate. Or—”

Pedro interrupts softly, “When was the last time you got your period?”

You blink.

“Pedro, no.”

He laughs under his breath. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s just—! I just had a baby.”

“You had a baby three months ago,” he says gently, like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he says it too loud. “And I remember very clearly that we haven’t exactly been cautious lately.”

You bury your face in a towel. “I’m thirty-six. I’m tired. I’m breastfeeding. This shouldn’t be possible.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then you hear him murmur, almost to himself, “You’re glowing though. Just like last time.”

You stare at him.

“I threw up on your sock, Pedro.”

“Romantic,” he teases, leaning in to kiss the top of your head. “Let’s just… take a test, okay?”

You agree only to shut him up.

And that’s how you end up in your shared bathroom twenty minutes later, holding a stick with two pink lines, while your newborn daughter babbles in the background from her bassinet.

You sit down slowly on the edge of the tub, stunned.

Pedro peeks into the room, half-expecting to be scolded. “Well…?”

You hold up the test, eyes wide.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he grins. “Oh my God.”

You shake your head, a bit dazed. “We’re insane. We’re insane people.”

He walks over, kneels in front of you again, rests his forehead against your knees. “We’re insane. And apparently very fertile.”

You burst into laughter, the kind that feels like the only possible response to this whirlwind. You’re terrified, still tired, still healing — but when his hands slide up to cup your cheeks and he kisses you like it’s the easiest thing in the world, you remember that this is your home now. This life. These two babies. This man.

Pedro looks up at you, eyes sparkling. “You think we should just keep having one every year? Start a band?”

You smack his arm. “You’re never touching me again.”

He winks. “You said that last time.”

And somehow, through the chaos, you both just start laughing. Loud and real and maybe a little scared — but together.

---

escrevi essa aqui com um sorrisinho no rosto o tempo todo, juro. obrigada demais a todas as leitoras brasileiras que tão por aqui lendo, surtando e comentando — vocês são tudo pra mim!! espero que tenham curtido esse caos romântico com o pedro tanto quanto eu curti escrever 💌

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talaok · 1 year ago

Note

Love your writing! Could we please do a cute pregnant reader x Pedro going to and at the SAG awards in honour of our boy winning! 🤍🙏🏼

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x pregnant!reader

a/n: this is how i found out he won btw. I'm so happy for him i cant even, I just love that fucking guy gosh ahhhh (as always this request skipped the line bc it wouldnt make sense in a month)

Gif credits: @tessas-thompson

"thank you" you told him as he emerged from underneath your bump after having slipped your shoes on for you.

Turns out that when you're 7 months and a half pregnant, the most basic tasks like putting on shoes become a two person job.

He only smiled, kissing your belly and then your lips before standing up, offering you a hand to do the same.

"Heels would have looked much better with this dress" you pouted, studying yourself in the mirror,

You hated ballerinas, but again, you weren't really in the condition to wear anything else.

"You look stunning sugar" he promised, kissing the crown of your head

You couldn't help but snort.

As much as he told you so over and over, together with everyone else in your life... you still struggled to see it, especially now in this uncomfortable dress.

"I look like a stuffed turkey" you sighed "and my boobs are so much bigger than when I first tried this dress, now they look a move away from spilling out"

His eyes twinkled with kindness, with love as he placed his hands on your waist and turned you towards him, away from your reflection.

"You're beautiful sweetheart" he promised, one hand now stroking your cheek as your own hands went to his waist "You're sexy and gorgeous and so fucking hot that if Coco wasn't still here I would demonstrate just how much right here right now" he growled, not giving you time to answer before he kissed you, soft at first, and then once you whimpered, it was like a switch turned and he was fiery and passionate and his left hand trailed to your ass and-

"Pedro!" you scolded him quietly, eyeing Coco on the other side of the room.

"she's seen worse"

She had.

Nonetheless, he took a step back, returning his hand to your waist.

"Thank you" you murmured, looking up into his hazel eyes "and by they way, you look very beautiful too"

You could have sworn you saw red staining his cheeks

"thank you baby"

You adjusted his shirt, as you got lost in your own mind.

There he was, you beautiful, talented, Emmy, golden globe and SAG award nominated husband, looking every bit as perfect as ever.

And just like that, tears pooled in your eyes

"what's wrong?" he asked, worried

"I just-" you sniffled, trying to fight the tears as your lips trembled "I-I'm so proud of you"

"aw sweetheart" he cooed, half laughing as he wrapped you into his arms.

He'd gotten used to it now, taking care of your over-emotional self was part of his daily routine.

"Y-you just" you cried "you worked so hard a-" another quiet sob "and n- now you're finally getting the recognition you deserve I-"

"I know baby, I know" he cooed, softly kissing the top of your head "thank you" he smiled, his fingers drawing soothing circles on your back "It means a lot to me too,"

"I love you" you murmured, finally raising your head to look at him

"I love you too honey" he kissed you, laughing softly as he pulled back to see tears still running down your cheeks "You're gonna cry the whole night, aren't you?"

"I made the makeup artist use only waterproof products" was your way of saying yes, yes I'm going to, and yes I've already planned ahead

He chuckled, kissing your forehead as his hands trailed to your bump, soft kicks hitting his palms.

"She's excited" he murmured

"She's proud of her daddy too"

__ __ __

Pedro Pascal.

Pedro P-

Your husband. they had called your husband.

It was probably comical from the outside, seeing the shock on both your faces as you stared blankly at each other, the way your mouth gaped open, while he slapped a hand onto his, it was like- it was like time had stopped, and the word went completely quiet, until- until-

"oh my god" you breathed, throwing your arms around him and hugging him so tight it probably hurt

He didn't dare speak a word as you leaned away, landing a kiss on his mouth as you gripped his face

"go" you laughed, grinning like an idiot as tears glimmered into your eyes "go" you urged again, this time, having him comply.

You watched every step, every move, until he was right in front of the microphone, his award in his hands.

"This is umh" he mumbled "This is wrong for a number of reasons-"

he was in shock, his voice trembling, his eyes watery, but he kept going

"b-but thank you hbo, Bella Ramsey, Craig Mazin, Neil Drukman, Frannie, and -" A shaky sigh fled his mouth, as he chuckled to himself "jeez louise I'm making a fool of myself and my wife is gonna make so much fun of me for it and-"

All the sudden his eyes were on you,

"my wife" he smiled, his smile brighter than the sun "I wanna thank my beautiful, amazing, intelligent, and perfect wife" he said "I love you y/n, I love you and our daughter more than anything in this world and if I'm here today- If I'm here today is mostly because of you"

You were shaking from how hard you were crying, from how happy, ecstatic, and euphoric you were for him.

"You've made me the happiest man on this earth, you've made me a dad, you- you're my everything sweetheart" he beamed "so thank you"

He stopped a moment, as if realizing only now this had all really happened

"And now I'm gonna stop talking 'cause I need to get down there to kiss you and try to make you stop crying" he laughed, ending his speech

"thank you, everybody, really, thank you"

__ __ __

He did exactly as he said,

he held you tight as he kissed you like the world was gonna end tomorrow, like if he didn't he was gonna die

And when he leaned away- when he leaned away time stopped once again, but as he pressed his forehead to yours, as you lost yourself in each other's eyes, you remembered

"You said it was wrong" you said, both your hands holding his face "but it's not" you shook your head, watching his eyes water "you deserve this baby, you do"

"sweetheart-"

"no" you shut him off, your voice hoarse from the sobs, but it didn't matter, you wanted him to know, you needed him to know "No I need you to understand that you do baby" You smiled "that you worked your ass off and that you deserve every single inch of this award" you took a deep breath, steadying your voice as you looked at him, so many unspoken words traveling between you

"ok?" you asked, finally

"ok" he beamed, kissing you again "God I love you so much"

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lobeliamaximoff · 2 months ago

Text

"I'm going to watch Thunderbolts and Fantastic Four for the plot"

The plot:

(really how am I suppose to survive Sebastian, Wyatt and Lewis in one movie)

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tokkiwrites · 7 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐃𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After breaking up with your boyfriend of four years, you’re left heartbroken and desperate to leave it all behind. But as fate would have it, just as you’re about to walk out the door of his house, you run into his fatherㅡ the man who’s always lingered at the edges of your mind. the next sensible thing to do is fuck him.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: pwp, bf's dad joel miller x f! reader, short description of toxic rs, fight scene, afab reader, i dont know if this is categorized as cheating :p , age gap, fingering f receiving, joel has a huge one but we alr know!, dirty talk, pet names, p in v unprotected, creampie, slight slapping and hairpulling.

✿ 🪽 𓈒 ﹫𝐭𝐨𝐤𝐤𝐢𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 ..＼ ♰ i have been neglecting you cute freaks, but i am here to feed you. behold! boyfriend's dad joel miller smut! around 2.6k words, so it's pretty short, but i hope you love it. not proofread!!!!! okay baiiii 😎🫶🏻

The fight tears through the house like a hurricane, each word leaving wounds too deep. "You never listen to me!" you yell, your voice raw and trembling. Your chest aches, your throat burns, but the word vomit won’t stop pouring out. "Four years, and it’s like I’m shouting into a void! Do you even care about us?"

"Do you even fucking hear yourself?" he fires back, pacing the room like he can’t bear to stand still. "God, all you do is pick fights! You always need something to be wrong. What the actual fuck?"

"Because something is wrong!" Your voice cracks, and the tears come faster now, hot and humiliating. You hate how small you feel, how desperately you want him to care. "I’ve been fighting for this, for you, and all you do is act like it’s a burden!" He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Maybe it is. Maybe you are." The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your breath catches, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly still. You don’t want to cry anymore, but the tears fall anyway, blurring your vision as you step back. "Fine," you whisper, your voice trembling. "If that’s how you feel, then we’re done. I’m done." He freezes, his expression shifting to something almost regretful— but not enough to stop him. "Fuck this." He grabs his keys from the counter and storms out without another word. The door slams behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet house.

For a moment, you just stand there, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you try to hold in the sobs threatening to break free. The silence feels suffocating, pressing in on you from every angle. You can’t stay here. You need to leave.

You grab your bag and wipe your face as best you can, hands still shaking. You tell yourself you’re fine, that the fresh air will help. But as you turn the corner into the foyer, you collide with something solid— someone solid. "Whoa there," a low voice drawls, steadying you with hands firm and sure. Your heart stutters as you look up and see Joel, your now ex-boyfriend's father.

Your breath catches in your throat. His hand is on your arm, warm and grounding, as his dark eyes search your face. His presence is like a balm, so different from the storm you just walked out of. He’s all quiet strength and rugged edges, his salt-and-pepper beard only making him look more like someone carved out of the earth itself. "Hey, sweet girl," he says, his tone warm and laced with that familiar twang. "What’s got you all worked up? You alright?" The sound of his voice is enough to break you all over again. You shake your head, the tears spilling over despite your best efforts to hold them back. You try to answer, but your words falter. All you can do is nod, though you know you’re far from alright. Not when his thumb is brushing lightly over your flesh, not when his scent— warm, woodsy, familiar— makes your knees fall weak. You can’t look at him, can’t look at the steadiness in his eyes or the way his hands ground you when you feel like you’re falling apart.

"Hey now," he says softly, pulling you into a hug before you can protest. His arms wrap around you, strong and safe, and for the first time all night, you don’t feel like you’re about to shatter. "C’mere, sweet thing. You gotta talk to me, mkay? What happened?" You press your face into his chest, breathing in hus smell that makes you feel like you’re home, even though you know you shouldn’t.

It’s absurd, really. You’ve always known he was handsome, but standing this close, it hits you differently. You’ve always noticed him in ways you shouldn’t, caught yourself glancing too long, wondering too much. And now, with tears still wet on your cheeks and your heart in pieces, he feels like the only steady thing left in the world.

"It’s over," you mumble against his shirt, your voice muffled but thick with emotion. "I broke it off with him. For r-real this time..." Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands settling on your shoulders as his brow furrows. "You and him?" he asks gently, but you could tell he wasn't quite sure in your answer. "You sure ‘bout that?"

"Y-yeah..." You nod, your throat tight. "So you don’t have to... act nice anymore. You don’t have to pretend like you like m-me or care or whatever. It’s done now..." His expression shifts, confusion flickering across his face before something warmer takes its place. His lips part slightly as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

"Sweetheart," he says, his voice dipping lower, softer, like a secret meant just for you. "What the hell gave you the idea I don’t like you?" You blink up at him, stunned. "I just—"

"Little lady," he interrupts, leaning closer, his voice growing rougher, "it’s damn near impossible not to like you." Your breath catches as his thumb brushes over your cheek, his stare unflinching, as he examines your tear-stained face. There’s something in his eyes you’ve never noticed before—something unguarded, like he’s been holding it back for years. "Sweet thing like you," he murmurs, his lips quirking into the smallest of smiles. "Anyone with half a brain’d like you. But me? Hell, darlin’. I’ve liked you since the day I met you."

You step back slightly, just enough to meet his gaze fully, searching his face for any hint of pity, of kindness given out of obligation. "You don’t need to lie to me," you say, voice trembling. It feels like your heart is spilling out of you, breaking open right here in front of him. "Not just to make me feel better..."

Joel’s brow furrows, his dark eyes softening, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. A thread holds stretched taut between you. He doesn’t drop his hands from your shoulders, doesn’t let you pull away any further. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re the most important thing in the world right now, like he’s trying to figure out how to put the pieces of you back together.

"What reason would I have to lie to ya now that you ain't with my sorry ass boy?" His voice is low, almost a whisper, but it carries a shiver down your whole body. You swallow hard, shaking your head. "I don’t know. I just—" You stumble over your own tongue.

Joel exhales slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes bore into yours. simmering, waiting to swallow you whole. "Darlin’," he murmurs, "Let me show you then." Before you can even think, he leans in.

The world falls away the moment his lips meet yours. It’s soft at first, hesitant, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him if this isn’t what you want. But when you don’t pull away and when you melt into him instead, your fingers clutching at his shirt, he deepens the kiss, large hands sliding from your shoulders to your waist, pulling you closer.

His lips are warm and sure, washing away any heartbreak you might've felt.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests gently against yours, his breaths mingling with your own. "Am I lyin'?" Your chest tightens, the tears welling up again, but this time they’re different. They’re not the tears of heartbreak—you’re not even sure what they are, only that they feel a little like hope.

"Mister Miller," you breathe, his name dancing on your puffy lips. He smiles, soft and a little sad, brushing a thumb along your cheek. "I got you, sweet girl. You just let me." and you crumble completely. with no hesitation, he picks you up, taking you to the nearest bedroom, where he closes the door behind.

it felt wrong. it was wrong. but the way he looked looming over, you got your head spinning in all the right ways. the bed pooled under you, sheets rustling as you watched joel discard part of his clothes. you nip at your lower lip, scooting your body upward to remove the pants you had on. in mere seconds, both of you are naked, gasping, and holding onto each other like nothing else mattered.

You finally get to see joel fully naked and you can't quite understand how a man his age looks the way he does, and how he's still single, given the package he's been blessed with. "you can stop starin' now. you wanna get me shy?" joel teases, his shaft now on full view for you to gawk at. you're taken by surprise when he so easily pulls you down towards him.

he trailed kisses down your chest like flowers fall from cherry trees in the spring, your body reacting in ways you didn’t know were possible. "Please hurry..." and he chuckles, maybe proud maybe amused to see you this desperate. "'m sorry, darlin'" You purr under his touch, wrapping around him like he's a lifeline. his lips crash against yours again, rough palm slipping into your wet panties. you gasp, the feeling so strange yet so familiar. he lets go of your lips, thick fingers working their way inside of you. Joels eyes meet yours, and he curls his digits, speed picking up. the sounds youㅡ your pussy made, were pure music to him, constant encouragement to go harder, faster, loving the way you looked crumbling onto his fingers. "got such a pretty pussy. Sure you ok with an old man ruin it for anyone else?" he asked it as if it was the least absurd thing he could say right now. you nod your head profusely. "atta girl. knew you were the obedient kind first time I saw ya."

"You gonna come?" Almost mocking you, but you could bot form the proper words. You just looked deep into his glinting eyes as your hand made its way to his hardened crotch. "P-pleasee..." Joel almost loses himself, but he's steady with his movements. "Wanna come on my cock, hm? is that what you beggin' for?" your folds drip and clench around him deliciously, you don't want it to end. and when you're almost there... he stops. you whine in protest but you're quickly put back in your place with a firm tug at your hair. "You take what I give you, girl. Now ass up." you comply. in a second, your back is facing him, red cheeks now hidden into his pillow. you try to balance yourself up with one arm, but he grabs you by the wrist.

"Spread 'em." And you do just that, pulling at your flesh. like an auction. only it's you presenting your cunt for fucking. "Fuck, look at that..." he tuts, gathering some of your juices on his pulsing tip, dragging it up and down your puffy lips. "Pretty girl. She cryin' for me, baby?" a string of fain 'yesyesyes' reaches his ear. hes quiet for a bit but the moment he pushes the tip inside you feel your knees buckle, all the strength you had left into your arms fluttering away. you fall face first into the mattres under you as joel pushes down your lower back. it hurts, but the pain is delicious. your moans feel the room, the occasional slap to your ass interrupting them. Joel is strong, fast and brutal, leaving you no room to breathe, fucking so deep into you you're sure he's way past your bellybutton. "T-takin' it so well, pretty girl, so well.." your skin burns where joel touched it, whole head fuzzy and empty. "pleasepleaseplease" as the whole bed shakes and strums to his movements.

your back arches as waves of pleasure break over your body like water on a shore. your head was spinning, heart pounding, as his whole weight dominated over you. "That's it, baby, take it." his thrusts are rough, each hit making your body bounce, the urgency as he hit that very spot each timeㅡ your whole insides burning, too cock drunk to talk or respond, other than some pathetic whines that perfectly accompanied the wet sounds your pussy made. "been dreamin' about havin' you like this, baby. look at herㅡ" joel throws his head back, delivering a harsh thrust, the pain quickly melding into pleasure. "gonna come, hm?" he's stern and rough with his request. "hhhaㅡ y-yes, plea-se..." You don't know if you're crying because it feels too good or because of how long you've waited for this, no matter how unforgiving this could be.

eyes shot open when he roughly yanks your hair, your skin slapping on his being to only sound you can faintly make out in your dazed state. you let your whole body go, tongue lulled out as he takes out on you anything he might've been feeling. you were at his mercy, your moans irrefutable. your stomach flips and churns as that familiar feeling pools again in your lower tummy, and you were chasing it, crying. from what, you didn't quite know. maybe because you've never been fucked this good or maybe because it'll be over too soon.

the room was stuffy. "o-oh myㅡ god!" You yelp when joels speed picks up, shocked that he can go that fast, considering you've heard him multiple times complaining about his bad back. "shitㅡ i gotta come, baby. you gonna let me do it in ya? huh?" You nod your head so, squeezing around him like a ring, and he rewards you with a slap to your ass. "fuckin' slut." he laughs through breathy moans. you're holding on for dear life, reaching for anything your fingers can grasp at this moment. you're sure the neighbors are having a blast seeing the whole house shake. "that's it, girl. take itㅡ c'mon..." with a few more pumps his hips come to a halt, whole body trembling as he comes ropes inside of you. you let go, bliss washing over you, the ringing in your ears covering the soft curses escaping Joel's lips. steadying himself, he pulls out, voice cracking as he speaks again. "fuuck... baby, look at her." he smiles crooked, watching intently as his come drips out of you, cascading down to your thighs. you lick your lips, looking back and right up at him whilst spreading your legs wider.

"Don't do that. think I don't have it in me to fuck you again?"

you tease, "i don't know. do you?" and he laughs, pushing inside of you again, watching as your face contorts in pleasure. "Careful, girl."

you wonder when your boyfriendㅡ i mean exㅡ will come back home.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fanfic #joel miller fic #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #boyfriends dad ! joel miller

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rivalsispunk · 22 days ago

Text

20 Cigarettes (DBF!Joel Miller x reader)

summary: a chance run in with your dad's best friend while visiting home for a wedding leads to something you may never be able to take back.

tags/warning: +18, mdni. Joel is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s. age gap. f!reader. unprotected piv. creampie. SMUTT. angst. slow burn. jealous Joel. drinking, smoking, swearing.(if I've missed anything let me know and I'll amend). no outbreak, non canon, mention of TLOU characters but nothing is in line with the show/game aside from the fact Joel is the dilf to end all dilfs hehe

w/c: 10k

a/n: couldn't get the new Morgan Wallen song out of my head or Joel for that matter, so enjoy this plotty smutty fic.

It’s nearly nine and The Rusty Antler is buzzing, content chatter battling with the speakers blasting a mix of pub classics and country hits. It’s unsurprising for a Friday night. The dive has always been the perfect place for locals to drink away the stresses of the week and get geared up for the weekend, everyone from tradesmen straight off the job to moms gone wild and newly twenty-one-year-olds filling up the high tops and dance floor. There’s smoke filtering in from the front deck where patrons have slipped out for a cigarette, the smog creating a haze through the bar that’s backlit but the neon beer signs hooked up on the walls. The antique Shiner sign hanging above your booth table casts a green hue over Dina, making her white Bride sash appear minty under the light.

You’d flown into Austin barely twenty-four hours ago, ready to celebrate your high school best friend’s bachelorette party, along with a couple other childhood friends and two women from Dina’s job at City Hall. You spent the bulk of the day at the local spa, getting pampered with everything from massages to manis and pedis, blowouts, the works. Dina didn’t want anything fancy for her send-off into married life.

“Just wanna do what I love, with the people I love,” she’d told you when preliminary plans were being discussed a few months back. And what Dina wants, Dina gets, which is how the six of you ended up at The Rusty Antler, the one bar that had always been your favourite since you were old enough to drink — and maybe for a few years beforehand, when you’d been able to distract the bouncer from the dodgy, fifty buck fake IDs Dina had bought from some stoner under the school bleachers. There was nothing like a night out with your girlfriends at a cosy dive with drinks and music — something you’d missed whenever you returned to Charlotte, where you’ve lived the past three years since graduating on scholarship from Duke.

You readjust the pink Bridesmaid sash that’s slung across your body, surveying the crowd.

“You got your eye on anyone special?” Molly, one of your high school friends, asks, jostling your shoulder.

“Nope,” you say, popping the p when you turn back to face the table. “That’s not what tonight’s about. I’m happy hanging with my girls and our bride-to-be.”

Dina flutters her eyelashes while she sips on her margarita. “You know, you hooking up with someone tonight would be the best wedding present you could get me.” “Your wedding’s still not for another two weeks,” you remind her. “Plus, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

Dina rolls her eyes. “Babe, I know what Jesse did was God-awful. I fucking hate him for doing that to you. But you know what they say: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” A chorus of totally and you’re so right rouses from the rest of the group. You shake your head, heart clenching like someone has a fist around it at the mention of Jesse. Sure, it’d been a couple months since he’d confessed to sleeping with a colleague, since you’d kicked him out of your apartment, since you’d broken up, but it wasn’t that easy to just move on. It’d been a four-year relationship. You’d seen each other through your Junior and Senior years at college and into navigating the real world together. You couldn’t just turn that part of your life off.

“Hey,” Dina’s co-worker Reese says, interrupting whatever conversation had taken over from your love life. “Do any of you know that guy? He keeps looking over here.” You follow the manicured finger she’s pointing across the room, to where a man sits at one of the bar stools, attention currently on the bartender who’s pouring him a drink. Dark, wavy hair. Carhartt jacket fighting the wide breadth of his shoulders, green flannel poking out from underneath. Worn boots rest on the foot rail that runs along the length of the rickety bar, living up to its name.

Yeah, you know him.

“Hold this for a minute.”

You palm off your tequila soda to Molly before pushing out of the black vinyl booth, just as Dina asks, “Wait, isn’t that Joel Miller?”

Your dad’s best friend. He moved in across the street the summer you returned sixteen, after his divorce and with a bubbly, curly-haired eleven-year-old daughter in two. He and your father bonded quickly over single fatherhood and sports. They were always at one or the other’s houses, cheering on game days, grilling up regular barbecues for the neighbours, drinking beers. Now that you were well into your twenties and living interstate, you couldn’t visit home as much as you’d liked, but it gave you peace of mind knowing your dad had Joel to keep him company. It’s been a couple years since you’ve seen him, and God — what’s that saying about aging and fine wine? He must be in his early forties now, at least, about a decade younger than your dad. Time has been nothing but kind to the contractor, whose skin glows with a tan from years of working on sites in the sun.

As you cross the bar towards him, you notice the silvery strands in his hair, almost metallic under the low lights, that sprout at his temples and weave their way through the waves he’s running a bearish hand over. The colours match the coarse scruff that hugs his jaw and chin, patchy in places, but not unkempt.

You slip between Joel’s barstool and the next one before saying, “You spying on me, Miller?”

He doesn’t startle, just rolls his eyes up to meet yours like he was expecting you. “Define spyin’,” he responds flatly, but you don’t miss the tilt at the corner of his mouth. “You use a fake ID to get in ‘ere tonight?”

You try to quell a grin by pushing your tongue to your cheek. It was a couple of weeks before your eighteenth birthday, your dad was out of town and you and Dina thought you’d try your luck at The Rusty Antler. The IDs had worked. You just hadn’t factored in the possibility that your dad’s best buddy would be there, too. He hadn’t ratted on you though, not in the time since, and for that you were grateful. “That was one time.”

“Mmhmm,” Joel tuts, unbelieving.

You glance at his glass. “Drinking alone?”

“Just finished up with a couple of guys from the crew. Might stay for one more,” he says as his eyes rake over you, gaze stalling at the sash draped over the swell of your breasts in a low-cut, blank tank. “S’who’s getting married?”

“Dina,” you tell him, chin jutting in the direction of where your friend is using a penis-shaped straw as a microphone while she sings along to Mr Brightside. “From high school. Don’t know if you remember her or—”

“I remember,” he cuts you off. “She babysat Sarah with you a coupl’a times.” Joel shakes his head, a stray curl falling onto his forehead. “God, can’t believe y’all are at the age where you’re getting married.”

“Well, some of us.” Jesse flashes across your mind.

“Your dad mentioned you and your fella broke up. Sorry to hear.”

You shrug. “It is what it is. Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Is anything?” Joel scoffs.

Your dimple dips into your cheek at his cynicism. “You’re telling me.” A few beats pass as you watch Joel take a languid sip of the amber liquid in his glass before he clears his throat, focusing on the scratched timber countertop. You lean backwards, elbows resting on the bar, hoping to appear nonchalant despite the weird shift you immediately felt in his presence. “And what about you?”

He looks at you sidelong. “What about me?”

“You seeing anyone?” It’s none of your business, but you’re not ready to cut the conversation short just yet.

“Don’t have time for that, darlin’.”

Darlin’. Your body tingles at the nickname.

“That’s not what I heard.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “And what did ya hear?” “Dad said you’ve been out a few times with Tess from down the street.”

“Did he now?” Joel chuckles to himself. You feel the rumble of it in your own chest. “It’s nothing serious.” “Nothing serious,” you regurgitate. Then, egged on by the alcohol in your system: “So, you’re just fucking each other, then?”

He splutters over his glass, hissing your name with a reprimanding lilt.

“What?” you ask, voice laced with innocence.

“Just never heard you talk like that. Swearin’ and all.”

“Then you ain’t spent enough time with me. I’m all grown up now, you know.”

“I noticed,” he grits, voice so low you don’t hear what he says over the whump of the music.

“What’s that?”

“Nothin’.” He glances over your shoulder, nodding in the direction of your group. “I think your friends are looking for you.” He’s not wrong. Dina and the other girls are waving you over as Brooks and Dunn’s Neon Moon begins to filter out over the speakers.

You should want to join your friends. You should want to celebrate Dina’s last official night out before she becomes a wife. But your feet are lead, keeping you stationary on the sticky barroom floor next to Joel—your dad’s best friend, you have to remind yourself, though the title feels redundant with the way his molten eyes pour over you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. But you feel it, every lick of his gaze over your bare skin branding you under the neon bleating on the wall.

“Okay, well,” you straighten up, push your chest out proudly in a way that pulls Joel’s attention to your breasts again. “It was nice to see you, Joel. Might see you around at my dad’s. I’m down for a couple of weeks, ‘til after the wedding.”

“Yeah, sure,” Joel nods curtly. “Have fun. Don’t get into too much trouble tonight.”

A light laugh bubbles from you. “Of course,” you tell him, resting a palm on his shoulder. “I always behave myself.” You push away from the bar without a second glance, but Joel’s focus is on you as you fight through the crowd that occupies the dance floor stretching between him and your friends. His eyes remain trained on the way your body swings with each step, your hips straining against your impossibly short leather skirt, the muscles in your legs rippling as your red Tecovas carry you across the room. Joel shifts on his stool. Drains his glass. Tries to ignore the fact that his faded Wranglers feel like they’ve tightened across his crotch, before flagging down the bartender for another drink. God knows he needs it.

Ten minutes later, a server appears and plants a tray of shots on the table. Dina immediately reaches for a glass of the clear liquid while one of the other girls tells the worker that you didn’t order them.

The server shakes his head. “It’s on that guy at the bar. He says congratulations.”

He’s gesturing to where Joel is perched on the peeling leather barstool. He smiles, only just, holding his neat glass of whiskey in the air with a cheers, his eyes locked on yours. You return a tight-lipped smile, holding his gaze as you throw the shot backwards, acidic heat trailing down your throat. Vodka. A shiver wracks your body before fire burns at the pit of your stomach, but whether it’s from the straight alcohol or the feeling of Joel’s eyes on you as you swallow it down is anyone’s guess.

“Thank you, Mr Miller!” Dina screeches over the music, to which he responds with a two-fingered wave. Then she turns to you, head ducked as she says, “God, I haven’t seen him in years. When did he get so hot?”

No shit, you think, then suck down the rest of your lukewarm tequila soda and push Joel Miller to the back of your mind.

***

The night quickly progresses from slamming shots at your table in the corner to dirty dance moves on the tacky floor in the middle of the dive. The bar must be at capacity, with the way that you can barely sway your hips without bumping into another patron and how the line for drinks is four people deep the whole way along the counter. Right now, Dina is at your back, an arm slung around your middle as you jump in tandem to Luke Bryan’s Country Girl (Shake It For Me). Your heart thumps to the beat of the song, cheeks aching from smiling and the joy of spending time with your best friends after so long. You’re not thinking about much aside from making sure Dina has the night she deserves, your whole body feeling featherlight under the haze of alcohol, but there’s a niggling at the back of your mind, and a heat that sears your skin like you’re being watched. A heat that has your eyes darting around the room, searching for dark eyes and a square-set jaw that belongs to a man you have no business worrying about, let alone thinking about.

Joel fucking Miller.

And there he is, on that same barstool—though his back is to the bar now so he has full sight of the room—watching you through the ever-changing gaps in the crowd.

Even from where he’s sitting, Joel notices the way your breathing hitches when you spot him, how sweat prickles just that little bit extra across your chest, his own breath catching when the light hits the bead that slips into the valley between your breasts. He knows he should look away. Hell, he should’ve walked out of here the minute he saw you barrel into the bar with your girlfriends, bridesmaid sash slung across your pert, young body—far more womanly than he remembered, or cared to notice, the previous times you’d visited home. But your dad is his best buddy. Joel owes it to him to keep an eye on his daughter, make sure she doesn’t run into any trouble. At least, that’s what he’s telling himself as your earlier declaration that you always behave toys on his conscience. Still, the angelic look that accompanied that confession is long gone as Joel watches you grind against your best friend in time to the music. A smirk tugs at your glossy, full lips, and the devious undertone of it sends a hot strike through his body, stirring his cock in its already half-hard state. Joel drops his free hand over himself, hoping to hide his arousal while the other fists his whiskey glass. With a quick glance around the room, he quickly realises he’s not the only one enjoying the show. Almost every man in the bar has his attention turned on you and Dina, watching keenly as the pair of you drop your bodies low, asses gyrating to the beat.

The song crossfades into another upbeat country hit that has the crowd hollering in approval and dividing itself into rows for line dancing. The corresponding combination begins facing away from Joel, and you lose yourself in the side steps and heel taps, clapping along to the rhythm when the routine calls for it. When the song hits its second chorus, you swing your body around to face the bar, restarting the combination, but your feet falter when you notice the loss of Joel’s attention. Now, it’s turned on a pair of men a couple of feet away from him, tension thick as the taller of the two puffs his chest. He says something to Joel that’s completely intelligible to you, but whatever it is has Joel straightening up and his eyebrows drawing together until a divot forms between them. He’s pissed—and your stomach knots. It’s no secret that Joel Miller has a short fuse, and you’ve heard the stories of him getting into bar fights back when he and your dad were young. A few when they were older, too. It’s when Joel stands from his stool, knuckles white around his glass, that you break out of your line, maneuvering around people as they hit the moves to the Big & Rich tune. Your palm hits Joel’s chest—more muscular than you were expecting for a man of his age—just as he begins to move towards the men he was talking to. Confusion crosses his dark features as he peers down at you, eyes flickering from your face to the hand on him.

He growls your name. “Move.”

You shake your head, press the butt of your palm into him even harder. “Joel, don’t. They’re not worth it.”

“Ah, so the sexy little bridesmaid belongs to you, hey, old man?” a gruff voice pipes up from behind. The comment fills in the gaps that they’ve been talking about you, and it curls Joel’s lips into a snarl. He fights against you, one of his arms shooting over your shoulder.

“I told you to watch your fuckin’ mouth.” The gravelled edge to his voice shouldn’t make your thighs press together, but it does. Your eyes drop from his face to his other hand, and you can’t stop imagining how it would feel on you instead of clenched at his side. Keeping your palm on him, pressure hard with warning, you shift so you can face the other men.

“I think we’re done here.”

The bald one sluices his eyes down your body and it makes you want to shed your skin. It’s slimy, disgusting—nothing like the way it felt when Joel did the same thing. “Depends. What’s in it for me?” You narrow your gaze. "Not bleeding, if you're smart."

A lax smirk crops up on his pudgy face. “Oh, she’s got a mouth on her. I like that.”

You can feel Joel stiffen against your hand. He’s practically vibrating, like a raging bull waiting to be let out of his pen. You stick a finger in the guy’s face, voice steady when you tell him to fuck off, aware that one of the bar’s security guards is circling close by in case the situation gets out of hand. The bald man’s friend seems to have noticed him too, because he nudges his head in the guard’s direction and suggests they move along. And they do, thankfully, but not without another snide comment under the bald guy’s breath. Whatever.

Joel’s chest heaves, your hand rising and falling with his breath as his eyes stay stuck over your head. His heart thunders through his flannel and pulses against your palm. This is the closest the pair of you have ever been. You’ve never even hugged, in all the years you’ve known each other. Not on birthdays. Not during goodbyes. A cedar scent imbued with cinnamon radiates from Joel, and for a brief second you're compelled to shove your face into his chest and inhale. To commit his smell to memory, maybe feel what it's like for him to wrap his corded arms around you and hold you to him.

Are you good?, you call yourself out, blinking yourself back to reality, the one where Joel is still rattling with anger.

“Earth to Joel.” You take your hand and click twice in front of his face. “You good?”

Eventually, his dark eyes fall to yours, and he wills himself to not let them stray further down your body. You’re all too close. “I’m fine. I had it handled.”

“Did you?” you laugh incredulously. “Because from where I’m standing, you looked about three-quarters of the way to giving that guy a knuckle sandwich.”

Joel raises a thick eyebrow with a chuckle. “Thought you said you were all grown up. Grown ups don’t call it a knuckle sandwich.”

“Grown ups also don’t try to start bar fights.”

“Touché,” Joel mumbles, and you give him a playful shove that dissipates the last of the tension in the air. You spin on a heel to face the shelves full of liquor, just as Joel offers you a drink.

“Tequila soda, right?”

“Someone’s paying attention,” you tease with a wink that goes straight to Joel’s cock. Again. Not to mention what it does to him when you lean forward on the countertop, tits pushed up to the high heavens when your arms cross over your front.

Snap out of it, Miller, he scolds himself.

“But no,” you continue, glancing down at his glass. “I want what you’re having.”

“You want a whiskey?”

“What, you don’t think I can handle it?” Your eyes sparkle with a challenge.

“Go on, then.” Joel tilts his glass towards you, inviting you to a sip of his drink. Goosebumps nip at your skin when your fingers graze when you take the whisky from him, a shock travelling from your fingertips to a heavy place at the pit of your stomach. You could blame the booze, but the way your body reacts to him feels far too real to be just a buzz.

His features are soft while you take a sip and let the whiskey coat your tongue. It’s sharp, smoky. A tinge of sweetness as it sweeps to your throat and burns its way down. The warmth of the liquor seems to flood through your veins, heating your entire body from top to toe, but your face remains unreadable to Joel when you put the glass back on its cardboard coaster. You’re unaffected, like the whiskey had no taste at all. He focuses on the golden sheen of liquid coating your full bottom lip, and he can’t help but imagine what it’d be like to take it into his mouth, to tug it with his teeth. What noise you’d make when he did—would you moan, whine? Hiss his name so he’d be forced to swallow it with a kiss? His breath catches again—fool, he thinks—when your tongue darts out and licks your lip clean, and somehow that tiny gesture is better than any intimate act he’s ever had any part of in his entire life.

“It’s good,” you confirm. Joel gives a barely-there smile and nods. “Best on the shelf.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So, are you—“ Having fun, was his question, but a wall of orange appears beside you in the form of a younger guy in a Longhorns tee and backwards cap.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he beams down at you, all perfectly straight white teeth and confidence. You return the smile but falter on the response, your eyes quickly flitting to Joel. You’re not sure why. For permission? Maybe. But there’s a dull tug in your chest, willing him to butt in, to tell the stranger that you’re busy and to get gone.

But Joel doesn’t even move. He’s not even looking at you, for Christ’s sake, just rolls his glass around in his palm, checks his watch like he’s got somewhere to be.

Fuck it. Your smile stretches into an inviting grin in spite of the sullen mood that’s taken over the man next to you. “I’m all good for a drink but I’ll take a dance!” you tell the stranger, who introduces himself as Drew when you start leading him back towards the dancefloor. Dina and Molly hoot and holler when they notice your new addition, your best friend patting you on the butt in encouragement as you begin swaying to a half-played out Miranda Lambert track. A couple more songs pass in a blur of casual dancing and half-shouted small talk with Drew, the kind that won’t matter tomorrow when you’re both long gone, a blip on each other’s radar. You’re laughing, swaying, letting his hands find polite places to land—but the whole time, you feel it. Joel. Watching. Seething. And you don’t know why, but it irks you—that scowl he wears like it’s his birthright, the way his eyes darken as they track your every move from across the bar. So you spin around, lips curled into something just shy of a dare, and press closer to your stranger, winding an arm over your head to loop around his neck. You lean in, slow and deliberate, hips swaying in time with the music, letting yourself laugh too easily when he dips to whisper something in your ear. Joel’s jaw ticks. Blood thrums in his ears, a low roar, drowning out everything but the sight of you wrapped around someone who isn’t him—someone who can touch you without consequence. His fingers curl tighter around his glass, the strain in his hand matching the heat rising in his chest.

Are you doing this on purpose? he wonders. Trying to torture him?

Then the kid that stole you away from Joel flips you around, hands bold on your hips, ducking his head like he’s about to claim your mouth right there on the dance floor.

That’s enough.

Joel shoves his stool back and it screeches against the timber flooring. He doesn’t wait to see what happens next—can’t. He’s done, stalking through the crowd and pushing through the front door before he says or does something he can’t take back.

He doesn’t see you pull away. Doesn’t hear you mutter not tonight to Drew as you edge out of his grip, turning back toward your friends, now dancing together in a tight, giggly circle. That’s when you see him—Joel—out of the corner of your eye, disappearing into the night, shoulders drawn tight. The tension in your chest eases, but in its place comes something heavier.

Not relief. Not really. Just the hollow ache of missing the burn of his attention—like standing in the cold after stepping out of the sun.

***

Time slips by in flashes—more drinks, more music, the bass thudding through your chest as you jump and sway with your friends. Laughter comes easier, limbs looser, heat blooming beneath your skin from the mix of liquor and motion. Eventually, it’s too much—the press of bodies, the stifling air, a light dizziness creeping behind your eyes. You slip away from the noise, pushing through the door and out onto The Rusty Antler’s redwood deck, chasing the cool air as your hot breath forms in a cloud in front of your face. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and hold it away from your skin, letting the cool air pacify the sweat sticking there as you sidestep a drunk couple filtering out of the bar behind you. You watch them cross the parking lot, zigzagging, before they disappear past a beat-up Bronco. The low whine of a heavy weight on wood snaps your head to the right and your heart leaps when you see the shadowed figure looming at the other end of the building.

He’s still here.

Your boots on the timber echo into the night as you cross the deck to where Joel stands by the railing, surveying the lot with a hand deep in the front pocket of his jeans. His other hand busies itself at his mouth, and it’s only when a plume of smoke stretches in front of him that you realise he’s got a cigarette at his lips.

Joel smokes?

"I thought you left," you say, falling into step beside him. The charred smell of burnt paper fills your nose.

"Thought you were busy," Joel bites back on an exhale. A flicker of irritation sparks under your skin at his words, but you brush it off with a shrug.

“Needed some air. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Don’t so much anymore. Just when I need to take the edge off. Usually try’n hide it from the kids, though.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t see any kids around here.”

Joel glances sideways at you, eyes darkening for a heartbeat, then quickly clearing as if chasing away a thought. “S’pose not. You’re someone’s kid, though.”

“My dad’s kid, you mean?” You’ve always been proud of being your father’s daughter. Wore it like a badge of honour. But right now, as you watch Joel swallow thickly, you’re not sure you want the title.

“He’s a good man. A real good friend.” The words linger, heavy in the air. You can see the quiet conflict etched across his face—the tug between loyalty and this crackling, unsaid thing between you. Joel takes another drag of his cigarette, then nods toward the parking lot. “You still got that old Jeep you used to peel around town in?”

The tension loosens slightly as you glance into the night. “Only just. I’m probably due for a new one. The thing’s a fucking relic.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Like me, huh?”

You almost smile back, but the moment splinters as loud laughter filters into the night, followed by your friends barrelling onto the deck in a flurry of heels and half-shouted inside jokes. Molly and Reese are struggling to hold up Dina, who’s draped between them like a ragdoll, giggling uncontrollably.

“She needs fries and a bed—now,” Tana, Dina’s other colleague says.

“You coming?” Molly wants to know, attention flicking to where Joel hangs a few feet back, your own gaze following suit before returning to your friend.

"I might hang out here a little longer,” you tell her. “I’ll grab a ride with Joel.”

His heart stalls when he overhears this, logic grinding against the heat crawling up the back of his neck. He should say he’s leaving too, tell you not to wait, to go home with your friends. But the words don’t come. They falter, thick on his tongue, swallowed down with the acrid burn of smoke.

A drunken laugh bubbles out of Dina, lazy eyes sweeping over you and Joel. "You know when I said you need to get over that asshole Jesse by getting under someone else?” she whisper-shouts. “I wasn’t talking about your dad's DILF-y neighbour.”

"Dina!" you hiss, red creeping up your neck. You're not sure what embarrasses you more—Dina calling Joel a DILF right in front of him, or the fact that the thought of getting under him had crossed your mind a few too many times tonight for your sober self’s liking.

“I’m just saying,” she slurs, hiking a thumb over her shoulder, “that cute guy you were dancing with is still in there.”

“Not gonna happen,” you shut her down, before planting a kiss on her cheek. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waves you off before addressing Joel. “I know who you are, Miller, so if my best friend turns up missing tomorrow, I'm telling the cops to come for you, handsome."

Joel barks out a genuine laugh at this, cropping his fingers in the air in salute. "You got it, Dina. See you around, girls."

Girls. It lands like a warning. You hate how it brands you, how it tries to shrink you back into something smaller, younger. But maybe it’s not for you at all—maybe it’s for him. A last-ditch effort to redraw the line he’s toeing in his head.

You watch your friends climb into a taxi at the curb before joining Joel again.

“You don’t mind, do you?” It’s too late to ask, but you do anyway.

“Not at all,” Joel lies on an inhale. He tilts his head back, blowing smoke to the ceiling of the verandah, watching until it fans out in a thin cloud against the tin roof.

“You got another one of those?” You gesture to his cigarette. He looks from you to the burning nub, trying to piece together when the hell you picked up the habit. You expect him to pull another out of the packet that’s sat beside his wallet on the railing. Instead, he doesn’t hesitate to hold out the one he’s already got lit in the small space between you. The air’s already so charged, you’re surprised the burning cigarette doesn’t set the night alight in an explosion of flames, taking you and Joel with it. You pinch it between your thumb and forefinger, conscious not to touch Joel again after the bolt of heat you felt when he handed over his whisky back inside. His eyes track your movements as you bring the cigarette to your mouth and take a long drag. As your pale pink lips fit around it naturally, your cheeks hollowing out just slightly. The thought of putting something else in its place causes Joel to shift from one booted foot to the other. You pull it back to reveal lipstick stained on the foot of the cigarette before handing it back to the man next to you.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Your question from earlier sounds different in Joel’s gruff drawl. And honestly, you’re not really one for the habit, but after a few drinks, you don’t mind pretending for a while.

You don’t tell Joel this, though, just throwing out: “I’m an adult now, remember? I do a lot of things I didn’t used to.”

“Guy in the Longhorns tee included in that?” Joel throws back. He knows he shouldn’t have said it but fuck, if it didn’t make him see red, that kid’s hands on you, only chasing his own high. He wouldn’t have looked after you. Not like Joel wants to. Not like he could… Like he shouldn’t.

You don’t answer right away. Not when you can see it written all over him—the bite in his voice, the flash across his eyes. He’s jealous. And trying like hell not to be. And God help you, but you like it. The electric charge, the crack in his armor. It’s raw, unguarded, and only fair that you return the candor.

“I’m kind of over the whole dating thing at the moment,” you confess, taking another drag. “Don’t know if Dad mentioned, but Jesse cheated on me. Some woman from work.”

Joel’s hand flexes at his side. “He didn’t tell me that. Sorry you had to go through that, darlin’.”

“It’s… fine,” you settle on, handing the cigarette back to him.

“‘S not fine. You don’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve you. If he couldn’t see how good he had it, how beautiful you are…” Joel trails off, takes a puff. Meanwhile, your stomach flips at the compliment, and you’re pretty sure your cheeks are blazing as bright as the pink sash still adorning your body.

“Anyway, that whole situation put me off. Made me realise most guys my age are idiots. So, no, I’m not jumping into bed with the guy in the Longhorns tee,” you tell him, a hint of jest in your voice.

Joel lets out a ragged laugh. “All men are idiots. Doesn’t matter how old.”

You glance at him, taking in his side profile—all harsh lines and facial hair you’d kill to feel brush against your skin. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Flicking ash over the railing, Joel turns his head, just slightly, so his eyes meet yours. “Then you don’t know me very well.”

The conversation ends there, and you both fall into a comfortable silence, passing the cigarette back and forth between unhurried drags for several minutes, set to the sound of the wind in the woods at the side of the bar, and the patrons inside singing along to Closing Time, despite The Rusty Antler still being an hour or so off shutting down for the night. The fall breeze picks and it tugs at your bridesmaid sash, lifting it away from your skin like a restless ghost. A shiver ripples through you, the cool night air pulling at the hair on your bare arms. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and Joel swipes his wallet and cigarette pack from the railing and shoves them into his back pocket before shrugging off his jacket, smoke pitched between his teeth.

“Put this on, ‘s cold,” he tells you, holding the Carhartt out for you.

“Joel, I’m fine, really—”

“Not an option. Your dad’ll kill me if I bring you home with pneumonia.” You bristle at the mention of your father again, but still slide into the jacket. The sleeves are far too long, the hem falling to your mid-thigh, but it’s warm and smells of Joel.

“We better get goin’. Don’t wanna get caught in whatever storm’s headed our way,” he says around his cigarette, already leading you into the parking lot towards the old half-ton he’s driven for as long as you’ve known him. He holds the door open for you, stamps the butt out in the gravel while you climb in. Then he reaches into the cab without thinking, giving the seatbelt across your chest a firm tug to make sure it’s latched. It’s automatic, protective, and you’re hit with the memory of him doing the exact same thing to Sarah, back when her feet barely reached the floor mats. You watch Joel’s eyes drop, following the path of his own fingers as they flex slightly, knuckles grazing the soft curve of your breast through you top.

Then his eyes lift—slowly—and land on yours. He freezes.

What the fuck is he doing?

Not just the seatbelt. This. You.

Something raw flickers across his face—guilt, regret, want—all tangled up in one tight breath. “Shit,” he mutters, yanking his hand back like it burns. “Sorry. Force of habit, I just—” He hesitates. “You good? Comfortable?”

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah. I’m good,” you say, but your voice is thinner than you mean it to be. Joel lingers a second longer, Then, without a word, he pulls the door shut with a dull thunk.

***

Any hope of getting home before the storm hits fades fast. Barely five minutes down the road, the sky splits open with a white-hot flash of lightning. Then the rain comes, lashing against the windshield in heavy sheets that blur everything beyond the glass. The wipers on Joel’s truck beat furiously, but it’s like driving underwater. The tail lights ahead of you become smears of red in a pit of black. Joel leans forward with tight knuckles around the wheel, a newly lit cigarette between his lips. “Gotta pull over. Can’t see shit,” he grinds, flinging the wheel to the right until the truck rests in an embankment off the highway. It seems other drivers have had the same idea, because you see the glow of more tail lights a few car-lengths ahead. The radio crackles with John Denver—Take Me Home, Country Roads coming out all staticy no thanks to the signal being interfered with by the weather.

The window’s cracked on Joel’s side, the rain tapping a quiet rhythm against it. He cranes his neck slightly to blow smoke out into the downpour, careful not to let it drift your way. A few rogue droplets slip in anyway, dotting the fabric of his flannelette sleeve. The cab smells like rain and smoke and him, and the clock on the dash blinks 12:06 AM in soft neon, casting faint shadows over the lines of his face. You unclick your seatbelt and shift in your seat, pitching one foot up on the edge of the bench, knee bent, jacket coming away from your body just enough to expose the smooth line of your thigh. It’s nothing—careless, comfortable but Joel sees it. Feels it. That small flash of skin tightens something low in his gut. The Carhartt swallows you whole, your tiny skirt and tank top disappearing underneath, making it look like there’s nothing beneath it at all. Like you’re naked under there, curled up in his passenger seat like you belong.

He turns his head, molars pressed together when he forces his eyes back to the windshield as the cigarette burns down in his hand. The rain’s still coming down in blinding sheets, hammering the hood, masking the way his breath falters. He stares through it, jaw ticking, and starts praying—quiet, fierce—that the storm lets up. Just enough to get you home. Out of his truck. Out of his jacket. Before he does something real fucking stupid.

“Sooo,” you start after a few minutes, when it becomes obvious that the storm isn’t passing over any time soon. “Tess, huh?”

Joel groans. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

You duck your head, trying to meet his gaze as you tease, "Why? The thought of her getting you all hot 'n bothered there, Miller?"

There’s a whine of leather under his single-handed grip on the wheel, then comes the glare.

It’s lethal.

There’s nothing going on with him and Tess. Not really. A couple of lowkey dinners. They fooled around once, only barely, because he struggled to get it up. It’d been a while, and in all honesty, the fling—if you could even call it that—was born out of boredom and a little coaxing from your father. Absolutely nothing to get all hot ‘n bothered about.

You pitch your hands up in mock surrender, sitting back against the seat. “No Tess talk. Got it,” you agree before letting out a contemplative hum. You could ask him about Sarah, but you two keep in touch enough for you to know she’s top of her class at UT, killing it on the first-string soccer team and has a boyfriend Joel isn’t privy to just yet.

"Dad said you caught a nail a few months back," you settle on.

Joel shifts in his seat, taps ash out the cracked window. The truck rocks with the wind.

“Is there anything your old man don’t tell you?” he asks.

You shrug. “Not really. If he’s not talkin’ to you, he’s talkin’ to me.”

He nods, slow. “Yeah. He misses you. Talks about you all the damn time.”

Another gust rattles the truck. You press your knee tighter to your chest for warmth, cheek now resting against it while you egg Joel on. “So, the nail?”

Joel huffs. “You don’t quit, huh?” You don’t dignify it with a response.. “Freak accident. Not as bad as it sounds. Ricocheted off a piece of sheet metal and wedged itself between my bottom two ribs. Just missed my lung."

You sit upright, turning your whole body to face him. “Jesus, Joel. That's what you call not as bad as it sounds?" No wonder your dad hadn’t mentioned the full extent of it. The idea of a nail sticking out of flesh makes your stomach turn over the swell of alcohol still sitting in it.

"It's fine. Had worse injuries."

Your heart thumps once, then—

"Can I see?"

Joel turns the full weight of his attention on you now, flinging the last of his cigarette into the storm, startled. "What?"

"You've got a scar, right? I wanna see it."

He arches a thick brown. "Bit morbid, don't ya think?"

"Please?" you push, dragging the word out with a look that’s all wide eyes and pouts.

Those fucking lips. How could he refuse?

Still, he makes a show of rolling his eyes while he reaches for the hem of his flannel, two fingers crooking under the fabric that he pulls up with the white t-shirt underneath. He moves slowly—intentional. Like he’s giving you time to change your mind.

You don’t.

Inch by inch, Joel reveals skin that’s warm and tan, the flash of abs dusted with a smattering of hair. The muscles there aren't tight like a younger man’s, but sturdy—strong with age and history and years of hard labor. When Joel stops, he’s hovering just above an uneven scar that’s still tinged pink at its edges. While it’s obvious against his bronzed skin, it’s small, so you shift closer for a better view, too honed in on the injury to notice the space closing between you. Joel tenses at your proximity though, every muscle in his body drawing taut like a wire being stretched to its limits.

You reach for him, for the scar, without thinking, your fingers brushing the raised crescent of his skin. It’s ragged and warm beneath your touch—tender in a way that feels too intimate for the cab of an old truck in a thunderstorm.

For a man and his best friend’s daughter.

Joel hisses at the contact, a sharp sound swiped straight from his chest like you’ve just pressed a hot iron to his ribs. His torso spasms under your fingertips and you recoil, eyes immediately searching for reassurance that he’s okay,

“Does that hurt?”

He doesn’t answer right away, jaw clenched so tight the muscle flicks. After a beat, his hand comes up to catch your wrist, to stop you. For purchase, maybe. Whatever it is, he just needs a second to collect himself, to steady the tremble running down his spine.

“No,” Joel finally says, voice rough as gravel. “Doesn’t hurt.”

But his face says otherwise. His gaze stays fixed straight ahead, unseeing. Joel knows if he looks at you, it’ll undo him completely. Whole body still, brow furrowed. You can sense it, feel it, the way he breathes through his nose like he’s barely keeping control. His thumb lingers on the inside of your wrist, heat blooming there. It stretches all the way up your arm and burrows under your collarbone, into your skin, until every bit of blood in your body is pumping fiercely, almost like your pulse is chanting Joel’s name until it falls off your lips in a whisper.

His eyes are turned on you now—dark, torn, hungry. You just stare back at him, held hostage by the way his gaze flicks from your eyes to your mouth and back again, his Adam’s apple jumping with a swallow. The storm still raging outside the truck is nothing compared to what’s building in the silence between you. Still, you can hear your heartbeat louder than the rain, louder than the thoughts telling you this is a bad idea.

“Joel,” you say again, but it’s strangled. Desperate. There’s a second—maybe less—where neither of you move, both of you frozen in the middle of it, on the edge of something irreversible. You know this is a bad idea. The kind of bad idea that doesn’t just unravel nights, but lives.

You don’t know who leans in first.

Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Joel’s mouth crashes into yours like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. It’s messy, all teeth and tongues, need and no patience. There’s no slow build, no give, just him take, take, taking. His stubble scrapes against the skin of your top lip, his left hand knotted in the hair at the back of your neck like he’s trying to anchor himself to you. He tastes like the culmination of his vices: smokes and whiskey, together creating a flavour that clings to your tongue and makes you dizzy. And underneath it, something else that you can’t pinpoint. It’s warm and wild and so Joel. Not sweet. Definitely not soft, but it’s addictive in a way that makes you lean in harder, mouth open wider, like if you kiss him deep enough, you might finally figure out what it is. With another thrash of thunder, you push up from the seat, hiking a leg over Joel’s body so you’re straddling him behind the wheel, pressing your rapidly dampening core against his growing bulge. He grunts into your mouth at the movement, his tongue circling yours while your hands find the muscular planes of his jaw. You carry on like this for a few moments, grinding and groaning, ignoring the niggle at the back of your mind that tells you this is reckless—wrong, until Joel rears back, tearing his mouth from yours with a sharp inhale. He clamps his eyes shut, panting and shaking his head, like it might rattle loose the want clawing at his ribs.

“Darlin’,” he grits, and the nickname sends a hot strike of lightning through your veins. “We gotta stop. I can’t—We can’t—Your daddy’ll put me in the ground.”

The words come low, strained—like he’s dragging them out from somewhere deep where he’s still trying to do the right thing. And yet, his palm slides up your thigh like he’s already made peace with the consequences, thick fingers curling into the flesh of your ass.

“Don’t care,” you barely get out, peppering light kisses over the swell of his cheeks, trying to draw him back into the moment.

“You should. It’ll kill him,” he mutters, but doesn’t move away. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t stop you when you shed his Carhartt jacket and let it slip into the footwell. The air filtering in through the cracked window bites at your bare skin but you don’t flinch, just press the weight of your body into Joel’s lap, your legs stretched wide across his on the bench seat. Joel’s eyes drop, and you feel the burden of his stare like a blowtorch—dragging over the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your chest, the stretch of thigh your skirt doesn’t quite cover.

“Christ,” he whispers, then his mouth is back on you, on your neck this time, licking at the pulse beneath your ear. His wiry facial hair chafes the sensitive skin there, like steel wool, before he bites at the dip behind your earlobe. Hard, yanking a high pitched gasp from you. But before the pain sets in he’s sucking the sting away with a kiss, lapping up the salty but sweet residue left over from the sweat that had wicked your skin earlier in the night.

“Do that again,” you plead, rotating your hips to gain friction where you need it most. Joel chuckles at the request, lolling his head sideways to repeat the process at your other ear.

The storm outside intensifies, rain hammering the roof like a warning neither of you heed. Instead, one of Joel’s hands slides one of your tank straps off your shoulder, dropping a quick kiss there, while the other slides from the outside of your thigh to where your panties are sticking to your throbbing core. He presses a thumb down, feeling your warm arousal seep through the thin material. An involuntary whine slips out of you at the gesture, and another flare of lightning illuminates his face just enough for you to see the self-satisfied smirk yank at Joel’s lips.

“Look at you,” he says, his hot breath summoning goosebumps across your chest. “You’re fucking soaked. How long you been like this?”

The motion of your hips is instinctive, need bleeding into your voice. “Since the bar,” you breathe. “When you tried to fight assholes.”

Joel’s jaw clenches, his fingers still slick and patient between your thighs, circling with maddening control. “That why you went after that kid?” he grits. “Needed to let off some steam, huh?” He leans in, nose brushing your jaw. “You have no idea how bad I wanted to lay into him for puttin’ his fuckin’ hands on you.”

You buck your hips forward, silently begging for more. It’s almost sick—talking about another man while this one has you trembling with every swipe of his fingers over your clothed clit—but it only heightens the need, makes the heat lick up your spine like wildfire.

“He kiss you like I do?” he growls.

Your eyes snap to his, almost black in the dark truck, but still you feel the force of them working over every inch of your face.

“Didn’t kiss him,” you pant. “Don’t want him. Only want you.”

The confession frays Joel’s composure, and he’s yanking your panties to the side and sinking his thick middle finger inside you—fuck, darlin’ barely comprehensible around a growl when he feels you flutter hotly around him.

“Yeah? Show me then,” he seethes, the pad of his finger already gently stroking that spongy wall deep in your core. “Show me how much you want me.” Your forehead drops to meet his, his free hand anchoring your hip. “Think you can come for me right here?”

Your cunt clamps down hard like your body’s answering him before your mouth can. Your breath stutters, thighs already beginning to tremble where they straddle his lap, the tension coiled so tight inside you that it feels like you could snap with just one more word, one more groan, one more look from him. “More,” you plead, eyes half-lidded, fingers finding the mess of curls at the base of his skull. “J-Joel, please.”

He complies by sliding a second finger into you slowly while his thumb meets your bare clit in unhurried circles.

“Like that, baby?”

You nod incessantly, chasing his rhythm with a circle of your hips. Your head rolls backwards, exposing the column of your throat to Joel, and he wastes no time in latching his mouth, licking hot stripes up the length of it while his fingers pick up speed. He can feel your pussy tightening, your breathing becoming ragged and movements frantic. His voice comes low against your throat, lips only just dusting your skin when he tells you, “That’s it, darlin’. You’re right there. I can feel it. Keep goin’.”

“I’m so close,” you whimper, the roll of your hips faltering when Joel tugs down on your earlobe with his teeth.

“Come on, let got for me,” he spurs you on. “Show me how good I make you feel. ‘S okay, baby, I got you.”

Your body winds tighter, trembling—right on the edge, waiting for that last push. Then, Joel jams his fingers into you that tiny bit deeper, and you seize around him with a sharp cry. Pleasure snaps through you like a rubber band on release—sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. And just as you come undone in Joel’s lap, the sky splits open above you, thunder cracking louder than it has all night, lightning flashing so bright you can still see it, even with your eyes screwed shut. It’s as if the storm had been waiting for you to fall apart, building with you, breaking with you.

Loud. Wild. Merciless.

The large hand that was previously as your hip now rests at the small of your back, Joel stroking over your tank top gently while you come down from your high, murmuring something that resembles good girl under his breath. When you finally blink your eyes open, Joel’s looking at you like he’s never seen anything quite like it. There’s a rawness in his expression—like he’s in awe, like you’ve just undone something in him he’ll never be able to put back together.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty when you come,” he tells you reverently as he slips out of you. You immediately miss the pressure of him there, but their absence is quickly forgotten when his fingers, slick with your release, disappear into his mouth with a satisfied hum. “Taste fuckin’ pretty, too.” And that’s when you feel it, him, thick and straining beneath you, his own arousal hot and urgent even through the thick denim of his jeans.

Joel shifts under you like a man possessed, one arm snaking around your waist, the other bracing the back of your head with a tenderness that steals what little air is in your lungs. One swift motion, and he lifts you off his lap and lays you down across the the worn bench seat, your back meeting the cool leather. His burly body follows, covering yours, and you hear the metallic clank of his belt buckle under the rain still pelting hard against the roof. The air inside the truck is thick now—humid with your breath, his breath, the leftover heat of your oragsm. Even with the crack in the driver side window, the glass is completely fogged, streaked with condensation. There’s a beat of hesitation in his eyes as he hovers above you, while your cunt still pulses with need despite your release just moments earlier.

“I need to feel you,” he rasps, followed by your name, voice tattered and needy. “Need to be inside you, darlin’, but—fuck, you gotta tell me. You want this?”

Your hands find his face again so your eyes are locked, and you nod—once, certain—and that’s all it takes. His hand drops between your bodies. You feel the rough scrape of denim, the tension of his zipper giving way, and then the low sound he makes when he finally frees himself. Another hand finds your underwear, dragging them down just enough to bare you to him, just enough for him to slot himself between your upper thighs, skin to skin, his body shaking with restraint as he lines himself up at your entry.

He goes slow, nudging his swollen head inside you, the stretch of him already greater compared to his thick fingers. He must feel you stiffen at the sensation, because he stalls, eyes darting from where you’re connected to your face, searching for any sign you want him to stop.

“Keep going, Joel,” you breath—beg—ghosting your thumb over his bottom lip. I’m okay, the tiny gesture tells him, and Joel continues to press into you, excruciatingly slow, pleasure chasing away the sting of his girth as he edges closer to where you need him most. He bottoms out with a depraved groan that vibrates through your chest, his hips flush against yours, the full weight of him settling deep inside. Your moan tangles with his in another hungry, messy kiss, mouths moving like you’re starved for each other—like this might be the only time you get. Joel stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt, breathing heavy against your lips before dragging his mouth lower, tracing your jaw, your throat, until his lips find your chest. One hand fumbles with your top, dragging it down just enough to free your breast, his tongue immediately swirling hot and wet around your nipple. The sensation makes you arch beneath him, breath catching as he sucks greedily, the other hand braced under your back like he’s trying to memorise the way your body bends for him.

“Joel,” you whine with your fingers knotted at the crown of his head. Another quick lick of your nipple and he’s peering up at you hungrily.

“What is it, baby?”

You rock your hips as much as you can under his weight. “Need you to move,” you say. Then, more definitely: “Need you to fuck me.”

“Jesus, woman.” The words are aggressive, just like the way his hips snap back before driving into you. Hard. Deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. His fingers press bruises into your thigh as he anchors it high around his waist, and it’s then that Joel becomes a savage—his thrusts relentless and rocking the whole damn truck with every grind of his hips.

“God, you feel perfect. Like you were made ‘f’me,” he grits. “Not gonna last long with your pretty pussy squeezin’ me like that.” Your breathy whimpers, your pleas of yes, right there, Joel, fuck puncutate each collision of your bodies, the base of his cock nudging your clit just so when he bottoms out. That familiar pressure is already building again, your second climax clawing its way from the pit of your stomach, and Joel’s lips slide into a lax smile just before your eyes sink shut.

“Yeah, darlin’, you’re gonna come for me again.” It’s not a question—Joel just knows, and pants at your ear, egging you on. “That’s it, come on.”

You seize beneath him and flutter tightly around his cock like a vise as your orgasm washes over you with a shameleslly load moan. Joel buries his face in the crook of your neck with a grunt, his hips faltering as he fucks you through the tightness around him.

“Fuck, that’s it—just like that, baby,” he rasps against your skin, breath hot and uneven. “Stay with me. Not far behind you.” His mouth finds yours again, hungry and open, as he pistons into you faster now, chasing his own edge. “Wanna fill you up. Will y’let me come in you?” Your answer comes in a breathless moan, a frantic nod against his mouth. “Yes—inside. Please.”

It’s all the coaxing Joel needs, burying himself to to the hilt with a strangled groan, movement stuttering as thick heat floods you. You hold him there with your legs, Joel twitching as he empties every last drop of himself inside you. The pair of you freeze there for a beat, panting into each other’s shoulders before he finally pulls out of you with a low, satisfied grunt. You’re sensitive now after your two shell-shock orgasms, the air cool against the mess he’s left behind. Your skirt’s bunched high around your waist, panties stretched to their limits just above your knees until Joel tugs them back into place. The rough drag of denim on your thighs makes you flinch as he redresses, his belt clinking softly in the quiet aftermath. It’s only when you peel yourself up from the bench do you realise that the storm has rolled on. Rain no longer assaults the truck. The windows are fogged but quiet now, aside from the whoosh of passing cars as headlights begin to reappear on the highway in the dead of night. It’s nearly one in the morning, according to the neon clock, and you follow suit after watching Joel click his seatbelt back over his body. He doesn’t look at you, just fishes a fresh cigarette from the crumpled packet abandoned on the dash. It ignites with a flick of a lighter, and he inhales deeply, the glow burning amber across his face.

The truck chugs to life beneath you, engine grumbling as smoke curls into the stale cab air.

“Let’s get you home,” he mutters quickly, like if he says it fast enough, he might outrun the guilt. And then he pulls back onto the highway—into the night, into whatever comes next.

***

pt. II here

a/n: pleeeeease let me know what you think!! like, share, reblog the works. i have a bit of an idea for a follow up fic, so if that's something you'd like to read, make sure you let me know that you want part 2 and whether you want to be added to the tag list for this fic!

#joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #dbf joel miller #joel miller #joel tlou #joel the last of us #dbf!joel miller x reader #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #dads best friend joel miller smut #dad's best friend joel #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #dbf joel smut #joel miller imagine

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