#joel miller oneshot | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fuckyeahdindjarin · 7 months

Text

Butter

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: None

Summary: What if Joel doesn't forget to buy himself a cake for his birthday? But by the time he remembers, all the bakeries in his neighbourhood are closed - except yours.

Warnings: No outbreak AU, pure fluff, mentions of baking and food, meet cute, some sexual tension but very mild stuff compared to my other fics, single dad!Joel being a sexy menace, reader has a nickname related to her job, reader has an accent similar to Joel, very lightly edited, not my best work, but I'm in my writing for fun era 💁🏻‍♀️

Word count: 3.6k

Notes: It's here! This was an exercise in speed writing, and just putting words to paper without overthinking anything. I really enjoyed writing this sweet little piece, this is dedicated to @psychedelic-ink who has been the biggest cheerleader for this idea since day one. Happy birthday to our favourite single dad who never lived through a cordyceps outbreak ❤️

September 26, 2003 was supposed to be a good day.

It’s Friday, after all. Not that the weekend is relevant to you anymore, with Saturdays and Sundays being the busiest days for business. But you have a date for once tonight, and you’re determined to enjoy it.

If you can get the goddamn security shutter to close, that is.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pull futilely at the bottom of the metal shutter with both hands, but it refuses to budge. You lament the sweat seeping through the fabric of the nice dress you changed into, the hem reaching almost indecent heights on the back of your thighs where it’s climbed up. And you don’t have to look at your reflection to know that stress has already smudged the edges of the eyeliner you hurriedly painted on as soon as you got the last customer out the door.

You can be forgiven for not noticing the wash of yellow headlights over the windows of the shop front and the sound of rolling tyres as a truck pulls up on the curb outside the bakery, until a gravelly voice pipes up behind you alongside hurried footsteps.

‘Ma’am, please tell me you’re still open.’

You tap on the ‘Closed’ sign through the window without turning around, determined to wrangle the shutter into submission. ‘Bad luck buddy, come back tomorrow. We open at nine sharp.’

‘No I can’t, I’m so sorry, but I need a cake now.’

Curiosity turns your head, and over your shoulder, you find a broad-shouldered man in a dark tshirt and casual jeans standing a respectful four paces away. Under eyebrows sloping downwards in a pleading angle that matches the slant of his moustache, his warm and imploring eyes are on you.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I really need to go,’ you say. ‘Can you give me a hand?’

‘Look, I’ll do you one better. I’ll fix the shutter for you for free - if you sell me a cake.’

You purse your lips, the prospect of saving on what looks like an inevitable repair bill tempting. ‘You can fix it?’

‘I’m a contractor,’ he replies, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a battered looking wallet. ‘Here’s my card, if you think I’m bluffin’.’

Miller & Associates is printed in bold across the top, and underneath, is presumably his name and cell number. Glancing up at him, you say, ‘Look, Mr. Miller, I really want to help, but I’m late for a date, and I’m all sold out of cakes today -’

‘I’ll take anything you got. Cupcakes, cookies, whatever you have left,’ he cuts in, then apologises in quick succession, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m sorry to be so pushy - I’m not, usually - but I promised my daughter I’d bring something home, and by the time I remembered, this is the only place I could think of. Please.’

You feel the exact moment your resolve crack, and then fold like a goddamn lawn chair. What can you say, this contractor really knows how to work those puppy eyes, and you can never say no to a man who refuses to let their kid down.

Especially when the man looks like this.

Shooting off a text to your date to push back your dinner plans, you nod towards the door. ‘Alright. C’mon in, Mr. Miller.’

‘Nice place you got here,’ he remarks politely, hovering by the entrance as the fluorescent lights flicker on, his manners impeccably southern.

‘You don’t have to flatter me, I’ve already let you in,’ you joke, lips quirking at the way he flusters. ‘But I appreciate it. You been here before?’

When he smiles, you notice the corners of his eyes crinkle charmingly. ‘No, but I know I’ll be comin’ back.’

‘I wasn’t lying when I said I was out of ready-made cakes,’ you tell him, holding the door open to the kitchen so he can come in after you. ‘But I have some cake layers in the fridge so I can put together something fairly quickly.’

He ducks his head in a manner that tells you he’s not used to demanding things, and protests, ‘I don’t want to put you out. I meant it, if you just have some cupcakes or somethin’ -’

‘Listen, you promised your daughter a cake, didn’t you?’ you interrupt.

He shrugs. ‘Well, yeah I did -’

‘I’m guessin’ it’s for a birthday?’

He nods sheepishly. ‘It is.’

‘Well, as a baker, ‘mfraid I can’t let a cakeless birthday happen on my watch, Mr. Miller,’ you insist, opening the fridge door with a flourish. ‘Let’s see what we have here. Cake for three, I assume?’

‘Two, actually.’

Hopefully you’re as discreet as you think you are when your eyes drop to his left hand - his fourth finger is conspicuously ringless.

Interesting.

You hum, considering the mismatched options in your inventory. ‘It’s gonna be a bit of a Frankenstein’s monster of a cake, if you don’t mind. How does chocolate and vanilla layers with cookies and cream frosting sound?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ he answers without skipping a beat. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

You shake your head, hands full of cake rounds wrapped in cling film as you nudge the fridge close. ‘Please, call me Bri, Mr. Miller.’

‘And you can call me Joel,’ he says in return. ‘Is Bri short for somethin’?’

Laying the cakes on the work surface, you reply, ‘Yeah, Bri for brioche, like the bread. It's a silly nickname.’

The single dad surprises you with a low whistle. ‘Can’t say I saw that comin’.’

You grin. ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Joel.’

You don’t often have an audience while baking, and you find yourself talking Joel through the steps while you prep everything for assembly.

Swirling a spatula through the tub of buttercream you made earlier that day, you explain, ‘I just need to whip up some of this frosting so that it’s nice and soft for putting the cake together. You wanna help me break up some Oreos so we can make it cookies and cream?’

‘I’m all yours, chef,’ he says, one corner of his mouth curling into a teasing smile that has no business warming the apples of your cheek as it does. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

While your Kitchenaid whirrs to life, whipping air into the buttercream, Joel wields a rolling pin, smashing a generous helping of Oreos into crumbs in a Ziplock bag. The almost exaggerated care with which he moves speaks to inexperience in the kitchen, and you muse that either his kid makes up for it in that department, or they live off takeout.

Eventually, he picks up the bag and looks at you in a question. ‘I think I’m done?’

You smile and tap the lip of the mixing bowl. ‘That’s perfect. Why don’t you tip in the crumbs straight in here?’

Before you can step back to allow him space, Joel’s taken two strides towards you, and his arm brushes your shoulder when he lifts the bag and tilts the contents into the frosting. He’s warm and solid, and damnit, he smells good - like sawdust and sweat.

The thought comes to you unbidden - what a man.

There’s a lull, and only when you feel the weight of eyes on you do you realise that you missed his question.

‘Did you say somethin'?’ you squeak, embarrassed.

‘I said, is this ok?’ he repeats, nodding at the mixing bowl.

You nearly stumble over your words. ‘Yes, yes it’s perfect.’

He watches you closely, a touch of concern in his brown eyes. ‘You ok there, honey?’

‘Yup,’ you chirp, far too cheerfully. ‘Just need to mix it all up now -’

If you had your wits about you, you would stir in the crumbs first and set the machine on low. But this man somehow stole said wits by sheer proximity to you, and you accidentally start the Kitchenaid on high, an indignant yelp escaping you when Oreo dust flies aggressively out of the bowl along with a splatter of white buttercream that lands squarely on the front of your dark knit dress.

‘Oh shit!’ you cry out, frantically turning off the mixer. ‘Shit shit shit!’

Over your panicked mantra, Joel is calmness itself. ‘Hang on, honey, I gotcha.’

He makes a beeline towards the sink, grabbing a tea towel and wets it under the tap with a bit of dishwashing liquid. It all screams competent single dad, and you find yourself staring at his unfairly large hand, mapped with thick veins, holding out the damp towel for you to take.

‘Thanks,’ you stutter self-consciously, the tips of your ears hot while swiping at the stain. ‘That was a rookie mistake. I promise I’m actually a good baker.’

He gives you a wink to put you at ease. ‘Don’t worry, I believe you.’

Starting over, the mixer hums as it gently incorporates the Oreos until the buttercream is a speckled grey and doubled in volume. ‘Looks like it’s ready. You wanna taste, Joel?’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘D’ya have a spoon or somethin’ for me?’

‘You can use your fingers,’ you reply, and it's too late to take it back.

You feel the back of your neck heating up when he shoots you a meaningful look, just a touch of mischief in the tilt of his lips.

‘Can I, now?’ he teases.

You try a nonchalant shrug that probably comes off as painfully awkward. ‘This batch is just for you, I won’t tell the health inspector if you don’t.’

Joel chuckles, his strong shoulders quaking. And so you watch, shamelessly, as he raises his right hand, index and middle fingers at the ready, before diving into the metal bowl, scooping up a generous dollop of buttercream. There’s a peek of his pink tongue when his plush lips part, and then he sucks his fingers into his mouth with a gratuitously loud moan, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

When he turns to you with a pained expression on his face, maintaining eye contact all the while licking an errant streak of frosting off the side of his middle finger, you gape at him for a whole five seconds before you manage to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

‘Good?’ you barely manage to squeak.

‘You betcha, honey,’ he declares, then adds, ‘Mind if I double dip?’

He doesn’t mean anything by it, you know it, but a hot flush runs through your body and you swallow thickly. ‘You can do whatever you want, cowboy.’

You don’t think you’re imagining the wicked glint in his answering stare - you’re getting yourself into trouble, and don’t you know it.

Clearing your throat, you attempt to thwart your mind's dangerous descent into the gutter by changing the subject. ‘So, I can do somethin’ really snazzy that I think your daughter would like - do you know what a piñata cake is?’

He shakes his head. ‘Sounds dangerous.’

‘Hardly,’ you chuckle. ‘It’s a cake filled with sprinkles, so when you cut into it, it’s a sprinkles surprise!’

He lets out a playful sigh of relief. ‘As long as there’s no whackin’ involved, it’s good by me.’

You gesture at him to follow you across the room. ‘And here’s the fun part - you get to choose the sprinkles.’

Joel whistles at the reveal of your compulsively organised sprinkles cabinet, each shelf sorted by colour, shape and size. He quips, ‘Is this what the inside of your brain looks like, honey?’

You grin. ‘Pretty much. What’s your daughter’s name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘What colour does Sarah like?’

‘Any and all shades of pink.’

‘I can work with that.’

Now that everything is ready and waiting on the work surface, you pull out a lazy Susan and plonk a cake board on top of it, dusting your hands dramatically. ‘Alright, Joel. Ready for the magic to happen?’

Making himself comfortable next to you, he leans on his elbows, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the way his tshirt stretches and strains over his back. ‘Go ahead, I’m ready to be impressed, honey.’

Filling a piping bag full of the cookies and cream buttercream, you ask, ‘You wanna get your hands dirty?’

He raises his palms in surrender. ‘I’ll leave it to you, I don’t want to make you any more late for your date.’

You’re used to working with much bigger cakes, so this one doesn’t take you long. With a cookie cutter, you carve out a small circle from each cake round, then you stack and fill the layers with buttercream. After loading the shaft in the middle with all manner of pink sprinkles, you stopper the top with the cake cut-outs.

‘How old is Sarah turning today?’ you ask conversationally while you spin the cake around, smoothing on the crumb coat.

Joel looks up, surprised. ‘Oh, it’s my birthday today, not hers. ‘

‘Wait, what?’ you cry, throwing your hands up. ‘I made this cake with Sarah in mind - it will literally be vomiting pink sprinkles!’

‘I’m a girl dad. I like pink,’ shrugs Joel easily.

You huff, using an icing smoother to make sure the buttercream is even all over the cake. ‘I would pop the cake into the freezer to firm up before adding a final layer of frosting if I had the time, but this will have to do.’

‘It looks great,’ Joel assures you as you put the finishing touches to the cake, with buttercream swirls all around the top and a final baptism of sprinkles.

‘There, all done. Lemme box it up for you and this bad boy is ready to go.’

‘Amazin’, thank you so much,’ he grins. ‘Please, lemme do the washin’ up while you’re at it.’

‘Oh, Joel, you can’t,’ you protest, but he’s already grabbed the mixing bowl and all the bits and bobs stained with buttercream. ‘You’re the birthday boy!’

‘Least I can do,’ he shoots back over his shoulder, already halfway to the sink.

‘Well no, you promised to fix the security shutter for me, remember?’ you call after him.

‘Damn, I was hopin’ you’d forgotten about that.’

Joel cleans up with a practised air, humming under his breath as he waits for the water to heat up and the soap to lather. You watch him from the corner of your eye while you secure the cake inside the box, throwing in a birthday candle for good measure. You’ve just tied a nice ribbon around the cardboard box when he puts away everything in the drying rack and wipes his hands dry.

‘Didn’t expect you to be good at that,’ you tease, moving towards the door.

‘Sexist much?’ he jokes, no real bite in his retort. Then by way of explanation, he tells you, ‘I work late, so Sarah usually cooks and I wash up afterwards.’

‘Sounds like you guys make a good team.’

Joel helps with the lights and locks the door, and you stand to one side when he grabs the security shutter and forces it into submission by brute force. You can’t help but stare when the bottom of his tshirt rides up, revealing a soft sliver of belly underneath, his biceps bulging and back rippling as the shutter is finally forced shut in a metallic ripple.

You give him a smile. ‘Well, happy birthday, Joel.’

‘Thanks again for the cake.’ He looks around, as if looking for your car, but the sidewalk is empty except for his truck. ‘How are you gettin’ to your date?’

‘I was just gonna call a taxi.’

‘No, you ain’t,’ he nods towards his ride. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Oh, no, it’s late, and you should be getting back to Sarah -’

‘I spoiled your date, so please, let me,’ he insists, holding the door open on the passenger side. Hop in.’

Joel takes the cake off your hands and puts it in the backseat carefully, putting the seat belt over it while you climb in. Glancing over your shoulder, you see toolboxes and newspapers on the floor, and it smells like paint and wood dust.

‘Sorry it’s a bit messy, occupational hazard,’ he apologises as he straps himself in. ‘So, where are we goin’?’

‘Do you know the steakhouse on Third Street?’

‘Vaguely,’ he replies, pulling smoothly away from the curb. ‘It sounds fancy.’

‘You been?’

‘Nope, I barely have time to go anywhere nowadays. It seems like I’m only ever in bed, or at work, or in my truck.’

You turn to smile at him, admiring the way his his thick fingers around the top of the steering wheel, making it look so small. ‘I feel you. Small business owner, am I right?’

‘I hear ya,’ he shoots you a smile. ‘So - what’s the deal with tonight? First date?’

‘Fourth, actually.’

He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Fourth date? You know what happens on a fourth date, honey.’

‘I don’t, actually. Tell me, what happens on a fourth date?’

He blows out his cheeks, and admits, ‘Honestly, I can’t tell ya. I haven’t been on a fourth date since 1991.’

You burst into laughter at his unexpected answer. ‘You’re such a dork, Joel Miller.’

When the truck rumbles to a stop outside the steakhouse ten minutes later, he looks at his watch and announces, ‘Here we are, only fifteen minutes late.’ Squinting through the windshield, he points at a man smoking outside, an impatient frown on his face. ‘That him?’

‘Yeah, that’s him,’ you nod, but you stay put in your seat, in no hurry to make a move.

Joel nods, tapping his tidily trimmed nails on the steering wheel. ‘So I’ll swing ‘round tomorrow after work with my toolbelt? ‘Round six thirty?’

‘A toolbelt? What a sight to look forward to,’ you rib, slowly reaching for the seatbelt and unbuckling it.

‘Hell yeah, it’s got a special clip for my Nokia and all,’ he adds mischievously.

'You must fend off the ladies by the dozen,' you tease.

'Daily,' he answers without skipping a beat.

You probably shouldn’t have, especially not with the guy who you’re supposed to be on a date with glaring daggers at you through the windshield. But there’s something cackling in the air between you and this man you just met not an hour ago, and the way the streetlight filters through the window, backlighting his messy curls and scraggly beard, that has you throwing caution to the proverbial wind.

Impulsively, you lean across the gear shift, your left hand finding purchase on his knee before pressing your lips to the side of his whiskered jaw, your kiss fitting right into that little heart-shaped patch on his beard.

You’re not sure who’s more taken aback, but you don’t have time to find out.

‘Happy birthday, Joel Miller.’

He smiles after you as you hop out of his truck.

You’ve just sold your last cupcake of the day when the bell over the bakery door rings. And sure enough, it’s Joel Miller crossing the threshold, right on the dot at six thirty.

‘Hey, Bri,’ he waves, hovering half-in and half-out of the shop, a slight awkwardness having set in overnight.

But it's ok, you're happy to pick up where you left off. Putting your hands on your waist and a cheeky grin, you quip, ‘Wow, you weren’t kidding about that toolbelt, huh?’

Your chest swells as you watch him thaw with an easy smile, and he banters back, ‘I’m a man of my word, honey. You ok with me gettin’ to work now?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll be cleanin’ up back in the kitchen, I’ll join you when I’m done.’

Joel shoots you a thumbs up. ‘Great. I’ll grab the ladder and get right to it.’

When you emerge fifteen minutes later, he’s on the fourth rung of the ladder, tinkering the rolling mechanism with a screwdriver and a studious frown on his brow. He looks like he’s wearing the same thing as yesterday - you can believe that he’s a man who buys the same tshirt in bulk - and he smiles at you when you duck out of the shop.

‘Did Sarah like the cake?’ you ask in casual conversation.

‘She went nuts over the piñata surprise,’ he replies. ‘And the cake was delicious, there were hardly any crumbs left when we were done with it. She says we’re definitely ordering a cake from you for her birthday.’

‘I like the sound of that.’

‘How was your evening?’ he asks, glancing down at you from his perch. ‘Did you find out what happens on a fourth date?’

You let out a dry laugh. ‘Yeah, I did, actually. He dumped me.’

Joel freezes, a scowl darkening his countenance. ‘Oh shit, what? Why?’

You shrug, leaning your weight on the ladder as you look at the ground. ‘I mean, I did show up an hour late in some other guy’s truck. And I guess probably shouldn’t have kissed you on the cheek right in front of him.’

You startle when Joel’s fingers slip under your chin, tilting your head up towards him. ‘It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.’

‘Honestly, you don’t look that sorry, Joel Miller,’ you joke.

He cocks his head to one side. ‘Well, I can't lie, I think you deserve better than him.’

‘Do you now?’ you prompt. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

Joel peers at you from under long lashes with a half-smile that's almost shy. He dodges your question, and says instead, ‘I didn't mean to ruin your night, let me make it up to you, honey.’

‘How?’

Deftly, he climbs down the ladder, landing squarely on two booted feet, his presence comforting as he looms over you, his eyes warm. ‘Can I buy you dinner?’

‘Like - a date kind of dinner?’

‘Yeah, like a date,’ he nods.

You can’t help the dig. ‘And you were just sayin' you haven’t been on a date since...?’

He flashes you a smirk, and you shiver when his hand brushes your waist. ‘Since 1991. Tough sell, I know - but I thought I’d give it a shot.’

Running a finger along his sharp jawline, softened by the endearingly untidy beard, you have to bite your bottom lip to keep yourself from giving away too wide a grin. ‘Why, I think I have a good feelin’ about you, Joel Miller.’

Catching your wrist in his fingers, he presses a sweet kiss to your knuckles, the rough graze of his stubble chasing goosebumps across your skin as his eyes smile at you. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, honey.’

More notes: I hope you enjoyed this sweet little oneshot 🥰 I really leaned into the fluff and I have no regrets. Comments/reblogs/asks are much appreciated as always! I don't have plans for a second part right now, but a smutty follow-up is always a possibility...

The adorable dividers are by @firefly-graphics 👩🏻‍🍳

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller imagine #no outbreak au #joel miller oneshot #the last of us oneshot #fuckyeahshorts

2K notes · View notes

bits-and-babs · 1 year

Note

joel miller x thigh riding (bonus points if he's a touch mean, just the tiniest touch, but like the kind of mean that comes off more of a degrading praise yaknowyaknow)

-ˋˏ 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐘 ˎˊ

— pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

— word count: 1k

— warnings: thigh riding, spoilt orgasms, playful degradation. 18+, you nasties. More of my absolutely filthy bullshit xoxo

joel miller masterlist || main masterlist

“Come on; you can do better than that.”

Joel’s arms rest over the sofa, hands dangling at the wrist as he watches you struggle with a flat expression. His eyebrow cocks slightly when he hears you whimper, and you swallow back your noises for fear of his cold observations.

You’re trying. It’s so hard. You’re grinding your swollen clit across the denim of Joel’s jeans, and your toes don’t quite meet the floor where your panties lay discarded and forgotten. The burn in your hamstrings leans more towards cramping, and you feel tears prickle in your eyes.

It’s been so close you could almost grasp it. Each time your orgasm was within reach, the swell of arousal blooming through your abdomen, your hips would stutter, or you’d lose your balance slightly.

His worn denim is stained midnight blue by the slick you had smeared across the fabric in your desperate attempts to cum. Joel appears unphased by the filth; his illegible gaze focused on your face instead.

He pushes off the sofa with his elbows, sitting forward ever so slowly and watching your lip tremble. It feels so good, the friction of the cotton against your throbbing clit. Burning white-hot at the base of your spine, each roll of your hips surges it forward and it’s almost painful. You’re suffocating.

Joel’s expression is entirely blank, but his tawny eyes are hawk-like, observing each tremor of your legs as you struggle to support yourself while chasing your orgasm. Your pussy clenches as you gaze right back at him, eyelids heavy and chest heaving from your exertions.

It’s there again- it’s melting through you, squeezing around nothing as your slick leaks down the inside of your own thighs. You whimper, mouth hanging open as you uptick the speed of your sloppy grinds- he can surely hear how wet you are, and you’d be mortified if it wasn’t for the bright flare that bursts forward. It’s there- it’s the-

Joel raises his thigh up cruelly, and your balance slips. You cry out, toes on your left foot bumping the floorboards as your hands fly out to stabilise yourself. The fabric of his T-shirt wrinkles under your tight grip, and you let out a pained gasp of his name.

A tear drips from your lashes as your impending climax plummets away from you. You’re breathing hard, lungs practically vibrating from the burn of needing oxygen, and a panting breath bleeds into a wail of despair at how quickly your hard-worked flame dissipates into dull embers.

”Are you cryin’? Hmm?” Joel speaks evenly, as though a naked, pretty girl isn’t using his fucking thigh to get off. His question has a lilt of a mocking tone, teasing you and the degrading position you’re in. “Needy thing.”

Embarrassing. It’s humiliating the way your eyes roll back at the sound of his gruff Texan accent. It’s gravelly, and it rolls down your spine like warm honey.

Joel stares back at you, awaiting an answer with an expectant curve of his brow. Synapses in your brain misfire, and you can’t seem to work your dry mouth into the shape of the word ‘yes’, so you offer him a meek nod of your head. More tears stream down your cheeks, collecting at your chin and dripping down onto his lap—another wet stain to add to his collection.

“You poor thing,” he hums, brushing his knuckles over your cheekbone to wipe away the wetness. Absolutely wrecked, you lean into his touch in search of any affection. A quiet, submissive noise bubbles in your throat, and his top lip pulls up ever so slightly at the sight of you chasing any form of caress.

Twisting his wrist, he grabs ahold of your chin with his palm. You gasp as he pushes his fingertips into the soft flesh of your cheeks, smushing them together so your lips purse comically. “There’s no shame in askin’ for help.”

This time it’s playful, the tone of his drawl. He’s hinting, alluding to taking over and putting you out of your misery. He’s known this whole time that you’d need him. He ruined you, rewired your brain-body connection, so it was forever missing a final piece.

You couldn’t cum without him anymore.

His suggestion sparks your dying embers alight once more, the heat bursting through you when his eyes flick down to the naked junction of your thighs. They spasm beneath his intense gaze, like the look alone was enough to stimulate your poor, abused clit.

You open your mouth to beg, to fucking prostrate yourself in front of him and plead for mercy, but he drowns your words with the shocked moan he rips from you when he begins bouncing his heel off the floor.

Joel’s vigorously bobbing thigh feels like a vibration against your sensitive clit, and you practically crumple inwards at the sensation. Mind-numbing bliss rocks through you, and you let out a filthy, disgusting groan.

”Oh, just look at that,” He taunts you, knowing damn well he could have gifted this to you before you had exhausted yourself. “That’s it, ain’t it?”

Slamming so hard across your ribs that it almost bursts out of the gap between the bones, your heart somersaults when he works his palms onto your thighs. Joel’s fingers squeeze at the flesh that creases at the junction of your hips, and the image of his vaguely amused expression blurs when tears sting your eyes once more.

“Uh-Oh fuck, oh Joel pl-please… Please! Please, I ca-aha- I can’t-“ you babble, the pitch in your voice rising to a squeak as he continues to bounce against your tortured cunt.

“You can,” is all he prompts, gazing at you with this look he reserved only for the victims of his brutal survival instinct. Twisting the knife, going in for the kill. Your orgasm flares so hot between your thighs that you swear it burns a hole through you.

“You can, you’ll feel so much better. Go on, sweetheart. Cum for me and I’ll give you another.”

4K notes · View notes

thelastofhyde · 1 year

Text

i. the likeability paradox.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. joel miller is not a man who strives to be liked, with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl on his face, until his world is flipped on its axis when the pretty young thing living under bill and frank's roof, with an irritatingly unwavering smile and the literal sun shinning out her ass, says those five damned words: i don't like you, joel.

warnings. no use of y/n, enemies to lovers, slow burn ( i have several oneshots planned for this couple ), unrequited love ( except you will never catch joel miller admitting he feels anything beyond grief, hunger and exhaustion ), pining, poor communication no communication, no seriously joel is down bad it's actually disgusting and highkey 🚩toxic�� but luckily red is your favourite colour, sunshine!reader, grumpy!joel aka canon joel, kinda perv!joel ( if you squint ), implied queer!tess, undefined age gap ( reader implied late-20s ), descriptions of canon-typical violence, smut ( oral- f receiving, fingering, degradation, panty stealing, hair pulling, dirty talk, dubcon due to intoxication, joel kinda gives her a wedgie at some point and honestly i don’t know what i was hoping to achieve with that, discussions of a lacklustre sex-life pre-apocalypse ). reader is a) hinted at being shorter than joel but it’s not central to the plot and b) described as lithe but the meaning intended is graceful, not thin!

word count. 12.9k

hyde’s input. half-way through, the regret of choosing to write this from joel's pov started to settle in but lmao i was too far in to not commit to the bit. don't come at me for the fact the timeline or events may not seem plausible with canon, i just wanna write this silly little depraved fic about joel in peace :( anyway, enjoy my first attempt at writing for tlou, forming a prayer circle rn in hopes that this doesn't flop because i will cry and you will hear about it

taglist. @kayleezra @newavenger + add yourself to the taglist here !

read on ao3 ! ( capitalization available )

distaste is not new in the life of joel miller.

in particular, one that is loaded, aimed and fired directly at him. he is not a likeable guy, often by choice and rarely by accident. the years of pain from a bleeding wound have now scarred over into nothing but an empty shell of the man that once was, from a world that no longer is, and he’s tried little to fill himself back up.

if anything, he’s made himself more empty.

rid himself of feelings, that which saves him the weakness of appearing sympathetic. discarded the need for luxuries, for which he’d scarcely cared for prior to his world ending. lay to rest what was left of the optimist inside him, leaving behind the danger of hope for it to rot with the rest of the infected.

an apocalyptic world brings out all sides of man that one would never dare to engage with in normal civilisation. joel learned swiftly that he was built to endure, quick to evolve and adapt to the new world order. the man who once worked his hardest to keep the peace among his neighbours, smiling that little bit wider on days he’d catch them scowling to themselves in hopes of brightening one part of their day for even a simple moment, would be at odds with the man who wears a heavy layer of enjoyment when met with the scowling glances and the hushed voices, all the watch out for that miller guys passed between cowardly members of fedra and the keep away from mr. miller's lawns spoken harshly from mother to child becoming music to his failing ears.

this plague of fear-driven dislike keeps him alone, how he likes to be, no one to lose and nothing to be taken. somewhere along the years the idea of safety in numbers has morphed into an illusion, something people say and never truly mean, to distract themselves from a reality more bitter than a snowstorm: in times of survival, people become dead-weight.

“so that’s all i am to ya, huh? dead-fucking-weight?” his brother’s voice still echoes in that damned space he calls a home, weeks or months or years since the day he’d departed for something else, somewhere else, leaving joel to do what joel does best: endure.

somehow, silence was easier than telling the man he’d taught to tie a shoelace, to shave his beard, to tune a guitar that he was the dead-weight, doomed to drag all those who remained too close down into his pit of despair.

she was an exception, his tess, buried 5-feet-under in her own swell of darkness, nothing but the tips of her fingers stretched out above her head to feel the sun upon her skin and keep her from going that last foot deeper. they’d made a home for themselves in one another, one where he keeps them fed, and she keeps them safe, and neither of them keeps the place clean.

she never asks for more, and he never offers it, both content to survive without the weight of affection smothering them. contrary to the belief of any misfortunate soul who’s encountered the pair within the quarantine zone, she is the one who holds the leash, tugging joel along close by her heel and keeping him from wandering off into the wild to surrender himself to a feral lifestyle.

which lands him here, sat at a table playing happy family, each time he dares to snark out a few words being met with the sharp kick of tess’ foot against his shin.

“... and then,” frank struggles over a cough, so excited in his story-telling that he fails to separate taking a breath from taking a sip of his wine. with a roll of eyes and a disapproving grunt, bill’s no more than two seconds away from clapping down on his back, urging the other man’s wind-pipes to unblock and welcome back airflow. “otis dragged his muddied self over the whole house. we were finding paw-prints for days!”

joel’s unamused, too keen to think of what a nuisance that would be. as if incapable of feeling the buzzing energy of disinterest, the german shepherd drops its head further up his lap, begging for a morsel of anything that sits atop the table.

“which means i was cleaning paw-prints for days.” bill, the only one at the table besides himself who wears the looks of a cynic, grumbles out before shovelling what remains on his plate into his mouth.

frank is quick to shush him.

“i’m sorry, again, bill,” he doesn’t mean to break eye-contact from the mutt at his thigh, but the voice calls to him like a siren calls to a ship in the night, like a flame dances and seduces a moth into its brightly burning touch of death, a spotlight in the dark which promises- or threatens- more light to come. “i’d no clue there was a storm coming till we were already a good few miles away, and there was nowhere to take cover to wait it out.”

there you sit, parallel to him.

the sun rests lower in the sky as time carries you all into the late noon, its rays a beacon of light bursting out just behind your head, painting you in the glow of the golden hour and staining a mockery of a halo above you. it hurts his eyes, this brightness that you so easily bask in, forcing him to squint and deepen the frown on his face.

you catch him with his sights on you, at some point, and the smile you meet his scowl with has him cursing at the sun, and the moon, and every star that sits between.

the threat of a great war looms in the air as you rush to rise up and help clear the table of the remnants left behind- none of which joel can account for, mouth to keen and body too starved to skip out on enjoying the mundane luxury of a fresh, home-cooked meal. the battle ends swiftly as you surrender to bill’s hardened stare, and frank’s disapproving head-shakes, and tess’ own plan of action to simply force you down back into the seat you’d been sat in- the one you always sit in.

“you, sit. no one should have to clean up the food they made.”

they get no fight out of him when they insist he’d done enough catching the so-called food.

silence casts its shadow over the table, dampening the light and painting you both in a mockery of greyed tones- truthfully, it is the disappearance of the sun hind a large cloud that causes such a thing.

being alone, with you, is something joel’s never mastered. the affliction of your presence is so much greater when there’s no one else to balance out your natural shine- the kind that has his head spinning and his cock aching-, no one but him.

were he not a sick bastard, he’d try harder to not make you sad.

something bumps his hands, ripping him out of his moral self-condemnation. the dog meets his gaze, eyes a widened mess of puppy-dog pleading that punctuates its existence with an impatient whine.

just like your owner, he finds himself thinking and not saying- never saying-, yet to find your bark.

the ball’s a sticky mess of slobber and dirt, and joel touches it all the same, throwing it up in the air once, then twice, before tossing it across the yard. he’s slumped back in his chair by the time he registers the dog’s departure, a ball of dark fluff bouncing its way across the garden, and all the man can think is fuck, he’ll be feeling the effect of that throw on his shoulder come the morning.

the pain is not enough to stop him from tossing the ball again, and once more, and then yet again, sending the dog in a never ending loop of chase, grab, retrieve- a parallel to his life of wake, survive, sleep.

“he likes you,” you never leave things the way he wishes them to be, bursting his bubble with the vocal reminder of your presence.

as if on queue, prompted by your addressing of it, the dog drops its interest in joel, and the ball, and the chasing, tail wagging uncontrollably by the time it reaches your side. standing on its hind legs, it collapses the front of itself into your waiting lap, and joel watches how you wrap your arms so easily around something that could cause you harm.

to envy a creature that licks it own shit off its ass is a new low for joel.

“thinkin’ he might like ya more, sol.” the nickname rolls off his tongue with ease, the safer option than uttering your name, a vice and virtue he’s only permitted himself in idealistic fantasies that play out in his own troubled thoughts.

“most people do,” whether you mean to make it seem like you’re degrading his very existence or not, he’s unsure, but it rouses a chuckle out of him.

he takes note of how you don’t protest the name he’s branded you with, not like how you’d fought tooth and nail against it every other visit he and tess have made.

“you’ve got a whole load in common, you know? i think that’s got something to do with his fascination-”

“how the hell’s a man like me got somethin’ in common with a four-legged mutt?” there he goes again, making that smile slip down your cheeks with a simple use of his voice. it helps as much as it hurts, frown loosening up and eyes no longer strained beneath the bright shine of your visceral optimism.

“well, you’re both... hairy,” he restrains himself from reacting, washing down a laugh with the help of the dregs of wine that lay collecting at the bottom of his glass. he’s let his appearance grow more rugged over the past few months and your noticing of this brings an unwanted warmth to his aching bones. “and have the most kickass women in your lives to stop you from dying.”

he’s interested to know what life would be like under your protection.

discovering the answer brings the threat of pain, and loss, and an openness to vulnerability he can not afford himself, so he takes the safer option: “‘s easy stayin’ safe when you live in this fantasy land. doubt your mutt’d last any longer than a day out in reality.”

with you as its protector.

he doesn’t say it and, still, it somehow hovers in the space between you both, a heavy, syrupy implication that slips down your throats and threatens to suffocate you. he watches you choke on it, coughing on his cruelty and feigning it to be a simple clearing of your throat. your eyes glue themselves on the dog, delicate fingers smoothing over the well-groomed hairs down its back.

survival has turned him into a man who knows when to seize an opportunity, and this is one he takes with both hands, basking in the simplicity of staring, watching, observing you without the crime of being caught.

but i could keep you safe.

he toys with the danger of uttering such a thing aloud. it’s not the first time he’s thought it. truthfully, he’s unsure when it first nestled its way into his mind.

his memory, which ails him more than it aids him these past years, would have him believe it was way before the dog had even appeared, back when it was just bill, frank and you. a few whiskeys in and a campfire lit for you all to gather for warmth around- why you’d all chosen to sit out in the gardens on a winter’s night joel remains unsure of to this day-, it was frank who’d prompted the question. “where were you all when... this started?” tess went first, braver than most people he knows, sharing stories of a version of herself he’ll never meet.

he never imagined her working in a bank.

bill, with reluctance, took the next step, keeping his account factual and to the point. “was shit-faced drunk and getting my stomach pumped.” he’d been quick to skim over the story of the young nurse who’d guided him to safety out the hospital, losing her own life in exchange for his survival. she was barely out of school. “i knew her dad, bit of an asshole, but boy, was he proud of his baby for graduating.” frank couldn’t let him swim too deep in his thoughts, afraid a current of guilt would trap him and drown him in the depths of it, and so he raised his own voice and began his tale.

joel had always been a good listener. being a single parent to a teenage girl required him to be, or so... she would have had him believe, nights at the table set for two spent listening to the playground he-said-she-said gossip. years later and he at last prefers things this way, a rare gem of safety found in the act of saying nothing and hearing everything- that his hearing will allow. all this to say, he’d tried his best to pay attention to frank’s impassioned retelling of his heroic misadventures that had lead him to the unintentional arms of bill.

but you weren’t smiling.

he watched you, you watched the dancing flames, face stoic and drained of that natural shine his eyes had only just started to be able to gaze upon without the threat of being blinded by such light.

the desire crept up on him like a tiger to it’s prey, hiding in the far off bushes until the opportunity to strike presented itself and the feeling lunged for joel’s back, gripping him in its claws and piercing his ribcage with its gnashing teeth. with each bite, it plagued him with the delusions of a wandering mind, imagination left free to run laps around his head with visions of you from another life, another time, another set of people gathered round a dining table. he’d wanted to hear about the ones you’d lost, and comfort you with all the things he hated hearing (“you’ll keep ‘em alive, in spirit and memory!” “those we remember never truly die!”). he’d needed to bend a knee and swear a vow to be the one to stand between you and death, to fight for your survival on your behalf. ‘could keep you safe. there, then, the thought did cross his mind.

he’d washed it down with a swig of lukewarm, flat beer.

“-could fix it, you know. i’m good with my hands.”

he almost chokes on his own breath.

i'm good with my hands, it swims in circles round his mind, replaying and echoing off the walls of his skull. and he knows- oh, how he knows- that he’ll be replaying it in those moments of solitude for the next few nights, weeks, months- however long it may take till he forgets the way such thought-provoking words sound on your lips.

“what?” the question leaves him harsher than he intends, drawing an enemy line between you both with the foul sound of it. in the corner of his eye, he swears he sees you flinch backwards, physically recoiling from the disdain-filled bullet he fires in your direction.

the mutt in your lap retreats, hackles rising as it turns to face joel once more.

he sees it, in the dog’s brutal protectiveness over you, this similarity you claim exists.

“your watch, it’s broken.”

“hadn’t noticed,” he’s retreating into his own space now, mentally and physically, scraping the legs of his chair against the ground as his mind works to strengthen those walls that threaten to crumble so often in your presence. “don’t need ya to fix it.”

you pull a face, brows furrowing and lips pouting. confusion.

“don’t you want to know the time?” you ask, as if time could ever be relevant in a rotten world where down is up, and up is down, and joel miller is not the overprotective father to the most delicate creature the god he’d stopped believing in had gifted him, just to force him to watch as life snatched her away.

“i don’t keep it for the time.”

you smile, and this one’s a killer, piercing straight through the cages of his ribs to carve itself into his withered heart.

the german shepherd relaxes with the rebrightening of your aura, shaking out the tension from its body before sauntering its way back over to joel, ball in mouth and tail wagging excitedly, as if it hadn’t just contemplated having its first taste of human flesh.

he’s throwing the toy in a matter of minutes, enjoying the repeated run and retrieve game, and the renewed silence that comes along with it. nature sings its tune with rustling leaves, cawing crows, and pounding paws. it’s almost so easy to leave your offer, your words, his broken watch in the rearview mirror of this otherwise pleasant afterno-

“ooh, so there’s a story to tell!” you’re blinding him with your excitement, lithe limbs leaning forward in your own chair in an attempt to reach closer, table between you be damned. “i’ve never heard any of the joel miller backstory, this should be-”

“i get that likin’ everyone is your thing, but would’ya give it a rest?”

nature falls silent.

skies grow dull.

you juggle sadness.

there’s a crash that comes from within the house, followed by the unmistakable sound of tess’ sailor mouth, cursing whichever delicate dish she’s broken into smithereens with the help of her accident prone hands. the dog’s lain itself down upon the grass, ball between it’s paws as it begins to bite, and chew, and break it under the pressure of its canines.

joel wonders what the mutt’s practicing for.

“sure,” then, with the return of your voice, all sounds resume, harmony upon planet earth once more. only, the gates have been shut in his face and joel finds himself forced to watch as everything unfolds from the outside, an unwelcome visitor forced out into exile with the fungal freaks and the inhumane. “but you’re wrong. i don’t like everyone.”

“‘s that so.” his eyes roll. the hole he’s dug for himself sinks deeper, casting you higher up on the pedestal joel will always be wiling to place you on.

“yeah,” you’ve risen out your chair, gifting him the view of how the fabric of your dress dances above your knee, a final twist of the knife in his heart that he lets you pierce his flesh with each time he surrenders himself to your existence. “i don’t like you, joel.”

the hours come and go, but your words linger like a bad tattoo, shamefully engraved into his skin and banning him to a life of noticing the horrendous thing each time he passes by his own reflection.

we’re staying, for tonight. tess had called the shots, and he’s been learning not to argue when she gives him one of her stern looks, biting down on the comments he’d wanted to make of the dangers of being out of the qz for too long, which would likely earn him nothing but a shrug and the reminder that they both were off duty the following day

the nights are beginning to grow darker as winter grows nearer, leading bill and frank- mostly frank- to excuse themselves to bed, bidding the two visitors with a final reminder to make themselves comfortable in whichever room they can find. if only joel could remember which door leads to yours.

the two women in his life remain awakened, passing a bottle of wine between each other as you both converse back and forth, catching each other up on one another’s life, satiating that craving for mundane gossip.

tess recounts the scandal of the poor boy who’d been caught sleeping with a fedra agent’s wife, you whisper that frank and bill had been fighting again recently. the memory of being ambushed by raiders- now dead raiders- comes to life once more with the help of tess’ voice, while the promise to uncover what exactly bill and frank were hiding from you as of late is sealed in your words.

at some point, he lays himself to rest atop the couch, legs stretched out and arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the squeeze of the fabric over his forearms as the too-small flannel struggles to contain the muscles forged by the need to survive. at another point, he’s lulled to sleep by the lullaby of your mingling voices, a safety blanket draping itself over his tired body and enveloping him in the comforts of having that which he struggles to care so little for, so near him once more.

-n’t tell me you’re a virgin.

the words are muffled as the man slips back into consciousness, a frown coming to rest on his forehead as he battles against the demons urging him awake, the nightmarish memories of car crashes, and soldiers, and so much red chasing him away from the sleep he longs for so badly.

a protest rings true in his head and his ears.

was gonna say. knew you were young, but not that young.

it’s the sound of your laughter that awakens him fully, saving him from the tortures of his own mind.

“god, no! me and my ex, we... a few times. it was alright, i guess. i just, yeah, there’s not much to miss.”

he’s unwilling, unable to reopen his eyes, curling in on himself as he rolls over onto his side. a groan slips past his lips, one he’s hoping tess and you will dismiss as nothing more than the sleep-filled rambles of a dreaming man.

neither of you make any acknowledgement of him.

“not much to miss?! sweet christ, you’re breaking my fuckin’ heart.” he’s learnt over time the common traits of a drunken tess. each word becoming an exclamation, curses becoming more frequent, and that irritating habit she’s picked up of imitating his own accent. there’s no need to bother opening his eyes, joel’s already sure he’ll find his companion with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. “i’d give up a hand for some head!”

you must do something, pull a face or shake your head, for the sound of tess’ renewed shock fills the room. he wonders, as the sound bounces off the walls, how late into the night it’s grown.

late enough that the cicadas singing outside the window are now accompanied by the hoots of an owl.

“you’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

“it bores me!”

“it bores you!?”

the couch beneath joel creaks as he shifts once more, turning his back on you both as the ability to contain his laughter grows harder with each word you exchange and each gasp tess gives. the last thing he needs is to be caught eavesdropping on your sex life like some dirty old pervert.

the crueler part of his mind replays your voice, i don’t like you, and the knife twists in his guts this time.

you like tess. love her, even. it’s been that way since the first time you’d met the duo, eyes giving one look over the woman before the smile on your face grew even wider, voice as sweet as honey sighing out finally someone with a pair of boobs, i’m bored of the sight of my own. joel’d gotten caught up in the thought of how he’d never tire of such a sight that he’d failed to acknowledge your greeting towards him, catching just the moment you drew your outstretched hand back to your side and offered him an understanding smile.

maybe that was the moment you decided you didn’t like him.

“must not have been doin’ ya right,” the bottle of southern comfort is working its wonders on the older woman, accent growing further and further from its true nature with each glass she nurses. joel hears the faint sound of ice smacking against glass and knows it must be yours. you’ve always struggled with liquors, slipping as many ice cubes as you can manage into a glass in hopes that they’ll eventually melt and water the alcohol down. it’s oddly endearing, you think no one has noticed. “this fella of yours.”

joel has no right to despise the idea of you and some fella.

he does so, regardless.

“well,” he imagines the shape of your meek smile and the way you shrug your shoulders. “we were each others firsts.”

“that’s no excuse! trust i left mine cryin’ into her pillow the first time i went down.” tess and he have a silent agreement to never speak of the nights joel would take refuge on their beaten-up couch while tess indulges herself between someone’s thighs in the bedroom. no discussing the sounds she pulls from her concubines, no addressing the wet patches left behind to stain their shared sheets, and definitely no speaking on how his hand winds up stained in his own cum.

you scoff and follow it up with a saccharine laced giggle, so sweet its bound to rot your teeth if you even attempt to hold it in. “what, are you offering your services?”

this he likes less than the image of you with some fella, the thought of having to lay upon a mattress on which tess had raised you to heaven while he once again remained locked out in the dark leaving his skin crawling with unwarranted rage.

“‘as sure as i am that you’re sweet all over, ‘fraid to tell you i like my women a little older than you.”

he knows he should do the same, should lust after those women his own age who shoot him carnal looks in the streets of the qz. it should be skin his own age that he longs to taste, and eyes who’ve seen as much as his own he wants to stare into, and lips as cruel as the ones he owns that he fights off the urges to kiss. but he can’t, and he won’t.

and you’re the one to blame.

you, with the glow of a thousand suns. you, with the hands that tend to flowers instead of corpses. you, with the gentle nature he’d have to spend the rest of his days fighting off every other living thing just to protect.

his own self being the first he’d need fight.

joel wonders what he’d missed in his hours- if it had even been so long- of rest, how the playground gossiping dissipated into reminiscing the pleasures of supple flesh and the sins of unfulfilling lovers. sleep steals him away once more before he can find the answers.

the next time he awakens, he’s drowning in a plight of cruel memories, a cold and brutal ocean of faces, places, and traces of the ephemeral sentiment of happiness he’d possessed once upon a time, back when the price of letting one’s guard down was not so high.

he’s learnt, with time, that losing her comes in waves. some small, meaningless little things, that ripple joel’s surface and coast gently over his dirt ridden skin. others, tsunamis. big, angry, all imposing. they’re born in ground-shaking explosions of grief, building speed, and height, and weight the closer they grow to crashing over him.

amidst the passing of time, he’s tried to keep himself busy in his awakened hours, to keep his mind occupied and avoid thinking about her too much. but the waves always come back, no matter how hard he tries to fight them or swim away from them. they catch him off guard, crashing over him when he least expects it. in the middle of a raid, lost in thought and standing ten inches deep in grime, blood, infected, and suddenly the weight of her absence will hit him like a ton of bricks.

the currents grow more violent whenever he closes his eyes.

this evening, it had been a minuscule wave, yet it’s damage still leaves him with sweat slicked skin. he reenters the land of the living choking on his own fear and shooting up-right, hardly registering his surroundings till his feet hit solid ground. the gentle, barely-there croon of a sinatra record punctuates the room alongside the dim glow of a lightbulb which flickers with the threat of expiring and leaving naught but the moonlight to wash over the dark of the night. across from him is tess, nursing a half-emptied cup against her chest and wearing tired eyes. snoring comes from below him, where joel finds he’s a mere foot away from having stepped upon the sleeping dog, curled in on itself and laying soundly by his side.

you take up no space of this room.

neither the dog nor the drunk pay him any mind as he pushes up onto his creaking knees, stretching out his limbs in a fight to undo the tension in his aching bod. languid steps carry him out into the hall, where he freezes under the self-questioning of where he’s going.

there are three answer to this: where he should, where he could, and where he would.

he should find himself a bedroom, perhaps be ostentatious enough to rid himself of those stale clothes and let the warmth of running water wash away the sins he’d committed throughout the day. a good night’s sleep, atop a mattress where springs do not dig into his back and the sheets are clean as could be, it would do him good.

he could head towards the kitchen, quench that thirst that he’s awoken with, cottonmouth and a headache to go with it too. perhaps he’ll find himself something to eat, indulge in the luxury of readily available food just this once, he’s sure frank wouldn’t mind. bill definitely would, but that’s not something he’ll need care about when he’s miles out and heading back to the qz.

he would try find you, open whichever door it is that leads into the haven that must be your bedroom. he imagines its clean, and organised, and smells of some syrupy lavender that is bound to nauseate him as he smothers his face into your bedsheets, eyes shut, and mind relaxed, the threat of those violent waves no concern to him as he anchors himself with an arm around your warm skin. skin he’s never felt, yet he stands firm in his belief it must be the most soothing thing to touch, as gentle and inviting as the heart it keeps safe within it.

i don’t like you, joel.

those words stop him from trying.

he tells himself it’s for the best.

with a mind of their own, his legs have made the choice for him and deliver him outside the opening to the kitchen. he swallows down a gulp of his own saliva at the prospect of a glass of water. the door’s already half-opened, and joel nearly thanks christ for it as the fear of waking anyone with the squeaking of the handle is eliminated. the darkness of the night encompasses the room, even with the moon’s shine reflecting off every surface it touches: the counters, the knife stand, the metal drawer handles, the refrigerator.

the refrigerator.

it’s open, a blue light shining out of it and illuminating anything it its proximity. a subtle beeping noise rings from it, and suddenly joel’s back in his thirties, dead-beat yet well-intentioned brother stealing the food off his own plate as he beckons his pre-teen daughter back into the kitchen.

keep leavin’ this open and it’s a job you’ll be gettin’ this summer, not a dog.

she never lived long enough to get either.

he catches something move beneath the artificial light. cautious at first, it’s all the more startling to find the object of his ire and the embodiment of his desire stood leaning back against the countertop, a glass full of orange liquid pressed to a mouth that parts and welcomes in the sugary sweet delight.

“why aren’t ya sleepin’?” the words rasp out his throat, catching and scratching on the parts of him that still yearn for something to wet his tongue with.

beneath the light, you shrug, “could ask you the same thing, texas.”

he curses tess for teaching you such a nickname.

he curses himself more for the way you saying it twists up his insides.

you’re teasing him, smile a little looser and eyes less focused than he’s used to seeing. whether you’re tipsy or simply delirious with exhaustion, joel remains unaware.

he grunts, daring to take a few steps further into the kitchen. the door behind him closes over and give the illusion of the space becoming smaller, tighter, more compact.

“i asked first.” you laugh, at him. full on chest-rumbling, hand over your belly, head thrown back- so abruptly it nearly crashes against the corner of the opened cabinet door. the corner of his mouth is curling upwards before he can catch himself. he hopes the refrigerator light shows less of him than it shows of you, bare legs, and messed hair, and pointed nipples all on display for his undeserving eyes. “‘s so funny, huh?”

“nothing, nothing,” he successfully fights off the urge to follow the drop of orange juice that spills down the side of your mouth, over your chin, down your neck, disappearing beneath the collar of your dress. perhaps he is not as successful as he believes. “just never heard the joel miller say something so childish. you’ve usually got your panties all in a bunch if someone so much as looks at you for too long.”

you make way as he inches closer, sliding yourself over to rest against the island counter. a fragrance of things he can’t quite pinpoint, but enjoys nonetheless, wafts in his face as he travels down the path to the sink. uncouth and unbothered, joel opens the tap and cups his hands beneath the stream of water.

“you know there’s a cupboard full of glasses right next to you, right?” you call out behind him as the man brings water to his dry lips, splashing and just about guiding his head beneath the stream. the thirst does not budge. he hums an acknowledgement of you, yet continues with his method.

by the time he switches the water off, you’ve made yourself busy, back facing him while you work at something atop the counter, a consistent chop-chop-chop filling the silence that settles between you both.

“i’m making soup,” you state, like there’s nothing quite more logical you could be doing at whatever-o’clock in the morning it is. “make sure you take some with you when you leave. tess said she’s been fighting off a cold the past few days, need you to keep her warm and fed for me.”

would you do the same for him, if you knew he’d been the one to catch that damned cold in the first place? four days of just about coughing up his lungs, and not a single soul- not even his tess- had offered soup, nor warmth, nor sympathy. he’d not needed it, until now, when he hears you gifting it to someone else.

i don’t like you, joel.

of course you would do the same. not because you care, nor because doing otherwise would way heavy on your conscious, but because you’re nice. nice in a way he’ll never be, has never been. patient, welcoming, comforting, warm. all words that spring to mind when one thinks of you. they violently oppose the closed-off, angry, dark cloud that had rolled in years ago and casted it’s shadow over joel’s entire persona.

he straightens his back, weight shifting from one foot to another as he contemplates you from behind. the sway of your dress as you move has him in a trance, beckoning him closer before he can even realise he’s taken a step. his hands drip water onto the floor in a rhythm, and the record player sings in the distance as a reminder of tess, and your sweet out-of-tune humming fills the empty kitchen with a brightness greater than the moon, but that’s not what joel hears.

i don’t like you, joel.

over and over, you taunt him without even trying, nailing the words into his head and heart, impaling him with your sweet condemnation. you’re not the first to say it, to his face or otherwise, yet you’re the first to evoke such a reaction out of him, to leave a lasting impression hours after you’d declared such a thing.

and, suddenly, joel’s angry. at you, at himself, at the sound of that damned knife in your hand slicing down onto the chopping board. the fog of his ire blurs his vision, rendering him to move blindly through the night.

only when he finds himself looming over you from behind does his vision clear.

a hand meets the curve of your hip and you gasp, leaving joel to wonder if it’s because the shock of his cold, damp touch or, simply, because it’s his touch. without a thought spared, he firms his grip, fingers squeezing tight enough he feels your flesh bulge between each one, a bruising promise joel gifts you.

you may leave your marks emotionally, but joel’s will always be physical.

“why,” he pulls in a breath, loading up the will to keep his voice a low rumble, a quiet disturbance in the night for no ears but your own to hear. “don’t ya like me?”

if not for the pause in your practiced movements, knife stilling midway through slicing a carrot, he’d believe you’re unaffected by his proximity. “why do you care?”

he scoffs, “i don’t.”

“hmm,” this hum is far less delightful than the way you’d been following along to whatever melody tess was playing in the living room. “sure sounds like you do.”

“yeah, well, i don’t,” he insists, and he swears he almost feels the way it only digs deeper the hole he’s created for himself.

joel knows he cares. it’s been burning at his skin and itching on his mind since the moment you’d welcomed yourself to a little bit of unfiltered honesty, dropping the perfectly poised and eternally polite mask you’d worn since the moment he’d first met you, an attitude he loathes as much as he anticipates surrounding himself with it each time he’s tugged along for the trek to bill and frank’s.

what joel doesn’t know is why he cares. there’s nothing to be desired about him, no traits to respect and certainly no looks to admire. he’s near crafted his entire being in a way that makes sure of this, the more undesirable his presence is, the less likely he is to be approached, be it by other people or fate itself.

maybe there was a part of him that had wrongfully imagined you being the exception.

instead, you’re stood barefoot in the latest of hours, knife working away the vegetables in front of you, dress sticking to skin beneath his damp hand, and you don’t like him.

not one bit.

joel grabs at your hips harder, his free hand curling round the shape of your left forearm. his feet shuffle forwards, until there comes a point where one would struggle to make out where you end and he begins. his chest pressed to your back, his muscular legs trapping your soft thighs, his forehead digging into the side of your head so intensely it threatens to shatter both your craniums and leave nothing but dust made by bones blown into smithereens.

he inhales, and finds you don’t smell of lavender.

“for the record,” he watches your movements over your shoulder, entranced with the back and forth sawing of the knife through unidentified vegetables. ‘s like how i sliced that raider’s throat, he thinks, and instantly regrets it. no part of him should ever be compared to you. “i don’t like ya either.”

he’s lying through his teeth, hoping you don’t notice.

the knife never ceases its movement. back and forth, back and forth. chop, chop, chop. blurs of greens, and oranges, and more greens cover the counter before you. it’s oddly soothing, this repeated and unbroken pattern, reminding joel of times he’d found comfort in the mundaneness of cooking a meal after an emotionally exhausting day. perhaps, this has the same affect on you, a momentary lifejacket to keep yourself afloat amongst the waves that haunt you awake.

the hand on your forearm travels, mind of its own, drawing up the shape of your shoulder with featherlight touches that contradict the way his nails dig deeper into the the skin you hide beneath the waistline of your dress.

“that’s not news,” you must think he’s blind to the hitch in your breath when his fingers slip over your pulse-point.

it’s his turn to respond with a hum.

“you only like yourself,” words more untrue have never been spoken before the man who’s every moment is spent drowning in his loses. his wandering touch halts. “a little selfish, if you ask me. but, that’s just what i think.”

this strikes a nerve. fury commands his hand into a fist and fingers find themselves tangled in the tresses of your hair. the realisation of how surprisingly soft it feels barely finishes registering when he’s pulling on it, dragging your head along with, till it lays flat on his puffing chest and your eyes stare up at him. “d’ya know what i think?”

even upside down, your beauty is striking.

“no, unlike you i don’t care what you think about-” joel tugs on your hair once more.

“i think you’re a brat. a silly little girl who thinks she can smile and get away with murder.” you could. he’d forgive you as you soak your hands in the blood you draw from him. knife in the heart, bullet through the brain, bat to the face, he’d slip away easily from this life if only to have you smile as he goes.

“you’re hurting me,” you whine, joel growls.

animalistic, beastly, a rabid animal sinking its claws into its defenceless prey. his gaze dances over your features, catching himself before he can sink deep into your captivating eyes, tracing the shape of your mouth, slipping down the peaks of your collarbones.

your dress- red, a colour joel miller will no longer associate with bleeding wounds and stained weapons- sits tight on your chest, squeezing the swell of your chest beneath the fabric, and gives away all your secrets.

“you like it,” he speaks in awe, unable to pull his eyes off the two stiff buds that poke against the red fabric.

“no, i don’-” dampness follows wherever his hand goes, fleeting as he makes the journey around your waist and up your side, crawling higher and higher to where he can feel your heart beating from within your chest. “joel.”

he retightens his grip on your hair, aiding you with the way your curve your spine and force yourself deeper into his uncaring, ungentle, enamoured touch. whoever joel had been in a past life must have moved mountains or performed miracles to grant him the luck to be holding you this way, the fingers he’d gifted with nothing but the cocking of guns and the feel of his own pulsating lust now expertly tweaking at one of your stiff nipples, all thoughts of the fabric scratching at your sensitive skin dissipating into the abyss as he realises you’re enjoying the pain.

“heard ya, earlier, in the living room,” at the time, he’d been mortified to be overhearing such intimate words between you and tess. the blood that insists on rushing to his crotch now wants you to know, to hear the admission of guilt be spoken from his own mouth. “ talkin’ bout your past.”

he doesn’t specify.

he doesn’t need to.

you give away your shock with parted lips, widened eyes, frozen eyelashes, pupils staring up at him like a wounded fawn he’s about to take his first bite out of and, hopefully, it won’t be the last one.

“tess turned you down,” the hand on your chest switches sides, donning your other breast with some much needed attention. his hand must still carry residue of the water, for you gasp and shut your eyes in the shock of his touch, your own fingers shooting up to scratch at his wrist. near convinced you mean to push him away, the pressure against his hand that pushes deeper into his unholy affection has him realising otherwise. “i wouldn’t.”

you say nothing. joel pulls harder.

“too bad i’m-” you cut yourself off as he presses himself closer to you, your poor hips bound to awaken with bruises from the counter he’s got you pressed against. with a distance so small he can hear your teeth grind, joel watches you like a hawk. the twitch in your brow, the flutter of your eyelids, the bobbing of your throat as you silence what he imagines would be an otherworldly kind of moan, a whine he’d let kiss his ears and wind up poisoning himself with the torture of it replaying in his head each waking moment till he kicks the bucket, once and for all. the want to see you fall apart evolves into a need. “too bad i’m not offering you the chance.”

joel miller is a hot blooded man, at his core, weak to emotions and vulnerable to the warmths of flesh. with notches on his bedpost and a tally of lives beneath his belt, he sees little wrong with taking what he needs.

“who said anything about an offer?”

the descent to the floor is far from graceful, with bitten back groans of pain as clicking noises resound throughout the room while his joints bend and break in an effort to get him where he needs to be, where he’s needed to be for far longer than merely this exchange on kitchen grounds: on his knees for you.

a part of him would prefer it if you weren’t wielding a butchers knife.

the other part wishes you were facing him, eyes full of that repressed anger, hatred and discontent you likely harbour for him as you point the blade down at him and threaten to paint the floors with his blood. you’ve yet to do that, and so he takes it as his queue to progress.

smoothing his hands up your legs, he admires the landscapes of your body from this angle, with legs longer than any tree in the amazonian jungle and curves with peaks that resemble the mountains of the himalayas. arriving at the top of your knees, the hem of your dress both welcomes and conceals his touch, inviting him into the wonderful world it hides beneath it yet denying him the privilege of feasting his eyes on your paradise, an island of safety amongst the open ocean of his mind.

your breathing is measured, precise, too rhythmical to be natural, the subconscious action now turned into a practiced routine you mean to maintain nonchalance with. perhaps you’re yet to realise that, while he may remain indifferent to those that surround him, joel knows how to read people. and, right now, you’re a whole novel of lust, awaiting for someone to open up your pages and drink in every lyrical prose you promise to tell.

joel finds purchase mid-way up your thighs, hands sliding around to the front of them to grip the buttery smooth skin and ground himself in the reality he kneels before.

you breathe in, you breathe out.

one knee buckles, ever so slightly, the weight of you collapsing into his welcoming hold. he revels in the feeling of supporting you, in every meaning of the word, thumbs not even waiting on a command from his consciousness to begin soothing your tingling skin with a gentle back and forth movement to match the knife in your hand.

inhale, exhale.

your legs straighten once more, a hand of his winds its way back out from under your skirt and shoots up to grab your free one, dragging it down his pits of desire.

“hold,” he’s parched all over again, mouth drier than the texan wastelands on a hot summer’s day. all he can do to survive is peel up that infuriatingly soft, red fabric of your dress, skin unveiling itself to his hunger struck eyes. with the skirt bunched up, he shoves it into your awaiting palms, pinning your hand against your own waist. “don’t move.”

where he expects protest, he receives more breathing.

lace covers your skin, a delicate shade of a colour his eyes can’t quite distinguish in the dark of the night. one flicker of his sight to the very core of your body and he notices it, that tell-tale sign that you’re enjoying this little display of attention, despite what your measured breaths may have him believe. a wet patch, your wetness. the stickiest, sweetest of honeys that only a woman like you can possess, and a man like him should never bare himself witness to.

curiosity gets the better of him- one day, joel hopes, this will get him killed- and his touch is reaching for the lacy fabric, fingers curling themselves in the waistband of your panties and the fabric that covers your right asscheek before curling his hand into a fist, tugging upwards.

in and out, shaky breathing comes from above.

the lace pulls tight on your delicate skin, no choice but to nestle itself in the slit of your cunt as two pretty soaked lips peak out from each side. a heady smell he can only begin to describe as stiflingly sweet, tongue-tingling tanginess hits his nose. he makes sure to take a deep breath, letting the blood rush straight to his head- the one that sits packed uncomfortably in his tightened trousers.

delectable as sin, you keen back into his fist, back curving ever so slightly. there’s a tremor in the hold you have on the fabric of your dress. joel basks in the visual affect he’s beginning to have on you, no need to doubt if the fabric of your underwear rubs at your likely aching clit. he wonders if the sting of the lace digging into your skin hurts. he thinks it must hurt.

his fist curls tighter, pulls higher.

“ah,” at last, a ripple in your surface. though you still wield a knife, the carrot you’d been failing to chop rolls off the counter and onto the floor, lost somewhere in joel’s peripheral vision.

“shut up,” he grunts, like it doesn’t make his balls throb to hear you whine. “people are tryin’ to sleep.”

you scoff, and for a moment you seem to have rediscovered your composure. “tess is drunk as a sailor, and the old men could sleep through nuclear warfare.”

“‘s that an invitation to see how loud i can get ya,” he’s still caught in the way you mold against the lace, slickened skin carrying a reflection of the moonlight. this, he thinks, is what all them poets were writing about in their prose of love and beauty. “or a challenge?”

“it’s an invitation to stop lecturing me on volume control,-” you catch yourself, he realises, right before you can gift him some nickname a sweet girl like you would never use. asshole, dickhead, bastard, he’s heard them all and, still, he wants them on your tongue, in his mouth, condemning him for all the brutish, oafish ways he masks his obsession for you.

as coquettish as it may be, painting a picture worthy of a front-page on some playboy magazine, the sight of lace becomes a nuisance he no longer holds the patience for. so he strips you of it, hand moving to pull the garment down, down, down the length of you, till it hits your ankles. he awaits no movement of your own, taking it upon himself to lift each of your feet individually out the leg-holes.

it’s merely impulse that has him shoving the soiled lace into his back pocket, though he’s sure he’ll make use of them on lonely nights.

“you’re drippin’” his proclamation is ego-driven, pride swelling in his chest as he takes in the full sight of your bare heat. the view is a little obscured from behind you, but with the right amount of tilting of your hips at a certain angle and the widening of your legs, he’s bound to sit front row and centre for your private show. “‘s actually a little pathetic, sweetheart. is it cause ya like it when men get mean wit’ ya?”

he can imagine the way you’d roll your eyes at his words, and it has him thinking about how you’d look with your eyes rolling back for different reasons, reasons he’s about to gift you.

but first, he curls one hand around your ankle and tugs the limb along as far as he wants it. much better, he now faces no blockage in the path up to your slit, freely letting his wandering hands ascend to his newfound heaven. perhaps he’ll revisit the life of gospel, if you promise to be the altar he prays before.

cool fingers to warm skin, you swallow a gasp a little too late for joel to not notice as he drags the tips of his middle finger up the length of your slit. soft, puffy lips part for him, until he presses against that special button that’s bound to turn on your engines.

rolling his finger over your clit a few times, he refamiliarises himself with the female anatomy, with your anatomy, memorising each soft bump and meaty lump he finds along the way.

it happens so sudden, and unwillingly, the way his mind switches to thinking of tess. he wonders what exactly it is she does to those poor things she sends home on shaky legs, where she even begins to touch them. joel imagines she makes use of what she has and starts with her fingers.

so he does the same.

working over your slippery wetness, he coats the tip of his middle finger with it, till he finds what he’s been searching for: the gateways to your heaven, your entrance. he breaches your walls with that single digit and somehow that’s enough to have you squeezing around him so tightly he wonders if blood still manages to flow to his digit.

two, three, four pumps of his hand and he’s introducing his pointer finger too, pressing them both into you to witness the ways you mould around this wider stretch, the lips of your cunt a pair of cushions his knuckles collide against each time he fucks his fingers in.

“so now you shut up. ‘s the matter, huh?” he’s contradicting himself and he doesn’t even care, too busy focusing on curling his fingers inside you, delighting in the feel of that spongy tissue they press against. “am i too borin’ for ya?”

“you’re the most infuriating man i’ve ever- oh!”

a tongue meets skin.

the knife clatters onto the counter.

you lurch forward.

his hand pulls you back.

“tess was right, ya know?” he can still taste you on his tongue, nothing more than a simple lick over your slit and your salty pleasure already seeps deep into his veins, staining his very being with the memory of his new favourite flavour. he pulls his fingers out, slipping them up to your clit. three little taps to the pulsing bud- tap, tap, tap- and he’s slipping them into his mouth, tongue working overtime to clean up every last drop of you that coats him. “that boy of yours wasn’t doin’ ya right.”

the common sense that screams at him to not feel envy over some ex-lover, someone who was likely barely even an adult at the time and no longer appears to be around, is no match for the green eyed beast that commands him to tell you, without using words, that he can do better- touch you better, protect you better, fuck you better, if you’d just let him.

‘could keep ya satisfied.

that’s a new thought, one he’s never needed before yet never wanted more, a burning ache to be worthy of your trust, affection, lust. he’ll never forget the first time he thinks it, mouth salivating at the sight of you.

“is this the part you say some cheesy line straight out a porno? what ya need is a man, a man like me!” the softness of your giggle is still sharp enough to cut through the tension, god it’s never sounded sweet, and joel finds himself freely smiling into the darkness, yet still too stubborn to laugh at the deep voice you attempt to imitate him with.

“well, was you who said it,” his mouth finds it’s way back onto your soaked heat, taking his time to work his tongue up the length of it, his saliva mixing itself in a nasty cocktail with your wetness. he imagines the air is cold against your skin, and that you like it, memory of those hardened nipples hidden beneath the fabric of your dress. “but if ya insist.”

diving in head first had always been his style, from his first lover to his last, and to now, knees aching on the kitchen floor. the tip of his tongue dances round your clit, tantalising you to grind your hips to the rhythm of his sinful touches.

licking into you, he’s reminded how much he enjoys that swelling in the chest that only comes from bringing another pleasure.

he’d not been a perfect lover, far from it, but he’d liked to believe at one point he’d been trained by only experience that comes with age, years of touching wrong and kissing badly to learn the right ways to make those he shared a bed- or a counter, or a backseat, or a club bathroom- with see angelic white as they writhed and squirmed under his touch. you’re lucky to have him now, matured by past lovers and broadened by age, with all the knowledge he needs to open your eyes to how a man pleasures, kisses, loves.

he’s out of practice, sure, with recent years adding notches to his belt that were merely frantic, unexpected, barely undressed run-ins with strangers, in strange places, cock barely getting a moments affection before he’d be spilling his seed and tucking it, limp, back into the confines of his trousers and locking it away beneath a zip.

what a perfect excuse you are, for joel to remaster the arts of lust.

it’s messy, wet dripping down his chin and staining itself into the stubble of his growing facial hair. it’s noisy, his mouth openly groaning depraved joy into your warmth as you sing him a song of sweet euphoria, slowly building towards that crescendo on the horizon. it’s animalistic, barely human as he revokes all earthly needs such as rest, and food, and socialising, his mind, and soul, and heart, and cock all screaming in unison to spend whatever days he shall possess on his knees before you.

and all the while you writhe and wriggle, some times running away from him touch, other times rutting so far back into him that you threaten to suffocate him somewhere between your warm thighs, and sugar sweet cunt, and the two well-rounded globes of your ass.

his only saving grace is that he can’t see you.

hearing your pretty whines, and hand-muffled moans, and heavy intakes of breath is enough to curse him for the rest of his waking days, condemned to wander the wastelands of earth knowing the noises you make on the brinks of pleasure, with a touch-starved man satiating his hunger for flesh and blood with the sugary sins of your soaked cunt.

burrowing deeper into you, his consciousness rips through the fog of his lust to curse out his perversions as the tip of his hooked nose bumps against the puckered entrance of your ass. it does nothing to stop him tearing his tongue away from your clit, flattened as he drags it over the expanse of your cunt, and over your taint, and up the crack of your behind.

“n- ah,” you can’t deny him while sounding so eager for more, the tip of his tongue now circling your back entrance, mimicking the treatment previously given to your little pearl. “no, don’t, not there.”

next time, he thinks, we’ll try that next time.

sights returned to his previous desires, he works to rip every sigh, and every whine, and every dirty little song you’ll grace him with. the sound of whatever record tess has put on in the other room becomes a safety blanket, dousing you both in the warm protection of not being overheard.

and, then, he does it, he makes the ultimate mistake.

his eyes flicker to the left and he finds himself faced with the stove that sits within bill and frank’s- and, by an extension he does not enjoy to remember, your- kitchen. there’s little that’s remarkable about the appliance, just your standard, everyday oven that he’s sure you’ve spent countless hours cooking up those comforting meals he’s come to anticipate each time tess tells him they’re due a visit.

except, the oven door is made of glass.

glass which now paints the most pornographic masterpiece for no eyes but his own. you, with hands gripping the island’s counter like your life depends on it, and the skirt of that goddamn dress he’s envied all evening for the way it got to rest against the warmth of your thighs now bunched up in your tight grip, and your head thrown back, curving your spine in a way that has him wondering about the other ways he’d be able to bend and break you beneath his touch.

and then there’s him, down on his knees like a devotee laying himself down to worship his goddess, face burrowed in the space between your legs, mouth devouring you from behind with the help of his hands, the same ones that had strangled a man less than a day before and reigned fire down on countless others for years, that now grip the meat of your thighs to pull you back onto him, fucking his tongue into your sopping heat.

the image will haunt him more than the face of any man he’s killed.

“d’ya touch yourself, sol?” you don’t answer him, but that’s okay. in a sweet change of pace, joel miller’s perfectly fine with talking enough for the both of you. “yeah, bet ya do. late at night, right? once you’re all alone in bed. ya seem like the kind who can make herself scream.”

you back into him, smothering him under the weigh of your body. becoming his holy grail, he drinks from you like it’s the key to eternal life, and what a way of living this would be, time disregarded as nothing but meaningless while your bodies melt together in the heat of passion.

fucking his fingers back inside, he becomes frantic beneath the need to make you cry, fall completely apart with only his hands to hold you together. “let me do the honours this time though.”

you don’t scream, can’t scream, hand over mouth muffling whatever profanities and theatrical proclamations he rips from within you with the stroke of his agile tongue, the only muscle of his that’s yet to develop aches and pains. he imagines that will no longer ring true once he awakens past sunrise.

he’s unsure how much longer he works his tongue over you, slipping and sliding through the liquid pleasure, but it ends with fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him away and tilting his head up.

you’ve never looked more holy, moon casting it’s shine around you, eyes glossed with unshed tears, lips parted and swollen from the pressure your own teeth had bitten down on them with. your expression, he can’t quite read. not sad, not happy, not mad.

your eyes catch on something, abandoning his own for something closer to the floor, to which he follows and finds exactly what you’re staring at: the evidently dark patch that now stains the front of his jeans.

the discomfort of trekking back to the qz will now be tenfolds worse in the stains of his own pleasure.

“joel...” his name is nearly a beg, a prayer, an invitation. hand still in his hair, you tug, pulling him upwards off the ground. legs open wider and back arches deeper, a seductive sight that your body pleas for him with.

he swallows a groan, knees alleviated at last from the floor, and presses himself against you once more. strong arms crush you in an embrace, pulling you back into him as his head slips to rest against your shoulder. he’s capricious with the way he lets himself litter a few wet kisses over your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“that,” you grind back into him, a torturer who takes his aged body as her victim and toys with his barely recovered cock, the cum in his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his skin. he pulls tighter on your body, grounding himself in the weight of it against his own to find the sanity to finish his sentence. “shouldn’t have happened.”

joel hopes no one awakens as he slams the door on the way out of the kitchen.

people once spoke of how the only certainties in life were death and taxes but, nowadays, the words don’t ring as true and the guarantee of life with taxes has morphed into something else entirely; a reality where death and time go hand in hand. as sure as tomorrow will arrive, death will come too, eventually. not today, however, and joel miller finds himself stood throwing a ball back and forth for a dog.

it chases and retrieves, trailing it’s happy self all the way back to him only to spit the ball down at his feet, siting and waiting to repeat the process once more. there’d been a time where this is all he’d wanted: white picket fence, dog in the yard, home-cooked meals filling a house with warmth.

that dream seems so far away now, even as he stands within it.

he cracks his back, huffing out a groan. “no, not again. my back’s fucked as it is, buddy,” with no one around to witness, joel lets himself crouch down onto his knees- both popping obnoxiously as he does so- and rakes his hand over the german shepherd’s head. it whines and makes an attempt to nudge the ball against him, protesting in the only way it can. a scratch to the ear does the trick to distract the animal, to which it tilts its head and forces itself deeper into his blunt nails. “not so bad, are ya? huh?” never in a million years did joel think he’d be talking to a dog when him and tess had set out for their routinely visit to the bill and frank’s. never would he have thought that would be the least shocking event to unfold on this trip.

he hears you before he sees you.

“you planning to make your knees familiar with every surface of this place, texas?”

he tries to rise, he truly does, but the four-legged foe he’d been petting mere seconds ago betrays him the instant it catches sight of you, charging past him and knocking him over in the process, ass to floor and head to sky.

the world above is a storm of greys, clouds swallowing one another with a looming threat of danger on the horizon and not a lick of the sun’s warmth seems to make its way through.

so instead, it sends you.

peering over him from above, hair a tangled mess, eyes a wreck of under-bags and sleepless tears, the collar of your jumper lowered just enough at this angle that he can see a tease of cleavage, you radiate a brightness like no other, more dangerous to his naked eyes than uv ray could ever be. he’s squinting again, frown etching itself on his forehead with the threat of becoming permanent soon. a few more years and his face will be nothing but frown lines and crows feet. at the very least, he considers, i’ve survived long enough to wrinkle.

the smile above him is worth a million laugh lines, a kindness laced within it that matches perfectly with the hand you hold out. when he does nothing but stare at it, you wriggle your fingers, enticing him to take a hold. he does most of the work, truthfully, but you play a part in pulling him back to his feet. upright once more, he can’t help but bask in the way he’s able to physically look down on you.

“thanks for tiring him out,” you’re the first to talk. you’re always the first to talk, and he curses you for it. “won’t need to walk him as far tonight.”

a queasy feeling overtakes him at the thought of you walking the dog alone at night, nothing but the moon to light your way. he’ll need to remember to tire the dog out next time he visits. “no problem, thanks... for feeding tess and i.”

“no worries!” you’re so kind, so good, smiling at him with a cheerful chirp in your voice. he can’t wrap his head around how you can bring yourself to treat him this way. “oh, actually, that’s why i came out here, i was looking for tess-” of course you were, when would you ever be looking for him? “hold on!”

you shoot off back inside so quickly that otis just reaches the doorway by the time you return. with an idle pet to his head as you pass by, joel once again sees, in the way such little affection can have the dog so elated, that resemblance between them you’d spoke of. in your hands, you carry an array of containers full of food- soup- each filled to the brim.

“i wanted to give you these, before you guys leave,” you’re explaining yourself, and joel wonders if it’s nerves that bring you to need constant babbling to fill any gaps of silence. he can’t imagine how he could make you nervous and therefore that thought is quick to be discarded. “i know the journey up here and back can be long, consider them a token of my appreciation towards you both for-”

“why don’t ya like me?” he cuts you off.

pathetic, he knows, but he can not stop himself, a deer caught in the headlights of your brightly burning, too-good-to-be-true, too-pure-to-be-fake personality.

you show no signs of hearing him, smile unwavering as you continue to hold out the boxes to him, “there should be enough to last you a few days, if you watch your proportions.”

it’s too much for him to handle- the food, the smiles, the sweetly glistening eyes-, and joel just has to know, needs an answer before the heat of his confusion consumes him entirely in its flames and leaves nothing but his smoking remains.

so he tries again, louder.

“why don’t ya like me?”

“and i’d probably say you’re best to heat it up, especially for tess,” you ignore him, again, lips stretching what can only be described as uncomfortably wider. “winter is sure coming in faster than last year, isn’t it?”

he grabs at your arm, fingers curling round the swell of your bicep as he speaks through gritted teeth, "answer me." like a frightened dog backed into a corner, he bares his teeth and yells his bark.

"for someone who doesn't care,” you try his patience, knowingly or not, and his grip tightens. you don’t flinch, welcoming the sting of his blunt and bitten nails against your flesh. “you sure do talk about my opinion a lot."

"answer the damn question, girl.”

“or, what?” you’ve got him there, he’ll admit, holding no real plan as to how to punish your silence. “you gonna give me the same treatment as last night?”

had he known you’d be so unabashed to mention the events on the kitchen floor so flippantly, as casually as one would speak about the weather, he’d never have dared to get on his knees. truthfully, he’d not given things a second thought, disregarding the later for the now, living in the moment with caution thrown to the wind over what the morning would bring. perhaps he’d hoped you’d been intoxicated enough to dismiss the memory as a nightmare, maybe he’d wished you’d keep away from him to free him of the volatile grip you have on his soul.

instead, you stand tall, proud, eyes fiercely staring back at his own as you challenge him to retaliate, mock you with none of those saccharine smiles you hide harsh tones behind.

joel says nothing.

“how about this, let’s make a deal, like the ones you and bill make.” inching closer, crowding in on his space and forcing him to take note of the smell of freshly cleaned clothes mixed in with your own fragrance. clean, warm, inviting, scents he’d never given meaning to before now. “you get me something, i’ll tell you what you want to know.”

he grunts out a response, hands meeting his hips as he juts out one knee, the shifting of weight between feet a perfect distraction to the rising tension in his worn-out jeans. “what d’ya want? ‘cause if it’s somethin’ like a gun, think again. i ain’t messing with none of bill’s strange politics on you havin’-”

“a dress.”

“a dress?” the statement has him quirking his brow, burning questions swimming in the depths of his eyes as he stares back at you.

“yes, and don’t look at me like that!” it’s hypocritical, he believes, for you to berate him for the looks he sends you when all you do is cast stones his way with your gaze yet shake him to his very core each time you smile. “i need a new one, my favourite one got ruined whilst making soup.”

unaware he’d even began to lean closer, joel’s quick to recoil, as if your words are bullets and his skin the target you hit on the bullseye every time.

“joel!” his name resonates from somewhere in the house.

neither of you dare to break eye contact. again, his name is yelled. this time, he manages to identify tess as the owner of the voice. habits have him used to running to her whenever she calls, but habits have never been caught between the choice of tess or you.

his feet remain glued to the ground.

tess yells once more and, though you speak up, you don’t dare look away. “think you might be needed inside, macho man. your missus is calling.”

“she ain’t my-”

“you two just gonna stand and stare at each other all day, or will you help a woman out already?” tess enters the scene somewhere behind you, a blur of her familiar shape standing out the front door.

only when your head spins and he no longer finds himself lost in the black of your eyes does joel take her in completely, hair clearly damp and complexion a little paled by her hungover body. in her arms, she struggles with the weight of a folded table. you approach first, he follows, his two hands aiding in carrying it out into the front yard as you retighten your grip on the boxes of soup in your arms.

“i should probably,” laying the containers down on the now unfolded table, you fidget with the sleeves in your hands, eyes downcast with something he can only read as guilt. he decides he much prefers the fire they hold when you berate him. “go check on the food, before it burns.”

you’re in the door and out his sight before he can so much as ask you to stay.

tess and him hit the road by noon. earlier than predicted, later than he’d wished for. the bite of cold already marks the air, despite the sun heating the world with its rays. he walks a little ahead, feigning ignorance to the repeated coughing coming from tess and racking his brain for answers.

answers to why he’d never noticed how hoarse she’d been sounding till you pointed it out. answers to what awaited them both upon returning to the qz. answers to when will be their next chance to visit the safe haven bill’s created. answers to why you don’t like him.

i don’t like you, joel.

it motivates him to walk quicker, faster, racing to put as much distance between himself and that damn kitchen floor, miles upon miles not enough to rid him of the dull ache in his knees that goes hand in hand with the throb within his too-tight-jeans. if he were alone, he’d break out in a sprint. but tess is here, he’s not alone, and home will simply have to wait on the passing of time to drag him back to it.

till then, he needs to find a dress.

#joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller fic #pedro pascal smut

3K notes · View notes

intoanotherworld23 · 3 months

Text

Caught And Taught

Summary: Joel catches you touching yourself while watching porn, and he decides that he’ll play along too

Pairing: Reader x Joel Miller

Rating: 18+ only MDNI

Warnings: smut, female masturbation, use of porn, fingering, daddy kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, rough sex, soft dom Joel, minor spanking

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

Authors note: Let me know in the comments what you think, and if you like it be sure to reblog so others can enjoy it too! My tag list is always open so please be sure to ask and I’ll be more than happy to add you. Thanks everyone! Enjoy! XOXO

Hall Of Hunks

"Turn it on."

"Joel please-"

"I said turn it on." Joel says sternly his eyes squinting at you on the bed.

Feeling like you were going to throw up as your hands shook turning on the laptop to the video you were watching before he came home. Joel smirking as he watches you then get comfortable on the bed.

Of all the intimate things that have gone on in this bedroom something like this has never happened. Not once has he ever seen you touch yourself, and he was getting excited at the thought.

Soon as you press play on the video you were watching minutes ago. He gives you this mischievous look that makes you swallow a lump forming in your throat.

"Well," he starts off as he unbuttons his shirt. "Keep doing what you were doing."

Taking a huge intake of breath as your hand drops down between your legs. Touching your incredibly wet folds not sure what to do with Joel standing basically between your legs.

Moving your fingers up and down to gather the juices on your own fingers lubing yourself up. Gathering up some confidence as you pushed them inside of yourself. Opening your mouth open slightly already use to the feeling of your own fingers.

Hearing the over exaggerated moans on the computer screen. Feeling slightly embarrassed for being caught watching this while Joel was away. Joel however was focused on you and not the porn right in front of him.

Looking down to what you were doing ashamed to even look at him. Thrusting your fingers in and out a small moan escaping your lips. Straightening up as you cleared your throat awkwardly.

Quickly glancing at Joel to see him grinning devilishly. The only clothing he had left on were his underwear. He was eagerly waiting in anticipation to when he could jump in.

He was intrigued watching you like this. It was almost like he was on the edge of his seat waiting to see what happens next. Your cheeks become warm as you hold his gaze.

"Just like that baby girl." His hand rubbing himself through his boxers hoping to ease the pressure.

Your fingers stopping their movements for the slightest second. Joel saw this and groaned with disapproval.

"Did I say to stop?" Taking another deep breath as you keep going.

Joel couldn't keep his hands to himself anymore as you feel him grasp onto your ankle. The sudden touch had you jump. That didn't stop him though as he moved his hand up your leg. Massaging the flesh smoothly and in a comforting way that didn't intimidate you too much.

As you looked over quickly to the screen the woman was being fingered by some buff male. Her body writhing on the bed as the camera panned in on his fingers thrusting into her violently.

"I want you to come apart on your fingers." His hand pushed your thighs further apart so he could get a better look. "I know you can do it baby girl."

That was more than enough motivation for you as your fingers were slamming into you. The palm of your hand smacking against your pelvis. It felt good but it wasn't enough for you, and you needed Joel.

"Joel." Whining as you ground your hips into the mattress.

"What baby?" His hands now on your upper thigh so close yet so far away.

"Joel please." Begging him without saying anything he knew what you needed.

Joel moves closer to you as his hand touches your pussy. Softly rubbing his thumb back and forth on your clit. The powerful sensation had your toes curling and your back arching off the bed. All you needed was his touch on yours, and Joel secretly knew that.

Looking up at Joel to see his jaw clench, and his eyes wide with lust. Seeing this look on his face your now glad that Joel caught you watching porn otherwise this wouldn't have happened.

"Keep fucking yourself." Joel grunts as he kisses the top of your knee. "I know you're so close."

You nod in obedience. A soft smile glistening on his hips for your full submission. He could see you like this all the time. It was the hottest thing he's ever bared witness to.

Eyes glancing over at the screen again the man was now thrusting into the woman not waiting or anything. Her moans were turning into wails as he railed her into the mattress. The sounds alone had your ears feeling like they were on fire from embarrassment.

"Is that what you like?" You had to make sure to answer him carefully.

"I want you Joel." Shaking your head hoping your words would sway him. "Only you."

"Good." The pace of his fingers in match with your fingers inside of yourself.

It felt like your vision was getting hazy between your fingers and his. Any second now you could cum around your fingers, and Joel knew this judging by the look on your face.

"It hurts." Joel hums at your words as he licks his lips.

"Does it?" Cocking his head to the side.

"Yes daddy it does." Hearing you call him daddy sends him over the edge. He had a weakness whenever you'd whisper that name. It always did something to him.

Not wasting another second in taking off his boxers tossing them somewhere in the room. Your fingers removing themselves as you laid back legs spread waiting for him with a slight glimmer in your eye.

"Does my baby want me to fuck her?" Joel says as he waits for your response.

"Yes daddy I need to feel you inside me."

Joel then crawls up your body his mouth kissing up your trembling stomach. His mustache brushing against your skin making your body jolt. A trail of saliva follows the movements of his mouth. Your hands on either side of your head as your chest rose up and down heavily.

"Are you ready for me?" He asked against your breast biting down on your nipple making you cry out.

"Mhm." Breathing out harshly.

"What's that?" Cocking his head to the side not accepting that reply.

"Yes daddy."

Before you could say anything else his mouth is right on yours. Taking your lips against his like they were the last drop of water. He was thirsty for you, and planned on swallowing every last drop of you.

His tongue feels so incredible against yours. The sensation for both of you is becoming insatiable. He craves every inch of you. His hand reaches up and holds your jaw in his hands. The warmth of his hand pressed against your skin gave you a comforting feeling. Almost like he was telling you that you were safe with him.

"Don't think we need this anymore." Quickly turning the computer off so you could solely focus on each other.

"You won't be needing to watch porn like this anymore." His words more like a command than a request. "I wanna show you how much better the real thing is."

Joel watches your face as he nudges his cock towards your now dripping pussy, his large and swollen head disappearing between your folds. Finally moving forward even more.

Bracing himself against your hips as the air seems to leave your lungs. Both of you watching as his cock stretches you out. Silently cursing to himself when he sees how you welcome him. Gritting his teeth as his hands on either side of you grip on the sheets beneath him.

Joel would never get used to the feeling of how tight you felt around him. It was almost like a soft velvety feeling he wanted to wrap himself around.

"No more of this shit I mean it." He growled kissing you hard. "You will only fucking cum for me and nobody else."

Mumbling his name with a whine, but that seemed to only delay his actions.

"Do you understand me sweetheart?" His cock still inside of you as he waited for your response.

"Yes daddy." That was good enough for him.

Moving his hips back as he pushed forward to fill you to the brim. Your head feeling back against the pillows reaching forward to grab onto his butt. His cheeks clenching as they flexed when he pressed into you.

"For now." Mumbling just under a whisper.

"Excuse me?"

Before you could repeat what you just said he's already flipped you over so that your on your stomach. Pulling your hips up so your on your hands and knees. Smacking your ass leaving a slight sting.

Unable to catch your breath he pushes back into you. Without another hesitation he's thrusting with the same rhythm and motion as before. Hands glued to your sides as he pulled you back to meet his hips.

"What did you fucking say?" He hissed each word being spoke along with a thrust.

His hand coming down on your ass again. Your skin felt like it was on fire the way he was controlling your body. He loved seeing you like this though.

"Nothing." Stuttering as you buried your head into the pillow.

"Uh Uh Uh." He tsked at you.

"Nothing daddy." Responding as you wiggled your hips teasing him even further.

"That's what I thought. That's better."

Joel wasn't going to have that though. He wanted you to know that he was in charge, and wasn't going to put up with your back talking. All he wanted was to hear your words to him, and how badly you wanted it.

"Beg." Was all he said making you whine as he stopped his movements. "Beg for me."

Feeling suddenly shy and embarrassed to know you've gotta beg for him like a pathetic desperate whore.

"Beg for my cock and I'll give you what you want." His voice a touch softer as he pleaded with you. "I want to hear those pretty lips beg for me."

"Joel I want your cock so badly please." You started off but he wanted more. "It hurts so much please I want you and only you. Nobody can make me feel the way that you do."

He was loving this more than he should.

"Fuck me so hard with your cock I can't walk for a week."

With that he begins such a unmerciful pace that has your body and the bed rocking. He wants you to know he's in charge, and that he's the only man you ever need in your life.

He's drinking in every detail. The way your ass jiggles each time he pushes forward, the way your pussy clenches when he pulls out, and the sounds coming from your lips. He wants to savor each moment like it's the last time.

"Such a good girl for me letting me fuck you like this." He praised sweating dripping down his forehead.

Joel knows by your body that you aren't far, and your so close to the heavens he wants to help bring you to it. Wants to hear you scream his name as you cream around his cock.

"Joel." The way you said his name was like a warning.

"What baby?" He made fun as he kissed your shoulder blade. "What's wrong?"

"I'm so close." Is all you can say which is the truth. Any moment now and you'd be drenching his cock with your juices.

Weaving his fingers through your hair slightly tugging pulling your neck back. Mouth hanging open as you waited to see what he would do next. You never knew with Joel. One minute he could be cool and collected, and then next thing he's red with rage and unable to control his actions.

"Don't you want to cum around my cock?" He questioned with a grin on his face.

"Yes Joel please so badly." You mewl pathetically.

Your body is beyond spent, and your arms and legs are trembling and shaking to the point you become numb. A tear rolling down your cheek, and Joel is able to glance a peek.

"So fucking good for me baby." Clenching his jaw as a hand reached forward to grab your shoulder to have more leverage.

You can feel his breath on the back of your shoulder as he hovers over your body. His hips connecting with yours as your cheeks jiggle back and forth with each powerful thrust.

Joel wants to watch your face. He loves seeing the expression you make when you orgasm. To know that he's the reason behind that gives him pride.

The pressure is building faster and faster. It feel so close yet so far away. Within arms reach and Joel isn't letting you grab it. He just grins wickedly down at your mewling and pathetic cries to him.

"I'm right there with you baby girl." A hand slips under your body to attach to your clit.

A squeak slipping past your lips at the sudden and rough touch. It hurts but it a very good way that almost heightens the pleasure you're feeling. Turning your head your mouth finds the pillow and you bite down on it to muffle your sounds.

"You're doing good baby," he coos kissing your shoulder blade tenderly. "You're doing so good for me. You're okay you're almost there."

He pinches your clit between his fingers, and the small action sends you right over the edge. A shock running through your body almost like you were being brought back to life.

He rotates his fingers slowly and gingerly on your clit to help ease you through your orgasm. His thrusting had slowed down, but he hasn't stopped. He simply keeps going and keeps his eyes glued to the side of your face. Spent and fucked.

"Oh fuck I'm right there." Nodding your head back at him as your able to see him from the corner of your eye.

Noticing you were trying to look at him his cock twitches violently as he fills you completely and utterly. His head resting against the top of your back. His arms shaking trying to hold himself up so he doesn't hurt your already sore body.

"That went way better than I expected." He chirps as he pulls out with a hiss your sensitive clenching as he did.

Feeling the mix of your cum and his dribbling out of you and onto the sheets. Your eyes fluttering with relief knowing it was over, but sad that he was done. Joel could keep going until he passes out, but he didn't want to do that to your poor body.

Joel's hand massaging up and down your spine all the way to your ass. Hoping his touch would help sooth you and comfort you. He knew you had to be tired, and wanted to help ease you into slumber.

"I'm serious though." He says making you lift your head to fully look at him.

Taking note of how red and sweaty his face is. His lips were swollen from kissing you, and biting down on his lips. His pupils were dilated like he just took something or he was high off of you.

"No more fucking porn. You can watch only my cock." That seemed a little extreme not letting you be able to watch porn. "So I guess we'll just have to make our own."

#Joel Miller #Pedro pascal #Joel Miller smut #Pedro pascal smut #Joel Miller x reader #Pedro pascal x reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller imagines #pedro pascal imagines #Joel Miller fic #Pedro pascal fic #joel miller oneshot #pedro pascal one shot

683 notes · View notes

astrid-sorensen · 10 months

Text

The Farmhouse | Joel Miller x f!reader

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: sᴍᴜᴛ, ᴘɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴏғ ʀᴇᴀᴅ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5ᴋ

MASTERLIST

"Kiss me." You asked, muted. “No.” He grunted. “I ain't your boyfriend.” He whispered coldly. The words stung in the air.

Joel might have been the most closed off person you have ever met. The only sound filling the room was Ellie's repetitive giggles as she read through her book.

The pages between one hand and a sandwich in the other. You had known Joel for a few days now, learning nothing about the man except he was from Texas. Except, there had to be something behind his stoic facade, I mean he had saved you after all.

The cordycept was hurtling behind you, darkness filled the library as feet slapped patterned tile. At the end was a light, a door held open by the brawn brunette male.

With little time to spare you'd passed him, the tall rectangular wooden door sealing shut behind you.

Panting short breaths out your lungs, you stepped down the grey stone steps towards a young teen, who you would soon learn was Ellie.

"Thank you! Oh my god! Thank you!" You turned to face the man, only now getting a good view of him.

The skin complimented the golden undertone of his flesh. Thick black and grey hair sprouted along his hairline.

A week or two later, all three of you rested for the night. You'd found a small abandoned gas station, gracing Ellie with a sleep on an old, leather couch.

You and Joel shared the abused brown linoleum, not much more than a foot between you. You rolled to your side, staring at the back of Joel's head as you debated your next move.

His wide shoulders were now in front of you. You couldn't stop yours fingers from slowly shaking over his skin, tentatively. "What are you doing?" His low voice, cutting through the air like a guillotine.

"C'mon, I've seen the way you look at me." You breathed, confidently.

"Don't be ridiculous." He spat back. Not moving away from you as you continued exploring him.

"What's stopping you. This could be our last night alive, and I haven't been fucked in so long."

Joel heaved a big sigh. You fingers continued to dance under his shirt.

Joel held his breath a moment longer silently begging you would stop before he'd give into his needs.

He needed to let off some steam, some pent up angst, he needed a release.

But alas, you didn't stop. The pads of your fingers grazed circles to his stomach slowly pressing down harder before going gentler again. Articulating your craving for him.

There was a soft layer of hair all over him and you felt the resistance as you moved your hand through it.

Feeling it thicken towards the centre of his abdomen and chest and then thin once you run it towards you again.

The next thing you know he's pulling you up onto his warm strong thighs, the denim scraping against your leggings.

His hands trapped you onto his legs leaving no room for you to move as he grinned upwards, his length hardening at the friction.

You felt your core moisten a cheeky smile grazing across your lips with pride as your hands went to his broad well built upper body.

One hand ran to your clit, rubbing the area as the wetness collected into the fabric, Joel could feel it seeping through.

He tugged at the waist of them, watching where your bodies met as you sat up on you knees letting him help you tear them off along with your panties.

He pulled you back on top of him, his knees widening to a v as he planted his feet firmly to the floor.

Knees bent to keep you in place, exactly where he wanted you. He continued pulverising into a rythm.

His lip caught between his teeth, the frown on his face deepening though you thought that wasn't possible.

You fingers moved to his jeans, fumbling on the belt as he nudged you off, undoing the leather band and buttons himself.

Then shuffling them down his thighs, so his cock could spring free.

One hand to the flesh of your ass the other to the base of his genitals, rubbing the sensitive skin of his tip between you lips, lubing it up.

He was slow, taking care as you felt your body build with excitement, craving to finally have him fill you up inside just as you'd anticipated.

The thought of how well endowed he was had crossed your mind more than once. At least you finally had your answer, and you were not disheartened.

He run up your slick one last time before finally pushing into the wet opening.

He felt your pussy crowning around the tip of his dick.

His jaw swung open and in that moment you knew this must of felt as good as it did for you as it did him.

He pulled his hips back, his tip almost slipping out before he moved back up replacing it to where it once was. His thumb rubbed at your cliterous.

This man was skilful, your body squeezing him to fit him inside.

Eventually he slid all the way in, your body tense and gripping around him. Both his hands squeezed at your ass, massaging into the flesh as he began bouncing you on his dick.

"Kiss me." You asked, muted.

"No." He grunted. "I ain't your boyfriend." He whispered coldly. The words stung in the air.

I know your not my boyfriend

A moan run from your mouth.

"Shut up, don't want Ellie hearing."

Another gasp fell from you lips.

"What did I just fuckin' say?" He grumbled, stilling as you felt your pussy pulsing around his length. Your hips bucked trying to gain some friction but it was no use against his strength, stilling you.

He moved a burly hand to your face, his thumb and pointer, clamping into your flushed cheeks as his palm cupped your mouth.

You whimpered into his skin, your neck straightening as he carried on, brutally fucking up into you.

Your hands lay against his chest, holding your balance, though you weren't sure if you needed to.

You crossed your arms over the hem of your shirt lifting the fabric before Joel swiped them off, you losing your grip of the cotton.

"Stop tryin' take your clothes off." He whispered, sternly.

"Why not?"

"If we gotta run, you gonna be focused on that shirt tryna pull it back on." Joel uttered into the night.

"Fine." You grumbled. It wasn't how you'd imagined, but I guess beggars can't be choosers.

Soon his rythm became sloppy, his end nearing as well as yours.

His wet thrusts kneading into where you needed him most.

"You close?" You nodded frantically, squeezing his hand your breast as his joined in. After a few more pumps you were letting go, stilling as you felt your whole body freeze, clamping down on him as electric shocks ran through you.

He fucked you hard through your release, edging on his own. You were spent, your whole body softening as Joel used you to satisfy himself further.

Fingertips gripping harshly into your hips as he pulled them down onto him.

Heavy breaths leaving this lungs. His large hands seized you by your ribs and quickly pulled you off, throwing you in between his legs as he palmed himself into oblivion. His cum spurting up into fountains then falling down into the base of his pubes.

A gorgeous hot flush was over him. His greyed hair slightly damp and lost some of its volume. A sheen coated his forehead as he brought a hand up to it, combing slowly down his hairline before gripping the crown.

Regaining composure.

He gave himself a second to catch his breath before reaching for the bottom of the curtain, ripping of a piece of fabric and cleaning himself up before pulling his jeans back up and righting his clothes to how they were before.

He made no eye contact as he did this, then turning onto his side away from you just like he had been before.

You sat, shocked and hurt. You ached for the intimacy, praying he would drag you over to him and pull you into his clutches. He didn't.

"Sleep, long day tomorrow." He stated, before falling completely silent. You moved pulling your leggings back on and crawling over to where you originally set up camp. Closing your eyes and begging for sleep to swallow you.

You woke the next morning to Ellie nudging at your sleep. "Hey wake up! I'm really fucking hungry and were outta food."

You grumbled, sitting up from where you had lead on the carpet, rubbing a sore knot in your shoulder to ease the pain from sleeping on the floor. Joel and Ellie were all packed, bags on their backs and guns in hand.

—

"Hey, how's watch going?"

"Fine." He replied, avoiding your gaze. God this man was difficult. There was an awkward silence as you waited. "Couldn't sleep?" He asked.

"Nah, restless." You moped. "Has anything ever snuck up on you when you were sleeping then? You know, cos you always insist on keeping watch and stuff."

"No." The male began. "But you can never be too careful."

"Hmm, I'd say fuck it. Get your sleep. Can't be killing cordys, running on an hours nap."

"Yeah but you also needed me to save your ass back there. So I think I'll stick on the side of precaution."

"Touché." You nodded, wandering aimlessly around. "You know, there's a reason I couldn't sleep."

Joel didn't answer but turned to look at you, a bored look plastered across his face, one eyebrow slightly perked in interest. "I was wondering if you wanted another repeat of the other night, you seemed to enjoy yourself."

"So did I." You flirted, eyes gazing up at the man as you wondered towards his direction.

He looked you up and down before returning his gaze into the distance, gun still firmly held against his chest. He chewed his lip, seemingly at war with himself. An entire ethical debate going on behind those black coffee eyes.

You lifted your fingers to his jawline, caressing the scraggly coarse hair of his face, scratching lightly at the skin underneath. You run it down to the exposed part of his chest, just between the collarbones before undoing a button, teasing further.

He swiped your hand off harshly slapping it away. Joel swivelled his gun down beside him.

"You want me to fuck you again?" He gritted through his teeth, half a question, half an answer.

"Mmhm." You nodded, cheekily.

"Right here?" He scowled, signally to where you were stood. The look of his face was disrespectful.

"Yep." Joel shook his head, sighing before looking around, pulling his gun off and putting it to the floor.

"Leggings down, now." He ordered. A smile crawled onto your lips, moving your fingers to the waistband of your pants, pulling them down innocently as you waited for his next order.

"Gotta be quick."

He said nothing as he pushed at you waist, edging you to turn around. He pushed you further, causing you to stumble forward til you reached the trunk of the old abandoned car.

You leant forward, arms bent up to rest your head on instead of the cold rusty metal of the car. Joel placed two hands to your ass cheeks, spreading your legs apart as he dived between them.

He spat into his hand cupping you sex and rubbing quickly, preparing you for him. He stood up, one hand flat to your lower back as he levelled himself to your hole.

"Do you want this cock?" He whispered, darkly.

"Yes, Joel. Please fuck me." You whimpered, bucking your hips back into him, but he held you in place with a deathly grip.

"Fucking Slut, you gotta be real quiet for me though." You hummed as he pressed in, forcing himself between your folds.

You cried out quickly, biting your lip to stifle the sound.

He fucked into you with violent force, your hips bones pressing into the vehicle. You felt his soft huffs behind you, the brunt force making the car rattle.

He carried on a moment longer before pushing up the back of you jacket to lay a kiss to your tailbone. "Too loud." He pulled you off, arms crossing underneath your own and lifting you a metre to the side like a toddler.

He kept one arm there, the muscle holding you up as he inserting himself again. He fucked into you harshly, the only sounds were his wet thrusts slapping into you.

You wined, rewarding you with a firm grasp of his hand against the sides of your throat. His breath heaved in the delicate eardrum of your ears. You gasped for air, you knees buckling as you came to your finish.

Shaking around him. He felt you go floppy, moving his hand down and watching you fall onto the leaves below. He moved behind you, angling your hips up so you were now on your hand and knees.

He braced your hips as he connected with you again, brutal thrusts into you from behind til you could tell he was close. Within an instant you felt him pull out, hot wet spurts on your ass as he came.

He admired the view, swiping off his ejaculate with his hand and handing it to you. You watched him innocently. He moved his fingers to your mouth and you sucked off the juice that was there. You pulled off and he twisted his hand, motioning you to clean it off. You waited patiently as he checked to see if there was anymore, finding some leaking between his thumb and pointer.

You swiped it off, the feeling sticky and salty on your tongue, swallowing all the residue down. He pulled his jeans back up, doing up his belt before fetching his gun he'd left on the floor. You followed pulling up your leggings.

"Go sleep." He ordered.

"You know I could keep watch for a while."

"No. Go to sleep, I'm not gonna ask again."

You wondered back, slumping to the floor and curling up under the blanket. You slept well after that.

—

"Are you ever gonna look at me again?" You scoffed, half joking, half annoyed. He didn't reply. "Hey, what's your fucking problem?"

"I'm just tryna get me and Ellie to Wyoming, I don't know what your so goddam pressed about."

"We had sex okay, it happened. You don't have to keep in a 10 mile radius from me."

"You asked me to fuck you and I did. Stop acting like it's anythin' more than that."

"Seriously, Joel I'm a fucking person! Or has it not occurred to you that I have feelings?"

"Not my problem."

"God Joel, your such a cunt."

He huffed.

"You were just somethin' to put my dick in. Nothing more than that." He cursed out, cruely.

Goddamit Joel, that was harsh. Where the hell did that come from?

He thought to himself.

You eyebrows raised, hurt but not surprised. Joel was cruel, Joel was cold. Your eyes then shut, a bigger smile crossing your lips as you stormed into another room, tossing down your jacket and curling up. Allowing the tears to roll down soothing yourself with them.

—

Ellie woke to the sun, shining through the newspaper clad windows, as she rose from her bed for the night. She went to wake up Joel who was already sat up, sorting through his things.

"Good morning!" She said cheerily, scanning the room quickly before asking. "Where's she gone?" Joel signalled his head to one side as Ellie wondered round and knocked on the door.

"Hey, you up yet?" There was no reply as she entered finding a bare room. She traipsed out poking her head into the other before returning to Joel. "Which one she in?"

"Next door."

"By next door do you mean in another motel, cos she sure as hell ain't there."

"What?" He growled, jumping from where he was sat and storming into the other room before booting into the next and the next. Your name rang through the halls, echoing across the bare property.

Joel ran, poking his head out to the distance. Then running to the opposite side, seeing your grey clad frame, wondering off. "Wait there!" You turned noticing the man before you began running, bolting across the field to the safety of the trees.

"God I'm too old for this." He huffed, catching his breath. You stopped running once he caught up, no reason to keep up the chase whilst he'd definitely gain on you and practically tackle you to the floor if it was what it takes.

"Fuck off Joel!" You spat, avoiding eye contact as you kept your head firmly ahead, not too certain where you were really going.

"No, about what I said."

"Oh you mean the part where you told me I wasn't even a person to you? Just a hole to put your dick in." If I remember correctly. In fact you did remember clearly, very clearly, too clearly.

"I mean" "I mean, I didn't mean it." "I didn't know what to say to you." "Fuck I'm no good at this."

"No your really not." You grumbled continuing to walk on.

"I'm tryna tell you I'm sorry."

"Oh, it was nothing. We're even, See ya!" You mocked.

"Please stay, if not just for me, for Ellie. Your the only one that gets through to her." "She loves you."

"She does not love me."

"She does, I'm old. I know that stuff when I see it. She always wakes you up first, she never picks arguments and she never walks on without you. She trusts you. "You know she'll never believe it wasn't her fault you left."

Fuck how could you do that to her, everyone she's ever loved has left her one way or another. She at least deserves a goodbye. And here wasn't the time.

"Please, don't fuckin' leave," His gruff voice broke.

"Okay, one more night." You started. "So I can say goodbye."

"Hey where the fuck were you running?" Ellie called, jointing you were you were in the clearing.

"Just tryna get a head start, your still pretty hungry aren't you?" You teased.

"Oh man, I could eat a whole horse." She laughed. You joined in letting her catch up to you as all three of you went off into the woods. The plan was to head west, go round the next town over and carry on til you found somewhere to sleep for the night.

You walked for what felt like days, taking frequents rests to put up your feet before you kept going. You were almost through the last step of your journey for the day. You'd hiked round the small town of Arlington, coming up to a country house just a couple miles out the city. The place you were coming up to was perfect, a large white farmhouse, black windows and a porch. Now you think about it it kinda reminded you of bill and franks although more secluded. The tall grass was wetter here than it was back in Boston, slightly muddying and green and almost reached you knees as you wading through, watching dusk fall over the hills.

"Woah! This is perfect!" Ellie beamed, a wide grin ear to ear in excitement. Moss had grown up the walls almost completely covering the once lavish family abode.

As you got close enough to make out the colour of the window frames, a dark brown beige, you felt a burning feeling flush over your thigh. You all ducked, hands shielding your body and chest loosly as you looked around.

At first you felt as although you had wet yourself. God this was embarrassing, until a loud echo followed. Finally registering in your brain. Your legs buckled under your weight, falling into the long grass.

You looked down to your leg, almost as if it were in slow motion. You saw your leggings dampen and a small amount of skin shown through the rip of the fabric. And it was red. So red. A gushing pool coating you as you heard more shots go off.

"Stay down!" Joel yelled, the deep gargle emitting from his chest in desperation. Almost on cue, agonising whimpers leaving your mouth as you held you hands to it.

Need to put pressure on it.

Was the only thought running through your rampant psyche. Ellie had crawled off in front, perching behind a shrub as Joel pulled out his gun, lying on his front as he angled it up to the house, towards the fence he saw the shots come over. "Fuck!" You cried out, attempting to crawl.

Joel bounded over to you, one arm under you knees and the other under your arms as he pulled you into him with haste. "Hold on tight." He demanded, leaving no room for debate.

"Joel get behind that car, you can get a better shot."

"No, I gotta to get you somewhere safe first." He snarled, as he ran as fast as he could, you hands gripping tighter to him as you bounced in his arms. He darted to the short stone wall leaped over it and dropping you to the floor behind, catching his breath and he got his largest gun into a better hold. "Don't fucking move." There was a small softness around his stern words. Those earnest iris' bleeding into your own.

You lay your head back against the bricks. Panting as you held on tightly to your leg.

Goddam this fucking hurts

There was shot after shot, echoing across the fields and into the distance.

"C'mon, let's get you inside." He picked you up again, pacing quickly towards the house. He must've took care of the shooter. Ellie ran ahead. Joel kicked down the back door heaving you inside and bringing you to the nearest seat.

You flopped down, one hand tightly griping into your hair. Joel found a cloth and placed it harshly onto the wound, your own arms folding up as you seethed in pain, muscles tensing and contracting.

He lifted the fabric, inspecting the would quickly before covering it again. He was knelt to your side both hands down as he held them straight in place.

"Ellie, you find anything?" He called. You felt dizzy and sick, agony washing over you again and again, each wave stronger than the last. Tears were welling in Joel's eyes unable to hold them back his shell shocked look terrifying you even more.

You couldn't make out her response. You turned your head to the side, a heave of vomit coming out as Joel held you there with his shoulder. You were too weak to do it yourself. "Ok, keep looking!" You felt the dizzying again.

Please don't throw up again.

Joel watched your eyes lull back and go floppy, he tapped on your face trying to bring you back.

"Hey, hey." He said, following with your name. "C'mon, stay awake for me." He moved, opting to lift your injured leg into the air, hoping to help some of the blood flow.

Ellie handed something reluctantly to Joel, he looked down at it briefly, chewing on his jaw before getting to work Joel ripped the fabric of your leggings with one harsh rip, the one leg of the fabric now it two for ease of access.

You eyes woke again.

What was going on?

Where the hell where you?

The whole place was rotten and mouldy, broken concrete everywhere. The wallpaper had been ripped at as if some had tried to scale it.

He threaded the needle, you saw white as he began. Curling the needle through your flesh. You screamed begging him to stop, crying in pain.

You fell out of consciousness, giving Joel a few seconds to carry on before you woke again, screaming the strength for him to stop. Blood had coated his whole hands, dripping onto the carpet.

"I know, I know, I know it hurts." He gritted, eyes fixed on your mutilated form. Soon he finished up, pulling the thread tight as it weaved through you flesh.

He pulled the needle off .

"It's over now." Joel sighed in relief, grateful he managed to finish it off. You head lulled back, hitting the sofa arm as a bittersweet bliss engulfed you for a short while, the excruciating pain of being sewn up finally completed.

You stayed conscious for a few minutes longer, moans and groans through you til you found some solace in sleep. "Hey soldier." He said, your eyes fluttering before looking over to him. You looked down to see a thick heavy cloth strap tightly around your wound. "Did your nap help?"

"A little, still fucking hurts like a bitch though." you croaked.

"Well, there's a decent looking bed upstairs, do wanna sleep up there?" You nodded, letting the man pick you up how he did earlier and slowly take you up the stairs. You dug your nails into his shoulders as your leg grazed him, pain sizzling through your nerves. A soft whimper fell into the air.

"Where's Ellie?"

"She's sleeping, theres a little kids room. Countless comic books she's rummaging through." The floorboards creaked as you reached the top floor, Joel carrying through the door way with care.

He gently placed you down, shaking off a dusty quilt before slowly draping it over you. He disappeared.

"Here." He said handing you an open can of spaghetti hoops. Your stomach growled at the view.

"Thanks."

You gobbled it quickly, the Texan moving to the space next to you to sit down. He pulled you carefully to lie on his chest. You were far too tired to put up a fight. Plus he was much comfier than the flat lumpy pillows. "We need to find more food."

"Your injured, need to rest."

"No, we need to find food." You said firmly.

"I'll take care of that."

"What by yourself?" You mocked, rudely. He didn't laugh. "Joel I'm still leaving, once my leg is good and I got some food, we're going our separate ways."

"Downstairs got a fireplace," He began, hesitantly. "Probably some good soil out back and it's not far from the city to find supplies." He muttered, shyly. "Plus I think I could fix the stove, maybe."

"Joel it's not gonna work. I'm-."

"Wait," You shook your head, having none of it. "Fuck, woman." He groaned. His hands had grabbed your face, pining it to the headboard in a rigid grip.

"Joel-"

"I-I need, you." He spilled, the words leaving his mouth like a broken dam.

He gravitated in.

Desperation overcoming him as he pressed his small plump lips to your dry ones, moistening them softly with his own. The grimace on his face was too intense to miss.

His dark eyes begging, pleading with you. This was killing him truly, get himself open to show you his insides.

But there was something there you hadn't seen on him before, a softness.

His rigidness blunted at the corners. "Okay? I fucking need you, I've almost lost you before, I'm not risking it again."

"What?"

He played with your lips, grazing them carefully so they only just touched as he spoke against you still.

"Don't you dare fucking leave me in this world alone." Both of your eyes were sealed shut. conveying so much love and passion as his hands held you in place.

He broke off, looking you fervently in the eyes as you looked back into chocolate ones, seeing so much vulnerability and tenderness. "Don't you dare."

He searched your face, his brows tightly embroidered together and little downwards frown on his lips.

"Okay, okay I won-"

He slowly went down you neck, kissing the skin softly. He lay small warm kisses to the collum of your neck. Something has possessed this man.

"God I need you so bad right now." He grumbled in a mild undertone.

"Do it then." He shook his head firmly, objecting.

"No, your leg."

"Don't worry, plus it might help with the pain." Joel pondered, his brown eyes wandering off into the distance.

"I have an idea." He crawled down the bed, gently tearing your other legging up you thigh, laying soft kisses as he did so. Soon he reached the top leaving you in just your underwear and you pr t shirt on top.

He slowly moved you good leg up, bending it at the knee as he pressed on the exposed part of your thigh, easing his access.

He lay a kiss too your wetness, your heart pounding in your ears. Joel started helping you take your shirt off.

"What happened to always being prepared?" You quizzed.

"It's safe here. Plus I can't resist."

"What if someone gets in."

"They won't." He growled. He laid back down, gentle kisses.

You inhaled sharply through your teeth. Jaw clenching since you'd tensed your limb trying to chase the high. "Try stay still, gorgeous." He said, his eyelashes fluttering down so he didn't see your response.

The word fell from his mouth like it was the easiest thing it the world. Like he called you that all the time, like it was made for you.

You heart fluttered, your hand moving to his hair to comb through it, gently scratching at his scalp to encourage him on. Shorts pants left your lips, your release nearby.

Your couldn't control your pelvis tilting at the motion your hole clenching, begging for something to fill it. As if on cue, Joel's thick finger poked at where you wanted him.

The action earning him your body's praise.

"J-Joel." You moaned, he softly hushed you, affectionately.

Your eyes squeezing shut as you came.

"Joel, that was the best." He pulled off his shirt and jeans, climbing in beside you before tucking you both into the blanket as you cosied tightly into him.

His hand pushing all your hair of your shoulder so he could grip your face.

He pulled you tightly into his chest, one hand gripping your neck with so much force you thought it would fracture.

"Good, get some sleep. You need your strength back." He kissed your forehead, the warmth flushing across your face.

1K notes · View notes

joelscurls · 4 months

Text

a heart for melting

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 2.7k

warnings: post-outbreak, implied age gap, themes surrounding child loss and grief, some angst but mostly festive fluff, grumpy x sunshine dynamics (Joel is a grinch & reader loves the holidays), reader is described as having long-ish hair

summary: Jackson's first annual Holiday Market brings about more than just cheer.

a/n: Merry Christmas @thetriumphantpanda; I'm your pedrostories secret santa! I hope you enjoy this lil festive take on grumpy!joel x sunshine!reader — I had lots of fun writing it 🤍🎄 🥧 🪵 🦌

Joel doesn’t want to be here — surrounded by garland and ribbons and so much unadulterated joy, it’s nauseating. No, he was forced to be here.

Please, Ellie had begged, it’ll be good for you to do something other than patrol or drinking with Tommy. Plus, they’re too good to keep to yourself.

They, being wood carvings — the tiny sculptures of deer and bears and birds, tufts of hair and bunches of feathers drawn out of driftwood with the tip of his blade. It was only ever meant to be a hobby, a way to busy his hands after they’d been wrapped around the cold metal of his rifle all day. Something lighter, creative rather than destructive, an act of giving rather than taking.

But sharing them with other people? He hadn’t been interested. Maybe he’d make one for Ellie or Tommy. Wrap it up in a piece of cloth and offer it as a gift for their birthday.

Not that he thought they were any good, really.

With the announcement of Jackson’s first annual Holiday Market, though, came Ellie’s pleading. “I’ll help you,” she’d bargained. “You don’t even have to give me anything!”

“Who said I would anyway?” he’d grumbled, digging his spoon into the bottom of his bowl of stew and sifting out a chunk of meat.

Joel despises the Holiday Season. He’d welcomed its disappearance with the end of the world. Because he had no reason to celebrate, with Sarah gone. Her absence stung like salt in an open wound on any normal day. But on Christmas, memories of her hanging her favorite ornaments on the tree and sneaking one of the cookies baked for Santa burned behind his eyelids. Left him heaving through hot tears.

The holidays had no place in his world, but they certainly had a place in Jackson. The first time he and Ellie had strode through those gates, they’d been met with that damned Christmas Tree, towering over the settlement like a beacon. And he hated it, hated the way it brought about that pounding in his chest and that spinning in his head.

How could anyone find any good in such a poignant reminder of loss?

Tommy says it’s about new beginnings, finding ways to be happy again. And what’s happier ‘n Christmas? God damn Santa Clause, hot chocolate, children singin’ carols?

Still, Joel isn’t convinced — not yet.

Standing across the mess hall, at your table piled high with baked goods, you are far too cheerful. You’re humming some song with a jovial beat, absentmindedly swaying as you rearrange rows of gingerbread and muffins and scones — all of which are draped in white icing, like flocking on Christmas trees. You pause to wish a happy holiday to everyone who passes through.

Joel knows he’s seen you before, flitting in and out of the community’s kitchen, always with that signature smile scrawled across your face.

And god, you’re so bubbly, taking to everyone you meet like a bee to honey, letting them in without a care in the world. Popping from table to table, making sure they have enough to eat. That they’re doing well.

It shouldn’t surprise him that you’re so…spirited, too. You seem to find the good in everyone and everything, after all.

It infuriates him, nonetheless.

Joel groans to himself. Stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans as an elderly couple rounds on him.

He grumbles a hello to them when they approach. They offer him half-smiles in return, beginning to pick up some of the carvings laid out on the table — turning them, inspecting them.

“This one’s nice,” the man says to his wife. She hums in agreement.

“You got any tigers?” the man asks.

“Tigers?”

“Yeah — I used to love ‘em as a kid.”

“Got what’s on the table,” Joel grumbles.

“You make ‘em custom? I can offer some homemade jam in return — elderberry.”

Joel sighs in annoyance.

“Don’t make ‘em custom. Got what I got.”

The man seems defeated, nodding and walking off without another word. The woman follows closely behind.

Just as they leave, Ellie appears. She sidles up to Joel and shrugs her jacket off. Pulls a chair up next to him.

“There’s so much cool shit here!” she exclaims, too loud. A judgemental set of eyes flit her direction. She glares right back at them.

“Do you mind?” Joel huffs, jaw ticking.

“Jesus, who pissed in your Cheerios?”

“How do you even know what Cheerios are?”

“Don’t,” she admits. “I read it in a book.”

“Of course you did.”

Ellie leans back in her chair, pulling an apple out of her backpack and biting into it. She shuffles some of the carvings around on the table. “Gotta fill in these gaps, man,” she says, juice dribbling down her chin.

Joel ignores her. He sneaks a glance at you; finds that you’re already looking. Your expression is unreadable, gaze unmoving as he studies you.

Despite your upbeat disposition bothering him, he can’t deny that you’re gorgeous: bright, beckoning eyes, siren-like smile — it’s like you’re peering into his soul.

He didn’t think he still had one of those.

“Dude.” Ellie nudges him. He peels his eyes from you reluctantly. “I asked how many takers you’ve had.”

“Uh.” He pretends to think.

“You have no fucking idea, do you? Too busy staring at that girl.”

“Wasn’t starin’,” he clips defensively.

“No? Well she’s coming over here, man.”

Sure enough, you’re striding right toward him, abandoning your post. Joel barely has time to prepare for impact.

He unconsciously straightens up and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He brushes them on his jeans just as you stop in front of his table.

“Hi there,” you say.

“Hi!” Ellie chimes.

You pick up a carving of a two-headed deer. His favorite.

“This is beautiful,” you coo. “The craftsmanship is lovely.” You’re running a finger along the grooves in the wood, holding the piece delicately in the palm of your hand — as if it’s made of glass, not wood. “You have a real gift…”

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeat. He ignores how sweet his name sounds coming out of your mouth. You tell him your name, and it fits you, he thinks. It’s pretty.

“How long have you been making them?”

“Just since I got to Jackson. ‘ts somethin’ to pass the time.”

You nod. Continue scanning over the intricacies of the deer. “I was never much of a baker before I got here, either,” you joke, gesturing back toward your table.

“Good one,” Ellie laughs. “You’re funny — isn’t she funny, Joel?”

In his head, he’s glowering at her. Outwardly, he feigns amusement.

“Real funny.”

“I’d love to see how you make these sometime,” you say, then, placing the deer back on the table gingerly. “Do you have a workshop?”

“In our shed,” Ellie pipes in before he can say anything. “You should come by tomorrow! Joel’s off patrol.”

He shoots her daggers. She pretends not to notice.

“I’d love that! I have to work in the kitchen, though. I could come by after?”

Joel starts to shake his head no. Ellie’s hand wraps around his arm like a vice grip. He stills.

“Sure,” he grits.

“I can bring some pastries, if you’d like.”

“Don’t like sweets.”

“Oh,” you say, a little thwarted, but you’re undeterred. You shift on your feet. Chew your bottom lip. “Well, how about something not sweet, then?”

Your brows lift, narrowed eyes on him as you await a response. Joel still isn’t thrilled about the prospect of a visitor. Really, he doesn’t like anyone on his property that isn’t Ellie, or Tommy and Maria if he’s invited them. But you don’t seem so bad, offering to bring him food.

He can probably deal with your sunny disposition in exchange for a full belly. Lord knows he went too long without that luxury, and he’d be a fool to deny himself of it ever again.

So, he agrees, the garbled sure less than enthusiastic leaving his mouth. Still, you don’t seem too offended. In fact, you smirk at him, wordlessly sauntering back to your table, sneaking glances at him every so often for the remainder of the afternoon.

Sure enough, the next evening, while Joel is whittling in the shed, you show up.

You’re wielding a basket of savory hand pies, as promised, and Joel has to stop himself from drooling. They smell incredible. And they’re still warm, somehow, steam wafting off of them even after your walk here.

“Come in,” he gruffs, his nose following the scent like a dog’s as he trails behind you inside.

His set up is minimal: a rocking chair next to a bench, a couple stools he made for when Tommy comes by to play poker. But his works are scattered throughout, every surface in the small room cluttered with little carvings.

He settles atop one of the stools as you begin to wander around the room, plucking sculptures off shelves and awing at them with such genuine admiration, it causes something to pull in his chest.

Every so often, you make a remark about the details in a piece, how the fur on the deer looks real, how you can practically smell the replica evergreen in your grasp.

And something shifts — carried by your kind words through the stuffy shed.

Taken by the slight lilt in your voice when you speak to him, the almost-shy smile that pulls at the corners of your lips — Joel is attracted to you.

He’s following the line of your neck down to your collarbone, ogling at the exposed skin there when you pick another carving up off the shelf. And he feels guilty — he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. You’re just being nice, being neighborly, and he’s gawking at you like you’d have any interest in him.

No; you’re young, beautiful, could do a lot better than an old grump like him.

He averts his gaze quickly when you suddenly set down the tiny, carved bird that had been in your palm, round the workbench and perch yourself atop the stool next to his. You retrieve a handpie out of the basket and pass it over to him.

“It has braised rabbit and carmelized onions in it,” you explain, taking a bite and letting the steam roll out.

He follows suit and — it tastes just as good as it smells, if not better. He’s salivating again, letting the dough melt in his mouth before swallowing.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence, getting through the entire basket in mere minutes.

When you’re finished, you ask him where he’s from.

The question shouldn’t feel like such a shock to the system. But after a year of being in Jackson, successfully avoiding conversation about his life before the outbreak, it sets off a panging between his eyes, a dull ache in his viscera.

“Texas,” he tells you plainly. “From Austin, originally.”

You nod. And you must be able to tell that he’s not used to talking about himself — by the tick of his jaw or the lack of eye contact — he’s not sure. Because you don’t pry. Instead, you say, “you can ask me something.”

He nods. Thinks on it for a moment.

“When did you arrive here? To Jackson?”

Unlike him, you do not grimace at the intrusion. Instead, you tell him: about your parents, their untimely deaths, the harrowing road that led you here. You do not cry, but Joel can see the pain in your shiny eyes.

It’s inevitable; there isn’t a single person here who hasn’t been dealt a bad hand. But you wear your past like a badge of honor, like you’re still grateful, after it all, to be alive.

Joel envies your tenacity.

So when you ask him about Ellie, if she is his daughter, he lets the walls around him down — just an inch. He doesn’t get upset when he stumbles over his words while telling you about Sarah. He finds comfort in confiding in you, in the way you so attentively listen, quietly nodding along as he recalls his version of the end of the world.

“Thank you,” you say when he’s done, burying his hands back in his pockets.

“For what?”

“For sharing that with me. I know it can be difficult to relive it.”

“I relive it everyday,” he admits. “Everything reminds me of her in one way or another.”

“I understand,” you nod. He believes you do.

So sweet, gaze like honey, you are an enigma to him. He hasn’t met many people who are kind just for the sake of it — not in a long while. Maybe that’s why he’d been so bothered by it at the market. It had felt almost unnatural to him, bound to be laced with an ulterior motive.

He’s still learning how to trust people again. It doesn’t come easily after twenty-odd years of rationing it like the pills he’d stowed. Still, there is something innate about baring his soul to you. Letting you in through the cracks in his battered being. You are safe, he’s sure of it; benevolence radiating from you like warmth.

It drips off your tongue when you ask him to show you how he does his craft — slips down your fluttering lashes. No longer can he deny you of anything — he’s accepted this swiftly — and so he obliges.

A half-whittled fox materializes from his coat pocket, along with his blade. He passes both to you and pulls his stool closer to yours.

He guides you, taking your hand in his, encouraging the press of the blade into the wood. Shows you how to round out a corner with a subtle twist of the knife. You’re a fast learner, Joel notes, attentive, taking every instruction like gospel.

The slow drag of steel, your fingers wrapped tightly around the handle; you’re so focused that you jump slightly when he places a reassuring hand on your knee.

“Doin’ great, darlin’,” he says, and your lips pull around pearlescent teeth. Joel feels as enraptured by you as you do the carving — the loose tendrils of hair that drape over your shoulder, the clinging of cotton to your soft curves. Though he hardened into stone a long time ago, he feels smelted in your presence. So he cannot help it when his fingers begin to drift up your leg, settling at your side as he turns his body toward yours.

The blade stalls, tip still stuck into the wood, puncturing the fox’s non-existent spine, and your face lifts.

“Is this okay?” he whispers. You nod, gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

You’re so close like this; Joel can smell the floral perfume dappled along your neck, can feel your warm breath fanning his face. He has half a mind to stop himself from sealing the sliver of distance left between you. But then you’re sighing, placing the blade and the wooden fox on the tabletop. And it’s your turn to guide him — winding your delicate fingers around his wrist and settling his hand at the small of your back.

The air in the tiny workshop grows heavy with unspoken desire, a longing to disrupt; to create. Your body forms to his languidly, arms interlocking behind his neck, fingers weaving in his hair to pull him closer to you. And then your lips press to his — hesitant at first, then not. You drink from each other until you are drunk, breathless and giddy when you separate.

“That was nice,” you whisper, and Joel chuckles.

“Just nice?”

“Great,” you amend. “It was great. Better than I imagined, even.”

“You imagined this?”

“Yes,” you smirk. “On a loop since I first saw you at the market.”

He pulls you back in. Gives you another chaste kiss. “For good measure.”

“Joel,” you say then, “will you and Ellie come by mine on Christmas? I could even cook — it’s just-”

“Yes,” he’s accepting before you can finish. “I’d love that. As long as you make more of those,” he gestures toward the empty basket on the workbench.

“That can be arranged,” you grin.

As soon as you leave that evening — sent off with a goodbye muttered between slotted mouths — Joel starts on your Christmas present.

end notes: thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment if you enjoyed <3

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal as joel miller #pedro pascal #pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories

431 notes · View notes

blissfulbarbie · 6 months

Text

I Hope You're Happy / Joel Miller x Reader

Description: Joel breaks up with you, thinking that he's setting you free to chase your dreams. And you do. And he gets another girl pregnant. And you meet each other in the cereal aisle of the grocery store. And you hope the other is happy. But you're not. You're both not.

Word count: 2.6k

A/N: Angst angst angst. No outbreak AU.

Deep down, you knew this day would come. What did you expect, dating someone 10 years older than you? You just didn’t think it would come this soon. Or that it would hurt this much.

As you sat there in the dimly lit living room, the weight of Joel's words hung heavily in the air. It had been a typical evening, sharing a meal and telling each other about your day, but something felt different tonight. The air seemed heavy with tension and Joel’s smiles didn’t really reach his eyes, betraying an inner turmoil that you hadn't seen before.

"Listen," he began, his voice tinged with regret, "I’ve been thinking a lot about something."

You felt a knot tightening in your stomach as you nodded, prompting him to continue.

Joel stared at the floor, avoiding your gaze. "I love you. So much. More than I ever thought I could love someone. But, I can't keep pretending that I can give you everything you deserve. I'm 35, and I've lived a life that's... complicated. I don't want to tie you down, especially when you have so much of the world left to explore."

You tried to understand his perspective. Tried to see where he was coming from but all you could think was, Why now? Why now when I’ve already fallen in love with you?

"I don't want you to look back one day and regret being with me," he continued, his voice gentle as he clasps both of your hands in his. "I couldn’t live with myself if one day you look at me and all I’d see is regret in your eyes. I want you to experience the world, to find your own path. I know you'll go on to do amazing things, and I don't want to be the reason you didn't." His eyes glimmered with tears.

“And what about what I want?” You stared back at him, defiant. “What if I want to be here with you?”

He smiled softly and shook his head. “You know, I could be selfish and keep you here with me. But what can you achieve in this town, really? You had such big dreams when we met, remember? Don’t think I forgot.”

He was right. You passed on a few big job opportunities in New York when you settled down with Joel, and you kept telling yourself you’d apply next week, which became next month, next year, until it never happened. Suddenly a fancy job and new apartment in the Big Apple didn’t seem appealing anymore. Not when you had Joel.

“Dreams change.” was all you managed to get out before your throat started to tighten and you felt the prickling of tears in your eyes.

Joel pulled you in for a hug and buried his face in your shoulder. “Don’t change them for me. Never for me.”

Deep down, you knew you had to go. Not because you wanted to, but because you knew Joel would never forgive himself if you didn’t. It was ironic and so painfully stupid that it hurt - he thought this breakup would help you and you went through with it to help him.

So there you went. You packed your bags and you were out of there in less than a week. You moved in with a friend in New York for a couple of months until you secured a stable job and an apartment. You followed Joel's advice, exploring the world, pursuing your dreams, and building a life that was uniquely your own. You missed him more than you cared to admit, but you knew that his intentions had been pure, and in a way, it did benefit you.

You have proper savings now, and you are a fully independent adult, carving your way painfully through a year of hard work, job searches, apartment hunting - all while navigating a broken heart. And while you love your new life, late at night in the dark of your fancy new apartment overlooking the city skyline, you often found yourself thinking, was it all worth it?

But you shake your head out of the daze eventually. Because if it isn’t worth it then all the pain and all the tears were for nothing. So you had to love this life. Forced yourself to love it because that’s what Joel wanted for you. Joel. Even now, you still live for Joel.

Until you didn’t. Your fingers freeze on your phone as you read the caption on Cassie’s new instagram post with a man who looks all too familiar.

Excited to welcome a new chapter into our lives. 👶❤️

Your stomach sinks. Your phone drops to the bed. And tears sting your eyes. No. It can’t be. You pick up the phone again and there he is. Your Joel, messy hair as if he just rolled out of bed and his scruffy beard. Smiling at Cassie who’s holding a picture of an ultrasound. CASSIE? And JOEL?

You try to think back to every interaction they had during the course of your relationship but it had never been more than polite small talk at neighbourhood gatherings or run-ins at the grocery store. Wasn’t she married? Fuck this. You double tap the picture, giving it a “like”. This will give them something to talk about, you think spitefully. He wanted me to move on with my life? Well this is me, moved on. As you throw your phone to the other side of the bed, the pain finally sinks in and you cry into your pillow, wondering if you truly, will ever move on.

In the years that pass, you try to distract yourself with work and your new friendships. On paper, your life in New York was going swimmingly well and you had even dated a couple of nice guys. Dating still gives you a little twinge in the heart but you ignore it for the most part. People would kill for the life you have and you will NOT be ungrateful about it.

But of course, life is never that simple. Just when you think you’re able to find happiness, you get thrown a curveball. And this curveball came in the form of Joel Miller, standing in the cereal aisle of your local grocery store. He’s older, grayer, but damn him, he still looks so fucking good. You stand there staring for a moment, while he examines the box of Cap’n Crunch. As he puts the box back down and glances up, he meets your eyes and you hate this cliche, but you swear to God, time stands still.

He whispers your name, almost in disbelief as his brows furrow. “Hey. Wow.”

“Hey.”

“You… How are you?”

“I’m good. Yourself?”

“Yeah great.”

Somehow this exchange cuts you deeper than the day he broke up with you. When did you become people who could barely speak 3 words to each other?

Trying to alleviate the clenching of your heart, you speak up. “What are you doing here? This is the last place I thought I’d ever run into you.”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah, I uh.. Tommy’s up here meeting a couple of friends and asked me to tag along. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out by the way, I should have texted when I knew we were heading –”

You cut him off, not wanting to hear lies. “No, that’s okay. I wouldn’t expect you to. You must be busy now anyways with the kid.”

His eyes soften at that, guilt and pain flashing through them but you push on. “It’s fine, really. You’re not obligated to tell me these things. I just saw on Cassie’s instagram. Is she here too?”

At that, he visibly stiffens and clears his throat as he replies, “Oh, Cassie and I aren’t together anymore. Well we were never.. But we kind of.. Yeah she’s not in the picture. It’s just me and Sarah.”

Sarah. He had a girl. A little girl. Your stomach twists and you kind of feel like throwing up so you try to find an exit. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Well, Sarah is lucky to have you. I always knew you’d make a good dad.”

He smiles for the first time in this conversation. “Truthfully, I have no idea what I’m doing half the time but she’s a good kid.”

Enough. Enough. Enough. “Well, it was nice meeting you again Joel, and I’m glad you’re doing well–”

“No, wait. Can we talk, please? I.. I’ve missed you. I want to talk.” Joel steps towards you as if to stop you from leaving but then holds himself back.

“I don’t think we have anything much to say to each other anymore, Joel, don’t you think?” You chuckle a little to mask the overwhelming urge to cry.

“I just want to know how you’re doing.” He looks at the ground, like a puppy scolded by his owner and you know you can’t resist the floodgates that pour out. You take a deep breath and let it all out in one exhale.

“Fine. You want to know? I’m doing great, just as you said I would. I make a ridiculous amount of money every year, I have a fancy apartment that overlooks the city, I have nice friends and a good life. It’s everything you wanted for me.”

“You deserve it. I knew you would.” He says, nodding with a sad smile.

“So why don’t I feel happy yet?” You can’t believe it but you actually start to cry. Here in the middle of the damn cereal aisle in front of your ex-boyfriend.

He stands stunned for a moment, his eyes concerned and brows furrowed. He eventually steps fully in front of you this time. His hands hesitate, as if he doesn't know where to put them, until he settles for your shoulders. “I’m sorry. I thought.. I thought you would be–”

You bat his hands off your shoulders. “Yeah, you did. But it doesn’t matter because what’s done is done and we’ll never get it back. Any of it.”

He says your name, pleadingly.

“No, I don’t blame you. I left, didn't I? It was my decision too. I guess deep down some part of me thought I would be better off. And in a way I am. I really am. But I cannot lie to you and say that I’m happy Joel, because I’m not. And nothing will change that. Because this is my life now.”

A moment of silence passes between the two of you as the weight of the years of separation hangs there. “I’m not either,” he whispers.

“What?”

“I’m not.. happy. Cassie and I had a fling when I was heartbroken and dealing with our breakup. She had just gotten divorced and I was.. I was planning to ask for you back. I was prepared to get on a fucking airplane and beg on my knees until you took me back. Whether that meant moving you back home or me moving here, it didn’t matter to me. We’d make it work. I just wanted you to know that I made a mistake and I shouldn’t have decided for you.” He places his hands on your shoulders again, and you let them stay this time.

He continues, speaking quickly as if a dam has burst. “But then Cassie got pregnant. And I knew I had to make a choice. We said we’d try to raise the kid together and be a family but.. A few months after Sarah was born she just left. Literally, took off and left, and I have no idea where she went. Frankly, I don’t even care. And then I got so busy with the kid and then years passed, and I just lost the timing. What, am I just supposed to call you up 10 years after breaking up with you, telling you what a joke my life has become? How I’ve regretted every moment since you packed your bags?”

You let all of his words sink in for a while before choking out, “And what do I do with all this information now? What do you expect me to do?”

He’s tearing up and his voice rises a little as he replies, “Nothing. I don’t expect nothing. I just needed you to know that I never spent a day without thinking of you or loving you. And that I’m sorry. And that I wish you were happy, because if you were, then at least all of this bullshit would be worth it. But you’re not.”

You nod, your brain not fully able to come up with words at this point, so he continues. “If you’d told me you were happy, I would have swallowed my pride, wished you well, and walked out of this store with the knowledge that at least all this pain has finally brought you joy. But we’re both hurting now, so what does that make us?”

“Two idiots crying in the cereal aisle?” You offer with a small chuckle through your tears.

He breathes out a small laugh. “Yeah. That it does.”

A woman passing through the aisle snaps you both back to reality as you wipe your tears and gather yourselves. “It is really good to see you, Joel. And.. thank you for telling me all of it. It doesn’t change anything but I think I needed to hear it.”

He shakes his head before looking into your eyes. “You know what the sick part is? 10 years ago I told you I never wanted you to look at me with regret in your eyes. Yet here you are.”

You nod and smile sadly. There’s nothing left to say.

His gaze turns soft. “I hope you’ll be happy someday. Maybe not now, but someday.”

“Maybe. And yourself?”

“Maybe.” He replies cheekily, smiling softly. With that, he pulls you in for a hug and the familiar waft of his cologne transports you back to 10 years ago when you hugged in his living room before saying goodbye, when you used to cuddle together so close at night, when he used to hug you before leaving for work. Your memories together flash before your eyes like a sick Hallmark movie except this time you know the ending.

You feel the press of his lips against your head and you swear you hear him whisper the words “I love you” but you can’t be sure because your heart is pounding and you can feel it in your ears. Your life from this point on will always be divided into before and after. The point where you know, you just know, the choice you made is irreversible. You will never have Joel Miller ever again.

As you pull away, you both tearfully smile and look at each other for the last time. You spend a good minute just looking, memorizing the other’s face. You both don’t bother with the polite pleasantries of promising to keep in touch because you know that would be a lie. It would be too painful. This is your fate now.

You walk past each other, leaving your memories and feelings behind in the dust of your footprints. To passersby, you look like strangers. Passing each other in the cereal aisle, meeting for a moment and then never again. And maybe that’s what you are now. Strangers, destined to be in each other’s lives for a moment, and then never again.

Joel eventually goes back home to Austin, and you stay in your beautiful apartment which seems to be mocking you with how big and yet empty it feels.

Joel looks at his daughter and wonders what it would be like if this kid was yours, and you stare at your phone, a message from your new date asking you to confirm a meeting time flashing on your screen.

Joel wonders what life would be like if you’d stayed. You wonder the same thing.

Tag list: @just-some-random-blogger @joeldjarin @pattwtf

#joel miller #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller oneshot #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller angst #joel miller x reader angst #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

1K notes · View notes

rosepascal · 11 months

Text

you don't belong || Joel Miller x reader

summary: You really like Joel, more than you've ever liked someone before. But the most important person in his life absolutely hates your guts and you have no idea what to do.

warnings: angst to fluff, swearing, break up/make up. possibly OOC Joel.

a/n: Ahhhh this is my first longer fic in a hot second!! I did this instead of writing a final paper so I hope you enjoy <33

taglist: @avengersfan25

Joel and Ellie were family. To anyone it’s easy to see just how much the two of them truly care for each other. They don’t say it. Instead they tell each other in other ways. Their close bond is why you so desperately wanted Ellie to like you.

She’s a tough kid with a smart mouth and you admired her for it. You didn’t expect to be welcomed into their small family dynamic easily. In fact you didn't plan on it at all. Months were spent dancing around each other, sending flirty looks and sharing quiet moments when time would allow it.

The kiss, the first time either of you did something about the growing attraction, was short and sweet and happened in the middle of the night in his living room. You wanted something with Joel and he wanted it too.

The day he asked you on an official date was the happiest day you’ve had in a long time. But there was one major problem. Ellie hated you. You tried to win her over, or at least get her to not glare at you the moment she saw you.

When Joel would see you in town with Ellie by his side he’d light up and for a moment you’d forget everything and smile back. Then your eyes drifted to the side and you saw the annoyed look on Ellies face. Her eyes refuse to even meet yours.

Then it all comes crashing down again.

A peace offering, that’s what you were offering. Walking up to his house knowing he wasn’t there was a risk. But you cared a lot about Joel and you didn’t want this tension between you and Ellie anymore. If you could show her that she could trust you, that you weren’t trying to hurt either of them. Then maybe things would get better.

“Joel’s not here.” She opens the door and stares you down. She glances at the small bowl in your hands filled with fresh strawberries that you sneaked from the gardens. Joel had told you strawberries were her favorite so you hoped this would help. She hasn't slammed the door in your face yet so that's progress.

“I know, these are for you.” You offer the bowl to her but she doesn’t take it.

“Why?”

“Can I come in?” You ask gently.

The hope slowly fading as she seems more closed off than ever. Without a word she rolls her eyes and leaves the door open. Walking away towards the living room. Stepping inside you place the bowl on the kitchen counter and find her reading a book.

“Ellie, I was hoping we could talk.” You sit on the couch near her, nails digging into your knees.

“About what?” At times like this she really does resemble Joel. That ice cold look from her makes you shiver.

“Look I know you don’t like me and I’m not trying to force anything between us.” You start, nerves taking over as she sets down her book. Her face unchanging as she listens to you.

“But I really care about Joel and you…I just. I don’t want things to be this weird between us.” She clenches her fist and snaps at you.

“If you really cared then you’d leave us alone!” She knows deep down that you haven’t done anything to hurt Joel but you could eventually.

You could show up and take all his attention away and leave him broken. You could want him to change himself to fit the town standards or ruin what the two of them have already built. It took a while for her to truly trust Tommy and Maria and they were Joel’s real family.

You aren’t.

“Ellie…” You try not to let her words hurt you but they do.

“We don’t need you okay? I don’t know you and I don’t want to know you.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve done anything to hurt you Ellie but-” You try but again she cuts you off. She's angry, shouting and finally letting it all out. Fear clouding her judgement as she hurls words that sting hard.

"I don’t care. Don’t pretend like you actually care about me when all you want is Joel.”

“That’s not true.” You say firmly.

“We’re happy without you, so just fuck off and leave us alone.” She storms upstairs and slams the door, shaking the whole house with it.

Pushing the palms of your hand to your eyes you try to suppress the tears. It’s clear that no matter what you do, she’ll never even tolerate you.

You love Joel but you can’t force yourself into their life. No matter how much it hurts. Ellie is everything to him. Wiping your eyes you stand up and open the door to leave.

“Baby?” You freeze at the sound of his voice.

Looking up you find Joel walking up to the door, a confused look on his face. He clocks the tears in your eyes immediately. His hands cup your face gently.

“I think we should break up.”

“What? Why?” He asks bewildered, hell just yesterday the two of you met for lunch and now you’re breaking up with him. You pull his hands away from your face but he grabs onto your wrists before you can leave.

“Baby please…Tell me what’s wrong.” His eyes go wide and fearful as you yank your hands away.

“I’m sorry Joel.” Every step you take away from Joel feels like a crack in your heart until it finally breaks.

Tears blur your vision as you slam the door to your horribly empty house. He’s the best thing that’s happened to you in a while and now it's gone. But it’s for the best, it’s for him. For Ellie.

At least that’s what you have to tell yourself to sleep that night.

- - - -

Life without Joel has been hell. You desperately missed him and while you managed to go back to appearing like nothing ever happened, deep down you were miserable. You missed the small dates and sweet talks. Now instead of getting butterflies when you see him you get a gaping hole in your chest.

Joel wasn’t doing much better. Not that he showed it though. At least not in a very clear way. He took longer patrols, more dangerous routes. Started spending more time in his house than he used to. Even snapping at people more than usual. He’s turned into even more of an asshole and it was driving Ellie crazy.

After the talk the two of you had, she calmed down a bit. Still convinced she did the right thing but things did feel off still. She knew that you leaving was the cause of his lashing out. She wanted to protect him but now it feels like she’s ruined it all.

Thank god for Maria putting them on patrol together, much to Joel's annoyance. He hates when she goes on Patrol even though she’s more capable than half the adults in town. The air that’s normally filled with questions is now just silence between the two.

“Hey Joel, is all this about...You know.” She asks. Her grip tightening on her gun as she walks side by side with Joel.

“No.” His reply is short and his tone doesn’t leave much room for any follow up but she pushes anyway.

“Then what’s gotten up your ass lately?” Joel rolls his eyes and keeps walking. He’s not particularly interested in discussing his failed romances right now.

There’s a small trickle of guilt that builds in Ellie as she takes in the state of Joel. Sure to most people he doesn’t look any different, still the same stone faced guy they see everyday. But Ellie knows him much better than most people.

Something’s wrong and it has to do with you. She didn’t mean to snap at you, but the protectiveness she feels for Joel outweighed any guilt at the time. Ellie stops and sighs.

There’s a nearby broken down fence that she puts her weight against. Her and Joel aren’t good at these kinds of talks.

“Hear somethin?” Joel raises his gun slightly higher, eyes darting around for any signs of people.

”I uh..It’s my fault. That they ran away.” Joel slings his gun across his back and crosses his arms. Not fully grasping what she’s saying.

“I said some things and I think it’s why they stopped talking to you.” A sudden realization dawns on him and his arms fall to his sides.

“Now why’d you do that?” His voice is a lot calmer than she expected and honestly that’s scarier. She shifts from side to side as she tries to find the right words.

“I’ve had a lot of people in my life…” She starts. “And those people have left. Except for you.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.” Joel says and she nods. She knows that. Really. He’s proven that in his own ways.

“Letting someone else in is hard and I didn’t want it all to. Disappear.” Joel’s silent, processing it all for a moment. Leaves crunch under his boots as he walks over to Ellie. Leaning against the old fence and stares out at Jackson.

The two of them don't really do sappy moments. They don't hold each other and cry and blubber on about how much they love each other, but that doesn't mean they don't know it. How much they mean to each other and how scary the idea of it going away can be.

“It don’t matter who comes through our lives ‘cause nothin’s gonna change between us. Ever. Alright?” His hand rests next to Ellies, a small smile on his face that she doesn’t see.

“That mean I’m stuck with your old ass forever?”

“More like I’m stuck with you, now let’s finish this damn thing so we can go eat.” Joel pushes off the fence and offers his hand out to Ellie who takes it.

Together they move a little faster and walk a little closer, ready to be done with patrol.

- - - -

You didn’t expect the knock at your door on a random afternoon. Opening the door you’re met with the last person you expected to see. Ellie.

“Uh Hi,” You quickly step to the side to let her in, confused on why she’s here when she couldn’t even look at you before.

“Is something wrong?” Your brain jumps to the worst, if she was here willingly then something must have happened.

“No. I uh. I’m here to apologize.” She seems uncomfortable as she looks around your house. Here eyes settling on one of Joel’s jackets that you haven’t given back yet.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you and…I didn’t mean it.”

“Ellie,” You say softly. Yes her words hurt but she’s just a kid.

“Joel means a lot to you and I get why you felt that I was, stepping into somewhere I didn’t belong.”

“But you do belong!” She says quickly. "You make him happy." You can tell she’s really trying and it makes you feel better about it all.

“I think we should start over, really get to know each other.” You offer knowing that things can’t become perfect overnight but the two of you can try.

“I’d like that.” Hesitantly you squeeze her shoulder in a loving way, hoping that you aren’t overstepping.

“Well now that we’re friends, I know a guy who’s been a real dick since you left.” You laugh and she does too. It’s a nice sound.

“I’ll take care of that, you alright to walk home?” She nods and you lead her to the door.

Ellie stops for a second before smiling back at you. As she walks off the dread of the last few weeks seems to have lifted. You don’t know what happened but you’re glad it did.

Wasting no time, you hurry to the barns, knowing Joel feeds the sheep on Wednesdays. He’s sitting by the pasture. Watching them with a peaceful look on his face.

“Joel.” You say breathlessly. His head whips around, eyes wide in shock.

“What’re you doin here?” He stands and walks over to you. His arms wrapping around your waist as if nothing had ever happened.

“Ellie came over and we talked, she told me that you’ve been miserable without me.” Placing your hands on his chest you lean closer into his arms. You missed being held by him so much.

“Did she now? Tell you anything else?” He asks.

Shaking your head you gently cup his face and pull him in for a kiss. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss you back, chasing that feeling he’s missed for weeks.

“Missed you so much.” He mumbles against your lips. His soft brown eyes staring deep into your own.

“Come over tonight,” and never leave. That house of his is too big for two people anyways.

“I’d love to.” His arms don’t budge as the sheep baa loudly, wanting to make up for lost time.

“Need to introduce the two of you properly. Have some family bonding time.”

“Am I family now?” You ask teasingly, though your heart leaps at the idea. You’d love to be considered so important to Joel.

“No doubt about it baby,” He kisses your forehead gently. Sometimes things change and people come and go, but there’s no way in hell Joel’s ever going to let his little family go.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fan fiction #joel miller oneshot #joel miller x you #joel miller angst

1K notes · View notes

hsllfirescoopsreblogs · 1 month

Text

✦◃✦▹✦◃✦▹✦◃✦▹✦◃✦▹✦◃✦▹✦◃✦▹✦

「 ✦ Joel Miller ✦ 」

╰┈➤18+ none of these stories belong to me! this is a masterlist of all joel miller stories i’ve read and reblogged! just thought it would be nice to have them all in one spot! (if your fic is on here and you wish not to be, please let me know!) some with have summaries if provided <3

╭┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈╮

𓆱 declined pt2 pt3 by @alltheirdamn

❀You're on a cross-country road trip when your tires blow, and you're forced to get them fixed at a small town mechanic shop. When your card declines, you only have one other option to get your car back.

𓆱a happy man by @psychedelic-ink

❀when your friend sets you up on a blind date, you had no idea how impactful it would be.

𓆱once again in your arms by @foli-vora

❀the day of the outbreak, reader and baby were in town and she couldnt call joel (or viceversa) cause the phone lines were down. they were separated for a few years until they arrives at the quarantine zone he's in, and he recognizes them in the crowd.

𓆱invisible sting by @quin-ns

❀ bill and frank host. tess is jealous. joel is confronted with his feelings. you cry over a shower

𓆱snowflakes, a fireplace, and you by @swiftispunk

❀you get more than you bargained for when you end up snowed in at miller's inn on christmas eve.

𓆱 seams by @fuckyeahdindjarin

❀seamstress!reader

𓆱 joel drabble by @suzdin

𓆱 as long as you want pt2 by @auteurdelabre

❀ When you're injured in the stables one morning your patrol partner and enemy Joel Miller is the only one there to help.

𓆱 @stylesispunk

❀ the not so invisible string

- you and Joel were made right for each other in the wrong time. Now, thirteen years later your paths crossed when both of your daughters get in trouble at school. Would be the right time for you now?

❀ i couldn’t want you anymore

- when Sarah's mom came back into Joel's life to fight for their past relationship, Joel needs to convince he is in a happy relationship with the florist next to his gallery in order to make her go away. The problem is, he and the florist can't stand each other's guts or that it's what he thinks.

𓆱 the falling pt2 by @getitoutofmymindwrites

❀you catch Joel cheating on you. The world comes crushing down.

𓆱 greener memories of better men by @netherfeildren

❀Best Story of the Day! South Austin elementary school started a “Breakfast With Dads” program but many dads couldn’t make it and several students didn’t have father figures. The school posted fliers at the local YMCA’s for 50 volunteer fathers… 600 different people from all backgrounds showed up…

𓆱 jealous by @eufezco

❀you’re a little jealous of tess.

𓆱 soft sweet by @cavillscurls

❀You share your first kiss with the last man you ever expected: your older, grouchy, overly protective patrol partner, Joel Miller.

𓆱 5+1 by @bluebeary-jay

❀5 times you wanted to kiss Joel, and 1 time it actually happened

𓆱 needs by @toxicanonymity

❀Joel wants to find a bed before you go all the way, but neither of you can wait that long.

𓆱 wildflower and barely by @yellowharrington

❀after deciding to change your age range on a dating app in hope of a change of scenery, you stumble across joel miller.

𓆱 arms tonite by @motherjoel

❀basically its YOU who gets stabbed by the baseball bat. joel isnt good with feelings. david does not exist david cant hurt anybody. a bit of angst and a bit of fluff. also LOOSELY based on arms tonite by mother mother

𓆱 don’t take the girl by @alt-vera

❀when faced with a life-threatening choice, joel miller makes a surprising confession.

𓆱 feels so right by @fake-bleach

❀Your college boyfriend's a dick, and it doesn't help that he dragged you along with him to a bar just to treat you like shit. You plan on catching a ride home after an incident between you two, but turns out that your dad's best friend's there too, and he saw everything. He ends up offering you a ride instead, but there's no promises that you make it back home for the night.

𓆱 sweetheart by @dustydaddyyy

❀you're home from college for summer '99 to visit your parents, when your eye wanders upon their next-door neighbor, joel miller.

𓆱 honey stained hands by @undercoverpena

❀He knew what Jackson was when he arrived the second time. A communal, a place where everyone chips in. It's why he doesn't turn his nose up when he's given menial tasks. One of which, is fixing his neighbour's porch. His neighbour, who is pretty and smiles too sweetly, bakes cakes for special birthdays, and stares at the toolbox he's been given with a haunted look, one which raises more questions than answers.

𓆱 @joelscruff

❀softdom joel

-a collection of important moments between you and joel miller, your grumpy new patrol partner in jackson, wyoming.

❀one thing im missing

-you and joel accidentally end up falling asleep together, and what follows is the beginning of a quiet and tender relationship neither of you saw coming.

𓆱 @punkshort

❀somewhere to run

-You move to a small town in the middle of Texas to escape your past and start over. You don't expect to fall for the town's handsome sheriff.

❀i hate when you’re right

-After a heated argument with Joel, you finally convince him into leaving Jackson so you could explore a store for new clothes, and what happens could change your life forever.

𓆱 @eupheme

❀ in the woods somewhere

-When a break-in startles you awake, it’s hard not to assume the worst. But when the thief is revealed to be a teenager just trying to help her wounded guardian - you find your heart softening.

❀ are you mine?

-A change in your usual patrol schedule, a dash of over-protectiveness, and a gossipy partner leads to you desperately wish you could turn back time

𓆱 @gutsby

❀ hating game

-Celebrating your dad’s birthday at the yacht club becomes damn near unbearable when Joel Miller brings a date along too. Jealousy and hate sex ensue.

❀ abstaining game

-The only thing worse than an anti-sex retreat is an anti-sex retreat with your former fuckbuddy and dad’s best friend. Especially when sharing one cabin.

𓆱 kiss to kiss by @jobean12-blog

❀Joel is grumpier than usual and the only way to make it better is YOU.

•MASTERLIST

•PEDRO PASCAL CHARACTERS MASTERLIST

hopefully all links work, let me know if not <3

last updated april 16, 2024

#joel miller #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller series #joel miller oneshot #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal

336 notes · View notes

darkuselesssomebody · 2 months

Text

𝕧𝕒𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕖'𝕤 - dark!raider!joel miller x reader

complete masterlist

words || 𝟛𝕜

summary || in which the reader wants a valentine's gift, but Joel's not exactly her boyfriend

a/n || i'm so shocked i haven't written dark!joel before?? i love him, your honor. also, for the raider!joel concept, though overall popular for fanfic, i was personally super inspired by @toxicanonymity and @romana-after-dark. they both have fantastic raider!joel content, please check them out!!

➵ warnings for specific content before the divider, please heed them, this may be triggering content!

➵ technically ooc to joel in the show, but his dark past is hinted at so yeah

➵ not proofread

➵ comment/message if you'd have a request

warnings || smut/dark (dddne)

➵ !! reader is held captive and is experiencing stockholm syndrome. other women to which the same this is occurring are mentioned !!

➵ dubcon sex

➵ unprotected sex

➵ manhandling

➵ controlling dynamics

➵ slight degradation

“you have to do something for her.”

joel wonders how, as his younger brother, tommy always seemed to be nagging him, instead of the other way around. his face pinches in a scowl.

"the fuck i look like? cupid?" he growls back at his brother, rifle sagging on one of his shoulders, forcing him to readjust. tommy rolls his eyes.

"ya even have john and michael doin' somethin' special for their girls." he reminds joel how the other men in the group, with their own souvenirs, at least showed their consideration of the humanity of these girls on valentine's.

"she probably don't even know." joel grumbles, and tommy snorts.

"oh, she knows what valentine's is. the other girls told her. said she'd have liked some clothes."

"the fuck she need clothes for, ya sayin' i can't dress my girl?" joel, ever defensive, hates being talked down to by his little brother.

he hates more the fact that she seems to tell tommy so much more about herself than she does joel.

"y'can dress her, joel." tommy sighs. "but it won't hurt if she wears somethin' other than yer crusty flannels once in a while."

joel rolls his eyes, but he, luckily, doesn't have to entertain the rest of the conversation. a deer rustles the branches of a tree in the distance. joel's a better shot than his brother, always has been. but he's also less agile. as he's about to shoot, his foot crunches on a stick.

the shot still hits the deer's back, but it's a far cry from the headshot he was aiming for. he swears under his breath, but him and tommy are both already stalking the wounded prey, the same glow of determination and predation in their eyes.

they were still family, after all.

she used to never be able to sit still. pre-apocalypse, that meant she was always either fiddling with something, reading a book, or talking but... in the past few years, it meant a lot more silent stimulation. it was okay, she got by counting petals of flowers to herself or tracing the veins of leaves with her fingers to keep her mind occupied.

but the one thing she'd never given up was company. she'd had family, or friends, in every walk of this horrible turn of events, until 6 months ago.

when she was snatched away from her cruel life by an even crueler man. stripping her of autonomy and privacy were mild in comparison to her loss of company. the only other people in the house leered or jeered in her presence.

she was usually locked away from them anyways. in a tall tower she couldn't even use her hair to escape from; kept captive for the satisfaction and pleasure of a bad, bad man.

that's what made her head spin, though. because he wasn't always. yes, he was always sullen, and scowling, rough around the edges and calloused in his touch. but he wasn't always bad.

he'd fixed the bathtub of the house they were squatting in so she could revel in warmth if he wasn't around.

he risked his life for a new pack of cards and even a few books so she could keep her occupied.

and he would sometimes press gentle kisses to her forehead when he slept beside her, unbeknownst to himself, and without realizing the effect he had on her.

when the other men had started getting antsy about her being the only girl around (with her obvious off-limits status), joel relented and let them bring back their own. it was to avoid mutiny and maintain control, sure, but... it gave her company, too. and that was important to her.

the women would confide in her. first, of their fears and then, of their growing affections for their own men. it made her happy, vindicated.

she wasn't alone in her stockholm syndrome.

she's looking at the flowers that michael got for jessica. it's almost comical, with that kinda man and their kinda relationship. but jess liked it - really liked it - and that's all that mattered. john had promised anna something too, which she was talking about as the front door opened.

a dead deer was carried in by the miller brothers, and then some of the other men helped bring it out back to the shed, where they'd scavenge enough to feed the group for the week. as she always does, she approaches and stands in front of joel, greeting him in a low voice. he regards her with a once over, nodding, before his head tilts incrementally up, signalling to his bedroom.

she nods shyly, retreating to the room on the upper floor as joel delegates some tasks, before coming up to join her. she's looking out the window - barred, 'for her protection'- and he finally speaks up.

"what did ya do?" he asks gruffly, referring to the events in his absence.

"played some cards." she smiles softly as she faces him, "talked to anna and jessica." that makes him grimace a little, and she's confused.

"what about?" she shrugs.

"stuff. john and michael are gettin' them things, i guess?" she says it unsurely, "they say it's for 'valentines'?" she says the word curiously, as if wondering if it was something the 4 had made up, or if it was a real celebration. his grimace worsens: he hates when tommy's right. feigning innocence, he continues,

"what's that, then?" she looks at the floor shyly.

"like... a celebration? of... relationships, partners, that sorta thing." it's vague, but it's all she knows.

"huh." joel doesn't continue it further, and he goes silent, as he looks around the room to change out of his dirty clothes.

she sits on the bed, watching him move around, and with every passing moment of silence, her worry grows. did she say something wrong? was he mad? what happened?

when he finally goes to join her, he manhandles her to face away from him. that only makes her more upset, and she feels the prickle of tears in her eyes, as she lays down, and he joins her a moment later.

laying behind her as she feels a tear roll down her cheek, he doesn't realize how upset he's made her: he'd only asked her to turn around so he could fall asleep with the scent of her hair.

she wakes up after he's already left.

she sighs, rubbing her eyes, that always ended up a little inflamed after she cried. there's a little wetness on her pillow, and she flips it so joel doesn't see.

tommy's downstairs, having saved a fruit for her breakfast. she takes it gratefully, cutting it up and fiddling with the bite-sized pieces.

there's something on her mind - tommy, he notices these things. he wished his brother would, too.

"he's getting supplies." he assures her, knowing what was agitating her. she snaps out of it.

"hmm?" she pops a piece in her mouth, sweetness exploding on her tastebuds as she bites into it, "oh. right, yeah." she realizes what he's saying, "didn't he just get some?" tommy shrugs.

"he likes to go out to the abandoned mall - it clears his head." that makes her squirm.

"is he mad?" she mumbles, and tommy pats her shoulder.

"at you? never."

it wasn't exactly true, she thought. he's gotten mad before: if she talks too much to the others, when she doesn't listen to him, or when she finds herself in danger.

tommy knows joel's not mad in those moments. he's just terrified of what could possibly happen to his girl.

after finishing her fruit, she curls up under the blanket upstairs, wanting some time to herself. humming a melody - she thinks it's one that the guys will sing in an off-key fashion when they get particularly drunk - she tries to occupy herself by counting each of the little plaster bumps in the ceiling, and then all the small flowers on the dingy wallpaper of the room.

she gets to 78 when the door swings open. jolting awake, she makes eye contact with joel, who's looking down at her form under the covers.

"somethin' happen?" his voice is less gruff than usual, and she shakes her head.

"nope. just waiting." she gives him a weak, shaky smile. he doesn't return, but he doesn't click his tongue in annoyance, either. it's a win in her books.

he's got a backpack, and it looks pretty full. she wants to ask what's inside, but she knows he'll tell her if he wants to. he sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. she scoots over so he has space.

"let me see you." he instructs, and she sits up, crawling out of the covers. sure enough, she's wearing one of his flannels for warmth, and had slipped into a pair of his boxers instead of her otherwise nonexistent pajama shorts. he's silent for a long moment, before he brings his fingers to examine the material. goddamn, was it old, frayed almost everywhere, and the chest pocket had a hole. he sighs, finally speaking, "comfy?"

she blinks, confused, "huh?"

"'re ya comf'rtable?" he repeats, voice gruffer. she lets out a nervous exhale. was it a trick?

"ye-yes. yeah, i'm comfy." she assure, and he hums.

"heard ya want somethin' new." he finally looks her in the eyes, something he doesn't do all that often. she shuts her eyes, cheeks heating in embarrassment and worry. dammit, tommy, she thinks, knowing the younger man had told joel about her offhand comment on clothes.

"it's fine, i'm happy with this." she splutters out quickly, hoping she won't upset him. he sees right though it though.

"yeah, yeah." he scoffs, waving a dismissive hand, as he gets up. her heart clenches, wondering if he was really angry, when he reaches for the backpack, throwing it at her.

it's not an aggressive throw, and lands on the mattress beside her.

"open it." he instructs, and she swallows thickly, unsure what to expect. the zipper is a little worn, but she eases it open... only to find not only clean but colorful clothes inside. she looks up at him in confusion.

"what...?" and for the first time in a while, there's just a hint of a smirk curling at his lips.

"go try 'em on." he encourages. giddily, she beams as she gets up, taking the bag of clothes into the cropped bedroom. he slumps back on the bed, trying to will away his fatigue. it'd been a hassle to collect all the clothes - more so, to find clean one he thought she'd like - so he leans back, waiting for her to return.

she lays out the clothes on the cramped sink counter space, starting with a simple pair of slightly flared jeans, pairing it with a light blue cropped cardigan. she goes out to show him, an obvious pep in her step.

he looks up as she enters, eyes trailing up and down her body, including the way the outfit fits her curves, and the slight glimpse of midriff.

"don't you look pretty?" he drawls, and, though it almost sounds sarcastic with his hard features, a light smile plays on her lips. she tries on 4 other outfits she could make out of the 10 articles of clothing he got her, and he seems to like each one even better. sure, he'd taken the initiative to ensure all of them were a little revealing - he deserved an eyeful for his hard work, after all - but she seemed genuinely happy, and the bright smile on her face almost rivals the cleavage that she shows off in some of the outfits.

when she shows him the final outfit, he pats the space on the bed next to him, and she obliges, sitting beside him.

"happy?" he finally murmurs, pulling her closer by the hem of her pants, and she nods excitedly.

"very." she assures, softening, "thank you." she doesn't need to clarify her sincerity, as it pours out in her tone. he caresses her cheek with his calloused thumb.

"good girl. you make sure to tell the girls." she almost laughs, knowing she'd show off the gift in the same way jess and anna have been with theirs. he wanted it to be known that fucking michael and john couldn't treat a better than he could, "got one more thing f'r you." he pulls her so she's standing, procuring two more pieces of small fabric from his pockets.

she inspects them, eyes widening a little when she realizes it's lingerie. he glances back at him, and he has a brazen and unashamed glint in his eyes. she's about to make a joke that this one seems more a gift for him than for her, but refrains, obliging with a small nod of her head, and taking it to the bathroom.

she strips out of her clothes, pulling up the lace fabric. the panties are practically a thong, shaping her ass nicely, while the bra enhances and perfects the curve of her tits, a small, red bow in between the cups, matching the bow on the hem of her panties.

she looks hot, and damn, is his taste good.

going back outside, a noise escapes his throat - like a guttural growl. he signals her to turn, and she does, giving her an ample view of her ass. he grabs her by the hips as she does, and she squeaks, as he pushes her down on the bed.

"oh!" she gasps, trying to sit up, but he's on top of her in a moment, mouthing at her neck roguishly, a sloppy trail left in his wake.

her skin erupts in goosebumps, but she knows better than to touch him when he gets like this - his need for dominance forbidding it. her hands grip the covers to ground herself, as his lips trail downwards, cheekily biting the bow of her bra, and taking a nip of her skin along with it. she moans, jolting, and he slaps her thigh - but gently. he's not meaning to hurt her - and trust her, she can tell when he is.

"stay still." he hisses, finally parting from her torso to marvel at her, "good lord, gonna fuck you in all this, sweetheart." he mumbles, more to himself than anything else, as his hands cup her breasts framed in the bra, squeezing softly so as to not damage the material.

usually, he'd revel in pushing her down to choke on his cock, and, when he was feeling more generous, he'd go down on her like a ravenous man.

but he was a simple man, who had been generous enough tonight. and he wasn't putting her in a position where he can't see her in the whole get-up, so the blowjob was out too.

fuck it, he thinks, reaching for the belt of his pants, i need her.

she gets up to help him undo his pants, but he forces her back into laying down, "wanna see you." he grumbles, finally undoing his pants. already hard, he palms his cock, eyes rolling back, "fuck."

he lowers again to shift the slit of the panties to the side, exposing her arousal, swiping his fingers through her mess, making her bite her lip. he wipes it gently on her cheek - a wholesome act, with a backdrop of degradation and depravity. he presses a soft hiss to the bow on her panties, making her shiver, before rising to his full length.

"you want it?" he grunts, as he strokes his cock, adjusting so it's lined up. she whimpers, as he's prolonging both of their suffering just to highlight her need for him. pathetically, she nods, and he laughs - barking and cold. "i can't hear you."

"yes!" she gasps out, unable to hold back anymore. he smirks in satisfaction, shifting his hips forward to bottom out in one stroke.

she cries out, eyes rolling back and head lolling onto the mattress, trying desperately to adjust to the stretch. he doesn't have that same decency, animalistically beginning to move his hips.

a squeal gets caught in her throat, and she cave to her instincts, gripping the wrist of the hand he's holding her waist with, squeezing as an indication of not her pain, but her pleasure.

thankfully, the adjustment was quick, and her surprised squeaks morph into pleasured moans, as he grunts on top of her, eyes raking the way that her tits try to bounce in the confinement of the bra. unusually, he's not annoyed by her touch, and it only makes him move more aggressively, as he can tell what makes her pleasure increase - as she'll squeeze his wrist harder.

"who's making ya feel this good?" he growls, "who takes care f'ya, sweetheart?" she chokes, garbled, broken moans escaping her.

"y-you!" she manages to gasp out, "o-only you, no one else, you - you take care of - of - oh, fuck!" she squeaks, feeling the pressure of her orgasm, "gonna - can i please - please-?!" she begs nonsensically, but he understands her - of course he does. she's his girl, after all.

"cum, sweetheart." he assures through gritted teeth, "who's making you cum?"

"y-you-" she cuts herself off with a cry as she cums, body stilling and legs trembling, as he continues to thrust and she rides out the orgasm.

he follows right after her, the squeeze of her cunt around sending his body into overdrive. collapsing on the bed beside her, the two remain silent for a minute to catch their breath.

finally, he clears his throat, getting up, and pulling her up, too. "go, clean up." he instructs, voice less gruff and softer, asking her to do something for her own good as opposed to his, "then change. don't think i can do another round right now." he knows that if he sees her in the outfit for longer, he'd get hard again.

with a woozy head, she does as he says. when she changes, though, she decides against the clothes that he bought her. she loves them, of course, but their either too coarse or flashy for night-time wear.

besides, they don't provide the precise comfort of stability that the flannel and boxers she puts on again does. though she tells herself she's not sure why joel's clothes seem more comforting than the new clothes, she's lying.

she feels more comfy in them because they smell and feel like him.

he's already knocked out when she exits, sleeping on his side, having evidently left the perfect amount of space for her to curl into his side, pulling his arm over to cradle her.

she knew he would always take care of her.

#joel miller #joel miller oneshot #joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #dark!joel miller #the last of us #tlou #tlou hbo #pedro pascal #valentines 2024

299 notes · View notes

fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

Text

Seams

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part II: Threads }

Rating: M

Summary: Joel has a problem. Having settled into some semblance of a 'normal' life in Jackson that no longer involves running for his life and living off scraps, his clothes are getting a little… tight. Self-conscious, he deals with it the way he does most things - he ignores it.

That is until one day, the zipper on his jeans finally gives up after one too many desperate tugs, leaving him stuck. With neither Tommy nor Ellie anywhere to be found to get him out of the tight spot, Joel begrudgingly heads to the clothing store he’s seen in town for help - and a new pair of jeans.

There, he meets you.

Warnings: Spicy thoughts, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, body insecurity, some language, Joel being unkind to himself, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 6k

Notes: I haven't written anything this fast for a hot minute. It's both exciting and terrifying, especially as Joel is so new to the fandom. So this is a one-shot as it stands, but I'll be lying if I say I haven't thought about where this story can go. Please be gentle with me, Joel is easily the most intimidating Pedro boy I've written for so far. I hope this doesn't disappoint 🥺

‘TommmMMMMMYYYY!’

His voice echoes in the empty street, gruff with irritation. He can feel eyes on him - he always does, wherever he goes in this damn place - covert stares from behind curtains, peeking out of windows from the neighbouring houses.

The polished wood thumps hollowly under his fist. Head bowed in surrender, his forehead makes contact with the surface of the door with a dull thud.

‘Fuck,’ he mutters under his breath.

Trudging back to the house that’s been allocated to him - he still struggles to think of it as his - he slams the door shut behind him so hard that the sound rings in his ears. Well, more in his left than his right.

Tossing the keys onto a chest of drawers in the hallway, he yells in a last-ditch attempt, ‘Ellieeee!’

The house is silent.

The one time he needs either of them, neither can be found anywhere. Even Maria has made herself scarce - not that he’d ask her for help for this.

This being these stupid fucking jeans.

His trusty jeans that he’s worn for years, other than on laundry days, which were few and far in between. They’ve literally seen him through thick and thin - the knees are so worn he can almost see the web of white thread beneath the denim.

Tess had gotten him these jeans. Stole them, if he remembers correctly. Once upon a time, he needed a belt to hold them up, or they’d hang down to his ass crack. By the time Ellie came into the picture, they fit well enough to render the belt redundant. He could still easily fit things into his pockets though, like a map or a switchblade.

But now -

Now he’s stuck, and he can’t get them off.

If he’s being honest with himself, the jeans haven’t fit for months. The jobs in Jackson don’t come anywhere close to the backbreaking work in the QZ or being on the road with Ellie. The food is plentiful even during the harsh winter, and as much as he looks down his ideological nose at it, Maria deserves credit for the thriving commune.

He had a late start this morning. Ellie had already vacated the house by the time he came to. He was on autopilot, distracted by his thoughts about the porch steps that have rotted and need to be replaced.

He was making plans in his head to nip down to the workshop to get the wooden planks when he started getting dressed. Stepping into the legs of the jeans, he pulled them up, hopping to stretch them over his thighs. Out of habit, he sucked in his belly to button them up, the waistband seemingly even tighter than usual.

He relegated that to the back of his mind, the same way he’s ignored the fact that the jeans have been uncomfortably tight for months - to the point of hindering his movement when he lays bricks, or cuts off his breathing when he sits down. But he’s gotten used to it, like he does everything else. He’s Joel Miller with the stiff upper lip, after all.

The zipper was next. As usual, he met resistance about halfway up. Baring his teeth, he gripped the tongue of the zipper and yanked upwards.

Except this time, it didn’t budge. Grumbling, he pulled harder, feeling the burn in his biceps -

It happened so quickly that he wasn’t even aware until he was wheeling backwards from the force, his arm flying up in an arc - and a metallic clink behind him registered faintly in his good ear.

Disoriented, he glanced down at the zipper. The slider had come clean off.

‘Fuck,’ he swore and turned to the full-length mirror on the wall to inspect the damage. Running an experimental finger along the seam, it was clear that the zipper had somehow snagged on the denim. It was stuck. Dead stuck.

Turning the house inside out, he couldn’t find a single pair of scissors, and there isn’t enough space to fit a knife in without slicing himself open, at which point he left on his ultimately fruitless search for reinforcement.

Joel scrubs a tired hand down his face. He’s never been a vain guy - Tommy is that sibling. But he’s never needed to stress about his looks either, with contracting keeping him in shape before the outbreak, and the fight for survival after - until now.

Grabbing his jacket, he shrugs it on, hyper-conscious of whether it’s a tighter squeeze than usual (fortunately not) - and heads into town.

Main Street Outfitters, the only clothing store in Jackson, sits in the middle of the high street, sandwiched between the pub on one side and the welder’s on the other. For the most part, residents come in to trade in old clothes for new ones, but there’s also a nicer selection for the occasional party that one can barter for.

You’re in the workshop at the back, the afternoon sun filling the room through the skylight.

With your skill in thread and needle, you were the obvious candidate for the job when you arrived in Jackson. Over the years, it has become your sanctuary. The walls are lined with wooden shelves, where neat - though mismatched - boxes of buttons, trimmings, thread and trinkets slot perfectly into place.

You spend the days checking over incoming clothes after they come back from the laundry, making sure they are in reasonable condition and mending those that are not. The shop also charges for adjustments and repairs, and the tasks easily fill your working hours.

It’s a Tuesday, and it’s usually quiet this time of the afternoon. If you’re lucky, you can be undisturbed until you clock off at five - which is why you’re surprised when you hear the tinkle of the doorbell.

The footfall is heavy, it sounds like a strong work boot. You hold your breath and your fingers hover mid-air as the door shuts with a slam. You hear the customer clear his throat - definitely a man - as you wait in vain for the front of house to greet him.

But of course Lucy has sneaked out again. She’s a sweet girl, but manning the counter has always been too dull for her.

‘Hello?’

The voice is deep and gravelly, and despite your reluctance, it doesn’t sit well with your work ethic to keep a customer waiting. Sticking the needle into a pin cushion, you noiselessly rise from your seat and make your way to the front of the shop.

Your first glimpse of him is his back. Standing in front of a rack of jeans, the grays in his hair catch the light streaming through the shop front windows. You study him for a minute, curious eyes running over the width of broad shoulders under a beat-up, khaki jacket. Lower, his jeans are… well-worn, to put it kindly. And from sight, a sitting a bit tight on his hips -

You must have shifted your feet without you noticing. At the minutest creak of wood, the man whips around, one hand reaching behind him in search of the butt of a loaded gun or the hilt of a knife. It’s your good fortune that you see neither on him. The intensity of his gaze is just as effective as a blade on your neck to pin you to your spot.

There’s no question that he’s a newcomer. You’ve seen the same kind of intensity in everyone who’s braved what’s out there to get here.

But even if that didn’t give him away, you already know who he is. He’s Tommy’s brother. Joel, if you remember correctly. Maria approached you for some clothes a few months back when he arrived with his kid for the second time. They’ve been the talk of town since - not that you listen. In fact, you try not to, but you can’t help it if someone talks loudly enough at the next table in the canteen to interrupt your lunchtime reading.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles as the tension in his body recedes. ‘You’re very quiet.’

You duck your head. ‘Sorry.’

‘You work here?’

Wringing your fingers nervously, you nod and take two timid steps towards him, hoping he doesn’t hear the tremour in your voice. ‘How can I help?’

You’ve heard things about Joel Miller. The words most frequently whispered as he ambles by in town include ruthless, cold-blooded and steer clear.

You can’t exactly reconcile the man in front of you with those particular words right now.

There’s nothing that speaks to ruthlessness in the way he averts his eyes and shuffles his feet, the blunt tip of his shoes catching the wooden floor. You also find it hard to believe that a truly cold-blooded person would willingly cross the country and all its horrors in search of his brother, or take a teenager under his wing.

You might not think much of yourself, but you know that your judgement of character has kept you alive so far. And your instinct isn’t telling you to steer clear of this man - quite the opposite, in fact.

But that’s neither here nor there.

He rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable with your scrutiny. ‘Just lookin’ for some new jeans.’

‘Alright,’ you reply, taking the remaining five steps to the other end of the jeans rack, a safe distance away from him. ‘What’s your size?’

To your surprise, he huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘At least one up from whatever I have on right now.’

Sucking in a breath, you gesture vaguely at him. ‘Um, do you mind if I take a look at uh - you? So I can guess what size will fit you?’

You’re used to being the most awkward person in the room wherever you go, but this man is giving you a pretty good run for your money right now. While you divert your gaze as he unbuttons the front of his jacket, he fixes his somewhere over your shoulder to the right, grinding his teeth, as if he wishes he was anywhere but here.

Dragging your eyes back to him, you take stock of your customer as he sweeps the lapels of the jacket to the side. Underneath, the green flannel cuts off at the top of the jeans, and you see the soft pouch of his abdomen beneath the fabric. While the shirt is well-fitted, the jeans are obviously too small. The waistband bites into his sides, you can see the subtle overhang of his love handles. Even by the way he’s standing you can tell he’s uncomfortable, packed in way too tight in the denim.

And then… you really shouldn’t, but you stare at the front of the jeans. Now, you know for a fact that the fit will be just as snug there even if he goes a size up…

‘Sorry, not much to look at,’ he grunts, breaking the silence.

Taken aback by the self-derision in his voice, the words leave your mouth before they register, sharper than you mean them to be. ‘Don’t say that.’

He blinks at you. ‘What?’

You gape at him. Does he really not see? His tall, solid frame? The strong columns of his thighs? Is this man blind on top of being frustratingly attractive -?

But of course you can never say that. Instead, you pull out three different pairs of jeans in quick succession and all but throw them at him, heat prickling the tips of your ears as the disbelief that you spoke to a customer like that sinks in.

‘The dressing room is there,’ you squeak, pointing at the far corner. ‘I’ll be at the back if you need any help -’

You turn on your heels, in a hurry to get back to your workshop, but you only get halfway through the spin. It takes you three seconds to realise why - his calloused palm is on your wrist, holding you in place.

‘Actually, I do need help - I broke the zipper, and I’m stuck in these damn jeans.’

You ignore the clench of your stomach at the way he spits out the word damn. You’re not big on swearing, but the cuss word sounds good rolling off his tongue in his Southern twang.

To your horror, a giggle bubbles up your throat before you can slap a palm over your mouth.

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ you apologise profusely, heat flooding your cheeks.

You stare in consternation when those broad shoulders of his quake, a half-smile on his lips as they part in a scratchy chuckle. ‘Trust me, I’m glad I found you first. My brother or my kid would have given me a much harder time. Probably would’ve pissed their pants laughin’.’

Despite yourself, you smile back with a weak attempt at a joke. ‘I mean, I’ll try not to -’

He smirks, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘That’s all I can ask for.’

You lead the way to the back of the shop and Joel follows three polite steps behind, pausing by the doorway. Running practised eyes over the space, the contractor in him appreciates the well-built skylight and the sturdy furniture in the room, pieces that were clearly built to last. He places the jeans you picked out for him on the big work table, made of strong timber and aged with time.

He picked up a change in your demeanour the moment you crossed the threshold into the workshop. There’s a quiet confidence in your measured steps, the way you move speaking volumes - this is clearly your place, and you’re so much more comfortable in your skin here.

You point at the spot marked by a round, cosy rug directly beneath the skylight. ‘Could you stand there for me?’

Doing as he’s told, he startles when you march straight up to him, sliding your palms under the shoulders of his jacket to push it off. Your front brushes his chest briefly when you reach around to catch it, but not brief enough for him to ignore the soft swell of your breasts pressed up against him.

Joel is all too aware of his pulse going from zero to a hundred at the fleeting touch, the collar of his shirt suddenly a bit too tight. For fuck’s sake, Miller. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since his head has gone anywhere near there, but of course it has to happen at the most inconvenient moment.

At least you don’t seem to notice, draping his jacket over the back of a chair before retrieving a pair of tailor’s scissors from one meticulously organised drawer.

Just when he thinks he’s gotten a handle on himself, you hit him with a non-sequitur. ‘Are you wearing underwear?’

Only when Joel splutters wordlessly does the full weight of the question seem to hit you. You stutter, ‘Oh god, I didn’t - I mean - I only asked because if push comes to shove, and I have to cut through the jeans, I don’t want to ruin any underwear you’re wearing -’

You trail off, and it’s his turn to stammer, scratching an invisible itch on his elbow as he struggles to remember what he usually does with his hands.

‘No, no, I get it. I’m ahem -,’ he pauses with a cough. ‘I’m not actually wearin’ any underwear right now. Not out of habit, it’s just that I’ve been barely squeezin’ into the stupid jeans even without it.’

His honest answer seems to put you at ease, and you purse your lips. ‘Sounds uncomfortable.’

He shrugs. ‘Have been for months.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He arches an eyebrow. ‘What for?’

‘That you’ve been uncomfortable. That’s one thing clothes shouldn’t be.’

Not quite knowing how to answer you, he watches you grab a velvet cushioned footstool from under the work table and place it squarely at his feet. Then, without further preamble, you sink onto your knees in front of him, knocking the air clean out of his lungs.

As he stares down at the crown of your head, your nose at the level of his waistband, he muses that he hasn’t seen this view for a long time, a very long time. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he closes his eyes, fighting the base instinct to cup the back of your head in his palm and to pull you close -

He breathes out hard through his nostrils and clenches his jaw, casting his gaze heavenwards through the skylight as he actually prays for the first time in years.

Don’t you fucking dare get hard, Miller.

You chew on the inside of your mouth as you consider what’s before you. It’s tricky. The jeans are unbuttoned and zipped up most of the way, but the denim has been caught tight in the metallic teeth, and the handle of the zipper yanked clean off.

Cocking your head to one side, you think out loud. ‘I think we should at least try and unsnag the zipper before cutting. But we’re going to need some lubrication, and we’ll need to give it a really good, firm tug -’

The man chokes on nothing above you, and you frown up at him in a question.

Clearing his throat loudly, he asks through gritted teeth, ‘Do we have to?’

‘I mean, I can just cut open the jeans, but then you’ll definitely have to trade in something extra to cover the costs of the repairs -’

He interrupts, ‘That. Let’s do that.’

‘Alright, your call,’ you say with a nod. ‘Can you hold up your shirt?’

You try not to gawk when he draws up the tails of his flannel, revealing his soft stomach underneath. The mid-rise jeans cut off beneath his belly button, and you eye the trail that sneaks full and dark under the waistband. He’s obviously sucking his tummy in, and you catch yourself wishing he doesn’t feel like he has to.

You bite your bottom lip. ‘Do you think you can fit a couple of fingers into the waistband so I can slide the scissors in? They’re sharp, I don’t want to cut you.’

You watch as he tries, first his index finger, then his middle, but he can barely squeeze in beyond the nail, which turns completely colourless from the pressure. He sighs in surrender. ‘Mfraid you’ll have to, sweetheart.’

You have to close your eyes for a moment, your head swimming. You’re not sure whether it’s from the sweetheart, or the fact that he wants you to stick your hand down the front of his pants.

Well, not exactly that he wants you to. And not your hand. But still.

You squeak. ‘Do I have to?’

He pins you a sarcastic arch of his eyebrows. ‘Well, if you’re sure that you won’t cut my dick off -’

Your face heats up at his blunt words, falling back onto your haunches. ‘Great, now you’ve got me worried -’

Palms up in apology, he shrugs. ‘Sorry -’

‘No, no, you’re right. I don’t want to accidentally castrate you,’ you sigh. ‘Are you - um - well adjusted in there?’

‘I’d go down the right side of the zipper,’ he answers diplomatically.

Taking a deep breath, you ask, ‘Ready?’

‘Whenever you are, sweetheart.’

The first contact is the brush of your knuckles against his stomach, the skin warm and soft on the back of your fingers. You don’t dare look up, but you can feel his eyes on you as you burrow your index finger under the waistband. Though it’s a squeeze, you manage to wriggle in nail side down, creating a small gap - still not quite enough to get the scissors in without nicking him.

Talking more to yourself, you mumble, ‘Better safe than sorry. Let me just get one more finger in -’

Joel chokes so hard that you almost jump back in fright, frowning at him as he catches his breath. ‘Are you okay? Do you need some water?’

His voice tight, he shakes his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

You wait a beat to make sure he doesn’t go into another coughing fit. When the coast is clear, you gesture at his jeans. ‘Can I just -’

‘Get one more finger in?’ he finishes your sentence in his raspy baritone.

You finally hear it when he says it like that. And oh god, your ears burn as you stare up at him, lips parted, torn between outrage and a very disorienting arousal. ‘You - you -’

A wicked smirk tugs unexpectedly at the corner of his mouth. ‘I already tried, sweetheart. My fingers are too big to fit inside.’

The touch of playful condescension in his tone has your jaw going slack, and your brain practically short-circuits at the thoughts of where else they are too big to fit inside of -

So as it turns out, you’re brave, or just downright stupid, when you’re turned on. Next thing you know, you hear yourself telling him off. ‘I could just leave you in those jeans you know.’

Joel smiles wider, and retorts, ‘I don’t think you would.’

‘Just because I’m shy doesn’t mean I don’t have a mean streak,’ you shoot back.

He seems pleased to have lured you out of your shell, grinning down at you. ‘Believe me, I’m shakin’ in my boots, sweetheart.’

It’s really unfair that he looks this good from where you are on your knees. His eyes are hooded, curls flecked with grays sweeping his forehead. Even though the apocalypse has left its marks on him in wrinkles, frown lines, and smudged bags under his eyes, it has clearly not taken away from that proud nose or plush lips -

Steadying yourself with a deep inhale, you shake yourself out of it. With an in, it’s slightly easier to push in your middle finger into the waistband to widen the gap. Happy with the quarter inch of space, you hold up the scissors. ‘I’m ready to cut if you are.’

He nods his acquiesce. ‘Do your worst.’

Opening up the scissors and carefully fitting the blade beneath the denim, you carefully begin snipping away. They are sharp, but the fabric is tough and you’re conscious of the very tight fit, so you take it slow.

You pause when you’re a couple of inches in, when Joel lets out a groan of relief. Absent-mindedly, you run a soothing thumb over the angry, red indents the waistband dug into the soft pouch of his tummy, sending a shudder through him.

‘Sorry,’ you squeak, snatching back your hand as if he burns you.

Too preoccupied with the relief of being able to breathe, Joel shakes his head. ‘Don’t be. Just keep going. Please.’

Why is that one word - six letters - making your breath hitch?

Gripping the top of the now open fly and pinning it against his body so you don’t accidentally see anything you’re not meant to see - whether you want to deliberately is a completely different matter - you hunker down and keep cutting along the zipper.

Each snip gets easier as the jeans release their death grip on him. The right side of the fly falls away as you cut, the denim peeling back slowly to expose the skin underneath. Your eyes drift to the curve of the pubic bone that’s now completely in view, and it’s taking everything you have to not lean over and run the broad of your tongue along it -

How long has it been since you’ve been with a man? When was the last time you had someone stand before you, pants unzipped and hanging open -

With tremendous fortitude, you tear your eyes away to check on him, ‘All good?’

The grunt of respite that he lets out is almost guttural, going straight between your legs. ‘Feels so fuckin’ good to breathe.’

‘Before I keep going, do you want to - uh - rearrange yourself?’

You expect him to turn around, or at least give you a second to turn around to give him some privacy, but he’s obviously been too deprived of oxygen to think straight. One big palm snakes down his front, right in your face, and he cups himself through the denim.

You stop breathing, eyes wide as he adjusts himself.

Holy fuck.

When he’s done, he gives you a thumbs up. ‘All good.’

This is it. You’re not making it out of this alive.

You can barely get the words out, your throat suddenly drier than sandpaper. ‘Can you, um, hold up the other side of the fly?’

When he does, you stare at his hand next to yours. How is it so big? The veins are prominent on the back, leading down to thick fingers, the nails neatly trimmed and clean - but you bet there’s residue gunpowder underneath.

There’s still a slither of skin peeking through the V of the fly as the scissors slice through the denim, following his happy trail. The lower you go, the thicker and darker the curls, and goddamnit - what is wrong with you - all you can think about is burying your nose right in there, nudging through the hair, lower and lower and lower still -

A sharp pain on your left finger makes you yelp, the scissors falling from your other hand to the floor with a loud clang. A small bead of blood wells up on the tip where the sharp blade nicked it, and in a panic, you let go of his jeans.

‘Shit,’ Joel curses and covers himself up quickly, his brow furrowed in concern. ‘You okay?’

You nod in embarrassment while you get on your feet. ‘I - my hand just slipped. It’s nothing, the smallest cut, I’m fine -’

Well, to be fair, you were fine - until he grabs your left wrist, brings your hand up to his face and sucks your bleeding fingertip into his mouth.

As if it’s the logical thing to do.

Your knees buckle, and you collapse into his front, but he doesn’t even budge, as if you weigh nothing. Taking a deep breath - wood smoke, simple soap and man fill your lungs. Peering up at him through your lashes, you spot the silver flanking the hinge of his jaw, leading down to a peculiar bare patch on the left side of his beard.

He watches you back as he releases your finger with a wet pop. Tracing his bottom lip with his tongue, he pronounces, ‘Just a small cut. You’ll live.’

Will you though? Because it feels like you’re on the verge of expiring from breathlessness.

He glances down at his front, which he’s still holding up. ‘I guess I can get out of these now.’

It takes you three seconds to catch up before you stumble backwards. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’

‘Thank you for freeing me,’ he says with a lopsided smile.

You duck your head, unable to meet his gaze all of a sudden - hypocrite, you had no problem perving on him a minute ago - and nod at the jeans on the table. ‘Why don’t you try those on?’

He clears his throat. ‘I, uh, should probably put on some underwear first.’

You barely manage to hold back from smacking yourself on the forehead. ‘Of course. We do have some in stock. Boxers or briefs?’

He looks amused. ‘What do you think, sweetheart?’

You hesitate, but you force yourself to be brave and venture a guess. ‘Boxers.’

He winks, and you grin back.

Joel hovers uncertainly in front of the mirror in the fitting room, having exhausted all the angles he can see twice, and wonders if he’s been dithering for too long. He’s not even sure what he’s looking at anymore, so he bites the bullet and draws back the curtain.

‘How do they feel?’ you ask.

He was counting on some hint from you, but you give nothing away. So he shrugs, hands on hips. ‘I honestly can’t tell you.’

‘May I?’

At his nod, you step into his space, and he watches as you hook your fingers into the belt loops on either side of the jeans and pull them up, as if gauging the size. He holds his breath as your hair grazes the front of his chest.

‘They’re a bit loose, to be honest,’ you tell him.

He scoffs self-decrepatingly. ‘Probably not for long at the rate I’m going.’

You take a step back and level him with a glare. ‘Stop it.’

He frowns, hackles rising. ‘What?’

‘Stop putting yourself down.’

That he didn’t expect. He protests, ‘I’m not putting myself down -’

‘Yes, yes, you are,’ you interrupt him with a boldness that has his eyebrows reaching for his hairline. With fire in your eyes, you go toe to toe with him, poking him in the chest with a firm finger. ‘You’re alive, you’re safe here, and you’re fit as hell. If you’re going to make fun of yourself for putting on a bit of healthy weight, you can go ahead and get out of my shop.’

Warmth blooms in his chest as Joel stares down at you, breathing heavily after your little speech but showing no intention of backing down. You don’t know him, but for some reason, you’re fighting his corner.

That shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

Pursing his lips, he towers over you as he teases, ‘You think I’m fit as hell, sweetheart?’

With a roll of your eyes, you walk backwards to the shelves, rummaging through the sizes before returning with a pair of dark wash jeans. You quip, ‘Don’t fish for compliments, it’s unbecoming.’

You snap the curtain shut in his face with a flick of your wrist before he can answer, and he chuckles to himself as pulls on the jeans you picked out for him.

When he pushes open the curtain again, Joel doesn’t miss the way you pause as you stare.

The waistband sits on his hips without cutting into his stomach, and he’s pleased that he can comfortably slide his hands into the pockets. The denim wraps firmly, but not tightly, against his backside, holding his thighs comfortably and falling straight down to the ankles. The wash is dark and flattering, smarter than his old ones.

When the silence has stretched on long enough, Joel shifts on his feet and asks, ‘Well?’

You turn the question back at him. ‘What do you think?’

He shrugs. ‘They’re alright, I guess.’

With a tilt of your head, you prompt, ‘You can say it, you know.’

‘Say what?’

‘You can say that you look good.’

Joel huffs, shaking his head and catching his reflection in the mirror as he does. At your look of insistence, he reluctantly parrots back, ‘Alright. I look good. Happy, sweetheart?’

Then you smile, really smile, and he feels himself soften - his eyes, his face, his mouth, his fucking old, rickety knees -

Suddenly, the bell over the door rings and a woman bustles in. ‘I’m so sorry, Pin! I know I’ve been gone a long time, but I got your favourite tea to make it up to you -’

She stops abruptly when she spots him. ‘Hey! You’re Joel Miller, aren’t you?’

Before he can answer, she crosses the shop in a bundle of energy, sticking her hand out. ‘I’m Lucy, I’m a friend of Tommy and Maria’s. It’s so nice to finally meet you.’

He lets her shake his hand, then she continues without skipping a beat. ‘How are you settling in? You got that house in the street near the stables right? It’s great, it’s quiet but not too far from everything -’

Since she doesn’t seem interested in his participation in this conversation, he doesn’t. But he notices, with regret, the way you start to retreat, the shyness making a return in the shadow of her clearly more outgoing friend - like a bad habit.

He’s suddenly aware of a lull, and that Lucy is looking at him expectantly, like she’s just asked a question that he didn’t hear.

‘Yeah sure,’ he replies dismissively, stopping you with a hand on your wrist just as you try to slink away unnoticed. ‘Hey, wait a second -’

To Lucy’s credit, she picks up on the snub and the energy between the two of you at the same time. Instead of taking offence, she gives you a knowing look and points towards the back diplomatically. ‘You know what Pin, I just bumped into Maria and she asked me something about our fabric inventory, so I better go check it out. I’ll see you around, Joel.’

With a wink in your direction, Lucy makes herself scarce, leaving the tea on the counter for you.

Joel’s quiet for a beat when you’re left alone again. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to run off your friend, but I just wanted to uh - thank you. For all this.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Like she said, I’m Joel. Probably should’ve introduced myself before I asked you to cut me out of my jeans.’

You quip, ‘There’s always next time.’

He chuckles, and asks, ‘Did your friend just call you - Pin?’

‘It’s just a silly nickname,’ you explain. ‘As in pins and needles, for obvious reasons.’

Then you give him your real name and your hand, his palm warm and calloused against yours as he shakes it firmly. When he lets you go, you notice the watch on his wrist, the veins of broken glass on the face catching the light.

Nodding at it, you ask, ‘Do you need that fixed? There’s a repair guy down the road who can fix anything.’

Confused for a moment about what you’re referring to, Joel pauses before realisation dawns on him. His answer is suddenly polite, a stark contrast to the light-hearted conversation just now. ‘No, I - I like it this way. But thanks.’

You don’t miss the emotional weight behind his words, and the air thickens with unspoken meaning, but you know better than to ask.

‘I understand,’ you say simply.

Everyone has something like the watch is to him. God knows you do. A moment of quiet understanding passes between you, one that needs no words.

Breaking the silence, he says, ‘So, you mentioned I’ll need to trade in something else for these jeans -’

You dismiss that notion with a wave of your hand. ‘Oh no, it’s ok. I got it.’

‘You don’t have to -’

You shut him down. ‘It’s not a big deal, it will take me two minutes to replace the zipper.’

He hesitates. ‘And the boxers -’

Passing him his jacket, you insist, ‘Seriously, Joel, don’t worry about it.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes it from you and shrugs it on. You try not to look too conspicuously when the bottom of his shirt draws up, flashing a bit of tummy, but it’s gone too quickly. With a nod, he concedes reluctantly, ‘You really shouldn’t, but thank you. I owe you one.’

You roll your eyes with no real exasperation as you walk him towards the exit. ‘I know you haven’t been here for long - that’s just how things work around these parts. We do things for each other, you don’t owe me anything.’ Pulling the door open, you give him one last grin. ‘Welcome to Jackson, Joel.’

‘Thanks, Pin,’ he says as he crosses the threshold. He pauses on the porch and looks around the high street slowly, as if he’s taking it in for the first time. He then turns to you with a parting wink that is charged with easy confidence. ‘I think I’ll like it here.’

You linger by the door, leaning against the frame as he jogs down the front steps with a swagger, watching in appreciation at the way his new jeans frame his backside. You smile when he slides his hands into his pockets as he walks away, the afternoon breeze ruffling his curls and the sun warming his broad shoulders.

You think you’ll like him here as well.

Notes: As I was writing this, I couldn't help thinking that it reminded me of Grays 🙈 What can I say? I want to give middle-aged men in need of self-love all the reassurance that they need. I hope you enjoyed Pin and Joel's meet-cute, I'm honestly so nervous about this fic I had to stop myself from compulsively over-editing.

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated as always 🥰

P.S. Apparently, there is a Main Street Outfitter in the game, so I ran with it.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

#tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fic #joel miller imagine #joel miller oneshot

5K notes · View notes

bits-and-babs · 1 year

Note

Joel Miller fucking you with his hand over your mouth because Ellie or someone else is in the sleeping bag next to you 🥵

05. voyeurism || joel miller masterlist || main masterlist

Joel slides inside of you so easily that it makes your mind whirl. His promise to fuck you nice and slow when you got to the safe house was being fulfilled, his thick cock stretching you out. He’s rock hard, pulsing and forcing your legs as wide as the sleeping bag will allow but fuck it’s so much!

He hushes you, forcing your mind to suddenly realise you’re whimpering out his name. A chorus of Joel, Joel, Jo-. His palm settles heavily over your mouth, the metallic scent of blood and earthy soil floods your senses, and you feel your pulse around his cock.

Ellie sleeps soundly in her sleeping bag only meters away, and Joel smothers your whines in an attempt to prevent you from waking her. Again.

“Sh-sh-sh,” he shushes, rocking his hips up into you slowly. The fabric of the sleeping bag rustles, and Joel has to be careful not to make too much noise with each rock into you. The print of his index finger, calloused after years of pulling triggers, circles your neglected clit in diligent circles. “Tha’s it, Darlin’. Can feel it comin’ already, can’t you?”

Fuck, you can. You can feel it building inside of you, a slow, teasing crescendo. Wails die on your tongue behind his hand, your lips ao pressed by his palm and its firm hold. Joel twitches inside of you, and you momentarily consider if he likes this- smothering you like one of his torture victims.

The thought causes your cunt to flood and stutter around him, your eyes rolling back into your head as you feel it built and build and build-

“Feels good don’t it, Pumpkin? Give it to me good now, Darlin’.”

Unbearable. It squeezes you around Joel’s cock so tight that even your lungs seize up. Joel’s fingers continue to work you up and up, your orgasm peaking and yet building at the same time when he shifts your hips up and catches something bone shattering inside of you. God, you nearly scream.

The rapture blinds you, white spots peppering your vision as Joel moans through your bliss. A little ‘mhmm’ that is so gravelly you feel it grit against your skin like sand paper. The aftershocks of your orgasm spark through you, making your thighs twitch from their elevated angle over his hips.

“I need another one, baby. You can give me another, can’t you? Give me another. That’s it, oh, that’s it. Yes, yes- good girl.”

4K notes · View notes

thatmrmiller · 1 year

Text

Every Man Gets his Wish

Warnings: 18+ smut, significant age gap, virgin!reader, kinda purity/corruption kink, problematic conversations around the hetero-normative concept of virginity, unprotected sex, power imbalance, cheating, blackmail/ coercion, noncon, forced breeding. Dead Dove, very creepy content, overall discretion advised.

WC: 3.1k

A/N: credit to @serenaxpedro for the prompt, what an idea... Title is from the unreleased Lana song!

Sarah Miller was your college roommate. You became friends quickly, she was bubbly and personable and you felt as though you had known her for years.

Soon it turned into something else, you weren't sure you were necessarily official, but you fooled around together and dated. Then, one weekend, she invited you to go home with her.

So there you were, in her childhood bedroom. Her dad was out and you were both hanging out the window, sharing a joint. She was giggly at the best of times but combined with the weed, she was downright ridiculous.

"Shhh!" You urged. "What if he comes home?"

"You think he didn't smoke weed in his twenties?" She laughs.

"That's different, you- We-" She pulls a silly expression, waiting for you to go on, but you burst out into laughter before you can finish your thought.

After the joint is finished you lay in bed together, her on her back with her head on the pillow and you on your stomach next to her, kicking your legs up in the air behind you.

You point out a poster on the wall "Who the hell is that?" You ask.

She laughs and gets out her phone. "A band I was obsessed with when I was younger. Listen."

She plays a terrible song, an angsty boyband and you laugh along with her.

You hadn't even heard her dad's truck pull up or him enter the house.

"I had such a crush on him." She admits, showing you a photo of one of the band members.

"Gross." You say.

"I thought you liked guys too?" She responds.

"I do, I guess, but I'm picky."

"What do you mean by picky?"

"Well... I've slept with probablyyyy..." You drag out the word. "I don't know. A few girls at least. But never a guy."

She laughs. "So you're a virgin?"

You throw a pillow at her softly. "I'm not a-" You laugh too. "I'm not a virgin. There's nothing that says you must sleep with a dude to lose your virginity."

She hums, unconvinced.

Neither of you are aware that her dad is standing right outside the bedroom door. He hadn't even meant to snoop, he was just going to knock and tell you he was home. But he was interested in the conversation and listened in.

"I just have never met a guy I was remotely interested in sleeping with. They're so. Bleh." You pull a face as you make the mocking sound and she laughs.

"Well you're in college now so I'm sure that will change."

"College boys are no better than high school boys. They all suck." You giggle.

"I'm hungry." She announces, and jumps off the bed.

Just then, a knock sounds on the bedroom door.

"Can I come in?" A gruff voice sounds.

Your eyes widen in panic, worried he will come in, smell the weed, and lose his shit. You know your own dad would. Sarah sees your nerves and rolls her eyes at you.

"What is it?" She responds.

The door opens and you see Sarah's dad for the first time. He is tall and broad, visibly muscular under his tight dark tshirt. You look away, worried you were staring. But then again, you're high, and paranoid, and you probably weren't.

"Just came in to say I'm home. You girls need anything?" He asks.

"Food." Sarah says quickly. Too quickly. You shoot her a look.

He just laughs, muttering "I wonder why." Then he continues, "Well I went to the store today. There's chips, and, other stuff, I think."

She is already pushing past him.

He watches her go and then his gaze turns to you. He is smirking. He must be able to tell you are squirming with anxiety.

"I don't care about the weed." He says.

Your eyes are still wide in panic. You don't know what to respond.

He walks further into the room, still watching you.

"So..." He says. "You're Sarah's... Girlfriend?"

You feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"Shouldn't you ask her that?" You say. Admittedly, it maybe comes out ruder than you intended.

He laughs and whistles. "Alright. Feisty. I see why she likes you."

You don't respond. You continue to stare at him. You don’t know what he wants from you, and the whole ‘Cool Dad’ thing isn’t particularly impressive to you.

He licks his lips. “Anyway, from what I hear, sounds like you’re a good girl. So I don’t mind.”

You wonder what he means by that and realise he must have heard the conversation that you were having just before he came in. If it was possible, you feel yourself blushing harder.

His gaze is practically painful, you feel so embarrassed. The look on his face tells you that he knows this, and something else behind his eyes tells you he might even be enjoying it.

“I liked what I heard.” He says. You can see his gaze wandering all over you, you are only wearing a vest and shorts. “Always better to skip messing around with boys and wait for a man.”

You don’t meet his eye.

Sarah’s footsteps approach and he goes to leave the room, shooting you a wink.

She enters with her arms ladened with chips, soda, and candy.

You laugh at the sight of her. She closes the door behind herself with her foot.

“What did he want?” She asks, dropping her stash on the bed.

“Oh umm…” You try and think of what to say. “Just asking how school’s going.”

She laughs. “Surprising. He doesn’t take an interest in my degree.”

You just smile back and shrug. You feel bad about lying but you don’t know how to explain that you think her dad might have been creeping on you.

You lay in bed together, eating snacks and playing on your phones.

After a while, you’re thirsty. “I need water.” You say.

“Go help yourself.” She says, smiling.

“What if your dad’s downstairs?” You ask.

“It doesn’t matter.” She responds.

“But-”

“Don’t be a baby.” She taunts. “You can go to the kitchen without me holding your hand.”

You hit her playfully. She knows you’re not even shy so you don’t have a good excuse as to why you don’t want to go down alone.

You groan loudly and stand up.

“Can I at least get a sweater? I feel naked.”

She gestures to one strewn over her chair.

“Thanks.” You say. You put it on and it drowns you, covering your shorts.

You tiptoe down to the first floor quietly, not wanting your movements around the house to be easily noticeable.

You hear the television on as you get to the bottom of the stairs and realise he is in the living room, you would have to walk directly past him to get to the kitchen.

You flash him a smile as you pass, and he stares at you. You turn round when you enter the kitchen and he’s still staring, his eyes glued to your ass. He doesn’t even try to be subtle. Gross.

You find the cupboard that contains the glasses and run the tap. You jump as you turn round and find he is standing there, only the kitchen island separating you.

“Cute sweater.” He says, pointing at your chest.

“Umm…” You look down. It has the name of a baseball team on it. “It’s Sarah’s.”

“Actually, it’s mine.” He corrects.

“Oh. Sorry. She gave it to me.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, darlin’. Looks good. Keep it.” He says, nodding.

You don’t argue, but it’s not like you are actually going to keep it. You’ll just take it right back off and give it to Sarah. You only put it on so you didn’t attract his attention. It unfortunately had the opposite effect.

You have dealt with creepy guys before, but you have never been in their house. It is so much more intimidating. The fact he was attractive made it harder too, drawing you to him despite the obvious danger he posed.

You offer him a stiff smile and go to make your way round the kitchen counter and past him. He sidesteps and blocks your path.

An awkward laugh escapes you, and you look up at him.

He watches you, smiling. The tension is getting to you. He doesn’t make any move out of your way.

“What do you want from me?” You whisper.

“What? Nothing, sweetheart.” He says, frowning in confusion.

For a moment, you thought he was being genuine and you think you might have been reading this all wrong. Guilt twinges at you and you consider the situation. Maybe he was just lonely and awkward. Maybe Sarah didn’t have people round often and he was genuinely trying to be welcoming in his own way.

But he still doesn’t move.

“Excuse me.” You whisper.

He reaches a hand out to touch your face. You recoil but he pursues you, taking another step closer.

He runs his thumb across your lips.

“Funny. What you said earlier about being a virgin. It’s so obvious to me now.” He says.

You freeze in place, feeling your face heating in shock and embarrassment.

“There’s this… Look in your eyes. And how shy and embarrassed you get, how much you blush.” He says softly. One of his hands is gently stroking at your face, his thumb still tracing your bottom lip.

You try not to meet his eye, desperately looking for something else to focus on.

“Maybe you could use a lesson.” He muses.

“Mr Miller I-”

He finally steps away. “Hey, no pressure. I’m just kidding.”

Then, as you walked away, he slapped your ass.

You curse yourself for moments ago considering giving him the benefit of the doubt. He knew exactly what he was doing.

You couldn’t turn to face him so you scurried back up the stairs. You heard him chuckle behind you and your skin crawled. What was this guy’s problem?

You slammed the door behind you after hurrying into Sarah’s room.

“Woah.” She says, looking up to take in your expression. “What’s wrong?”

She reaches out to you and you climb onto the bed beside her.

You try to smile but it’s stiff and you feel closer to tears than anything.

“I don’t know. Bad weed I think. I feel so weird.”

You couldn’t tell her what was going on with Mr Miller. You barely understood yourself, never mind trying to explain it.

“Come here, chicken.” She says, reaching out and pulling you into her chest. You laughed a little at the nickname you had for each other.

Her sweet scent and warmth lulls you to sleep.

You wake up in the early hours of the morning needing to use the bathroom.

You pad barefoot across the hall and into the main bathroom. As you wash your hands, there is a soft knock at the door. You are still dazed from sleep and you open it.

You are instantly pushed backwards and the door closes again. Mr Miller.

He presses you into the counter immediately. He seems to have been drinking the whole time you have been asleep, his eyes a little glazed over and his movements slightly off balance.

“How you doin’?” He slurs.

“I’m fine, please-” He grinds into you, you are pinned against the counter and both his arms are either side of you, caging you in.

“Please, don’t do this.” You plead.

“What?” He says. “What don’t you want me to do?”

“I don’t know- just, any of this, please. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I think you did ask for it, baby. Think you’ve been asking for it all night. You came into my house, you bragged about never having been fucked before, and you expect me not to take that as a challenge? Paraded around in my clothes in front of me, with your ass out like a whore? Huh? That’s not asking for it?”

You feel tears forming in your eyes. “Bragging? No, honestly, that was a private conversation. One that you were not supposed to be involved in.”

“This is my house. Nothing that happens under my roof is private from me. Don’t be disrespectful.” He spits.

Your fear and discomfort turns into frustration. “Is this what you do? Force yourself on all of Sarah’s guests? I should go tell her.”

You try to push past him but he grabs both of your wrists and pushes his groin harder against you. You can practically taste the alcohol on his breath because of how close he is to you.

“Maybe I’ll go tell her you tried it on with me. She’ll be heartbroken, doll. You’re a real catch.”

You glare at him. This is fully-fledged blackmail.

“And then what ya’ gonna do?” He continues. “College is a long way off. So is home. It’s the middle of the night.”

You swallow your retort, realising he is right. You are technically stuck here, at least until the morning. You try a different tactic, sighing deeply.

“Listen, Mr. Miller, I’m really sorry for all this. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I, I don't want this. Can we just agree to forget all this, please? For Sarah?”

His eyes flash with something violent.

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“Please Mr-”

“Don’t call me that.” He snaps.

“Why?” You say sweetly.

He grabs your hand and forces it against the hard bulge in his jeans. “Because you’re turning me on.”

You could always yell out to Sarah.

As if reading your mind, he brings a hand to your mouth and presses down, covering it. His other hand works it’s way into your shorts. You squirm and try to kick at him but he’s strong and holds you in place.

“No one’s had you before?” He says. “Really?”

He isn’t looking for an answer, as he doesn’t take his hand away that is gripping your mouth.

“I haven’t fucked a virgin in years.” He says.

Your skin crawls at the thought as he continues to rub the outside of your underwear. You are doing all you can to avert your gaze and avoid his eyes, not wanting to see the sick look of pleasure he is bound to have behind them.

His fingers are rubbing through your folds, it is unpleasant, you aren’t getting wet because you are so uncomfortable. He takes his hand out and spits on it before forcing it back into your underwear, roughly inserting two fingers inside you.

He groans as he pushes them inside of you, you continue to whimper against the hand he has pressed to your mouth. He curls his fingers deep inside you and the stretch is painful.

He flashes you a dangerous look and hisses "Don't make a sound."

He removes the hand covering your mouth and you are intimidated into doing as he says, keeping quiet.

With both hands he tears off your shorts and underwear, and spins you round so your ass faces him and you are looking in the mirror.

You close your eyes, not wanting to see him or yourself as the situation unfolds. You feel him unzipping his jeans behind you and the heavy weight of his erect cock hits your ass. You feel him stroke himself a few times before gripping your thighs and spreading them apart, lifting one of your knees up to the counter and shifting himself to enter inside of you.

"Please don't-" You whimper, your voice weak and quiet.

He hisses at you to be quiet again.

He rubs his cock through your folds a couple of times before bringing it to your entrance. You gasp as he pushes it into you mercilessly, you are tight and unprepared. He stuffs himself inside you all the way to the hilt and tears threaten to spill from your eyes.

He immediately sets an aggressive pace, not a care for your discomfort as you squirm under him. His hands grip you roughly, holding you as still as possible to allow him to have his way with you.

After a while, you get used to the feeling and grow numb to the pain of his huge cock piercing into you. He breathes heavily in your ear and you cringe at the intimate sounds, trying your best to shut out all of the sensations, trying not to feel, not to hear, not to watch as he does this.

“Look at yourself, fuckin’ slut.” He says. He pulls your hair so as to lift your head up, forcing you face to face with yourself in the mirror. “Every girl’s good till she takes the right cock. Then look. Turns you all into filthy fuckin’ whores.”

Your expressions are pornographic. Your brows are pulled together and your eyes are practically glazed over. You look cock drunk and ridiculous. You barely have it in you to be ashamed of yourself, as you are starting to enjoy what he is doing to you.

“You’re gonna think of me every time you take another cock.” He hisses in your ear. “You’re never gonna have anyone again without wishing it was me fucking this tight little cunt.”

You don't respond, your eyes drifting closed. He grips your face roughly. "Keep them open. Watch yourself. You like it."

He shows no mercy with his rough thrusts, but his pace eventually begins to slow. "Gonna fill you with my cum. You want that?"

You look at him in panic and he seems to enjoy that, a twisted grin appearing on his face once again.

"P-Please, no-" You stutter. "Please don't-"

"Shut up and take it." He grunts, his thrusts somehow feeling deeper than ever as he ruts into you.

After a few moments he releases a strangled groan and stills inside you. You feel his hot release leaking into you and you let out a sob. He watches you in glee as he pulls out and your legs shake, struggling to steady yourself against the counter.

He tucks his cock into his jeans and you keep your eyes pressed shut, you can't look at him.

“You’re welcome back any time, honey.” He says.

He exits the bathroom and you are left to deal with your girlfriend’s dad’s cum dripping down your inner thighs.

ThatMrMiller Masterlist

#dark!joel miller #dark!joel smut #dark!joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller au #joel miller oneshot #thatmrmiller #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller x f!reader #tlou smut #tlou fanfiction #tlou au #tlou fic

967 notes · View notes