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morning-star-joy · 1 year

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these desperate prayers of a cursed man (Joel x F!Reader)

Pairing: Joel x F!Reader, Post-Outbreak

Summary: You're a bartender in Jackson, and Joel finds a safe haven not only in your bar, but in your arms. You find the same in his. Based off this request

Warnings: 18+ MDNI Explicit Smut (oral f receiving, mention of unprotected p in v), Language, Alcohol Use, Descriptions of PTSD/Depression, Self-Loathing (Reader), some angst? Hopeful ending

Wordcount: 3.8k

A/N: I've been dying to write this idea since lovely anon shared it with me, it's so brilliant and thank you again for entrusting it to me. Also, ty to my Frappuccino that gave me the energy to write this.

Joel x Reader Taylor-inspired masterlist || Joel Miller masterlist

Life was not kind, but somehow you managed to be.

It was one of the first things Joel had noticed about you when you first met. When he walked through the doors of the small bar tucked out of the way in one of the far corners in Jackson, you lifted your head from behind the bar, calling out a warm greeting accompanied by a small, sincere smile before ducking back down out of sight.

Joel had been taken aback by it, having expected nobody to give a fuck about each other in that little bar, having only wanted a safe space where he could drink away his sorrows for the night without worrying about his brother finding him.

But the few patrons sitting around the room were all smiling, some conversing with each other in low, friendly tones of conversation. An odd sight for the world that they lived in.

There were two men sitting at the bar in front of where you had disappeared, talking amiably with each other, and Joel walked past them to the far end of the bar, watching out of the corner of his eye as you popped back up from behind the bar and grinned at them.

“Alright,” you sighed, holding up a bottle of what looked to be rum, shaking it slightly before grabbing two glasses in your other hand, setting them down in front of each man before pouring the alcohol for them, just a small amount in each glass. “This is the good stuff—like, the fucking real good stuff. So don’t down it all in one go, ‘kay?”

The men assured you that they’d make it last, and you gave a wry, disbelieving grin towards them, shaking your head as you walked away, though Joel noticed you were careful to take the bottle with you while you headed towards him.

Joel straightened subconsciously as you gave another small, welcoming smile, stopping in front of him as you lifted the bottle still in your hand in question.

“Can I interest you in—”

“The fucking real good stuff?” Joel interrupted, holding back his own surprise at his almost joking comment that he had not been expecting to make. Jesus, he hadn’t even had a sip of alcohol yet.

But your smile had only grown, a laugh that sounded damn near musical leaving your lips as you set the bottle down, grabbing two glasses again from behind you to set down between you and him.

“Damn straight,” you said proudly, pouring the rum for each of you—a bit more than you had given the other men, he noticed. “Wasn’t easy to find this. I only bring it out for special occasions.”

Joel arched an eyebrow at the comment, glancing over you as he slowly raised the glass to his lips. One sniff of the drink let him know that, oh yeah, this really was going to be fucking good, but he held back taking a sip as he asked, “And this is a special occasion?”

“Well,” you tilted your head, seeming to consider your words for a moment, your gaze flickering over his face—you were analyzing him, he realized, but not uncomfortably so.

Finally, you said slowly, “I can tell when somebody’s been through hell. And if you’ve found a seat here after you’ve gone through it, I think that’s worthy of a little celebration.”

You made direct eye contact with him then, your expression softening to something warmer as you must have noticed the shock on his face at your astute observation.

“Or at least some acknowledgement,” you added with a shrug, raising your glass towards him in what was almost a toast, and Joel subconsciously lifted his own glass before taking a long sip of that drink along with you.

That first night, you hadn’t bothered him much after that. You let him sit with his drink and his thoughts, only returning to refill his drink with a little more of that “special occasion, fucking real good stuff” rum, shooting him a wink that made his fingers curl tighter around his glass before you left him again.

Joel already knew that he was going to become a regular just from that first visit to your bar, helpless to resist returning to that small corner of warmth that you had carved out in a cruel, unforgiving world.

Because the Lord knew he could use a little forgiveness, even if he didn’t deserve it.

Joel Miller was not what you expected for being—well, for being Joel Miller.

You had heard whispers throughout town that the man was so cold he bordered on being cruel; murmurs that he wouldn’t offer more than two words in a conversation; rumors that the only time he looked happy was when he was heading back into town from a patrol, after probably killing Infected, Hunters, or both.

In your opinion, none of it mattered. Even before you met Joel, you had thought that if he wanted to be a cold man who barely spoke to anyone—fucking let him.

Not that it was healthy behavior, but there were just some people in this settlement who cared far too much about the lives of others, and needed to keep their nose out of the business of others. Like you always liked to tell your customers, one of the greatest luxuries one could have in this fucked up world was being able to keep secrets.

Joel was just the latest, newest and shiniest addition to the rumor mill.

And, unfortunately for him, he was also handsome.

That was a whisper you had heard too, usually accompanied by a giggle from the younger and older women of Jackson alike. Joel Miller was a ruggedly handsome Southern gentleman, and his emotional unavailability just made him all the more attractive to them.

When you finally met him, you could see why they felt that way.

The funny thing is, you hadn’t even known that Joel was Joel the first time that you met him. He hadn’t introduced himself when he walked through the doors of your bar that late spring night, only settling into the seat farthest away from any activity and exchanging a few words with you when you poured him a drink.

In the back of your mind, you did find yourself musing over who this handsome—very, very handsome—stranger was, as he slowly made his way through a glass of your special occasion rum all on his lonesome.

But what really struck you was how tired this old soul looked, how you could almost see his heart on his sleeve with the way he gripped the glass tightly. It was like he was trying to find a way to stay connected to the present with his fourth drink that night in his hand, even as his big brown eyes were glazed over in a haunted look that faded into something more melancholic while he drank away his troubles.

You didn’t bother him that night, wanting to let the man find a moment of peace in the corner of your bar. The only time you had approached him again was to refill his drink, giving him a simple nod when he thanked you for it.

That time, you caught the low Southern accent that made the word sound so goddamn pretty to your ears, and you found yourself clutching the rum bottle to your chest as you walked away, trying to shake the alluring sound of it out of your head.

When he left, you couldn’t resist saying goodbye, giving him a small smile as you dared to hope in the back of your mind that you would see him again, maybe even get a name next time.

So the next time he did show up, about a week later, you tried to hold back a small surge of excitement, a feeling that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You loved every one of your patrons; even though your bar was small, you had grown a steady group of regulars that found a safe haven within your doors.

But when you saw that older, rugged man make his way through them, heading straight back to that same seat in the corner without hesitation, but making eye contact and giving you a small nod as he went—you couldn’t ignore the way your heart skipped a beat, even as you distracted yourself with making conversation with one of your regulars at a table from across the room.

“What can I get for you, sir?” you asked with an easy smile when you walked back behind your bar to take your mysterious returning customer’s order, and he looked up at you with a bit of surprise, maybe at your friendliness or your manners, before the look faded into something carefully neutral.

“Whiskey, please,” he said not in a mutter, but in a tone so low that it may as well have been. The sound of that rough tone with the smooth accent sent a little shiver down your spine, and you cleared your throat as you turned to retrieve one of your best bottles of whiskey and a glass.

“Here you are.” You smiled again as you pushed the glass towards him, preparing to turn away when he surprised you by calling after you.

“Not gonna share it this time?”

Spinning back around, you were the one to look at him in surprise this time before a slow smile curled onto your lips, trying not to look too fond of the idea as you grabbed your own glass and poured some whiskey for yourself.

“Do I get a name for who I’m sharing this whiskey with?” you teased, resting your elbows on the bar, getting comfortable as you sipped at your drink.

“Joel,” he replied after taking a smooth sip from his own glass, and you blinked a few times, suddenly realizing exactly who he was as he clarified, “Joel Miller.”

“I’m familiar with your name,” you said slowly, glancing over him, trying not to smile as he arched his eyebrow at your words. “Lotta folks ‘round here are fond of their gossip, Mr. Miller. And I hear lots of it in a place like mine.”

“Ah,” he made the sound quietly, almost under his breath, as he looked down at the glass in his hands. Joel seemed to ponder for a moment before mumbling, “You don’t gotta call me Mr. anything. Joel is just fine.”

Now you really couldn’t stop yourself from smiling, but you did hide it behind your glass before you composed yourself enough to say smoothly, “Alright. Joel, then. Welcome back to my humble establishment.”

Joel looked up at you, and then around the room, nodding slightly at your welcome before replying, “It’s quite a nice place you got here. And, uh—do I get a name as well?”

“Oh,” you made a soft sound of surprise before collecting yourself, tapping your fingers against the glass before introducing yourself with a warm smile, one he stared at for a moment too long, making butterflies flutter in your stomach and oh, no.

Joel repeated your name, slowly, like he was savoring it as much as the alcohol on his tongue when he took another sip, his eyes locked with yours over the glass and, fuck.

It only took a few more visits to your bar before Joel took you home for the first time.

You had seen it coming from a mile away, really. There was something in the way he started looking at you since that second night he came to your bar, a way he kept looking at you, only getting more intense as he started to become a regular.

Underneath the weariness you could see in his eyes, the sadness from a hard life of survival and the loss that came with it—a feeling you knew well—you could see a hunger. Maybe it was a hunger for you, or maybe it was just to have a body to warm his bed, or simply an urge to fulfill a primal desire.

Hell, maybe it was all of those things. All you knew was that you weren’t complaining about whatever reason he had for taking you home when his head was between your legs.

God, you don’t think somebody had gone down on you in years. And now Joel’s face was pressed to your wet, throbbing cunt, sliding his tongue along your folds, slipping it into your core to fuck you with it before dragging it back up to flick over your clit.

When he began to suck at the bundle of nerves, your back arched, fingers tangled in his dark hair to push him further into your pussy, grinding against his face when he flattened his tongue to let you ride it to your climax.

You came against his face, hard, drenching that salt and pepper facial hair with your release, and Joel moaned the entire time, drinking up as much of you as he could get before pulling back with a gasp.

“Was that okay?” he whispered after a moment, his voice raspy as he watched you continue to tremble, with those same big brown eyes you had seen lost in the troubling thoughts of his past over a shared drink, and you couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly at the wholesome sincerity in his uncertainty.

“Are you kidding me?” you gasped, quick to explain yourself when you saw him shift away in worry, “I haven’t come against somebody’s face in years. I should be thanking you.”

Joel laughed too then, the sound husky and sending his warm breath against your wet cunt that was still spread in front of his mouth, and you bit your lip as you felt arousal stirring again.

“Come up here,” you murmured, reaching down to grab his face, and he quickly climbed up your body, his mouth descending on yours in a desperate, feverish kiss that made you both moan.

It had also been years since you kissed anyone and, god, you think you may have missed that even more than being eaten out.

Eventually you managed to pull your lips away from his when you felt the brush of his erection against your cunt, and you smirked, reaching down to palm him through his jeans, earning a throaty grunt that you tucked away in the back of your mind to replay on nights when you were alone.

“You don’t have to—”

“Hush,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth, evading his lips as they searched for yours as you trailed your kisses down his neck, biting down softly to leave your mark on him, finding a thrill in how there may be a few new rumors in the morning if anybody saw it on him. “You deserve this.”

Joel stiffened at your words, but quickly relaxed again when you rolled him over, quickly ridding him of the rest of his clothes so you could satisfy both your aching core and his throbbing cock in one moment of intense pleasure that you knew would leave you both begging for more, even after finding sweet release in each other.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

You looked over at Joel from where you sat next to him at your bar after you had closed for the night, sharing a bottle of wine you had just gotten in a trade. You had shown it to him once the last patron left, claiming it was way too fucking good and special to even show off when they were around.

“What, bartending?” you replied, knowing from the nearly warm depth of his gaze that that was not what he had meant, but you chose to deflect, preferring to discuss other people’s feelings instead of working through your own. “I mean, it’s not that hard. You pour drinks, you listen to people talk until they get tired, then you pour them some more drinks. It’s pretty great.”

Joel huffed, giving you an unamused look that you laughed quietly at, watching his face soften at your sound of amusement.

“Not what I meant,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your inner thigh from where you had draped one of your legs over his own thigh, sitting in a way so casually intimate it made your heart pang with a desire to be closer to him, in more ways than just the casual sex you had taken up as a regular habit.

Because even though you fucked each other around the clock now, you talked too. Over drinks at your bar or in his house, you and Joel had shared glimpses of your pasts with each other, bonding over similar pain you both had experienced until you ended up here.

“You’re kind,” he started softly, his gaze searching yours before you quickly looked away. Even as you avoided his eyes by staring down into your wine glass, he continued undeterred, “And strong. Way fucking stronger than I am.”

“Bullshit,” you scoffed, and Joel’s hand gently squeezed your thigh as he leaned forward, trying to catch your eye again as you busied yourself with refilling your glasses.

“You are,” he repeated, and you finally looked back up at him at the conviction in his tone, softening at the earnest look on his face. “Honestly, I don’t fucking know how you do it. The shit you’ve been through—it would break the bravest of us.”

Joel paused, glancing around the room of your bar, your pride and joy, taking in the warm, hospitable atmosphere that seemed to hang from each decoration on the wall before turning back to you.

“But you’re here,” he said quietly, looking from your proudly arranged display of bottles behind the bar before glancing back at you, squeezing your thigh again as he leaned forward further, resting his elbow on the bar to get close to you. “You’re taking in poor, weary souls like me and giving them some rest. Making their lives a little bit brighter. Telling them what they need to hear.”

Shaking his head, Joel leaned back to look back into his own wine glass as he took it in hand. “Really don’t know how you do it.”

“Is it a bad thing?”

“What?” Joel replied instantly as his head snapped up, eyes wide in what was almost horror at your blunt question. “No. God, no. It’s fucking admirable.”

You quieted at that, sucked into Joel’s gaze as an unmistakable warmth entered it again, leaning closer to him as he whispered, “I admire you.”

The confession felt more like a stab in the gut than the compliment he must have meant it to be, and you turned your head, avoiding his lips as they searched for yours, evading his kiss as you stared at the wine bottle you were quickly making your way through.

“I don’t think you would say that,” you muttered, taking a long drink, nearly draining your glass before pouring more from the bottle, “if you knew who was talking.”

Joel’s thumb stroked across your thigh again, and you let out a shaky sigh, placing your forehead in your hand as your eyes slipped shut. The alcohol and the comfortable weight of his presence was making your carefully built barriers break down, and you felt the shackles of your trauma rattling as you tried to take steady breaths.

He spoke your name softly, and you shook your head, wiping hastily at your cheeks to get rid of any tears that may have escaped in your unfortunate, ever-lingering emotions that you drowned in every time you were alone.

“I can’t take my own fucking advice, Joel,” you laughed, bitterly, shaking your head as you stared down at your own hands, the ones that had held onto so many things so tightly until they slipped out of your reach. “I shouldn’t be giving it if I can’t even reap what I sow.”

“Hey,” Joel said quietly, but firmly, trying to pull you out of your spiraling, but you just shook your head again.

“I don’t think I’m very good at being human, Joel,” you whispered, finally turning back to look at him with wide eyes that spoke of crushing grief that he may have never realized you carried. Or at least, didn’t realize how heavily it weighed on you. “There’s something deep inside of me that’s just…broken.

Your voice began to shake as you forced yourself to get out the words you wanted to say, “I’m not admirable. Just broken.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, not trying to say anything else as his arm wrapped around your shoulders, his large, steady hand finding the back of your head to direct your face into his shoulder.

And then you did another thing for the first time in years.

You cried.

Joel didn’t know how many nights you had spent walking the streets alone before he came along.

He didn’t know how many drinks you used to go through a night when you had the extra stock, or how many fucking friends you had lost because you were too selfish to look past your own problems and care about theirs.

He didn’t know how you enjoyed being a bartender because it made you a beacon of shining light that you knew you weren’t, living for the love and attention you got by giving advice to those who needed to hear it, even though you couldn’t follow it yourself.

But Joel knew when he walked you back to your home for the first time, and you invited him in to see the incredibly bare, cold and lifeless place, that it wasn’t a home at all.

He followed you to bed, where he took you slow and sweet, making sure to cherish you, to gently caress your skin and shower you in kisses, making you feel as precious as he knew you were, even if you didn’t believe it yourself.

You didn’t say anything when Joel left his flannel on your bed after that night, choosing to go home in his undershirt and worn, brown leather jacket, just so he could leave a piece of himself behind with you.

He didn’t say anything when you were wearing that flannel the next night he came over, curling himself around you as you slept because, as much as he preferred being the little spoon, he knew you needed to feel secure when you whimpered through whatever nightmares were taunting your unconscious mind that night.

Neither of you said anything when you eventually hung that flannel up in your closet, or when it was joined by a collection of his other clothes, and then even more items that belonged to Joel, miscellaneous things that became scattered throughout your house.

A mug here, a picture there, a wood carving he made for you and then even a fucking fishing pole that would get shoved to the back of your hall closet to never see the light of day.

There was nothing to say when Joel stopped kissing you goodbye.

Nothing needed to be said as he turned your house into a home.

#joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel x reader smut #joel miller one shot #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller drabble #joel miller x you #fun fact: the not good at being human line is a cut line from a stranger's heart

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tkmedia · 3 years

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Will England have failed if they lose to Denmark?

It’s England v Denmark time. And the mailbox is here to ask whether defeat would be seen as failure. Send your mails to [email protected] Forza Italia Itza coming Rome! Calvino …Cometh the hour, cometh the Mancini. Chris Hardy (sorry, not sorry) …What a game. Was watching thinking England are going to struggle against either of these if we make it to the final. I expect Italy to win now to be honest. So looking forward to thisevening. I really hope we make it to the final. Also to the guy who was talking about co-commentators… I much prefer Jenas to Murphy. I really can’t stand listening to him. James EFC …Credit to Italy for making it to the final. They gave up so much of the ball in the first half but barely gave up chances on goal. I think it was always their intention to let Spain have the hall and I think they had the confidence that they could contain whatever came their way. In some respects they possibly should’ve done better because Spain should be knackered having already played 120 minutes twice in the past week. I actually thought Italy would look much worse without Spinazola and Emerson definitely took away some of their flexibility in terms of what positions he took up when Italy were on the ball but they were still threatening. Chiesa and Barella are stand out players. Unai Simon clearly hadn’t done his homework for the shoot out because he fell for Jorginho’s hop thing. I’ve literally never seen a keeper fall for that and the only explanation is that he didn’t know it was coming. Italy are probably the worst opponent for England to face in the final, should England qualify. Tactically so astute, some wise old heads and some really attacking quality. Minty, LFC Scouting report Just on my way back from the match; we can take ‘em! Come on England! Andrew, Banbury If we lose to Denmark… If we lose to Denmark tonight, would it be seen as a failure? When we went out of the World Cup to Croatia in the semi-finals of the World Cup three years ago we missed a great chance to get to our first final since 1966 but it wasn’t viewed as a failure because we had gotten further in the tournament than we were expected to and done better than fans and pundits thought we would. But this time with ‘home advantage’ at Wembley and playing a team we are apparently fancied to beat if we were to lose in a semi-final would it be seen as a failure? Dan Factor, London Fanmail for Andy Andy starts his dismal grunt of an email by claiming he doesn’t want to piss on anyone’s chips. Andy, why lie? The only thing you set out to do was exactly that, I’m not sure why you want to pretend otherwise. However if you genuinely do not want to soak the collective tatties may I suggest you f**k off with your rubbish opinions and keep them to your grim self? Thanks. Jesus, I thought I was a miserable c**t. Well, I know I am. I just didn’t realise that I’m also a ray of sunshine piercing through the grey world of Andy. thayden Fanmail for Paul I read your e-mail regarding the Euros and England. Its true you must be Irish because that e-mail was dripping the colour green. I was going to write some classy comeback but then I thought, why bother. Instead… GO F*** YOURSELF!!! Paul Norris …Paul (Dublin) in the afternoon mailbox is just one of many who has made the claim that England have had the easiest run to the semi-finals. Is this really true? For starters Spain had an easier group – Sweden, Slovakia and Poland is a much easier set of opponents than England had in their group and then had Croatia and Switzerland to dispatch on their way to the semi-finals. Am I going crazy or is that a much easier route to the semi-final? Denmark had a group with one titan but also had Finland and Russia and then faced Wales and Czech Republic in the knockout stages- is that really a tougher set of fixtures than England have had? Italy did have a tough quarter-final but had an easier set of opponents in the group stages and had Austria in the round of 16 while England was facing Germany. Hmm, I wonder which team had a tougher assignment. What am I missing here? Turiyo Damascene (PS: I hate the use of the word ‘easy’ in this context but it’s the only way I can properly engage with the people making this argument), Kigali, Rwanda Easy draw? Really? Mailers are consistently using the ‘easiest draw ever’ argument to quash any shred of optimism around the England team’s route to the semi-finals – but I have to wonder the point of this criticism. In sports like football, once you’ve actually won something people – specifically fans – rarely seem to linger much on how you’ve done it. In this spirit – are any tournament wins generally rated above others due to the quality of opposition faced? In Euro 2016, Portugal surely had an unbelievably easy run until meeting France in the final – with group stage draws against Hungary, Austria and Iceland, then knockout games against Croatia, Poland and Wales. All teams that, on paper, they should have beaten easily – and only scraped by in the majority. Not sure if they care. The ‘easiest draw ever’ argument is proactively critical of England in case they do win the Euros. It seems based on the expectation that people will assume that a team that wins a tournament is the best team at that tournament. This is of course not always the case. From my perspective football is as much a celebration of luck as it is of prowess – about narrative and emotion rather than a process to find out the objectively best team in the tournament. CR7 would probably punch me in the head for saying this but maybe winning isn’t necessarily about being the best. Portugal could barely beat a team in Euro 2016 and would unlikely be considered a particularly good side from that era. Wigan wasn’t the best team in England because of their FA Cup win – playing Bournemouth/Macclesfield/Huddersfield/Everton and Millwall on the way to the final. These wins are more about things going right at the right moments – quality and fortune in the right measure. Celebration of victory isn’t necessarily celebration of dominance/prowess – it’s just about being happy to be there at the end with a nice shiny bit of metal to take home with you. Basically, if England lose to Denmark these criticisms don’t matter – because they lost anyway – if they win the tournament then who cares – because they’ve won. I don’t know if I’d prefer England to win by steamrollering the seven top-ranked teams in the tournament 5-0 each (I definitely would) – but there’s something about that which seems a bit joyless.

I don’t consume a massive array of media but the sense I get is that not much of the optimism around England’s performance in this tournament is based on them being objectively the best team in Europe. Hoping you can win a tournament and liking a team isn’t necessarily the same as thinking you’re better than everyone else. I get how pretty harmless things like the emotion around winning a football match can be used/exploited by more nefarious forces – and would cringe at the prospect of a gloating British establishment on the off chance that England does go all the way. But it seems pretty innocuous at this point. (Anon) Just chill out F365 weirdos Wow some of the recent mailboxes have been strange. From being torn about wanting England to win in case Boris does something annoying, to the group of people complaining about English arrogance, it’s all very weird. Aside from the fact that people are just having a laugh as our team is performing vaguely well for once, have these people considered that the fans chanting might not actually think it’s necessarily coming home, but they actually just enjoy singing the song? Nobody was complaining at fans claiming Will Grigg was on fire and I’m pretty sure about 20 different clubs sing ‘we’re by far the greatest team the world has ever seen’. Just chill out and enjoy the scintillating show of attacking football England are providing us all… Louis (I thought football was meant to be fun?) A message from Germany My name is Nik and I am writing to you all to say, just enjoy it. The negativity, as well as the positivity have both been brought to the fore, but it is now time to just enjoy yourselves. A semi-final of a European Championship or a World Cup does not come around too often. Take it from a German who before 2018 and 2021 thought a semi-final was more of a formality, it is not. I am already looking forward to our next (whenever that may be). Southgate, the Players, the media, everyone just needs to enjoy this game. Win or lose. No one is to blame for failure. Everyone to laude for success. Enjoy it. Us Germans have not been able to enjoy one for five years. Nik (Hansi Flick is going to win in Qatar though isn’t he? won everything else…), Munich Spotting the w**kers You know that action film you really like, that one someone told you was crap and not as good as the 1970s black and white French masterpiece they liked? You know that album you said you like but someone insisted you were an idiot because it wasn’t as good as their first one when only they liked them? You know when you thought that someone was a wanker? They are the same people who are trying to argue that England aren’t any good and cant be enjoyed because they aren’t 1970s Brazil. And you were right, they were a wanker then and they still are now and you can enjoy this England, this manager and this team as you please. Sykes Read the full article

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