velvetinks

[velvetinks]

A Place to Rest

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Mild language, mentions of injury/survival, general post-apocalyptic themes — no smut

The fire crackled low, barely more than glowing embers in the cold hush of night. The woods wrapped around their camp like a protective cocoon, though Joel kept his rifle close and his eyes sharper. Ellie was curled up in her sleeping bag, boots sticking halfway out as she mumbled something about a space movie in her dreams.

The reader sat on a fallen log, a chipped tin cup of lukewarm coffee nestled between her hands. She glanced over at Joel — always a few feet away, always guarding, never quite relaxing.

“You know,” she whispered, “you don’t have to stand sentry all night.”

Joel didn’t look at her, just tightened his jaw and scanned the darkness.

“Don’t sleep easy on unfamiliar ground,” he muttered.

She let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You ever sleep easy anywhere?”

Joel turned to her then. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes — weariness, maybe, or the beginnings of trust. He didn’t answer. Just sat down next to her, the log creaking beneath his weight.

“I heard Ellie tell you today she thinks I’m cool,” she said, teasing, trying to soften the edges of the night.

Joel snorted. “She thinks any adult who doesn’t make her eat canned peas is cool.”

“That’s fair.”

A pause. Then Joel added, “She’s not wrong though.”

The compliment caught her off guard, and when she turned to look at him, his gaze was already fixed on the fire. He rubbed a hand across his beard and didn’t say anything more.

She smiled. Not the kind you offer strangers or even friends, it was small, a little sad, a little hopeful. The kind you give someone when you’re tired and they’re tired too, but somehow being tired next to them feels better than being fine on your own.

Ellie stirred in her sleep, murmuring something about dinosaurs. Joel turned instinctively, the softest part of him showing without permission.

“She likes you,” the reader said, quietly.

“She don’t say it, but she does.”

Joel didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.

They sat like that, shoulder to shoulder, warmth shared in silence. In the morning, they’d walk again. Across cracked roads and empty towns. Toward Jackson. Toward something they didn’t have a name for yet, but were starting to believe might be real.

Home.

[velvetinks]

Mornings with you

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: None — just cozy love, kisses, and small-town warmth.

You woke up before the sun, which wasn’t unusual this time of year. The frost on the windows caught the pale light of dawn, glowing silver-blue like the inside of a snow globe. Beside you, Joel snored faintly, one arm stretched out under your pillow, the other thrown across your hip like he had to make sure you didn’t float off in the night.

You smiled against his shoulder and took a quiet moment to soak it in — this peace, this stillness. His chest rose and fell steady. You traced your fingers gently along the curve of his ribs, not enough to wake him, just enough to feel that he was really there.

Joel stirred, grunting softly. His voice came low and raspy: "You starin’ at me, darlin’?"

"Only a little," you whispered, brushing your nose against his jaw. "You drool in your sleep."

"Only 'cause I’m sleepin’ so damn good," he muttered, lips curling up lazily. "You make it easy to rest."

You pressed a kiss under his chin, right where his scruff was still soft from last night’s shave. "You make it easy to stay."

He opened his eyes then — slow and warm, amber catching the light. "Stayin’ is the part I never got right. But I’m workin’ on it."

You felt it then — not just his words, but the truth behind them. The years of running, grieving, surviving… they’d all led here. To a cabin warmed by woodstove heat, a kitchen that always smelled like fresh coffee and stew, and to mornings where love didn’t feel like something dangerous.

"Joel?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we stay in bed a little longer?"

He laughed, that soft huff of breath that came from deep in his chest. "Honey, I ain’t got nowhere better to be."

You shifted closer, burying yourself into the curve of his body, limbs tangled beneath the quilt you stitched together from old scraps and worn-down shirts. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the world stayed still.

Just you and Joel — warm, safe, home.

[velvetinks]

Bittersweet

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: smut (18+), soft dom!Joel, unprotected sex, praise, implied size difference, oral (f receiving), fingering, mutual pining, domestic fluff, a little teasing, slow buildup, established tension

The snow hadn’t let up for three days. It clung to the rooftops of Jackson like a heavy sigh and blanketed the walkways in muffled white. It made everything quieter, cozier, easier to pretend the world was gentler than it used to be.

Which is exactly why you carried the small wrapped bundle of coffee like it was an offering to the gods—or to the man that haunted your mornings like a stubborn shadow.

Joel Miller.

Always gruff, always tired, and always grateful in that unreadable, half-nod way that made your knees weak.

This time, the coffee came from a man who owed you for fixing his daughter’s boots. You had the option to keep it. Brew it for yourself. But your hands were already moving toward Joel’s porch before you could convince them otherwise.

It wasn’t the first time.

It wouldn’t be the last.

You knock, twice. That same firm rhythm you always do. The one that makes him open the door with a quiet smirk like he’s been waiting.

And he had.

“Another one?” he drawls, eyeing the wrapped tin you hold out like a gift. His voice is rough from sleep or disuse, and his hair’s a little messy. The flannel shirt he wears is half-buttoned, the collar low enough to make your brain forget how to speak for a second.

You shrug, smile. “Guess someone must like you.”

Joel takes it, brushing your gloved fingers with his calloused ones. His eyes hold yours longer than usual, like he’s trying to read the space between your words.

“I’m not gonna owe you for all this one day, am I?”

“You already do,” you say breezily, stepping past him into the warmth of his cabin like you’ve done a dozen times before.

His huff of laughter follows behind you.

Later, after the coffee’s brewed and the storm gets worse, he doesn’t let you leave.

Not in a commanding way. Joel’s too careful for that. But when you try to rise from the couch, coat in hand, he just says:

“You’ll break your neck out there.”

And you sit back down, because part of you was hoping for an excuse anyway.

He watches you drink coffee curled under the blanket he drapes over your shoulders.

“You keep bringin’ me this,” he mutters eventually, “like it means nothin’.”

You glance at him over the rim of the mug. “Does it?”

He swallows. “Not to me.”

You place the mug down, heart thumping.

“What does it mean to you, Joel?”

He shifts closer. The couch dips under his weight. His knee brushes yours, deliberate. His hand finds your thigh.

“Means you think about me,” he says roughly. “Means you care.”

You don’t speak. You just nod.

Joel leans in slowly, watching your lips part.

When he kisses you, it’s not gentle, it’s intentional. The kind of kiss that holds every unspoken word he’s swallowed over every shared morning. Every glance. Every tin of coffee.

He breaks it only to whisper against your mouth.

“Been thinkin’ about you too, darlin’.”

The first touch beneath your sweater is slow. Calloused fingers against warm skin. Joel doesn’t rush. His lips trail along your jaw as his hand finds your breast, cupping it gently like he’s savoring the moment, not rushing through it.

You’re straddling him now, the mug long forgotten on the table, your coat discarded. His fingers drag your hips down against the tent of his jeans, and he groans when you grind into him.

“Fuck, baby…” His voice is low, reverent. “You sure?”

You nod, breathless, curling your fingers into his hair. “Been sure.”

He lifts you with ease, carrying you to his bedroom like you weigh nothing. The sheets are cool but his body is warm when he presses you down, kissing you slow. He undresses you with quiet urgency, every button, every inch of skin revealed feels like worship.

He mouths at your thighs before settling between them, his beard dragging deliciously across sensitive skin as he tastes you like he’s starved.

You’re shaking when he finally presses into you, slow, deep, a stretch that makes your eyes flutter. Joel grips your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he breathes against your throat. “Made for me.”

You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as he thrusts into you, the pace steady and unrelenting, his praise rasped into your ear between kisses.

When you both fall apart, it���s quiet. Slow. Like everything else about this.

He stays inside you after, hand smoothing over your back as you curl against his chest. The snow taps lightly on the window, muffled by the warmth of the bed and his heartbeat in your ear.

“You’ll stay?” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod against his skin.

“I’ll bring more coffee.”

He chuckles, low and soft.

“You keep bringin’ me things, sugar. I’m gonna think you’re tryin’ to make me fall in love with you.”

You hum sleepily.

“Already did.”

[velvetinks]

Too Late for Hope

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Pregnancy in a harsh world, References to smuggling/violence, Joel being emotionally closed off, Arguments, fear of abandonment, Joel’s trauma over Sarah, Reader uncertainty over keeping the baby, No comfort resolution (angst heavy)

You were never supposed to get attached. Not in this world. Not to him.

But Joel Miller had a way of sticking.

It started with quiet patrols. Then smuggling runs. Then long nights in the dark, warmth stolen under threadbare blankets and unspoken rules. No promises. No future talk. Just survival.

And then you missed a ration day. Then two. The nausea wasn’t from the canned meat. You knew before you even saw the blood you didn’t have.

The test came from a nurse you knew on the black market, stolen from what was left of a FEDRA med bay. It lit up fast. No room for doubt. Two sharp pink lines that cut through your chest like blades.

You threw up in the corner after you saw it. Not from the pregnancy. From the fear.

Joel came home late that night, hands rough and jacket heavy with rain. You sat on the mattress, holding the test in your lap like it was going to burn a hole through you.

He barely looked at you as he peeled off his coat.

“You’re late,” you whispered.

“I’m here, ain’t I?” he muttered. His tone was tired, not cruel, but distant. Always distant. That was the thing about Joel Miller: you only got half of him. The rest stayed buried six feet under in Texas.

You swallowed hard. “I need to tell you something.”

He looked at you then. A flicker of concern in his eyes. Not softness, never softness. But attention. Focus.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words landed with a thud between you. Like a brick dropped into cold water.

Joel froze.

You waited for something. Anything. A breath. A curse. A touch.

But all he did was sit on the edge of the cot. Silent. Staring.

“Say something,” you finally whispered.

His jaw clenched. “You sure?”

You nodded.

He ran a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

Your chest tightened. “That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?” His voice cracked, louder now, harsher. “That this is great news? That we’re gonna be a happy fuckin’ family in a FEDRA cage while people drop dead in the streets?”

You flinched. “I didn’t ask for this either, Joel. I’m scared too.”

He stood up fast, pacing the room like a caged animal. “You should’ve been more careful.”

You blinked. “So it’s my fault now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Silence again. He stopped at the far wall, staring at nothing.

You stood too, anger curling in your belly. “I thought maybe you’d give a shit. Maybe you’d want to protect something again. Maybe—maybe this time it wouldn’t be too late.”

The air shifted. Joel turned, eyes hard now. “Don’t talk about her.”

You froze.

“I didn’t mean—”

He stepped closer. “You think this fixes me? That this baby makes up for—” he stopped, breath catching. His voice dropped. “I ain’t ready to lose anyone else.”

You blinked back tears. “Then don’t.”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And then he stepped back.

“I need air,” he muttered.

The door shut behind him with a dull thud.

He didn’t come back that night. Or the next.

You slept alone, hand on your stomach, feeling like you were already a ghost.

[velvetinks]

The Quiet Things

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Mild references to past loss (Sarah, reader’s ex), Single parent themes, Gentle emotional vulnerability, Soft romantic tension

Your boy liked Joel first.

That’s how it started.

You didn’t plan on staying in Jackson long. Just until the snow cleared. Just until you had a solid place to land.

But then your five-year-old, Eli, took a shine to Joel Miller—of all people. The gruff, quiet man who helped with patrol shifts and kept to himself like a man still waiting for the world to fall apart again.

You met at the greenhouse.

“Hey,” Joel muttered awkwardly, glancing down at the small hand tugging his sleeve. “You lost, kid?”

Eli grinned up at him, gap-toothed and utterly fearless. “Your name’s Joel. You’re in charge of horses.”

Joel blinked. “…I guess I am.”

You nearly dropped the seed packets when you realized your son had wandered off again, and found him halfway through naming the patrol horses to Joel like they were action figures. And Joel—who scared most adults into awkward silences—was nodding, quiet, patient.

That was the beginning.

Joel started showing up more. Offering you and Eli fresh fruit from trade routes. Fixing a bent hinge on your porch. Helping Eli build a snow fort when his mittens got soaked.

You never asked for any of it.

And yet… you didn’t want it to stop.

The first time you really saw Joel—beyond the stubble and the heavy silences—was the night of the winter festival.

Eli was asleep, tucked into your coat, and Joel had walked you both home in the snow.

You hesitated at the door.

“Thank you. For always watching him.”

Joel’s gaze didn’t falter. “You don’t gotta thank me.”

“He’s just… he doesn’t have a dad. And I think he looks up to you.”

Joel’s throat moved as he swallowed. His voice, when it came, was softer than you expected.

“I lost someone once. A long time ago.” A pause. “I think if I had… if I’d had somethin’ to hold onto after, maybe I would’ve come back sooner.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t want to scare him off.

He stepped closer, snowflakes melting into the warmth between you.

“Maybe this town’s not so bad,” he murmured. “Maybe stayin’ ain’t the worst idea.”

And then—slow, tentative—he touched your cheek with his gloved hand. You leaned in before you even realized it.

The kiss was gentle. Careful. Like neither of you had dared hope you’d feel something like this again.

Later that night, when Eli stirred in bed, sleep-heavy and groggy, he whispered:

“Was Mr. Joel here?”

You smiled as you brushed back his hair. “He was.”

“Is he gonna be here tomorrow?”

You paused… then nodded. “Yeah, baby. I think he might.”

[velvetinks]

Here

Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of grief, PTSD, post-canon events, light alcohol use, emotional vulnerability

Jackson looked different now. Quieter. The snow didn’t crunch the same way under your boots, and people had stopped smiling with their eyes.

Tommy hadn’t come home in days.

Not since Ellie left again.

You found him where you expected—down by the old stable, hunched under the lean-to with a bottle at his side and his hat pulled low. His coat was damp with frost, his limp more noticeable now, the lines on his face deeper.

“Tommy,” you said gently, crouching beside him.

He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out here. Ain’t safe in the dark.”

You sat anyway, letting silence be the first comfort.

“I’m not gonna pretend I know what it feels like,” you murmured, “but I know what it’s like to lose something you thought was always gonna be there.”

He turned his head just enough that you could see the raw red at the corner of his eyes. “I failed ‘em both. Joel… Ellie…”

“You didn’t fail anyone,” you said, placing your hand over his. “You’re still here. You stayed. That has to count for something.”

He didn’t speak for a long time. The bottle slipped from his fingers and settled in the snow.

“I wanted justice,” he whispered. “Thought it’d fix me. Make the pain sit right. But it just kept goin’. Even when we found her… even when Ellie left again, I still felt it. This hole.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his temple. He flinched at first, but didn’t pull away. He breathed you in.

“You’re not alone in it, Tommy.”

His voice cracked. “Why’re you still here?”

“Because I still see the man who taught me how to ride. Who fixed fences without ever being asked. Who held my hand when we heard the news about Joel. I see the man who loved his brother more than anything.”

That broke something in him. His shoulders shuddered, and he let out a sound that was more breath than sob. You guided him into your arms, letting him hide his face in your neck, your fingers tangling in his hair.

You stayed there until the cold crept in too deep, and even then, you didn’t leave him.

Not when he walked beside you in silence back to the house.

Not when he turned, suddenly, at the doorway and kissed you like a man trying to remember what life could feel like again.

And not when he whispered in the dark, later, his voice low and broken and whole all at once:

“Don’t go. Please.”

You didn’t.

[velvetinks]

A Little Closer to Home

Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings:Pure fluff, Soft domestic family bonding, Reader is Tommy’s new wife / stepmom to his son, Mentions of parental insecurity, Emotional vulnerability, Child character present (no dark themes), Warm, cozy vibes and soft porch talk

Eli was seven. Smart, stubborn, a little too serious sometimes, so much like his dad it was almost funny. And while he’d never been unkind, he hadn’t fully warmed up to you either. He still called you by your name, not “Mom,” not even “stepmom,” just… you. Kind, but distant. Always watching.

Tommy noticed, of course. He always did. But he never pushed.

So when you found yourself alone in the kitchen one Saturday morning, trying (and failing) to make pancakes like Tommy did, thick, golden, perfectly soft. Eli came down the stairs, rubbing his eyes and dragging his blanket behind him like a little ghost.

He stopped in the doorway, sniffed, then frowned.

“That’s not how Dad makes ’em,” he said, voice flat but honest.

You gave him a sheepish smile. “Busted.” You slid the spatula under a slightly burnt one and sighed. “Wanna help? Could use a pancake expert.”

He hesitated. The clock ticked. Then he shrugged, stepping up beside you.

“Okay. But you gotta let me do the flipping.”

That’s how Tommy found you both: Eli standing on a stool, sleeves rolled up, tongue sticking out as he concentrated, and you cheering when he nailed the perfect flip. The kitchen was a mess. Batter everywhere. You had flour on your cheek and syrup on your shirt. It was chaos, warm, soft chaos.

Tommy leaned in the doorway and smiled like it was the best thing he’d ever seen.

“What’re you two up to?”

“Science,” Eli said, totally serious. “Pancake chemistry.”

You snorted. Tommy walked over, placed a soft kiss on your temple, then ruffled Eli’s hair.

“Guess we’re raisin’ a genius.”

After breakfast, the three of you curled up on the couch with a blanket that barely covered all of you. Eli leaned against Tommy at first, safe in the place he always knew but slowly, without a word, he shifted. Closer. Until his small head rested on your shoulder, sticky fingers curling around the edge of your sweater.

Tommy saw it happen. He didn’t say a word. Just reached over and laced his fingers through yours, thumb brushing your knuckles in a silent, grateful motion.

And in that moment, you felt something settle. Not finished. Not perfect. But settled.

That night, once Eli was asleep and the house was quiet again, you found Tommy sitting outside on the porch steps, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked up as you stepped out, offered a tired smile.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just thinkin’.”

You sat beside him, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. The storm had passed, but the air still smelled like wet cedar and earth. Tommy stared out into the night, glass loose in his fingers.

“You were real good with him today,” he said after a long pause. His voice was rougher now. Quiet.

You shrugged, smiling. “He flipped the pancakes. I just tried not to light the house on fire.”

He huffed a laugh, but it faded quick. “I know this ain’t been easy. For you. For him. Even for me, if I’m bein’ honest.” He paused. “Sometimes I worry I did the wrong thing… bringin’ someone else into his world. Into mine.”

Your heart clenched.

“Tommy…”

“No — not sayin’ I regret it,” he cut in gently. “I don’t. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I just… I worry he won’t see that. Or maybe I’ll mess it up for both of you.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, hand finding his.

“He’s a kid. He’s still figuring things out. But he’s watching. He saw how you look at me. How I look at him. Today that little moment on the couch? That wasn’t nothing.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just breathed in slow. Thoughtful. The kind of silence he rarely gave to anyone.

“You think he’ll ever call you ‘Mom’?” he asked quietly, almost to himself.

“Maybe,” you whispered. “But I’m not in a rush. I just want him to know I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy turned then, eyes soft and full of something heavy. Something real.

“I don’t know if I say it enough… but thank you. For stayin’. For tryin’.”

You kissed his shoulder and tucked yourself closer. The porch light buzzed above you. Somewhere in the trees, an owl called out once.

And in the quiet that followed, Tommy Miller, father, husband, survivor, let himself rest, just a little, against the woman who chose to love the hardest parts of his life.

[velvetinks]

Older and rougher

Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warning: Dirty, rough sex with Dilf Tommy Miller. Explicit language, dirty talk, slow, intense heat. Reader is over 18.

The storm outside was relentless, wind thrashing, rain pounding the roof, but inside Tommy’s cabin, the air was thick with something hotter, the kind of heat only he could bring.

Tommy stood by the fire, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, thick arms tanned and scarred from years of hard work and harder living. His silver-streaked hair was a little messy, and the stubble on his jaw just begging to be touched.

He looked at you, eyes dark and hungry, that slow, deliberate smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re soaked through,” he said, voice low and husky, thick with desire. “Come here.”

Before you could blink, his hands were on your hips, pulling you close until your body was flush against his. His fingers traced your spine, slow and teasing, sending shivers down your body despite the heat between you.

Tommy’s lips brushed your ear, hot and rough. “Been waiting all day to have you like this—close, all mine.”

Your breath hitched. He was older, sure, but that only made him more dangerous—more confident, more demanding. You slid your hands up his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his shirt.

His mouth captured yours, slow at first, tasting, testing. Then harder, deeper, his hands roaming lower, slipping under your wet shirt to cup your bare skin.

“Fuck,” he growled, his fingers digging in as he pulled you tighter.

He peeled your clothes away piece by piece, slow, deliberate, making sure you felt every inch of his need. When your jeans hit the floor, he dragged his mouth down your neck, biting gently before licking the bruises he’d already left.

Tommy’s hands slid between your thighs, teasing, stroking, making you melt beneath him.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice rough like gravel. “Gonna take my time, make you forget the storm outside.”

Then he lowered himself, lips and tongue exploring every inch of you, slow, worshipful, filthy. You gasped, fingers clutching his hair as he drove you wild.

“Say my name,” he demanded between licks and kisses.

“Tommy,” you moaned, voice trembling.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you to the edge. When he slid inside you, it was slow, powerful — every inch filled with that older, raw need.

He moved with purpose, rough and steady, his breath ragged, voice low and possessive.

“Mine,” he growled, “only mine.”

The storm outside didn’t stand a chance against the heat building between you. Tommy’s hands, his mouth, his body, everything was a promise.

And when you came undone beneath him, it was like the whole world stopped, just for you two, locked together in the eye of the storm.

[velvetinks]

Stuck in the Storm

Joel Miller x f!Reader

warning: Joel and reader get stuck in a storm and things get pretty heated — rough sex, dirty talk, and lots of intense feelings.

The sky was an angry bruise, dark and swollen with thunderclouds that spat rain in torrents. The wind howled, rattling the shutters of the cabin nestled deep in the woods. Outside, the storm had trapped Joel. No way to go, no safe passage until the morning. Just the fire, the cold, and the relentless roar of the tempest.

Joel sat slumped by the hearth, boots kicked off, sleeves rolled up, his scars and calluses catching the flicker of the flames. His eyes, sharp and haunted, were fixed on the fire, but you could see the weight pressing on his shoulders, years of survival, of loss, of constant fighting just to stay alive.

The door suddenly groaned open, slamming against the wall, and you stumbled inside, soaked to the bone. Water dripped from your hair in rivulets, soaking the faded shirt clinging to your skin. You shivered, the cold biting through the wet fabric.

Joel’s eyes caught you immediately, hard and assessing, but there was something softer beneath that gruff exterior, a flicker of relief that you were safe.

“You made it,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel.

You nodded, teeth chattering. Without a word, Joel reached out, his big hands rough and sure as they grabbed the hem of your shirt, peeling it off over your head despite the chill in the room. His fingers brushed over your damp skin, tracing the curves of your collarbones, the swell of your chest. The heat from the fire mixed with the cold still clinging to you, sending shivers down your spine.

Joel pulled you close, his broad chest warm against your back. His breath was heavy in your ear, ragged from the storm and something more, something urgent. The scent of wood smoke and leather mixed with the sharp tang of rain.

“You shouldn’t be out in this,” he growled softly.

You didn’t answer, your hands sliding over his strong arms, pulling him tighter. His lips found your neck, pressing slow, rough kisses against the skin. His teeth grazed lightly, a teasing nip that made you gasp.

Joel’s hands slid under your soaked shirt, warm skin replacing the cold fabric. His touch was possessive, demanding, as if the storm wasn’t the only thing threatening to break loose tonight. He grunted low in his throat, pressing into you, his body taut with need.

The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the walls, painting the two of you in gold and darkness. Joel’s lips left your neck to trail along your jaw, then down to your collarbone. His mouth was rough, insistent, as his hands roamed lower, fingers slipping beneath your jeans, brushing over your hips, your thighs.

Your breath caught, heart pounding. The storm outside was wild, but the heat between you was a different kind of storm, one that pulsed and roared in your veins.

Joel’s mouth found yours at last, fierce and demanding. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting, claiming. His hands gripped your waist like he was holding on for dear life, grounding himself to you in the chaos.

You pressed against him, needing him as much as he needed you. The storm had trapped you here, but it wasn’t the storm you feared. It was the raw hunger in Joel’s eyes, the desperate need he usually hid behind a hard shell.

His hands slid lower, fingertips tracing the curve of your hips, the small of your back, until he tugged you closer still. You could feel the hardness pressing through his worn jeans, a fire kindling deep inside him.

Joel’s voice was a rough whisper, almost a growl. “You’re mine tonight.”

You shivered, nodding against his mouth, your fingers digging into his back.

He lifted you easily, carrying you to the worn couch, laying you down gently despite the urgency in his touch. The firelight danced over his bare chest as he shed his shirt, revealing scars, muscles hardened by years of fighting.

Joel’s hands mapped your body with slow reverence, memorizing every inch of wet skin exposed to the warm air. His mouth followed, kissing a trail from your collarbone down to the swell of your breasts, making you arch beneath him.

The storm outside was distant now, drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the fierce rhythm of his lips and hands exploring, claiming.

Joel’s touch was both rough and tender, demanding and protective. The weight of the world fell away in this moment, just you and him, tangled together against the storm.

His hands found the waistband of your jeans, slowly, deliberately slipping inside to touch bare skin, sending jolts of heat through your body. You gasped, gripping his shoulders as he pressed harder, needing more.

Joel’s eyes met yours, dark and fierce. “You okay?” His voice was low, but there was something tender beneath the roughness.

You nodded, breathless.

He smiled then a rare, soft curve that melted the hard lines of his face before pulling you into him, deeper, harder, like he was making up for every lonely night lost to the apocalypse.

The storm raged outside, but inside, the only sound was the ragged symphony of your bodies finding each other, desperate and hungry, alive in the quiet chaos.

[velvetinks]

Two Years on the Saddle

Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, rough intimacy turning soft, snowy Jackson setting, long-time chemistry. Longtime partners → Lovers · Slow Burn · Smut

You’d ridden shotgun with Tommy Miller longer than anyone else in Jackson.

You knew how he took his coffee, how he cleaned his rifle, how he never used his right shoulder to push open gates because of an old break. You knew the exact tone of his voice when he was pissed, when he was worried, and when he was trying not to laugh.

You also knew the look he gave you when he thought you weren’t watching — the one that lingered a second too long on your mouth. On your hands. On your hips.

And you gave him that same damn look.

But neither of you moved.

Until today.

It was just another patrol. Snow falling soft, sun low, the two of you talking about nothing. Then the storm picked up.

“Cabin,” Tommy said, pointing ahead. “We’ll wait it out.”

It was always a damn cabin.

You warmed your hands by the fire while he stripped off his outer jacket. Snow clung to his hair, melting down his temples.

“You alright?” he asked, rubbing his palms together. “You’ve been quiet.”

You nodded, then shrugged. “Just tired.”

He looked at you — really looked. “You’re not just tired. Something’s eating at you.”

You hesitated. The room felt smaller.

“It’s been two years, Tommy.”

His brow furrowed. “Since what?”

You stepped forward, slowly. “Since we started riding together. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel it.”

His breath caught.

“Feel what?”

You reached out, grabbed the collar of his thermal. “This.”

And pulled him in.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting years hands gripping your hips, dragging you into him. The moan that tore out of your throat was involuntary, pulled straight from your chest as his tongue slid over yours.

You clawed at his belt. He fumbled with yours.

Your jacket hit the floor. Then his shirt. Then your undershirt.

“Fuck,” he breathed, lips grazing your throat. “You’re so goddamn—”

“Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He pressed you against the nearest wall, your leg hooking around his waist, his hand sliding between your thighs. He growled at what he felt heat, wet, desperate.

“You been thinking about this?” he rasped.

“Every fucking night.”

His forehead dropped to yours, breath ragged.

“Me too.”

Then he sank into you with a groan — slow, hard, and all-consuming.

You gasped, hand flying to his shoulder. He filled you perfectly. Like he was made for this.

He fucked you against that wall — steady, intense, kisses open-mouthed and needy. His name fell from your lips over and over, and he swallowed every sound like it was air.

“Touch yourself,” he muttered, watching your hand move between you.

It took seconds.

You clenched around him, crying out, and that was it , he followed, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he came inside you with a stifled groan.

After, you collapsed onto the blankets by the fire, tangled and quiet.

He brushed your hair back, gaze softer than you’d ever seen it.

“Took us long enough,” he murmured.

You smiled, hand on his chest.

“Worth the wait.”

[velvetinks]

Harder than surviving

Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Enemies to Lovers · Slow Burn · Intimate Tension rough tension melting into soft intensity, semi-public risk, emotional undertones.

You hated him the second you laid eyes on him.

Cocky, stubborn, loud-mouthed, and far too proud of every little job he did around Jackson like it was some miracle he didn’t break his back doing it. Tommy Miller had this way of walking like he owned the place—shoulders squared, chin up, eyes scanning like a damn sheriff. Like he hadn’t been just another man trying to survive like the rest of you.

He took over patrol routes like he knew better. Argued with you over supplies, safety precautions, curfews. The two of you were always this close to snapping, voice raised just enough for the whole town to get front-row seats.

And yet you kept getting paired with him.

“Maria’s trying to kill me,” you muttered one cold afternoon when she handed you the assignment.

“No,” she said without looking up from the map. “I think she’s trying to make y’all work it out.”

Work it out. That’s a good one.

The first hour on the trail was silent. Then it wasn’t.

“You always got that look on your face?” he muttered, adjusting the strap on his rifle.

“What look?”

“Like you’d rather gut me than ride next to me.”

You smiled grimly. “Guess you’re lucky I left my knife at home.”

That made him laugh, a deep, genuine one that startled you into silence. You hated how it warmed you.

By the time the snow turned thick and the trail back became a whiteout, your horse was exhausted and Tommy was squinting through flakes like he was trying to will a solution into existence.

“We gotta stop,” he finally said, pulling you toward an old cabin half-buried in snow. “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue. You were shaking too hard to speak.

Inside, it was quiet and cold, but sheltered. He found a stash of old firewood, and by some miracle, dry kindling. It took minutes, but he got it lit.

And then came the hard part.

“You need to get those wet clothes off.”

You scoffed. “Nice try, Miller.”

He looked at you, serious, jaw tense. “You’ll freeze in that gear. Not joking.”

You hesitated. Every nerve in your body was screaming no, but your hands betrayed you, fingers fumbling at zippers, damp sleeves heavy as lead. He turned away until you sat near the fire in your thermal top and leggings, shivering.

He joined you a few minutes later, his own jacket steaming from the warmth.

The silence this time was… different.

Not hostile. Not cold.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye—his face relaxed, profile lit orange and gold. His arms were braced over his knees, hands clasped loosely.

“You always this stubborn?” you asked.

He smirked. “Only when I’m right.”

“You’re not always right.”

“I’m right about you.”

You stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

He turned his head, met your gaze head-on. “Means you act like you hate me, but you look at me like you don’t.”

Your heart beat unevenly. “That so?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning in slightly, voice low. “I see it. Every time you square up to argue. Every time you stand too close. You’re not trying to fight me off. You’re trying not to give in.”

There was a long pause.

Then, softly, too softly, you whispered, “Maybe I should’ve brought my knife.”

His smile was slow. “I’d take my chances.”

The tension broke like a crack of thunder. He kissed you, slow, searching, hot against the chill in your skin. You didn’t hold back. You couldn’t.

You pushed him back into the blankets near the fire, his hands slipping under your layers, not rushed, just firm. Like he’d wanted this for a long time.

The cold outside was brutal. But in there—on that floor, wrapped in a blanket of heat and fury and longing, you weren’t fighting anymore.

You were finally giving in.

His mouth on yours was rough at first all teeth and tension and weeks of fighting that led to this.

But when you gasped into him, surprised by the heat, something shifted. His hands slowed. His touch gentled. And you felt it, how badly he’d wanted this too. Maybe even longer than you had.

Your bodies were still cold in patches, but where you pressed against each other near the fire, it burned.

“Tell me to stop,” Tommy murmured into your jaw, his breath ragged, hands sliding under your thermal top, fingers spreading over your ribs.

You didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed the hem and lifted it over your head, baring your chest to him in the glow of the firelight. He sat back on his heels just to look, his breath catching like he’d been punched.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

You tugged his flannel open, palms finding warm skin and old scars. “You gonna stare all night or—”

Tommy crushed his mouth to yours before you could finish. You fell back together onto the blanket, bodies tangling. The fire popped behind you as his mouth trailed down your throat, his scruff rough but addictive against your skin.

You reached for his belt, clumsy and eager. He hissed when your fingers brushed the hardness beneath it.

“You always this mouthy?” he growled against your collarbone.

“Only when I’m right,” you echoed, smirking.

His laugh was a rumble in his chest, short-lived as you freed him from his jeans. His mouth found your breast, sucking slow and deep, and your hips rolled up instinctively your body begging for friction.

“Need you,” you whispered, voice low and shaky. “Now.”

Tommy didn’t argue.

He stripped what was left between you, then hooked your leg around his hip and pressed forward, slow but firm, stretching, filling. You gasped, fingers digging into his back. He groaned into your shoulder.

“Fuck—been thinkin’ about this,” he grunted, thrusting deeper. “You. Like this.”

Your nails left marks as he rocked into you, rhythm building. Every time he moved, it felt like something long-buried was breaking free inside you. All the fighting, all the pride, gone. It melted into sweat and sighs and the heat of him.

He cupped your jaw, eyes locked on yours. “That look,” he said hoarsely. “Finally get it.”

You clenched around him when he said it and he felt it.

“Shit, baby—do that again,” he rasped.

You pulled him down, forehead to yours. “Make me.”

He did.

You shattered with him deep inside you, clinging to each other like the world outside had vanished in the snow. He followed fast, breath catching on a curse as he buried his face in your neck.

For a while, there was nothing but the crackle of the fire, the press of his chest, and the feel of his fingers tracing patterns over your thigh.

“I’m still gonna fight with you,” you mumbled.

He kissed your shoulder. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

You smiled. “But maybe next time… we fight somewhere with a bed.”

Tommy chuckled, low and warm.

“Next time,” he promised, “we fight naked.”

[velvetinks]

Heat of the moment

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings(18+): Suggestive content, strong romantic tension, shirtless Joel being very Joel. NSFW, dom!Joel, unprotected PIV, oral (f receiving), possessiveness, fluff & tension mix

The cold wind howled outside the cabin, but inside, everything was warm, almost too warm.

You hadn’t meant to stay this late. You were supposed to bring some canned goods, maybe linger for a drink, and leave. But Joel had that look in his eyes again, the one that made your breath catch, the one he wore when he was trying not to touch you.

It was safer when you argued. Safer when you avoided each other in town, when you pretended there wasn’t something burning under the surface every time your hands brushed or your eyes lingered too long.

But now… it was just the two of you. Fire crackling in the hearth. Snow frosting the windowpanes. And Joel… standing across the room, sleeves rolled up, his flannel hanging open, chest rising slow and steady as he looked at you like he’d finally given up trying to fight it.

“You should’ve gone home an hour ago,” he murmured, his voice rough like gravel, like the whiskey he hadn’t finished.

You swallowed. “You didn’t ask me to leave.”

He stepped closer. Barefoot, slow. Dangerous.

“I didn’t want you to.”

Your back hit the edge of the counter before you realized you were moving, and Joel’s hand came up to rest beside your head. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the heat.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t.

Instead, your fingers found the buttons of his shirt and tugged. His breath hitched, low in his throat, and the moment broke like glass. Joel leaned in and kissed you hard, rough at first, then softer, slower, like he didn’t want to forget a single second of it.

Your hands pressed against his chest, feeling the muscle beneath, the heat of his skin. He groaned when you pulled him closer, his hand sliding down your waist, gripping you like he’d been waiting too damn long.

“You have any idea what you do to me?” he rasped against your neck, lips brushing your skin as he pulled you flush against him.

“You hide it well,” you whispered, shivering when his mouth found your collarbone.

He laughed, dark and breathless, and picked you up like you weighed nothing, setting you on the kitchen counter with a thud that echoed like thunder in the quiet.

“Not anymore,” he growled, settling between your legs, his eyes locked on yours. “Not tonight.”

And when his hands finally wandered beneath your layers and his mouth claimed yours again, the storm outside didn’t matter. Not when there was a hotter one crackling between you and Joel Miller, one that had been building for far too long.

"You’ve been fuckin' teasin' me," he rasped, voice low and thick as honey. "And l've had enough of that."

You gave into him. His touches making you body tremble with pleasure.

He kissed deep and rough, all tongue and teeth, his hands making their way under your shirt. Your knees buckled when his calloused fingers grazed your nipples, pinching hard enough to make you gasp.

You moaned as he sank to his knees, tugging your underwear down from your dress, in one swift motion. He spread your legs, hooked them over his shoulders, and didn't even warm you up-just devoured every inch of you, leaving faint kisses between your legs

"Jesus, fuck."

You clung to his shoulders as his mouth worked you with filthy precision-tongue sucking and licking like he had been dreaming about this moment alone.

You came quickly, thighs trembling, your breath hot and broken. "Can't get enough of you," he muttered, standing up, undoing his belt with one hand.

You helped shove his pants down and barely realized before he was inside you-deep and rough, right on the kitchen counter. His hands making their way back to your nipples, tugging and flicking them like it was his life’s mission to make you cum.

"You needed this, didn't you?" he hissed.

You whimpered, nodding, back arching as he hit the perfect spot with every thrust.

His pace turned brutal- unrelenting, possessive. He thought about all those times he’d imagine fucking you while you did your daily tasks. He thought about all the places he wanted to make you cum at.

You were right on the edge again, fingers digging into his back, your moans getting louder and louder. He pulled out, “Where do you want me to cum honey?” His fingers making their way to your pussy.

You stared at him, panting while trying to catch your breath. “On my tits.” That was enough fuel to make the both of you cum. Joel curled his fingers inside you, making you loose composure. His cum falling on your tits.

“I’ve been dreaming about this.” You both chuckle. You could’t wait to see what else he had in mind.

[velvetinks]

Three on the carpet

Pedro Pascal x f!Reader

Warnings: None – just sweet family moments, mild baby chaos, and Pedro being the most doting dad imaginable

The car rolled up to the venue, and your heart did a double flip—not because of the cameras flashing outside, but because your daughter had just spit up a little on Pedro’s tux.

“Babe,” you whispered, dabbing at his shoulder with a baby wipe. “You’re seconds away from going viral for smelling like formula.”

Pedro laughed, one of those deep, full laughs that made your chest warm. “Hey, let them say I’m seasoned. Like a good stew.”

You rolled your eyes as the door opened and chaos—the kind with bright lights, shouting photographers, and handlers guiding your family toward the carpet—exploded in front of you.

Pedro stepped out first, handsome and composed, though you saw the way he subtly checked over his shoulder to make sure you were okay. Then came your turn, heels clicking softly against the carpet as you carried your baby girl in one arm, the other wrapped around Pedro’s.

“She’s falling asleep,” you whispered, shifting her little bow-covered head on your chest.

“She’s already cooler than us,” he grinned, brushing her tiny cheek with his knuckle. “Watch, she’s gonna be on every headline tomorrow: ‘Pedro Pascal’s Daughter Steals the Show.’”

You weren’t used to this kind of attention—cameras, microphones, people asking what brand you were wearing and what it’s like being “Mrs. Pascal.” But with Pedro’s hand on the small of your back and your baby curled up between you, none of it felt overwhelming.

Pedro paused mid-carpet and looked at you. “You okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

“Good,” he said, eyes full of warmth. “Because I’m proud to walk with both of my girls.”

That got caught in your throat. The man might be a professional heartthrob, but he reserved all the real romance for you. And tonight, it felt like the whole world could see it.

During the interview line, someone asked if the baby was staying up for the awards.

“She’s got better things to do than watch her dad lose to someone named Jeremy,” Pedro joked, adjusting the carrier strap slung across his shoulder.

You laughed softly, and the interviewer cooed over how beautiful your daughter looked in her tiny tulle dress.

By the time you were inside the theater, seated and calm under the warm lights of the show, Pedro was still gently bouncing your daughter in his arms, even after she’d fallen asleep.

“You know,” he whispered, kissing your temple, “I used to dream about nights like this.”

You looked over at him, your hand resting lightly on his knee.

“Red carpets and awards?”

“No,” he said, gaze soft and sure. “Us. You. Her. Being a family. Getting to show it off a little.”

And when his name was called for Best Actor—not even expecting it, completely stunned you watched him kiss your forehead, whisper “I love you both,” and climb the stage still with baby spit on the shoulder of his tux.

[velvetinks]

Steam and Secrets

Pedro Pascal x actress!Reader

Warnings: Shower scene, implied intimacy, lingering touches, flirtation, steamy visuals, secret relationship trope

You could still hear the director shouting “cut” down the hallway as you slipped into the trailer’s tiny bathroom, the sweat of the day clinging to your skin. The shoot had been long — twelve hours of sun, blood-squibs, and emotional wreckage. And Pedro had looked like sin in that button-down and fake bruises.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But the door clicked shut behind you and the sound of the lock turning sent a thrill down your spine.

“You know,” he said, peeling off his stained DEA shirt with a grunt, “this trailer’s barely big enough for one person.”

You turned to face him, your top already unbuttoned halfway, your smirk unrepentant. “Good thing we’ve never cared about rules.”

Steam was already curling around the small shower stall. You could hear the soft patter of hot water against the tile, but your eyes were locked on Pedro — the way his eyes dragged across your body like he was memorizing it between every take.

He stepped forward slowly, bare-chested now, belt undone, his voice low and laced with a teasing growl. “We’re gonna get caught one of these days.”

You stepped back toward the shower, reaching for the handle. “Then maybe we should make it worth it.”

Pedro let out a soft laugh that turned into a hum as his hands brushed your waist, tugging you gently back to him. Water sprayed warm across your shoulders as you both stepped into the cramped space, close enough that your chests touched with every breath.

The spray soaked your hair instantly, running down your spine like a shiver. Pedro’s fingers skimmed your hip before sliding up to your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“No lines to remember here,” he murmured. “Just this.”

His kiss was slow and deep, the kind that pulled every thought from your head and replaced it with the feeling of water and skin and heat. His hands slid along your sides, across slick skin, steady and deliberate like he was trying to relearn every part of you he already knew too well.

You breathed his name against his lips, and he kissed you again deeper this time.

Outside, the world kept moving. Cameras were still rolling somewhere, someone was calling your name, probably. But inside the haze of that tiny shower, there was only you and Pedro, steam curling around your bodies, lips tracing wet skin, and a kind of quiet intimacy you couldn’t find on set.

Not scripted. Not rehearsed.

Just real.

[velvetinks]

Stay a little longer

Pedro Pascal x f!Reader

Warnings: Suggestive content, tension, implied intimacy, lots of heat but no explicit smut

The knock on your hotel door came late, a little past midnight.

You opened it to find Pedro standing there, slightly damp from the light rain, with his hands shoved in his coat pockets and a half-smile playing on his lips.

“You gonna let me in, or are you planning to keep me out here sufferin’?” he asked, eyes glinting.

You leaned against the doorframe, trying not to smile too obviously. “You’ve got a trailer full of people obsessed with you. Thought you’d be too busy being everyone’s favorite man alive.”

Pedro stepped in close enough that you could smell the warmth of his cologne — something woodsy, dark, and addictive. “They don’t get the version of me you do.”

“And which version is that?” you teased, folding your arms as you backed up to let him in.

He brushed past you with a glance that lingered just a second too long, the door clicking shut behind him. “The one that thinks about you even when he’s in full apocalypse gear. Blood, grime, fake wounds, the works. Still can’t get you out of my damn head.”

You swallowed hard.

“You ever think maybe that’s a you problem?” you asked, though your voice had lost a bit of its bite.

Pedro took off his coat slowly, deliberately, and tossed it onto the back of a chair. “Maybe. But tonight I was hopin’ it could be our problem.”

You laughed — breathless, unexpected. “You always talk like that?”

He smirked. “Only when I know it’s working.”

You took a step toward him, eyes narrowing. “Cocky.”

He took a step toward you. “Interested.”

The air between you shifted, thick with heat and something heavier — unspoken, but very much felt. His hand came up, not touching you yet, just hovering at the curve of your jaw like he was asking permission with his eyes.

You nodded once.

The kiss was slow at first. Deliberate. His hands didn’t rush. They explored — gentle touches trailing down your sides, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt. Yours gripped his T-shirt, pulled him closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

You whispered against his mouth, “You staying tonight?”

Pedro’s answer came with his lips grazing down the side of your neck, voice low and gravelly: “Only if you ask nicely.”

[velvetinks]

I really liked you miller siblings story, can it do more parts or make more stories like that. Please, please, please.

Thank you!

You Always Were the Loud One

Joel Miller, Tommy Miller x sister!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, survivor’s guilt, cursing, light alcohol, emotional conversations

Tommy slammed the door harder than necessary. You didn’t flinch. You just sipped your whiskey and smirked.

“That door do something to you, cowboy?”

Tommy groaned and dropped into the seat beside you in the Jackson community bar. “He’s impossible.”

You arched a brow. “You two finally goin’ for Round Ten?”

“More like Round Fifty,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “He acts like I don’t know what I’m doing. Like I didn’t help build this place.”

You took another slow sip. “Well. In his defense, you do tend to blow shit up.”

He gave you a sideways look. “One time.”

You shrugged. “Big explosion.”

Tommy let out a tired laugh. “You’re not takin’ my side, are you?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You both chuckled, though his laugh faded quicker. A silence settled. Heavy, but familiar.

“I think he’s still scared,” you said eventually. “About everything. About her.”

He didn’t have to ask who “her” meant.

Ellie.

Joel wasn’t the same man he used to be. Something about Salt Lake had taken the last soft part of him and buried it deep. You knew it was there that good part, that dad part, but it only showed up in fragments. In how he tuned his guitar. How he looked at Ellie when she wasn’t looking. How he avoided mirrors.

Tommy sighed. “He’s got you. He’s got me. He’s not alone. He just acts like he is.”

You leaned forward on your elbows. “Well. That’s Joel. Grumpy, guilt-ridden, emotionally constipated.”

Tommy grinned. “Just say you’re the favorite.”

“I am the favorite. Always was.”

“You think that just ‘cause you were the baby?”

“Because I was the best baby.”

Tommy snorted. “You bit me when you were four.”

“You deserved it.”

The laughter that followed broke something open in both of you. That familiar, crackling warmth from your childhood days in Texas. It didn’t erase the pain, the grief, the ghosts you all carried like second skins. But it made the weight more bearable.

Then, the door opened again.

Joel walked in, pausing only long enough to scan the room. His eyes landed on the two of you. He looked tired. Stubborn. The usual.

You raised your glass. “Well, speak of the gruff.”

He rolled his eyes and sat down across from you. “Y’all talkin’ about me?”

“Always,” Tommy muttered.

Joel grabbed the half-finished glass of whiskey in front of you and took a sip like he’d earned it.

You slapped his hand. “You can’t just steal my drink.”

He looked at you with that deadpan face. “I changed your diapers, kid. You owe me your entire life.”

“Gross,” Tommy muttered, standing. “And now I’m gone.”

Joel watched him leave, then turned to you, quieter now. “He thinks I don’t appreciate him.”

“You don’t say it enough,” you replied, more gently this time.

Joel nodded slowly, rubbing his knuckles.

“You’re not alone, Joel,” you said. “You’ve got people. You’ve got us.”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then finally: “Yeah. I know.”

You smiled. And for a moment, it felt like you were back home again. Three siblings, bruised and bickering and bound together by something deeper than blood.

[velvetinks]

The price of love

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Emotional vulnerability, references to past trauma, suggestive themes

Jackson, Wyoming – Winter

The snow had begun to fall gently, blanketing the town in a serene white. Inside the warmth of your shared home, Joel sat by the fireplace, his fingers gently strumming the guitar he had painstakingly restored for Ellie. The notes of “Future Days” filled the room, a melody that had become a symbol of hope and connection.

You watched him from the doorway, a soft smile playing on your lips. “She’s going to love it,” you said, stepping into the room.

Joel looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. “I hope so,” he replied, setting the guitar aside. “It’s been a while since I did something like this.”

You approached him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing your best, Joel. She sees that.”

He reached up, covering your hand with his. “It’s just… after everything, I want to make things right. Give her something good to hold onto.”

You nodded, understanding the weight of his words. The past haunted him, the choices he had made in Salt Lake City casting long shadows. Yet, in moments like this, you saw the man striving to be better, to offer love and stability in a world that had so little of either.

Later that evening, as the fire crackled and the snow continued to fall outside, you and Joel sat together, wrapped in a shared blanket. He spoke of his fears, his regrets, and his hopes for Ellie. You listened, offering solace and understanding.

In the quiet that followed, he turned to you, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for being here. For believing in me.”

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Always, Joel.”