#HES A RAIDER WHO LIKES BOOKS.. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nerdytyrantphantom · 11 months

Text

shattered but not lonely (joel miller x f!reader)

This is my 2nd request! Hope you love it, anon 💖

request: hey!! could you do joel x reader (maybe smut) where joel gets super protective over the reader after saving them from a dangerous situation?❤️❤️ word count: 3.9k rating: 18+ explicit warning: SMUT. reader was kidnapped by raiders and joel rescues her and they have sweet, sensual reunion sex after she heals. soft!joel, pet names ("sweetheart" "baby"), light mentions of captivity, oral (f receiving), reader gets super fucking wet, joel is very into it, p in v sex (be smart etc.) a/n: my goal with this piece was to write the filthiest yet equally loving/romantic smut possible :o) i hope you like it! also, to the anon who made this request - i have a second (less fluffy) interpretation of this prompt i plan to post in the near future :) p.s. title is from the song "my favorite book" by stars

“Joel?” you whispered. If the figure in the doorway wasn’t who you thought it was, you prayed for a quick death.

But as the man’s silhouette approached, your breathing steadied; it was him. Despite your blurred vision from two swollen black eyes, your brain recognized the fragments that formed Joel Miller’s unmistakable presence: the broad shoulders, firm gait, and weight of his rifle slung over his shoulder. A hot wave of tears rose at the realization that Joel had found you. You were going to be okay.

Upon reaching your side, Joel sank to his knees. His battered hands carefully cupped your wet cheeks as his bloodshot eyes desperately searched yours. You’d never seen this Joel before – a Joel who was scared, whose vulnerability was laid bare – and your heart wrenched with pain at the tears threatening to spill from his own eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he choked, like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to cry. His bottom lip quivered as his thumb gently brushed your cheek, as if he was checking to make sure that you were real, that it was really you beneath the bruises and the bloodshed. His voice cracked with sorrow, guilt seeping through every word: “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

The iron fist that wrapped around your heart squeezed knowing that Joel blamed himself. It was in his nature to take on the weight of the world and responsibility for those he loved and you were no exception. You knew Joel and understood the depths to which he would punish himself for not protecting you. In reality, there was nothing he could’ve done. But in Joel’s tormented mind, such reasoning held no solace.

You struggled for the right words to take away his burden. “It’s okay,” you assured, your hands tenderly covering his that still cradled your face. “I’m okay. I promise.” Joel saw through your forced smile, but knew there was nothing he could say. “Let’s just go home.”

Silently, Joel cradled you in his arms, holding you close against his chest. As he carried you, he felt the weight of your body relax, surrendering to the comfort and safety he provided. Your head rested against him, your breaths becoming steady and peaceful as sleep claimed you.

Time blurred as the days passed. Hazy memories floated in and out of your consciousness — glimpses of Joel spoon-feeding you, of tenderly replacing bandages, and the featherlight touch of his lips pressing kisses to your forehead.

Finally, one night as twilight painted the sky in shades of purple, you stirred awake. As if on cue, Joel entered the room with a glass of water. His boots scuffed the hardwood floor as he approached and set the glass down on the bedside table. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside you, he reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Then leaning forward, his lips pecked your temple.

"Hey there,” he whispered. “How are you feeling?"

You took hold of his hand, bringing it to your lips, pressing a tender kiss to each knuckle. "Better," you whispered, as though the two of you were sharing a secret. Your lips trailed up his hand, skimming along the inside of his wrist until you found yourself pulling him closer, causing Joel to lose his balance slightly as he leaned in to embrace you.

You nuzzled into his neck, seeking the comfort that only he could provide. "Missed you," you murmured, your words vibrating against his skin, as you breathed in the familiar scent that defined him.

His strong arms enveloped you, pulling you tightly against him. "I'm right here, sweetheart," he promised, his fingers stroking your hair. "Never gonna change that." In that moment, time stood still as you both immersed yourselves in the simple joy of being together again. The outside world faded away – the QZ, raiders, the infected – and all that mattered was the warmth of your bodies and shared breaths and sighs between you.

As your lips brushed against Joel's ear, you confessed with a hint of playfulness: "I think I need a shower."

Joel's arms gave you one final squeeze before releasing their hold. He leaned back to look at you, his eyes still filled with a mixture of awe and disbelief, as if he still couldn't quite believe if you were real. You gave him a small smile. "I'm here," you reassured him. “I’m okay.”

As you stood from the bed, a mask of determination veiled the pain that still raked through your body. Joel stood beside you, a silent pillar of support, guiding you with gentle hands to maintain your stability as you found your renewed sense of balance. Together, you made your way into the bathroom.

Joel reached out and turned on the shower, the sound of running water filling the space, creating a soothing backdrop to the moment. He stood by your side, his presence a steady reassurance as you prepared to cleanse away the remnants of your ordeal. With quiet care, he helped you disrobe, removing each piece of clothing with a delicate touch.

As you lifted your arms for Joel to remove your shirt, you couldn’t hide the whimper that escaped your lips, a sharp burst of pain radiating throughout your spine, as he tugged the garment over your head. You tried to quickly conceal the pain, but Joel saw through your facade – he knew you better than anyone.

To your relief, he didn’t scold you for moving into normalcy too fast or decide that the shower was a bad idea; instead, he held his hand under the stream of water, adjusting the temperature to ensure it was just right.

Then, you watched as he slowly shed his own clothes, standing before you naked and vulnerable, mirroring your own state of undress. He held your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, as you both stepped into the warm fall of the cascading water.

Under the torrent of the shower, steam billowed, welcoming you in a cloud of wet warmth. With practiced hands, Joel lathered shampoo in his palms, his fingers working their way through your hair, massaging and cleansing with a confident yet gentle touch. You observed him in silence, captivated by the sight of his muscles flexing with each movement, displaying strength tempered with tenderness. The white suds built up, creating a frothy veil over your hair, as Joel carefully lifted your locks into the stream of water, rinsing away the traces of the past.

Gently, Joel turned you around so that your back was to him, his hands lathered in soap. With the utmost care, he began to massage your shoulders and trace a path down your arms, his touch both soothing and deliberate. He lifted your arms slightly, ensuring no part of your body was left untouched, as his hands moved down your back, tracing gentle circles and washing away the remnants of your captivity. Leaning forward, resting his chin on your shoulder, he guided his hands over your stomach and breasts, the suds gliding down your body, renewing your skin.

The moment held a sensual undercurrent, but it was devoid of pressure or expectation. This act of washing was an expression of pure love, a quiet gesture of nurturing your body back to health. Yet, even in this gentle intimacy, feeling Joel's body against yours, his hands caressing every inch and crevice of your body, a dizziness washed over you. A sense of lightheadedness and longing swirled within you, the desire to melt into his touch and be swept away.

After the shower, Joel wrapped you in a soft towel, cocooning you in its warmth. He then tenderly placed a second towel over your head, gently drying your hair, revealing your face with a renewed glow and cleansed complexion. As his eyes took in the sight of you, a mixture of relief and adoration danced in their depths, forming the first soft smile you had witnessed since your return. He leaned his forehead against yours, creating a sacred space between you.

"Tell me what you need, baby," he whispered, his voice carrying a blend of tenderness and desperation. His commitment to taking care of you was unwavering, his desire to meet your every need palpable. In this moment, he wanted nothing more than to provide solace and support, to be the anchor that would guide you through the storm.

Hugging your towel against you, you burrowed into Joel, a silent request for him to hold you that didn’t require words for him to understand. As he wrapped you in his embrace, you spoke into his bare chest, voice muffled: “You. Just need you, Joel.”

"I'm right here, baby," he murmured, his touch a comforting presence against your back. Your body stirred with a different kind of ache as you gazed up at him, a longing that transcended the physical. His soft, pillowy lips beckoned to be kissed, the scruff on his face tempting your touch. You could spend a lifetime tracing the lines and contours of his face, exploring every inch of him with a blind devotion.

Locked in his gaze, Joel understood the unspoken desires that flickered within you. Like a language only the two of you shared, he deciphered the quickening of your heartbeat, the subtle lick of your lips, and the faint furrow of your brow that betrayed both frustration and longing. He blinked, a silent affirmation that he felt it too, as he gently guided you towards the bed.

"Come on," Joel beckoned, his voice laced with a mixture of invitation and anticipation. You observed as he skillfully arranged the pillows against the headboard. He draped the towel that had once enveloped your damp hair onto the mattress, purposefully positioning it where your body would inevitably find its place. You then climbed onto the bed, positioning yourself with your back nestled against the plush pillows, your abdomen resting upon the soft towel, and the second towel still wrapped around your shoulders, offering warmth and security.

From this vantage point, your gaze fixated upon Joel, who stood at the foot of the bed, an arresting sight that never failed to steal your breath away.

No matter how many times your eyes met his, the effect remained unchanged—an overwhelming wave of captivation that surged through your veins. This moment was no exception. His hair, still damp from the shower, was slicked back, save for a single rebellious curl that dared to escape its confines. His flushed chest glistened under the subtle glow of amber light, adorned with droplets of water that cascaded over his skin. The only barrier between you and his complete vulnerability was the white towel that draped enticingly around his waist. Its snug embrace accentuated the contours of his hips, hinting at the sculpted muscles that lay beneath the fabric, while the mere suggestion of movement threatened to loosen its grip.

A tremor of anticipation coursed through you as Joel's eyes roamed over your form, mirroring the same intensity with which you had studied his. A slow, deliberate stroke of his jaw accompanied the journey of his gaze, traveling up your legs, lingering over the heat of your core, trailing across the curves of your breasts, until finally, his eyes connected with your own. His thumb traced a path over his bottom lip, an unspoken question hovering between you.

"Will you let me take care of you, baby?" he asked, a confident plea that resonated with sincerity. He closed the distance, taking a purposeful step toward the bed, his touch grazing over the delicate skin of your foot, tracing invisible patterns.

A lump formed in your throat, your mouth suddenly dry as you nodded, your eyes conveying an unspoken affirmation. "Always," you managed to whisper, the weight of your words hanging in the air, sealing the unbreakable bond that bound you two together.

You bit back a moan as the towel wrapped around Joel’s waist teasingly fell lower, the outline of his half-hard cock rising beneath the white cotton. He then crawled up the bed between your legs until he was able to nuzzle his nose into the soft skin behind your ear.

“That’s all I ever want,” he murmured, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. He planted a small kiss onto your skin, humming with pleasure as he grazed your neck. “To hold you,” he continued, moving down to kiss the constellation of freckles that spanned over your shoulder, “to kiss you.”

As he continued his onslaught of kisses and pecks, you felt the heat rising within you. Finally, as though Joel could sense your desperation, he brought his lips to yours. He softly worked over them – the soft, wet sounds filling the air – before delicately swiping his tongue over your bottom lip. As you opened your mouth and permitted his entry, his warm taste filled your senses, igniting a carnal desire that only Joel could fuel. You moaned hungrily into the kiss and raised your arms to wrap around Joel’s chest to pull him closer, but then groaned as another shock of pain rippled throughout you.

“Shhhhh, baby,” Joel cooed, resting his forehead against your own. He fought back an amused smile as he lovingly stroked your cheek and pecked at the corner of your lips. “Can’t have you hurtin’ yourself on me, sweet girl.”

Your cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and frustration. You felt like your body was betraying you from what your mind – and your hormones – severely desired.

“Just lean back and relax,” Joel coaxed, returning to the spot where your neck met your shoulder. He planted more kisses, featherlight, as he continued, “Just let me take care of my girl.”

Closing your eyes, you forced yourself to relax under Joel’s direction. As you sank into the pillows, you concentrated on the touch of Joel’s mouth moving further down your body. “That’s it,” he murmured as your breathing steadied. “That’s my girl.”

Your heartbeat quickened as Joel’s hands gently pushed away the towel you had slung over your shoulders, revealing your bare chest. With great care, Joel cupped your breasts, massaging the plush skin soothingly beneath his fingertips, while his thumbs lazily circled each nipple. As they became erect under his touch, he popped one into his mouth, suckling the sensitive skin between his teeth.

“Oh, Joel,” you whispered, your voice both a warning and a plea. He knew what you liked. He knew exactly how to give you what you wanted. And right now was one of those moments, when he suspended the passing of time and acted as though his life’s sole purpose was purely to worship and please you.

His tongue continued to swipe over your nipple before releasing it with a pop and moving to the next one. When you looked down, butterflies fluttered in the pit of your stomach at the sight of him; he looked so content with his long eyelashes covering his shut eyes, his nose slightly squashed against your breasts, and his lips wrapped around your nipple like he could stay that way pacified forever.

As you melted further into the pillows, Joel’s kisses moved down your belly. “My sweet girl,” he murmured – more to himself than to you – as he reached the pubic hair covering your mound. He pushed himself lower onto the bed and arranged himself so that he was neatly between your legs, before carefully lifting your thighs over his shoulders. As you settled into the position, arousal pummeled into your core at the touch of Joel secure between your legs and your bare feet grazing the muscles of his back.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” Joel repeated, his voice just a muffled murmur as he continued to plant kisses over your thick curls of hair. He turned his head to skim the tip of his nose over the inside of your leg, before dipping himself into the deepest crevice of your thigh, where he dragged his tongue along the crack. “My baby,” he whispered.

Joel hadn’t even touched you where it counted yet, and already, your core was dripping. Hearing Joel’s whispers of sweet nothings, tickled by his hot breath ghosting your skin, smelling the soap and shampoo mingle with the scent that was pure Joel, and feeling his plush pillows hug you from behind – it was all building so fast to be too much for you to take. Without a second thought, you spread your legs further, exposing the slick web of arousal between your legs to Joel.

He groaned with ravenous desperation, the sound only turning you on further. He squeezed the dough of your thighs over his shoulders as he buried his nose between your folds, the sticky spread of you smearing onto his face. Your breath hitched as you felt him deeply inhale your scent, before dragging his tongue along your folds. “Give you anything you want,” he mumbled, gently gliding his tongue up and down your slit. His tongue worked lavishly against you, slowly, with deliberate movements that were in no rush. As you felt his tongue dip into every curve and crevice of your core, your fingers found their way weaving through his hair.

“Joel,” you whimpered, wanting to buck your hips into him further but knowing your pain wouldn’t let you. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head with pleasure.

Joel shushed you as he continued to lick, his scruff tickling your skin and the sensation electrifying you more. “Sweet, sweet girl,” he continued, a groan pouring from his throat as he licked up a stripe of slick that oozed from inside you. With someone else, you may have been embarrassed or ashamed by how wet you got. But Joel treated it like a gift, like he’d discovered a secret that was all his, and he never failed to express how much he enjoyed it.

For what felt like hours, he stayed like that, his fingers gently massaging the dough of your thighs while his mouth sucked and slurped every part of your core. As perspiration formed on your forehead and your cheeks began to flush, you squirmed with want under Joel’s touch. But like always, he understood.

“You ready to cum, sweetheart?” he asked, looking up at you from between your legs. Despite what he was doing, his brown eyes looked so innocent. As you eagerly nodded your head, Joel pecked up your folds tenderly until he reached your clit. “Okay, baby,” he said soothingly. “You can cum whenever you want.” And with that, he sucked your clit into his mouth. Your stomach churned at the sensation of his tongue toying with your clit like it were candy, his soft strokes perfectly brushing against your sensitive bundle of nerves with kitten licks.

“Joel,” you cried, cradling his head in your hands. You felt white hot flames licking you from the inside out as the coil in your stomach threatened to snap. Heat rose into your chest and your cheeks as you fell deeper into the pillows, the cushions swallowing you whole.

Your hips rose just an inch, and though it hurt, the pleasure far outweighed the pain. At this perfect angle, Joel continued to swipe his tongue against your clit until all at once you were seeing fireworks bursting behind your eyes, a wave of euphoria rippling throughout your body. You cried his name as tears streamed down your cheeks.

As the aftershock continued to radiate throughout your body while you tried to catch your breath, Joel crawled up so that he could face you again. His dark eyes were blown out, his pink lips swollen and shiny with your slick. You whimpered as you watched him greedily lick his lips.

“Thank you,” you choked, wiping the tears that streaked your face. Joel kissed your face and hummed with content. “Still want you, though,” you sniffled, gazing up at him through your eyelashes. “Want to feel you inside me.”

Joel’s eyebrows furrowed in a mix of pain and arousal. “Are you sure, baby?” he asked, breath hitching, as your hips rose to grind against his. His towel had since fallen off and now you could feel it, his hard length begging to be buried inside of you.

You nodded confidently. “I’m positive,” you assured him, nosing into his neck. You nibbled his skin, the perfect button you could press to get what you wanted that would drive Joel crazy and whispered, “Please. Want you to fill me up.”

Joel groaned at your words; there was no way he could argue with you, and he didn’t want to. He fisted his cock in his hands and guided the tip along your folds. “You’re so wet for me, baby,” he commented, his eyes staring straight into yours.

You stroked his cheek and nodded, licking your lips. “All for you,” you promised him, studying every scar and scratch that etched his face.

You watched as his jaw fell slack as he pushed himself in, his entire cock filling you up with ease. You moaned instantly. Joel was accustomed to the way you’d mewl for him to fill you completely. He knew how much you loved his cock – the length, the girth, the way it filled you to the hilt – and he could read it on your face every time he had the chance to enter you. As his pubic hair came to brush against your clit, his cock completely sucked inside you, he murmured into your ear: “That’s it, sweetheart. S’all yours.”

As your moans grew louder, Joel pistoned himself deeper, maintaining a steady pace that wasn’t too fast or too slow, but just enough to savor the sensation inch-by-inch. Your nails dug into Joel’s forearms, too weak to wrap around his back, as you clung to him with desperation. “Joel,” you whimpered, not knowing what to do with yourself underneath them. The pleasure was building quicker than you had anticipated. “Joel, I–” you started to say, before sinking your teeth into his arm. You clenched tightly around him as he continued to thrust inside you.

“Can you cum again for me, baby?” Joel whispered sweetly, holding your chin in his hand to make you look at him. His eyes searched your red cheeks, furrowed brows, and watery eyes. As you desperately nodded your head, Joel’s lips frowned. “Yeah?” he asked, stroking your chin, unable to resist just a second of teasing.

But before any frustration could build inside of you, Joel’s hand was between your bodies and his thumb was drawing circles against your clit. “It’s okay, baby,” he encouraged, his own words struggling to come out of his mouth as his jaw became slack watching the pleasure wash over you. As your face contorted in pleasure, the coil in your belly threatening to snap for a second time, fresh tears began to roll down your face. Joel shushed you and kissed them away. “It’s okay, baby, it’s all for you,” he said, his words gradually coming out through gritted teeth as he fucked you deeper. “All yours, baby, every part of me.”

All at once you broke, crying out as a second seismic wave of pleasure erupted in your core and rippled throughout your body. As you gushed around Joel’s cock, his pubic hair drenched and the wet squelch penetrating the room, you felt his movements grow sloppy as he burrowed into your neck. Then he was emptying himself inside you, his warm cum seeping out of your aching hole.

He allowed himself to collapse beside you, careful not to hurt you, his sweat-slicked chest panting. His hand skimmed your chest, cupping your breast, while his face nuzzled into the other one. “My baby,” he murmured, kissing over your areola. He nuzzled into you more. “Never gonna let you go again.”

#joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal fic #tlou fic

1K notes · View notes

toomanystoriessolittletime · 6 months

Text

Claimed

Summary: While on the run from raiders and their twisted game of hide and seek you get saved in the last minute by a creature you only thought existed in books. You knew you should be scared, yet you could not find it in you as you looked into the warm brown eyes of a wolf that seemed way too human to be a monster, letting him have you and your body, letting him claim you. Waking up in a cabin the next morning you think it was all a dream, wanting to move on until Tommy and Joel Miller find you in that cabin, offering you to stay in a town called Jackson.

Pairing: Werewolf! Joel Miller x fem. reader

Rating: E

Wordcount: 5.4k

Warnings: monster fucking (dub con -> enthusiastic consent; basically she's really into it once she's awake) angst, threats of SA, violence, death, smut (Somnophilia; oral sex f receiving; unprotected sex, knotting, cumplay), successful breeding, so much guilt, fluff, Joel is bad at feelings

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics an turn on notifications to get notified for new fic updates

You were cold. Cold and hungry. Exhausted and, most of all, scared.

You didn’t know exactly how long you had been running. The four men pursuing you had found you and your group a day (or three?) before, had killed everyone except for you, telling you to run for your life after stripping you of most of your clothes.

Like some sick fucking game.

Then again, ever since the outbreak, everything seemed to be a game of life and death. It wasn’t long until humanity showed its ugly face, and (mostly) men lived out their sick, primitive fantasies without the fear of any kind of punishment.

You could hear them outside, laughing and snickering, fantasising about the sick things they would do to you if they found you. How they would decide if you were allowed to stay alive and become their pet, or if they would kill you.

The sun had set hours ago, the only light source outside the full moon high on the cloudless sky. You were hiding under a trapdoor in a barn that looked like it might collapse the next time it rained. Though if you had to guess, you think it’d snow before it rained.

It had to be November by now, Wyoming cooling down to a fucking freezer overnight, your teeth clattering as you shivered.

They had only left you in your shoes and underwear. You had picked up an old jacket as you ran into an abandoned cabin the day before. Then you found a thin blanket that you currently had wrapped around your cold legs, the smell coming from it making it hard to breathe without feeling nauseous.

Your fingers were wrapped around a rusty piece of metal you had found down here, not really knowing if you’d use it on the raiders or yourself before they got their hands on you.

Though the thought crossed your mind that you being dead probably wouldn’t stop them from…

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. In your head, you hummed the lullaby your mother used to sing to you whenever you felt anxious as you were growing up.

You didn’t dream of seeing her again one day anymore. You buried that hope after twenty years of whatever life you had lived since the outbreak. You liked to imagine she had a quick death once things started going downhill. You had been on vacation with your best friend in New York City when it all happened. You still had no idea how you made it out of there alive.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” one of the men mocked you, his voice way too close for comfort. You wrapped a hand over your mouth, trying to be as quiet as possible in hopes he would just move on and leave you here to… probably die from hypothermia. Still a better death than what they had planned.

You heard the footsteps getting closer before there was an earth-shattering scream outside, followed by growling.

“What the fuck is going on there? Did the bitch cut your balls off, Clark?” The men who must be standing right above you right now yelled outside. There was a roar followed by a howl outside, and you closed your eyes.

“Clark? Will?” The man above you called out, but there was no answer.

“You better not be fucking with me, you assholes,” he said, his footsteps moving away from you. You allowed yourself to release a shuddering breath, pulling the blanket tighter around you.

Another scream outside, followed by a loud howl, before there was only silence.

Minutes went by, and you were pretty sure whatever was out there had probably killed the men that were after you. Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to risk getting out of your hiding spot to seek shelter somewhere else. Or find another blanket.

You had no idea how to survive out here on your own. You hadn’t eaten in two days, only barely found something to drink while running.

Maybe whatever was out there would make your death quick, and you could rest. The thought of getting a good night’s sleep made you sigh as you felt your mind slowly slip into darkness.

Yet before you could let your mind rest, the trapdoor above you was ripped open, and you jumped, suddenly blinded by how bright the moon illuminated the night. You blinked against the sudden light, gasping when you found a creature looking down at you, big brown eyes fixated on you.

It was standing on two legs, fur covering the whole body, the teeth sharp, reflecting the moonlight.

It looked like a wolf. A huge fucking wolf, yet there was something human about it.

You should have been scared, you should have been screaming, but somehow you didn’t, overcome with the feeling of being safe the longer you looked into its eyes.

“You’re so pretty,“ you mumbled. “Are you here to kill me?“

The creature’s eyes widened before his massive head shook from side to side, as if saying no. You smiled softly at that.

“You’re a good doggy,” you sighed, your eyes slipping closed. And you could swear the last thing you heard was an amused roar before your mind slipped into unconsciousness.

You felt…. Warm.

You didn’t know the last time you felt warm, which left you to the conclusion that you must have died.

You were lying on something soft, surrounded by warmth.

A satisfied moan slipped through your lips in the next moment, still half asleep, and you felt your body shuddering. Your hands ran over your body, your fingers slipping down your stomach before your eyes opened slowly, looking down just in time to see why you woke up, your pussy throbbing as an orgasm rushed through your body, making you arch your back and cry out as you looked between your thighs to find big brown eyes looking up at you.

You thought you dreamed the wolf you remembered saving you before, but it was him.

“You’re… You’re real…“ you whispered, your hand hesitantly reaching out, your fingers meeting the soft fur of the animal between your legs. It was real. He was real. The wolf was real, and he was here, and he was…

The wolf seemed to lean into your touch, his eyes seemingly trying to communicate with you, his expression torn before he growled, his eyes closing.

“Oh shit,“ you whispered, slowly noticing that you were stripped completely naked, big strong and furry arms wrapped around your thighs, keep you lying on the mattress beneath you.

You should be scared, you know you should. Yet you weren’t. Instead, you felt the safest you ever did. The big nose of the wolf nuzzled against your pussy, and you moaned quietly, your chest heaving as you took a deep breath.

You should fight, run, scream, yet you wanted more.

You wanted this creature to own you, to claim you. To be his. It seemed like the only thought in your mind the longer you looked into its eyes.

The wolf kept his dark eyes on yours, his cold nose nuzzling against your pussy until you felt his big tongue lick through your slit.

“Oh fuck,“ you let yourself fall back down against the ground, the hand that had been touching the wolf coming up to your breast, squeezing it, playing with your nipple, noticing something… sticky on your chest. Bringing your fingers up, looking at them and the creamy substance on your fingers, your eyes found the wolf, finding him watching you intently.

The long warm tongue kept licking you almost softly, the wet nose rubbing over your clit.

Keeping your eyes on his, you brought your fingers to your mouth, your tongue darting out to taste it. The wolf growled, his eyes seemingly getting even darker as you tasted what you thought was his cum. You hummed, licking your fingers clean, the wolf’s tongue moving faster, making your legs twitch.

His big claws dug warningly into the soft skin of your thighs, before his tongue forced its way inside your pussy.

Your lips parted as you cried out in ecstasy, the feeling foreign yet so fucking good as the big tongue of the wolf moved inside of you.

Biting your lips, you tried to keep quiet, panting for air as his tongue brushed over something inside of you that made you cry out in pleasure.

“There… Fuck… Right there,“ you whined, trying to move your hips under his grip, but he growled, his tongue fixated on that one spot inside of you until you moaned loudly, your whole body shaking as you came hard, soaking the wolf between your legs as you squirted for the first time in your life.

With your chest heaving, you slumped back against the mattress, panting as you tried to process what just happened.

The wolf licked you clean softly before his claws let go of your thighs. You opened your eyes, watching him when you felt his tongue licked over your upper thigh, only noticing now that one of his claws must have nabbed your skin, drawing a tiny bit of blood he licked off.

You were watching him, your eyes widening as the wolf slowly got on his feet, towering above you in his full height.

He was breathtaking. Literally.

Your eyes dropped to his cock, leaking with pre cum and standing proudly against his stomach.

It was… definitely not human.

It was dark red, at least 9 inches long. You probably could not close your fist around it, the girth was too big. But it was the knot that made you suck in your bottom lip, worrying.

He was breathing deeply, his eyes fixed on your form, almost pleading to you, but you did not know for what.

“It’s… It’s okay,“ you whispered, slowly sitting yourself up. It was almost like the wolf was shaking his head.

“It’s okay. Take what you want.“

The moment those words slipped out of your mouth, Joel knew he had lost the last bit of control he had over his actions. He got on all fours, his face hovering over you and your beautiful eyes.

You didn’t know the inner fight he had put on for hours since bringing you here.

Joel was a man who always made more than sure that whatever he did with the person he was with, they were giving him enthusiastic consent before he touched them.

But right now, Joel wasn’t a man.

He was a creature of the night, his instincts reduced to his animalistic primal needs.

He had made you cum twice before you even woke up, high on your taste, wanting more and more. Fuck he had even jerked off, shooting his cum all over your body like the animal he was.

He’d never fucked anyone in this form before, and while a part of him hated the lack of control he had over how he behaved right now, another part was ready to be inside of you.

“Mhhh….“ he heard you hum, your fingers stroking through his fur, and Joel was sure he’d purr if you continued to touch him.

But his cock was aching, and you were oh so soft and wet.

And ready to breed.

He leaned down, his nose nuzzling against your neck, inhaling you deeply before he looked deep into your eyes, ready to take what was his.

The wolf began to lick your upper body, focusing on your breasts, making you whimper, your fingers pulling on the fur of his arms. Slowly you let your hand slip down your body, your eyes widening when you came in contact with his cock, gasping softly.

The wolf looked up at you, grunting as you tried to wrap your hand around it, your hand too small.

You felt the wolf lick your cheek, and you looked up at him, wondering what he was thinking.

Taking a deep breath, you laid back, parting your legs for him even wider.

The wolf was actively looking between your pussy and his claws, and you wondered if the man inside him would be putting his fingers inside of you if he was able to. He closed his eyes as you guided his cock towards your pussy.

“Try to be gentle, yeah? At least at first…“ you hummed and sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes falling shut as the tip of his cock entered you ever so slowly. You stopped breathing. You didn’t know if it was seconds or hours until your pussy was stretched around his hot cock, the knot just outside of your pussy.

He waited until you relaxed, letting you get used to his size.

The wolf leaned down, his fur brushing against your skin, looking deeply into your eyes before he bottomed out and began to move. His cock slowly dragging through your walls, the foreign shape stretching you out and hitting all the right spots.

You held on to the broad shoulders of the creature fucking you slowly.

“Harder,“ you moaned quietly, trying to move your hips up, but the wolf growled, pinning you against the ground. He stilled inside of you before he pulled out of you.

Before you could react, he had you turned around, pulling you up so you were on your hands and knees, his cock entering you from behind in one hard thrust, making you cry out.

He fucked into you deeply, pumping his cock inside you, his claws holding on to your hips, keeping you where he wanted you.

“Oh fuck,“ you cried out, letting yourself fall down to your elbows, your head falling against the mattress.

The wolf howled, and you felt his cock throbbing, the pointed tip kissing your cervix, making your legs shake.

You felt so fucking full, his cock stretching you just right.

“I’m gonna cum,“ you whined, meeting his thrusts, and you screamed when you came, clenching around his cock. Fucking you through your orgasm, he leaned over your body, his fur brushing over your naked back. Aftershocks of your orgasm were still running through your body when you heard the wolf growl, the cock inside you seemed to get even bigger before he howled, his knot pushing inside of you, filling you with his cum and keeping it inside of you.

You felt his strong, soft arms wrapping around your middle before he slowly pulled you to your side, his cock still stuck inside of you, steadily filling you with his cum.

Breeding you.

You shuddered at the thought, feeling him lick your neck softly, pulling you even closer, keeping you warm.

The last thing you remember thinking before you fell asleep was that you wished you’d known his name…..

When you woke up, you found yourself under a mountain of blankets. Your memory was a little foggy, but you knew someone… or something had saved you. And from the soreness you felt all over your body, you were beginning to think you did not dream of the wolf who had taken you last night.

Your lips parted as you realised there was a fire cracking in the small fireplace. You sat up, looking down at yourself, noticing that you were now wearing a soft Flannel. You brought the fabric up to your nose, surprised when you found it smelling clean with a hint of… wood. It reminded you of how your uncle had smelled when he returned from his job at the local wood factory.

“Hello?” You called out, silence meeting you.

There was a full bottle of what looked like water next to the old sofa you had slept on. Opening the lid carefully, you smelled it, confirming it was water. It could be drugged, your mind provided. But you were too thirsty to care, almost chugging the whole bottle down before slowly pushing yourself up to stand.

You were wearing thick wool socks, your legs still naked. You brushed your fingers over a mark on your inner thigh.

Confused, you began to explore the room.

It had been cleared out, but for some reason, you did not think someone actually lived here. There was, however, food on the table. Just a can of old beans and a fork.

Narrowing your eyes, you eyed the can, your hands gripping the back of the chair that was tucked against the old wooden table. Looking down at your hands, you had grabbed something soft, finding yourself looking at an old, worn pair of sweatpants.

You began to feel like you were in the twilight zone, waiting for someone to jump out of a corner.

For him to find you in whatever form he was this morning.

Sucking your bottom lip in, you looked around again before you slowly slipped your legs into the sweatpants, finding them way too big. But they were warm and soft, and you sighed in relief.

Which didn’t last long, because you heard voices outside.

Frantically looking around, you found the rusty piece of metal you had with you when you had hidden the night before, grabbing it.

You moved behind the door as silently as possible, the voices coming closer.

“We’re not here to kill you,” someone called out. A man.

You heard that before.

“I know you have no reason to trust us. But we’re here to help.”

He could smell her.

Her and her flowery scent that seemed to drive him to insanity ever since he crossed it two days ago.

Due to his… other self, his senses were always better than those of an average human, but in the week leading up to the full moon, they seemed to sharpen even further. It was why he and Tommy always went out on their monthly trip to the radio tower that lasted three days when they really just used the full moon to hunt down infected and people who would potentially bring harm to Jackson.

He had been tracking three men, raiders, their scent full of adrenaline and arousal, when he came across your scent. Frightened, dehydrated, but so flowery and sweet that it was the only thing he could think about.

Still in his human form, he had seen you, almost naked, running frantically through the woods. Away from them.

He had kept an eye on you, the animal in him taking over, his urge to protect you taking over. Yet he waited until the next night, his wolf form making him stronger, to take your attackers out one by one, making it as painful as possible.

And then you were in his arms. Cold, unconscious, yet so so beautiful.

He brought you to the cabin he and Tommy had cleared out the month after he got to Jackson, setting you down on the couch.

Pulling a blanket over you, he was thankful for the fire Tommy must have lit when he had been here earlier, carefully putting another log of wood into the fire to keep it going.

Making his way back to you, he was overcome with the urge to have you back in his arms. Carefully, he pulled you against him, and you seemed to seek his warmth, your fingers digging into his fur.

Looking out, he counted that he had around three hours until the sun came up, and he’d change back to his human form.

He knew he should have left you there. He should have gone out, leaving you safe and unharmed.

He wished he could blame everything that happened in the cabin on his wolf side. The wolf side knew he had to have you because you were ready to breed. It’s why you smelled so sweet and irresistible for him. You were ovulating and ready to bear his offspring. But Joel was still inside. He knew what he was doing. And he tried to stop initially, but it was a fight he quickly let himself lose, getting lost in you. And the worst part was he enjoyed every single second. The way you held on to him. The way you tasted. The way you looked when you came. The way you smiled as he pumped you full of his cum, just before you passed out again.

Joel sighed, following his brother as he approached the house slowly. Joel could smell you. Adrenaline cursing through your veins.

“I’m Tommy, and this is my brother Joel,” Tommy stopped in front of the house, holding his hands up.

“We come from a community not far from here. We have water, electricity, food…”

Joel’s heart seemed to stop the moment he heard your voice.

“How do you even know I’m here?” You asked. Tommy’s eyes found Joel’s.

“We have cameras set up around the patrol route, and we saw you on one of them,” he lied easily.

Joel and Tommy had talked about what to tell you. Tommy knew from the moment they met up after the moon disappeared, smelling you all over him.

He did not ask questions when Joel told him they had to go get you from the cabin.

They both had their fair share of things they weren’t the most proud of, both as humans and werewolves. Tommy knew better than anyone else how hard it was to keep yourself in control when all the monster in you wanted was to claim someone.

It was how he met Maria.

Thankfully it all turned out for the best in the end, but still, Joel felt like a fucking monster.

The door opened, and you stepped out carefully, holding up the piece of metal he had found you with last night in front of you. You were wearing his shirt.

Mine.

His pants.

Mine.

He could smell himself all over you.

Mine.

He wondered if he was still dripping out of you.

“Cameras? You… You know how I got here?” You asked, your heartbeat quickened.

Tommy shook his head.

“No. The cameras only activate once you’re inside the cabin.”

“Oh,” you nodded, hesitating.

“Did you…. See something weird?”

“Just you pretty much passing out,” Tommy lied again.

“Weird,” you whispered to yourself, but both Joel and Tommy could hear it.

“So… what do you say? Care to join us?” Tommy asked.

“I… I should not trust strangers. But these last days have been… I’m still not quite sure how I survived…” you shook your head, your arms hugging yourself.

“You are welcome to wait out until patrol gets here. My wife will be with them, she’s kind of the leader of our little community,” Tommy said.

Your heartbeat slowed down.

“You’re married?” She asked with a small smile. Tommy nodded, his smile wide.

“Married and about to become a dad. Well… still a couple months to go, but, yeah.”

You nodded.

“What about your brother? Joel, was it?” You asked.

There was something familiar about the broad man standing just behind Tommy. He hadn’t looked at you directly once, but something told you you knew him.

“It’s complicated,” he said, and a shiver ran through your whole body, hearing his voice.

You swallowed.

“I haven’t heard that since college,” you joked.

“You went to college?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah. I was 19 when the outbreak happened,” you said.

“Did anyone make it?” Tommy asked.

You closed your eyes, shaking your head.

“Whole family is dead. The people I was with… Raiders killed them before they made me…” you shook your head, missing the way Joel’s whole body stiffened as he tried to control his anger.

“I’m so sorry,” Tommy said, and you sighed.

“Well. I should have learned not to get too attached to people. It’s a luxury nowadays to have someone.”

“Maybe you’ll have more luck in our community,” Tommy winked, and you took a deep breath. What other choices did you really have?

You were tired and weak, and maybe you had hallucinated having sex with a… wolf?

Because if they had cameras inside the cabin and last night really happened… You felt your cheeks growing warm, a throbbing between your legs.

You looked at Joel again, his eyes now on you. Brown eyes that seemed to look right into your soul, making you part your lips in a gasp.

Was it him?

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, not looking at you again.

“What do you say, darlin’?” Tommy asked, and you did not miss the way Joel’s head snapped to look at his brother, glaring at him.

Tommy smirked.

“I think I would kill for a hot shower,” you said with a small smile.

“When are you gonna stop hovering like a mother hen and go tell her?” Joel almost jumped as he heard his brother’s voice behind him. He was hiding out of sight from you, watching how you helped Maria with some garden work.

It had been 16 nights since he had you, 15 days since you moved into the house next to his, and it had been pure hell. Being so close to you but not touching you. He took care of you in his own way, from afar. Meals showing up in front of your door, so he was sure you ate. Sending his brother over to fix up the house, because he did not know if he could hold himself back if he was so close to you.

He had done some reading the day before, not understanding why he felt like this.

Now, there wasn’t, like, some kind of How to be a Werewolf for Dummies book around, but what he found made him realise that you probably were his mate. He never felt like this before, his body physically hurting when he did not know where you were.

He wondered if you felt it, too. If you felt the changes…

“Tell her what?” Joel grumbled.

“You could start with telling her that you’re sorry that you behaved like a dick, then start with explaining to her that once a month you turn into a werewolf and that yes, it was you that fucked her. And then you could congratulate her that she’s pregnant,” Tommy listed, and Joel growled.

He had known he had bred you the moment he had changed back the morning after, his guilty conscience killing him ever since.

Not only that he took advantage of you, no, he claimed you, bred you, and it took everything in him not to make you his officially.

Joel shook his head.

“She’s gonna hate me. And fuck… A baby? I’m way too old to raise a child…”

“I don’t know, big brother, you’re doing a great job with Ellie. Any kid would be fortunate to have you as their dad,” Tommy said surprisingly softly.

Joel took a deep breath, watching you wave Maria goodbye as you walked down the street towards home.

“Okay,” Joel said, straightening his shoulders before he followed you home.

You were surprised when you came home and did not find food on your doorstep, if you were honest. You had asked Maria if finding food was normal. It wasn’t.

You had a suspicion as to who it was leaving it, but you had not found the confidence to ask him.

It was like every thought was filled with Joel since you saw his eyes. And even though it sounded insane, you were almost certain that the wolf from the night who claimed you and the man who seemed unable to look into your eyes afterward were the same person.

He felt familiar, like you knew each other, and it was getting harder each day to not be with him. You had never felt like this before, pining over a man who was not only much older than you but who you had never really talked to before.

Shaking your head, you stared at your reflection in the mirror before you washed your face. Tomorrow, you would start working at the greenhouse, and you wanted to make a good impression, which was why you decided to go to bed early.

You were brushing your teeth when you heard a knock on your door. Frowning to yourself, your body buzzing as if it knew who it was, you spit the toothpaste into the sink before you pulled the shirt you had from the cabin over your head and walked towards the door.

His eyes were on you as you walked over to your door, a nervous flutter in your belly as you slowly pulled the door open.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before he looked at you, his jaw flexing.

“Hi Joel,“ you said quietly, your hand wrapped around the side of your door.

His eyes seemed to soften as he looked at you.

“Can… Can we talk?“ He asked.

Taken by surprise, you nodded.

“Would you like to come in?“

He could hear you in your kitchen, cluttering as you prepared him some tea. You had only been in this town, this house, for a week, and it already felt more homey than the house he lived in for the last years. Ever since Ellie moved out, he did not like spending time alone in his house. Something was missing.

You were missing.

“I hope you like peppermint,“ you said as you came back into your living room. He didn’t, but he would never tell you.

“Thank you,“ he said, nervous all of a sudden.

You sat down on the other side of the couch from him, pulling your legs against your chest as you looked at him.

“What did you want to talk about?“ You asked.

He took a moment to think about what to say, not really sure how to start.

“Is it about the… the night we met?“ he heard you ask carefully, and he turned his head to look at you, surprised.

“I thought it was a dream at first. How I woke up during the night. I thought I might be losing my mind, but… But I wasn’t, right?“ you asked.

He took a deep breath, before he shook his head.

“You weren’t. I.. I saved you. I killed those… monsters, only to…“

He felt your hand on his.

“Is that why you were ignoring me? Because you…“

“I took advantage of you! You smelled so sweet, and you were so soft… And I usually can control myself, I know what is happening, but I couldn’t around you. I had to… I have to have you. It’s like…. “

“Like you don’t feel whole when you’re not around me? Yeah. That’s how I feel too,“ you said quietly, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You do?“

You nodded.

“You’re not… scared of me?“ he asked.

You giggled, slipping closer to him.

“Joel, you saved my life, and then you made me cum four times. Was I a little out of it? Maybe. But I don’t regret it.“

“Good… That’s… That’s… good…“ he mumbled, closing his eyes as he felt your warm hand on his cheek, turning his head towards you.

“You’re so pretty,“ you mumbled, and he chuckled.

“That’s the first thing you said to me that night,“ and he was still surprised about it.

“It’s true. It’s… I always knew there was more out there than just us. Well and walking mushrooms that are trying to kill us. And I might have read my fair share of fantasy books.“

“Yeah?“ he asked, his hand coming to rest on your thigh. You nodded.

“It’s hot,“ you shrugged before you leaned in and kissed him softly.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

“I have to tell you something else,“ he said.

“What?“ you whispered.

“The reason why I couldn’t control myself was because my senses are heightened when I’m in my wolf form. And I… could smell that you were ovulating, which is why everything in my head screaming at me to… breed… you….“

Your lips parted, and he could practically hear you processing what he had just said.

“And… And…. Would you… Would you know if you bred me?“ you asked.

He nodded.

“Then I guess I should tell you that twin pregnancies are common in my family line,“ you said.

He huffed a laugh before he felt you climb into his lab.

“I think you should take me out on a date,“ you mumbled.

“Yeah?“

“Yeah,“ you nodded, before you leaned in and kissed him.

#my fic #Joel Miller #Joel Miller x fem. reader #Pedro Pascal #tlou fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #werewolf au #werewolf joel miller

582 notes · View notes

pedropascallme · 1 year

Text

Occam’s Razor

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader; no use of y/n

Summary: “Philosophically speaking—logically speaking—Occam’s razor is a principle that recommends searching for explanations with the least possible set of elements. In other words, the best answer, the correct answer, is often the simplest.”

Warnings: Smut (18+ MINORS DNI), age gap (reader is in her 20s, Joel is early 50s), dom/sub dynamics (dom!Joel x sub!Reader), fingering, oral (m receiving), p in v sex, praise kink, daddy kink, sir kink, size kink if you squint, mild degradation, mild brattamer!Joel??, canon typical violence. If i missed anything please let me know!

~~~

Philosophically speaking—logically speaking—Occam’s razor is a principle that recommends searching for explanations with the least possible set of elements. In other words, the best answer, the correct answer, is often the simplest.

But more on that later.

Joel miller was a man of few words. Rugged; stoic to his core. Ellie, on the other hand, was perhaps the chattiest of Cathies you had ever met. When their little party picked you up, you and Ellie quickly fell into the habit of talking through and over anything and everything together.

Much to Miller’s chagrin.

Despite his stern demeanor, you couldn’t deny that Joel had that southern charm to him. He’d clear branches out of your way, place a hand on your back while you walked over uneven terrain, call you “darlin’” to get your attention. You’d be a fool not to notice how handsome he was; despite the obvious signs of age and trauma, despite the fact that he was quite a bit older than you, and despite the fact that he clearly had everything but you on his mind…there was no denying how gorgeous Joel miller was.

You liked to imagine he had a soft spot for you, liked to imagine that the hands on your shoulder when you climbed a steeper-than-expected hill were for more than steadying the both of you. You liked to think that when you made camp and he offered first shift it was because he cared. Maybe it was the way he looked at you during meals, as if he was undressing you with his eyes, that fed into your delusions. But, hey, the world had ended—crazier things could happen.

Still, you would be snapped out of your fantasies when he gave you the stink eye for encouraging Ellie’s dirty jokes. Your attempts to force him into a conversation were shot down almost every time. He had yelled at you more than once, most recently for “trying so damn hard to get us all killed”—his words—when you had almost tripped an old landmine that raiders had set up in a field. So maybe it was all in your head. You tried not to take his words to heart, choosing to focus on his kinder actions. But Joel had you hot and bothered. And, oftentimes, pissed.

Who gave a fuck. At least you had Ellie.

It had been days and days and days of walking and camping and then walking again. When you weren’t talking to and giggling with Ellie (the younger girl reading her joke book and getting you to guess every punchline) or staring at the back of Joel’s head as he led you onward, you reflected on why exactly the two travelers had let you stay with them. Why Joel had let you stick around. It wasn’t like he had to—hell, when Ellie had found you, Joel pulled a gun to your head, and Ellie had to convince him to bring you along. It took ten minutes for him to let his gun down, and it still felt like he hadn’t let his guard down around you. Maybe Joel thought the girl needed a more maternal figure, maybe he thought you, in your ratty jeans, at 20-something, could provide that energy. That seemed like the simplest answer, and it felt to you that Joel didn’t care for you all that much, despite your daydreams. You were grateful, really, you were, but there were times where you wished he would address the fact that you were there. A “thank you” would be appreciated.

You were pulled out of your own head when you heard Ellie gasp; immediately you reached for the gun on your hip, eyes darting up and around in search of whatever danger she had reacted to. Before you could do anything, though, you heard her speak:

“House!”

Your shoulders slumped a bit in relief that it had been a good gasp. But you still stood behind Joel with Ellie as you made your way forward to the house. Just in case. Joel held up his rifle, expecting the worst—he was always expecting the worst. Slowly but surely, you made it to the porch of the run-down cabin.

“Stay.” Joel’s voice was firm when you and Ellie got closer to the entrance. It was an order, even though it had been barely above a whisper. He walked through the front door as quietly as he could, keeping himself low and his gun high. After a few minutes he walked back out and stuck his thumb towards the entrance.

“S’alright. Doesn’t seem like anybody’s been here for a long while.”

Ellie ran into the house, no doubt in search of a bed to call her own for however long you three would be staying. You trudged up the steps behind her, looking around at the decomposition of the interior. It would’ve been a nice house to live in before.

_______________________

Night fell just as quickly as the day had begun.

By some miracle, despite the house’s decay, there was still running water. You relished the time you got to spend in the shower, rubbing all of the dirt and grime off your body and watching it swirl down the rusted drain.

Once dressed, you rounded the corner and sat on the dusty couch in the middle of what had once been a living room. You had spent so much time in the shower, you assumed Joel and Ellie would’ve been asleep by now, figuring that you would take first shift in your shiny clean state.

That was not the case.

Heavy footsteps came down the stairs, and by the time you turned yourself around to look at the source of the sound, Joel was already standing on the bottom of the staircase.

“Ellie’s asleep. I’ll take first watch.” He walked towards the couch, sitting himself down at an arm’s length from you.

“I can take first watch. I don’t mind. I’m up anyway.” You drew your legs into your chest, suddenly feeling a bit exposed in your white shirt as the excess water on your body from the shower had started to make the fabric see-through.

“M’up, too. Bedroom’s the first door on the right. Can’t miss it.”

“Miller, I can watch. Take a break.”

“Ain’t no breaks, darlin’.” Your heart skipped a bit when he used the nickname. It was embarrassing how one word could get under your skin and cause heat to rise in your cheeks so easily.

“Well, sure. But I’m taking this shift.” You didn’t know why you were arguing with him over something so futile. He would end up winning, anyway. Really, you just wanted an excuse to talk to him one-on-one. “So be on your way.”

“No, you’re not. Go upstairs.”

“Who died and made you king?” Those were fighting words, and you knew it.

“The whole fuckin’ world died, sweetheart.” You could tell you were getting to him. “Go.”

“You’re a real piece of work, Joel Miller. You’re not in charge, you just have the most ammo. If I said I’ll take first watch, then I’ll—"

“Jesus H. Christ, girl, d’y’ever shut up?” Joel cut you off.

“You got a mighty big stick shoved up your ass, Miller.”

Joel stood up, refusing to back down from the fight you had started. You decided to stand, too. You weren’t about to let him win just because he had you cornered into the couch.

“‘Nd you’re still over there runnin’ your mouth. What’s this, hour four o’bein’ here? You still got somethin’ new to say?”

“You want me to be quiet?” You were standing right in front of him, looking him directly in the eyes.

Fuck, he had pretty eyes.

“Mm.”

“Make me.”

Remember Occam’s razor? The simplest solution.

Joel grabbed you by the waist, attacking your mouth with his. You yelped at the sudden contact, but he silenced you just as quickly by forcing his tongue into your mouth. You relaxed into him, letting his hands explore you while you wrapped your own around him, fingers tugging at the curly hair at the nape of his neck. He pushed you back down onto the couch.

“Need me to make you shut up?” He undid his belt, calloused hands sliding it out of the loops. “I’ll show you what that fuckin’ mouth is good for, sweetheart. Get on your fuckin’ knees.”

You were never one to disobey a command. You inched yourself off the couch, settling on your knees in front of Joel. He traced a hand down your jaw, placing his thumb on your bottom lip. You opened your mouth for him, and he placed his thumb inside.

“Use that mouth, baby.” He watched you close your lips around the digit and hollow your cheeks to suck. “Tha’s right. Need’a teach you some manners. What’tya say?”

“Thank you, Joel.” You managed to mumble out, still sucking on his thumb.

“Uh-uh. You treat me with some fuckin’ respect when you’re on your knees for me. What do you say?” He pulled his thumb out of your mouth with a pop, tracing it over your cheek and smearing your spit across your face.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Good girl.” He unzipped his fly and took your hands in his, placing them on his crotch. You could feel how hard he was, how his cock throbbed for you in his pants. He put your hands on his hips, then pulled down his jeans to release himself.

You had spent a lot of time imagining Joel’s dick. You knew that it had to be big, considering the way he carried himself, considering he always had to adjust his pants after sitting down. But even then, nothing could have prepared you for how fucking hung he was. He was so beautiful.

He grabbed one of your hands, making you wrap it around his cock.

“What are you waitin’ for, darlin’?” He looked down at you expectantly. There was no way you would be able to fit all of him down your throat, but you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try.

You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, giving experimental licks and kisses. He groaned, grabbing your hair and holding it in a ponytail.

“Gonna be a good girl f’me?” He asked, and all you could do was make a noise in response. “Gonna let me use this mouth how it needs to be used?” Again, you could only make a noise, this time higher pitched in anticipation. “Wanted to fuck this pretty mouth o’yours for so damn long. You gonna let me?” Now all you could do was moan, and he took that as a “yes.”

He pushed himself forward into your mouth, and you could feel the burn of your cheeks as he got deeper. He got maybe, maybe, halfway in when you started to gag, choking on his length, your spit dripping down your chin.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby. Messy girl. Lettin’ me use you like this. Fuck!” You had reached a hand down to cup his balls, giving them a small squeeze with your mouth still wrapped firmly around his shaft. “Knew you’d be a good girl. Knew you’d be a fuckin’ whore.” He began to shallowly thrust into your mouth, making you choke and drool all over yourself. You could feel the wet patch on your underwear growing bigger with every move he made and every word he said. Tears streamed down your face as he pushed himself against the back of your throat.

He pulled out, slapping your cheek with his cock. “Doin’ such a good job. Should’a shut you up like this before.” Joel slapped your cheek with his dick again, drawing a whine from you. “You need more, sweet thing? L’il slut needs more than what I’ve already given her?” Now he was just teasing.

“Please, sir…” Was all you could manage, opening your mouth again in the hopes that he would stuff his cock back inside.

“Please, sir, what?”

“Please can I have your cock, sir?” You weren’t one for begging, but God did you love seeing Joel stand above you. How could you deny him what he wanted when he was gripping his cock like that? Looking down at you like that?

“Get up on the couch.” You did as you were told. He grabbed your face and pulled you into him for another kiss. It was filthy, all spit and tongue, and you fucking loved it.

He began stripping you of your clothes. He tugged your shirt off over your head, drinking in the way your naked chest rose and fell with every breath you took. You shimmied out of your jeans, but before you could get rid of your panties, Joel was pushing you onto the couch.

“Lemme help you, pretty girl.” He pulled your hips up, one arm under your ass for support while he ghosted his fingers over your clothed cunt.

“Look at that fuckin’ wet spot. Did I do that to you, baby? Daddy get you all wet, fuckin’ your pretty mouth?” He rubbed a knuckle in the middle of the wetness on your panties, and you moaned at the contact. “Answer my question.”

“Daddy got me wet—yes!” You bit back a yell as Joel pulled your panties to the side and unceremoniously pushed his middle finger into your weeping cunt.

“Fuckin’ soaked f’me. Barely fittin’ one finger in, beautiful. How you gonna take my cock?” You opened your mouth but no words came out, instead you heard yourself let out a string of high pitched moans.

“God, this tight little pussy…gonna make you all mine, sweetheart.”

“I—ah!—I’m all y-yours alrea-dy.” You breathed out. Joel added another finger and you felt yourself squeeze him.

“Tha’s right, wanna feel you cum on my fingers like this. Can you do that, baby? Be a good girl and cum on daddy’s fingers?” You could hardly breathe you were so turned on, so focused on how Joel’s fingers were brushing against your most sensitive spot. Eyes closing in concentration; you felt a smack against your clit. Opening your eyes, you met Joel’s gaze.

“Be a good girl ‘nd look at me while I’m usin’ this pussy.” He started pushing his fingers deeper.

Your head rolled back on the couch, mouth dropping open in a silent scream, trying your best not to break eye contact with Joel.

“So quiet all of a sudden, baby. S’at all you needed? Needed to get this pussy filled up so that I could get some fuckin’ peace and quiet?” You nodded your head in response, feeling yourself at the tipping point. Your face was hot, your body coated in sweat, and all he had done was fuck your face and use his fingers on you. You were a fucking goner. You felt a rough finger on your clit, and Joel’s voice calling you a “good girl,” and that was all you needed. The rubber band snapped, and you were cumming all over his hand.

“Good fuckin’ girl. Fuck, getting’ my hand all messy.” You were breathing heavily, still able to feel the fullness of his fingers inside you as you came down from your orgasm.

Suddenly you were empty again, and Joel brought his fingers up to your lips. You opened your mouth without any fuss, tasting the tang of your juices on his fingers. He watched you like a hawk, unable to tear away his gaze from the way your lips pulled his fingers in while you sucked your cum off of them.

He pulled his fingers away, and you whined. You needed contact—any contact—with him. He gave you another kiss, pulling away to ask you what you needed.

“Your cock, Joel. Please.”

“Already gave you my cock, didn’t I, darlin’?”

“Want more, sir.”

“Gonna have to be more specific.” You could feel his breath on your face.

“Can I…I want you to… please?”

“God, you can’t even remember your words now. Pathetic little mess f’me.” He wrapped a hand around your throat. “I know what you want, baby. Want me to fuck your little pussy? S’at it?” You nodded. His insult went straight to your core.

He got up on the couch next to you, shifting you to lie on your side, your legs pressed together in what was essentially the fetal position. He pulled your ruined panties down, letting you straighten your legs for a moment before throwing them somewhere and pushing your legs back up. You felt him lining his cock up to your hole, nudging you with the tip.

“Tell me what you want.” He urged again.

You felt a newfound confidence surge through you. “Want daddy to fuck my pussy, please.” You followed all his rules, using your manners, using his title. It didn’t go unnoticed. Joel growled as he pushed his cock inside you. Every inch of him filled you up, dragging against your walls. You let out a long moan as he seated himself as deep inside of you as he could.

“Tiny l’il girl, look at you takin’ this big cock. So fuckin’ good.” He began to thrust himself shallowly in and out of your cunt. Every movement made you feel how good he was stretching you out, your wetness dripped between your legs.

You let out a particularly shrill moan as he hit a spot deep inside of you, one you hadn’t even realized existed. He smacked your ass hard before cupping his hand over your mouth.

“Just when I thought you were learnin’ to be quiet. Gonna have to fuck this lesson into you, huh?” He sped up, snapping his hips into your ass. You could hear the wet sounds your pussy made around him. The hand that had been on your mouth dipped between your legs, pulling the one on top up and over his shoulder.

“Tha’s what I like to see. Pretty girl all spread out for me. Thought o’this view every fuckin’ day.” He was absolutely ruining you, kneading your clit and pulling you up onto his dick.

“Gimme another one, sweetheart. Cum on my cock.” He let your leg drop off of his shoulder, leaning in to kiss you while you tried to keep your moans quiet. His fingers still worked your clit, rubbing your bud in time with his thrusts.

“J-oel,” you gasped, “I’m—fuck! I—”

“I know, baby. Show me what a good girl you are.” He kissed your cheek, and you clenched around him, making him groan. Your vision went blurry from the tears leaking out of your eyes combined with the absolute and utter pleasure that Joel had coursing through your veins.

“Shit! So fuckin’ good for me, atta girl. Cum for daddy, sweetheart, there y’go.”

You were shaking, turning slightly to lie on your back and look up at him.

“Th-ank you, sir…” You could barely keep your eyes open, your orgasm had knocked all the energy out of you. But at least you remembered your manners.

“Good job, darlin’.” He was getting sloppy, his arms resting next to your head on the couch while he lazily drove his cock inside of you. “Where d’ya want me, baby?”

Through your haze you shot him a smile. “Inside. Please, will you cum inside me, daddy?”

He moaned, speeding up slightly at your request. “Want me to cum in this sweet pussy? Wanna feel me paint you with my fuckin’ load, pretty girl?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into you for another heated kiss. You moaned into each other’s mouths.

“Please,” you whispered against his lips, “please cum inside me, Joel.”

He let out a groan, followed by your name over and over again, grinding himself into you. You felt the warmth of his cum in your stomach, wiggling your hips on him while his own hips stuttered above you, draining his cock into your greedy cunt.

He held himself above you, hair sticking to his forehead. You traced lazy shapes on his back and smiled up at him.

“You’re chatty when you fuck.” You goaded him.

“Yeah? You’re chatty all the time.” He spoke bluntly, but kissed your forehead. He pulled out of you, and your cunt clenched around nothing at the empty feeling. His cum dripped out of you. He sat up and pulled you into his lap. You sat silently for a moment, holding onto each other.

“Didn’t think you liked me all that much. Definitely didn’t think you liked me enough to fuck me like that.” You broke the silence. “Always felt like you didn’t want much to do with me.”

“Y’kidding?”

“No.”

“I like you too much.” Joel whispered into the top of your head.

“What do you mean?”

“Dangerous to like someone in this world, darlin’. Didn’t want either of us to deal with more hurt than we already have.”

“Oh…” You were silent again. Then, “So why’d you let me come with you two in the first place? Didn’t have to let me stick around.”

“’Cause you’re pretty.” He chuckled to himself. “’Nd Ellie needed someone a little more her speed. Someone a little more caring…maternal…” So, you had been right!

But he continued. “‘Nd, you know…”

“What?”

“I told ya. I like you.”

“Didn’t seem that way when you held a gun to my head.” You said, recalling your first encounter.

“It was a precaution.”

“Mhm.”

“Well how does it seem when my cum’s drippin’ out o’you?” You laughed lightly, reaching your fingers down to feel the sticky mixture of his cum and yours that had leaked onto your leg. You put the fingers in your mouth. He sucked in a breath, watching you intently.

“Seems like maybe you’re telling the truth.” You let your fingers go, wiping the remaining spit and cum mixture on the couch.

“I am. Like you a lot. So much. I’d be willin’ to prove it again, y’know.” He smiled, wiggling his brows. You could get used to seeing Joel Miller joke around after fucking you stupid.

“Like you a lot, too.” More silence.

“So y’meant what you said?” He asked.

“What’d I say?”

“When we were fuckin’. Y’said you were mine.”

You leaned yourself into him. “Of course I meant it. Did you mean it when you said you wanted to make me yours?”

“Of course I meant it.” He parroted.

“Good.” You sighed, letting the smell and feel of him surround you.

“Y’finally ready to get some sleep?” He asked. And for the first time, you heard the genuine affection behind the words, not just the affection you thought you only heard from him in your imagination.

“You said the bedroom is on the right?” You caved.

“I did.”

You prepared to stand up, but Joel wrapping his arms around your stomach stopped you.

“Where th’hell are you goin’?”

“To the bedroom.”

“Why?”

“You told me to sleep, Joel, I’m gonna go to sleep.”

“Simpler to just stay here.” He pulled you closer to him. You gladly cuddled into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

He was right. That was the simplest solution.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #Joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us smut #the last of us fanfiction #tlou #tlou smut #tlou fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

undercoverpena · 6 months

Text

ii. the borrowing of honey

joel miller x f!reader | chapter two of honey stained hands

Chapter summary: lifting his chin, he finds you already watching him. “What’d y’like me to call you?” Your hands pause, flour clinging to your palms, your hands. “I like that you call me Honey, Miller.”

wordcount: 3.9k warnings: no physical descriptions. joel calls you honey (ellie calls you bee - because you look after the bees). no use of y/n. typical canon-angst. brief mentions of reader handling some raiders (murder couple yesss). my spelling. joel trying to fit in and be good for ellie. an: doesn't matter how much time passes, i still get so nervous when it comes to sharing joel.

Your name is present on the tip of his tongue whenever he sees you.

It’s there when he watches you walk by; when he finds you in the centre of the sheep pen, Ellie and other kids circling you, listening attentively.

For Joel, what he likes the most, is the teeth showing when Ellie grins, when she moves closer to you, when it’s clear in the way her arms aren’t folded anymore, that she trusts you—this person, this neighbour of theirs.

Against all odds, he has also found your name coming to him with ease when he opens his door to you, the chill of the outside air mixing with the warmth of his home.

Your appearance, as always, knocking him off balance, especially when he spots that apron again—flecks of flour, a stripe of it against your cheek.

You don’t happen to have any honey, do you, neighbour?

From morning to night, it’s there, ready—hanging on the tip of his tongue.

He swears it’s as though your name has been scratched into him, etched into some space he hadn’t known was still there, existing, being.

A pull within him.

One that led him to your door the following day, a book in hand—one you’d lent Ellie and had been meaning to return—as he found you baking. All smooth movements, unbothered by him stopping by as you combined ingredients with your hands.

Hands he was unsure how they’d made it here. A question, that circles his brain in constant whirrs.

Because, until the scent of honey hit his nose, Joel wasn’t sure you could appear any sweeter.

“What y’baking?” he’d asked, nodding to the jar of honey open beside you—the one he’d given the day prior, the label scratched from his thumb picking at it as the two of you idly chatted. Talks of the day, whether he’d had any more run-ins with the animals.

Your lip tugged into your cheek, pausing in your crumbling to wipe your forearm across your brow. “Shortbread—but it’s only my third time making it.”

“Three times more than me.”

Snorting, you grinned. Large, unfazed—as though the world had never ended for you. “When you’re done fixing fences and homes, I can teach you.”

“Not sure I can learn much, honey.”

“I think you sell yourself short.”

Smirking, he nodded, mumbling a funny as he continued to watch, and admire. Paying attention to how your hands moved, how they rolled whatever you were making inside the bowl before you held up your dough.

You hadn’t shared much, just that you had learnt to bake when you were younger—something you’d begin doing when you couldn’t sleep. How the honey had been an easy (in terms of sourcing) replacement for sugar. That, you’d amassed too much once, so you shared your goods, left treats at the Tipsy Bison, took some to the shops that could spare some cheering up.

Joel didn’t share much either, just nodded to the questions you asked, whether he’d travelled far, whether he liked fixing porches and whether it was true a sheep had tried to eat his lace.

The main things that Joel learnt, was that you were too good for a person like him.

A person maybe years and years ago he’d have been able to entertain with witty stories and charisma. But both were few and far between now. That however you’d survived, however you’d made it here, had been likely on luck and not because you, like him—and likely others—had found themselves in the shadows of who they once were.

Then, he saw a different side.

Your name almost hangs from his lips when he watches you dismount weakly, almost stumbling—falling before you catch yourself.

There are snowflakes in your hair. Ellie had said the weather is ‘all fucked. Now, he can see it for himself. How drops from the clouds had clustered, clung to strands, it almost making you look innocent—like the version of you Joel had sculpted in his mind.

That is except for the scarlet splattered across your clothes and face—chunks of something mattered in your hair. It’s sticky, that much he can tell. It catches the sun's rays, reflecting across the parts that haven’t dried. Lit up further by the wild look in your eyes, the one that makes him realise, that for all your sweetness, there’s something uncaged inside you. A look, that is both a mix of haunting and adrenaline, thrumming in the depths where he’s usually basked in goodness.

The earlier thought, the one which had been irking him—festering in the back of his mind—wondering how something so kind had managed to survive, is now answered. It is on display, proudly there for him to see. You’d done well to drill it down, hide it deep inside of you, conceal it, but it was bellowing now, hammering its fists on your chest, all proud to be out, breathing, living.

Because you disguise it too, the monster. Thing so many of the people around the two of you aren’t. But a beast recognises another—and Joel sees yours.

There’s no mask or sheet big enough to hide it now. No way he can’t see where it’s stitched itself to the person you were before civilisation snapped in two and hell poured out from the core.

It’s that, he reasons, as to why he steps closer—tries to stabilise, soothe. Even if your body is calm, barely a shake in sight—no infliction as others come to your ‘aid’ that anything is even wrong—less so when the questions begin to rise.

You—a clever thing—wait until Tommy arrives. Letting him, and only him—guide you, lead you. Those who need to, follow, and Joel finds his feet carry him too. Joel finding a spot, remaining stood, just watching from the corner as you begin to share what had happened on patrol.

Your report is clinical, stiff. All to the point.

You speak it as though you were itemising, giving a list, and he suspects it isn’t because it’s a coping mechanism. It sounds normal from your tongue, loss—death. It’s all a matter of fact, with no emotion—no semblance of kindness or grief as you describe how your patrol partner was gutted in front of you. How they talked about you, not realising, not knowing…

He listens as your voice trails off then. Knowing, more than many of those who have been comfortable here for too long, what it is you’d left unsaid.

Then, you’d added Raiders. You chin lifting, eyes cold, unbothered, adding, low-level ones—as if there are grades to this shit.

“Do we need to send others out to deal with them?”

A valid question, asked by someone Joel has no fucking clue what his name is.

Instead of replying, your eyes flick to his. A momentary hold, a prolonged stare. It doesn’t claw at him to steal his breath or dig in to take a swipe at the fractured parts of him. It is just a stare—an almost cold one—as though he could have been replaced by anyone else in the room, and it would have been the same.

But you sought him out. You looked for him—stamping the answer into him. The one you say in a second or two, but makes him body relax before the rest of them can think of doing as much.

Because Joel knows this is you showing him who you are, the monster unwilling to be caged—the demon inside of you still breathing, snorting and spitting smoke.

“No,” you say, devoid of emotion. “I sorted it.”

Somehow, even after spending the night watching you bake, he doesn't doubt that for a second.

He knows something shifted, changed, the day after your patrol.

Something ebbing, flowing—commutated in the way he finds your eyes even through a sea of people. Mostly, he discovers that he doesn’t hate it when you find yourself beside him, sun in his eyes making him squint, you leaning close by as he repairs whatever is on the agenda.

The times begin to bleed into one. Something he’s distantly aware means something—even without Ellie pointing it out.

Because even she knows you, more than bits and bobs—more than someone who teaches them things. But intimately. You, who the kids have dubbed Bee likely due to the bees you’re often around and the honey that you tend to. Something that makes him smirk, a thing he struggles to hide.

He knows things have changed. Had known it the moment you stood giving a detailed account—letting another man’s blood dry on your face—that he had misunderstood you. Joel had made an assumption based on those he’d come across before, kind things—soft, pliable souls.

Now, he couldn't unsee the fire. The ferocious thing inside of you that you stuffed away and hid behind baking and tending to fucking bees.

“Didn’t realise you had access to all the honey, honey.” “You trying to flirt with me, Miller?” “No jus’… trying to figure out why you needed my honey.” “Maybe I thought yours would taste better.”

He was aware the idle chatter had turned flirty—more tinged in power, dominance. Who could make the other uncomfortable, snap or make the move first. Each day, the answer was different—sometimes him, sometimes you, oftentimes both.

Joel was old, worn—aching all over—but he didn’t like the idea of bowing, not after all he’d done to get here to begin with.

“I think you’re softening to me, Miller.” “You’re just my neighbour.” “Yeah, yeah. That’s what it is.”

A part of him reasons that he goes to the Bison to see if you’re okay, spotting you in the corner, at an empty table—a book open in your hands before you nod at him to join you. You tell him, quickly, he doesn’t have to make conversation, turning your attention back to the book, just no point sitting by yourself being ogled at.

Joel found he did talk.

First, about the book in your hand, and then questions about other things—the two of you floating them back and forth. Nothing major, nothing too deep. Enough to spark a smile or a laugh here or there.

No more pages of your book were read, not even as you eventually closed it—bidding him goodnight. He’d almost let you walk home alone, almost. A sudden emotion flared in him as he downed the drink and hurried after you.

Knowing you were safe mattered.

He repeated the sentiment over and over as though it was the only reason—or, better yet, the only one he wanted to believe, especially when the two of you stopped at the steps of your porch.

A goodnight rises, sitting on his tongue, but it never forms. Your eyes stare at him, shimmering, but you blink it away and replace it with a smirk. Because he’s sure if you were any other woman, you’d be jingling your keys and sending him all the signs. But you’re not like those women.

It’s the reason you’re the only one he doesn’t want to roll his eyes at when you speak.

“I’m not someone you should want to be more than friends with, Miller,” you say gently, shifting the book over your front.

“That so?”

Nodding, you flash him one of your usual smiles, dropping your eyes to the floor. “Yeah, I bite.”

Joel tells himself there’s plenty to do when he’s alone.

He can read—learn about space, study carpentry, maybe even just be, relax. He could pick at guitar strings until chords and melodies came back to him.

Instead, he finds himself in front of your door, knuckles out, hammering away at the wood until he hears you shouting for him to come in.

Fuck. The sight of you knocks into him, more prominent this time—more air stolen than just a gasp. Finding you hidden behind your kitchen counter, lips spreading into a smirk, he wants nothing more than to rid.

Powder streaking your cheek, your face free except for it—all bare, natural—the strap of your bra having fallen, all black—lace. The rest of it is hidden beneath a white vest top, your apron shielding the rest of your attire except your bare legs. Bruised, healed scars and thick woollen socks.

“You here to fix somethin’?”

He shouldn’t feel so much from just a smirk, but his mouth is dry, eyes glazing up and down your frame as you lick your lips.

“Or you here to see something?”

Lingering, he digs his hands into his jacket pockets, finding the usual leaning post of your doorframe—watching, secretly admiring but not admiring.

“Your silence doesn’t intimate me, Joel. If anything, it just allows me to talk more.”

Snorting, he shakes his head. “S’not what I’m doing.”

You stop mixing, hands hovering over the bowl, eyes narrowing, assessing, but smiling. “Right. Of course.”

He doesn’t like it. The tone. The way you let each letter fall from your tongue, laced in something he can’t quite work out. So, he steps closer, boots booming as he moves more into the kitchen.

“Whatever errand Tommy has you on, I’m fine. It’s only me here now, anyway.”

He nods. “Y’have someone else here then? Before.”

Before, even he hears how it moves around the room, pulsating, thickening. Your eyes drop back to the bowl, moving ingredients and making flour dust tinge in the air.

“A while ago, yes.”

For you, it’s curt—sharp. Another notch rallied against the evidence that sweet and fucking kind wasn't all there was to you.

Then you lift your eyes, devoid of all he’s used to in them. “I don’t need anything fixing, Joel.”

He stands. Loiters. A part of him wondering what you mean by fixing, because he suspects you don’t mean furniture, porches and doors. He suspects there’s more ravelled inside of you, a thing he wants to tug on, yank at—let it unspool out until he can digest it all, and consider, just maybe, if he can unspool his out too.

It’s why he’s unwilling to leave, more out of sheer stubbornness because, in truth, you’re the only one he doesn’t despise talking to. One of the few who don’t look at him with questions, with a scowl. A scarlet letter stitched into him, sewn by the things he’s done to breathe and survive.

So, he remains. Watching as your movements become more erratic, more charged. Your anger ploughed into the dough, it forming, thickening at your fingers as though your whispered hissed sweats were like enchantments getting it to form.

“No good comes from staying, Miller.”

He lifts his chin, brow raising. “That so?”

Nodding, you lightly smirk. “Yeah. Because then you’ll realise I’m not all that to be around, and it’ll mean you have to talk to another human.”

Moving to your side of the counter, he stares at the contents of the bowl. “Y’not too bad to be around.”

“Fuck, you flatter me, Joel.”

It’s there again. That sparkle, the shimmer. The glint in your eye that shoots down to his cock, the same one from the porch. The one he sees when he passes you in the street, and you tell him he’s looking good—

“Why d'the kids call you Bee?”

“Because I didn’t like that they called me miss, and you know, I’m often with the bees.”

Something uncurls inside of him—a fire partially ignoring, a fuse switched. A thing which made him feel both young and old all at once as he leaned, the scent of you mixed with whatever you were baking, all intoxicating—enough to burn the odour of decomposition from his memory for life. A smell that is so reminiscent of you, so genuine and real.

Lifting his chin, he finds you already watching him. “What’d y’like me to call you?”

Your hands pause, flour clinging to your palms, your hands. “I like that you call me Honey, Miller.”

Nodding, he smiles, folding his arms as he leans again—just like he had done over a week ago. “Honey, it is.”

He doesn’t just see you around, he begins to see you in his dreams, too.

Not frequently, but when he’s able to enjoy a night’s sleep not ruined and tainted with nightmares, you’re there. Sometimes fleeting, sometimes more present. A thing, an anchor—looping yourself around him, figuratively, literally. A different kind of heat on his cheeks when he wakes after those, a different fist to his chest as he tries to level his breathing.

He doesn’t show it when he’s awake. When the bitter chill in the air makes his hands rub together and your eyes find his over the top of Ellie’s head, her interest suddenly in bees is unsurprising. Joel has learn, that anything that stings, seems dangerous, or kicks, seems to get the kid intrigued.

Joel just smiles at you, burning a thank you into your eyes—for doing this for her, with her. Giving her something to chatter incessantly over food with him. But it’s the one you give him back that sticks in him, remaining with him until he closes his eyes—it’s another one added to the collection which you wear like an accessory when he dreams.

He likes that you’re there. In his newly formatted dreams—greeting him there too. Little flashes, soft smiles and alluring stares hide your monster and make his bury itself in his chest. Sometimes, you wear white, the picture of innocence—all pure and unbroken. Others, he finds you coated in scarlet, a beautiful oxymoron—his own real-life Carrie.

It’s why he misses your usual comment when you pass his house on the way to the pen. It’s why he looks out for you when he’s tending to some shop door—why Tommy finds him looking around when he’s packing up.

“Y’missing something—or someone?”

Shooting a look, he’s met with a snort, a grin.

“Get outta here, will you?”

Tommy just snorts louder, “She don’t work today—Bee.”

He almost shoots back that’s not your name. It all unfurled on his tongue, the weight of it sitting there. But he swallows it.

“Don’t know what y’mean.”

“Come off it, brother—you’re across the street from me. I see things.”

It lingers with him. Sticks. Clinging to him as he trudged back, Ellie hammered her feet down the stairs to greet him, a thousand and one things shooting out at him. Question after question—some he hears clearly, others get lost in the excitement. More names, more people she’s made friends with—

“So can I?”

“Can y’what?”

She shifts—shyness present, a look he’s not used to seeing on her. “Can I go watch the movie at theirs?”

All he can think is, that she looks like Sarah—that same permissive look that children adopt when talking to their parents.

The unease. The hoping—but not wanting to show too much. Just in case. As though by expecting, it’ll hurt more if he says no.

Not that he would. Not that he does.

Her chorus of thank you’s painting the house in glitter and gold, his smile challenging to hide as he puts away the toolbox—and removes his boots.

“I heard Bee’s at home.”

Turning his head, he knows he’s pulling a face. A mix of how do you know and what you getting at, all mushed and rolled into one.

Ellie just shrugs, that annoying knowing one that he remembers back when she cracked the radio. The look of deviousness and mischief swirling in her eyes and spreading to her lower face.

“Get outta here, kid.”

You bought him a batch of shortbread.

They’re encased in a tin—it’s small, circular. It’s old, likely restored as best as it could be from wherever it was taken from. But, the contents are new—sweet, rather perfect, even if your note attached had been describing them as anything but.

Joel hadn’t been here when it arrived, coming home to the lid already off, a small plate next to it, adorned in crumbs. He supposed if Ellie liked it, he would—and fuck did he.

“So, she just baking you things now?”

“Looks like it.”

He knows all of Ellie’s faces—each emotion stitched into it. A scowl here, a surprised look here. Tonight was a cross between sarcasm and, really, man.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Shifting his weight, he dips his chin. Staring, right over his nose as she holds her hands up, excusing herself, dashing up the stairs before signalling his lack of an answer with the slam of her door.

He could admit that each time he sees you, you flirt—that you’re still all kind, sweet. But, Joel knows there is an edge to it. Something simmering, bubbling. A current attempting to wrap itself around the two of you and pull you under—laced with flirtations, them prickling in the air.

It reaches a new height quickly, his fingers plucking at strings as you walk past. Your eyes glazed, the night heavy—a storm brewing in the air, something he can feel, half-expecting rain to fall down and do its usual cleanse of the soil, leaves and muck.

He had seen you pause, turning your frame to his porch. Climbing it, stopping yourself from stepping on the top step.

“Y’good, neighbour?”

He snorts. “You’re drunk.”

“Merry.” Your correction comes with a smirk. “Drunk makes me sound like I can’t handle it—and I can handle it.”

Sliding the guitar from his lap, he looks at you leaning, that same smirk. The one that’s been growing over the days, weeks. One that makes his blood boil and his jeans tighten.

“You know, if you ever feel like playing with something that sounds just as pretty, Miller, you let me know.”

Whatever retort he’d been about to give, fizzles, dies. It slides back down his throat as you throw up a wave, practically skipping down his steps. Not even looking back as you walk that bit further to your own place, before you’re out of view.

He should go in, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he watches your home, as you flick a light on as you move through your home—hidden by curtains and blinds.

Joel can’t hear anything, but a part of him wishes he could.

Wondering whether you sing to yourself, whether you’re clumsy—and you paint the air with fucks and shits. Whether you’re thinking about him…

Joel picks up the guitar again, calloused fingers ready to brush over strings.

But he just hears you. A ghostly echo of your statement, humming, swirling around the porch.

Leaning it against the side of the house, he stands, bones creaking, porch chair groaning, as he heads inside.

Needing another door and wall between you and your confession and the relief he needs to find to be able to look you in the eye tomorrow.

CHAPTER THREE ->

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #pedrostories #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

413 notes · View notes

rrickgrrimes8 · 1 year

Text

Skater

summary: crossing over a frozen lake shouldve been a simple task - not with a tonya harding fan

Joel Miller x platonic!reader -- gn!reader, except Joel calls reader babygirl

warnings: almost drowning, near death experience, angst, hurt/comfort, father figure! Joel, soft Joel

masterlist

request guidelines (new)

requests are open!

word count: 1.2k

Trailing behind Joel and Ellie, you hum an unfamiliar tune. You walked to the beat, hands flowing as the nameless song played through your mind. Joel shot you a look, rolling his eyes and told you to hurry up.

You ignored him though and found yourself mesmerized by the snowy landscape. You had never seen this before – well you’d never seen anything before really. Growing up inside the QZ in a brainwashing school by FEDRA didn’t exactly allow you to see the world like you so desperately wanted to. It was as beautiful as you imagined.

Yes, there was infected, clickers, raiders, bloaters but none of that mattered as you walked through the forest with your new family. You had lost another part of your family months prior - Henry and Sam - and your heart still ached for them. Ellie’s did too. Joel, on the other hand, was stoney and stoic as usual.

The teen stared ahead at the frozen over lake, a frown on you face. “We’re going over this?”

Joel grunted in response, stepping forward to show them it was okay.

Ellie went next, holding out her hand for you. “We’re okay,” She assured, “C’mon.”

You sucked in a harsh breath and nodded, taking your first of many steps.

“Did you ever ice skate, Joel?” You asked, slipping as you did.

Joel quirked a brow and glanced over his shoulder, “How do you know about ice skating?”

“Books,” You shrugged, “Found a book on Tonya Harding.”

“Christ, haven’t heard that name in a while,” He chuckled.

“Who was she?” Ellie spoke up, confused.

“Ice skater… amongst other things,” He told them.

“So have you?” You repeated, eyes flickering to either side of the lake – where the sun was falling and the bright hue was getting lost behind the terrain.

“I have,” He confessed, “Once or twice.”

“Really?” You perked up, “What was it like?”

“Slippy,” He remarked, trudging over the ice – halfway at this point.

“Sick,” The teen muttered, “I woulda loved to, you know?”

“Still time, kid,” He shot you an earnest look before grunting, “We should speed this up though, lights going.” The teens nodded, Ellie quickening so she was closer to Joel.

You stayed slightly behind though, willing yourself to glide rather than walk on the ice. Joel said there was still time and there’s no time like the present, right?

You let your right foot lead, stumbling on your first go but quickly catching yourself. You tried again, soon after, and slid for way longer. “Joel, Ellie look,” You exclaimed, ready to do it again.

“Just walk, kid,” He rolled his eyes, not sparing you a glance. Ellie too continued to walk on, arms wrapping around her chest to warm her.

Pouting slightly, you paused before forming a perfect idea – you just needed to catch up to them and then they’d see. You straightened your back, lifted your foot from the ground before heavily stomping it down and began to glide, faster than before.

It was going well at first – maybe a little clumsy as you closed in on the oblivious pair.

But then you heard a crack, and without even a second to call for Joel, you felt a rush of cold, painful water.

Ellie sighed as they neared the ¾ mark, turning to speak to her friend – breath catching in her throat when she heard the same crack. She snapped her gaze to you but felt an overwhelming fear grip her when she realized all there that was left was an empty space and a gaping hole in the ice.

Having not heard, Joel continued, only stopping when he heard Ellie screaming your name. Wasting no time, he span to face them but was only met with Ellie, who was sprinting over to a hole in the ice. “No,” He shuddered, realization hitting him.

Joel ran faster than he thought he was capable in that moment. His breathing was heavy in his chest, ears ringing – missing the panicked yells from Ellie – and collapsed beside the hole. He called your name, shakily and frantically – hand plunging into the freezing water, struggling to grab you. Joel felt a strange sensation overwhelm his chest – a fear he hadn’t felt since he lost Sarah.

Forcing back some tears, he dived into the abyss – Ellie screaming as he did. He had forgotten how hard it was to open your eyes underwater but he ignored the burning and searched for a glimpse of you. And it didn’t take long. You were there – still, unmoving, corpselike. He almost let out a sob as he saw you – pushing against the liquid and pulling you into his arms.

Joel got the pair of you out the water quickly, lying you against the ice as Ellie watched in fear, tears welling up. Looking at you then, Joel felt as if he was too late and maybe he was – he eyed your chest, motionless. It didn’t rise or fall, and your eyes didn’t open.

The world seemed to vanish for a moment for Joel. His vision blurred and his body moved on autopilot. Hands finding your chest, he began to beat down on it – recalling briefly some first aid training he received 30 years ago. You didn’t move as he continued the chest compressions.

“C’mon, baby,” He cried for what felt like the first time in 20 years (it probably was), “Come back to me. Come back, babygirl.”

You looked dead, Ellie thought as she observed Joel’s attempts at saving you. She thought it was almost futile, that Joel couldn’t do a damn thing now and that terrified her.

Lips finding yours, he forced a breath into your lungs, causing you to begin to splutter. Joel delicately, moved you onto your side as you continued to cough up the murky water. He let himself exhale as he helped you – you were here, you were alive, you were breathing.

“Oh baby,” He called out to you, pulling you close to his chest. You seemed at once surprised by his actions before sinking into it soon after. The heat from his body radiated, quelling the shivers that didn’t seem to die down. “You’re okay,” He croakily voiced, more to himself than them, “Oh, babygirl, you’re okay.” You nodded against his chest.

Ellie called out your name, tearfully and joined the pair of them, hand holding yours. “I thought you were dead, asshole,” She laughed but it seemed hollow – the comment far to genuine.

“I-I wanted to skate,” You told them, “I w-was doing i-it.”

“And you can’t do that again okay,” Joel scolded, “Damn near gave me a heart attack… no, you can’t do that to me- to us again.”

“O-okay,” You shook, eyes closing as you snuggled into his chest.

“Hey, b-baby,” He tapped your cheek, “You stay awake… keep your eyes on me.”

You frown, groaning as your eyes felt so heavy, “S-so tired.”

“Not yet, okay, baby?” Joel stressed, getting up – Ellie following with their bags on her shoulders, “We gotta get you warm first, okay?”

“O-okay,” You mumbled, voice dazed and confused, “T-Thanks for s-saving me d-dad.”

He inhaled sharply, more tears falling but he couldn’t bring himself to respond – the lump forming in his throat. All that mattered was getting you better.

All that mattered was your life.

#joel miller imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller angst #joel miller x platonic!reader #ellie williams x platonic!reader #joel miller x gn!reader

2K notes · View notes

zutarabender · 7 months

Text

I try not to engage with discourse, but I gotta say something about the discussion in Zutara circles on whether Zuko is "an awkward turtleduck" or confident and self-assured.

I'm sitting here like. Why not both. I love both. Both are good. And both are true.

He's awkward when he's feeling insecure and vulnerable, especially in the face of new or unexpected situations - which is why we see this attitude in Book 3 mostly (and notably, his date with Jin in Book 2). He's been humbled and he's been forced to question a lot of things; it makes sense he doesn't always find his footing. He also had an isolated upbringing so he will often be oblivious to social cues and won't always have the "right" reactions.

He's very self-assured and decisive when he knows what he's up to and knows what is right and what he's got to do. Book 3 Zuko also knows his own mind and is very determined in shaping his own fate. Final Agni Kai Zuko is not awkward. Southern Raiders Zuko is not awkward. The Zuko that confronted Ozai? Very much not awkward.

I think fan creators can take advantage of the possibilities for the same scenario (ie. a Zuko who's made up his mind to kiss Katara, vs. a Zuko who wants it but is unsure if she does) and every preference here is valid, but I'm a bit confused as to how the meta treats it as if it has to be one or the other.

#zuko #zutara #zuko meta #spring loves all zukos #all zukos are valid #so long as they love katara all the same

409 notes · View notes

xabura · 1 month

Text

I never understood why the Avatar Extras said "Kataang wins!" at the end if Kataang was always meant to be the "obvious endgame" and Zutara supposedly "wasn't even a contender". I thought it was a joke making fun of the fandom, but now that I have learned that Zutara was pushed by many of the ATLA writers (despite Bryke denying it was even considered for years), I think it was referring to the ship war that was going on in the writer's room.

"Kataang wins!" was originally a line that came from the script notes written by Bryke for the final episode, Elizabeth Welch directly references Zutara in her script notes for The Southern Raiders, John O'Bryan said that he supported Zutara but "lost that fight", and M. Night Shyamalan said that Bryke hadn't decided on who Katara would end up with even as Book 3 was being produced.

This would also help to explain why Guru Pathik said Aang needed to let go of Katara which was happening at the same time Zuko and Katara were bonding. Zuko was supposed to join at the end of Book 2 but after they decided against that, they totally dropped that arc of Aang needing to let go of Katara in Book 3. They had Aang resolve his issues with a rock. The lion turtle was silly but the rock was just ridiculous.

The writing in this part of ATLA was always so strange to me. It seemed like it was being pulled around in different directions. If it was because the writers were having an argument over how the story should play out then the strange writing choices make so much more sense now.

#zutara #book 3 was a mess

210 notes · View notes

five-flavor-soup · 1 month

Text

This is technically in response/as an addition to a post on the supposed ‘double standard’ in the fandom between Zuko and Jet as Katara’s love interests, but it’s been so long since it was posted and I figured the OP would be entirely uninterested in my word vomit, especially after like one and half years—so, separate post. I added a link for those interested. There's a cut because this got quite long lmao.

In short, the post supposes the argument that though Jet would’ve made Katara kill people (something Zuko very much Did Not Do, no matter what you think about The Southern Raiders), he cleaned up his act after this. Zuko, on the other hand, did lots of Really Bad Things to Katara & Co. with far more frequency than Jet did and got redeemed after a multitude of episodes doing Various Things Moste Evile. To then slap Jet with The Toxic Ex-label and see Zuko as the ‘healthier’ and ‘better’ option creates a Double Standard(™) within the fandom, which is supposedly bad and not an arguably incorrect reading.

But the differences in fandom perception between Jet and Zuko as Love Interests for Katara (one of which canonically, and the other potentially and apparently talked about in the writer’s room) are easily explained, as can the Supposed Double Standard—just by thinking about it from Katara’s viewpoint, or even the audience’s. Because, well, the worst things Jet ‘almost’ ended up doing didn’t happen because of outside interference only.

That’s the important bit here. He 100% would’ve drowned an entire village just to get rid of a handful of Fire Nation soldiers, had Sokka not managed to evacuate everybody. He 100% would’ve grievously injured two people who, as far as Jet and everybody else were aware, were refugees who might not even be firebenders — considering nobody else saw Iroh heat up his tea, he could’ve been wrong — in an attempt to prove his own hunch. Had the guards not been there, had Zuko not been able to fight back with swords, Jet would’ve genuinely attempted to wound them for as much as a puff of smoke. And Jet consistently involves bystanders (innocent or not) in his desperate quest to harm and defeat the Fire Nation: the Gaang (and particularly Katara, through explicitly manipulative means) and the villagers in Jet; Zuko, Iroh, and the people in the teashop in City of Walls and Secrets. Additionally, we don’t see more violence from him because he’s not a main character like Zuko is—though it’s implied that Jet beats up villagers who are supposedly in cahoots with the Fire Nation often, only agreeing to turn over a new leaf when he, Smellerbee, and Longshot decide to move to Ba Sing Se.

Zuko explicitly and frequently doesn’t harm people: that, or it isn’t important to the plot. He doesn’t burn down the village on Kyoshi, he literally only manages to lightly singe it. He threatens people with violence frequently but never actually goes in for the kill. I’d argue that the most explicitly violent thing he does in Book 1 is breaking Aang out of the Pouhai Stronghold—for his own ends obviously, but if it’s spelled like treason and sounds like treason, it’s probably treason. When he thinks of robbing the pregnant couple while he’s on the run, he stops himself of his own volition; when he considers using Appa to catch Aang (this was a point made against Zuko in the post), he’s unaware of what Appa’s been through prior to that point and sees him as no more than an animal used for travel, much like the ostrich horse he stole earlier in the season.

Zuko’s schtick throughout Book 1 and 2 is that he doesn’t want to think of the consequences of his actions. His plans are never fully complete. He doesn’t think of how he’s going to get a chained, notoriously slippery little eel of an Avatar to the Fire Nation, and he doesn’t think about what would happen to twelve-year-old Aang after they got there—which is horrible of him, but it also shows an odd, ignorant kind of innocence that you’d associate with a kid who’s got a hard time telling right from wrong. Like, I love Zuko dearly, adore him even, but kiddo doesn’t think ahead until the Book 2 finale and even that’s debatable. He’ll eventually start thinking ahead a little bit but for the most part, he doesn’t. Not saying that takes away responsibility, because it absolutely doesn’t, but it is telling of Zuko’s character: he’s an ‘act first, think later’-kind of guy, all ‘fuck around; find out; maybe success’. His sole goal throughout Book 1 and 2 is going home, without even thinking on how to get there beyond like, Avatar in my custody => back in Fire Nation with Avatar => dad loves me again. And he says that his only intention is to go home too, in Ep 2 of Book 1:

Aang: If I go with you, [He holds his staff in front of him as an offer, making sure Zuko understands that he does not wish to continue fighting.] will you promise to leave everyone alone? [The camera cuts to a side-view of the area, Zuko's men still surrounding him, spears poised. After a brief moment of hesitation, Zuko erects himself and nods in agreement. Aang is apprehended by Zuko's men, who take his staff . . . ] Zuko: [Boarding the ship up the walkway. Determined.] Head a course for the Fire Nation. I'm going home.

(Added emphasis for my point)

Zuko is not the Big Bad. He’s not The Largest Threat. He never is. In Book 1 it’s Zhao, in Book 2 it’s Azula, and in Book 3 it’s Ozai. Zuko is a consistent threat, yes, but not a particularly large one no matter how good of a fighter he is. Because he’s presented to us as a disastrously hurt and traumatised little brat who we, the audience, are supposed to feel sorry for, and slowly grow fond of. Because we learn in The Storm that the notion of “caring for others is weak” has literally been branded into him. Because he keeps getting back up to fight, but consistently holds back. We are shown that he knows, on some level, that what he’s doing is wrong: the text suggests that Zuko is actively suppressing his morals. And by the time Zuko hires an assassin to ensure the Avatar is dead, we know that Zuko is incredibly unhappy with his choice(s) and is desperate to be safe; that he’s uncomfortable but wants to be comfortable; that he’s incorrect about the source of his fear while he’s back in the palace. The audience is shown this explicitly.

By contrast, we’re shown that Jet is fully aware that those villagers will die. He’s fully aware that, if he manages to prove the two refugees are firebenders, they’ll be arrested and probably mutilated (if the hand-crushing is any indication). I love Jet and his character, but he’s supposed to be the example of poisoning yourself with your hatred, anger, and hurt. He’s revenge that goes too far, because he doesn’t allow himself closure. He knows the consequences and isn’t shown to care for them, as long as his goal is furthered.

And there is the small, but significant, difference between the two characters: Zuko initially just wants to capture the Avatar, is purposefully remaining unaware of what will happen when he does so, and is clearly shown to change, while Jet just wants to punish firebenders and is very aware of what will be necessary for him to do so, with a handful of lines of how he ‘stopped being like that’. And honestly, Jet is far more mature than Zuko is for quite some time, regarding the violence of war—basically as mature as Zuko eventually becomes at the tail-end of his redemption arc. But Zuko’s maturity is at that point healthier, because he doesn’t want to genuinely do harm.

In regards to their separate relationships with Katara, there’s these fantastic points that @sokkastyles made in reply to the post:

The fact that Zuko actually did change and Katara actually forgave him makes ALL the difference. [ . . . ] The thing about Jet is how manipulative he was with Katara. He not only almost made her kill innocents, but he lied to her about the man he attacked having a knife when he was called out, so that Katara would see her as righteous. Someone who is willing to lie in order to make themselves seem good and someone who says they are going to change but then does the same things doesn’t have a good track record, and that’s a more troubling relationship dynamic than someone who acts as an upfront enemy but then sincerely changes.

And:

I do think it makes sense to focus on manipulation being worse than being a cartoon villain when we're talking about personal relationships. I think many people can relate to having someone like Jet in their lives who seems nice but who lies and manipulates to justify their own bad behavior despite repeatedly claiming that they will change. Not that many people will experience being tied to a tree by someone who wants you to tell them where the Avatar is, and it is completely reasonable for people to be more forgivable of things Zuko did as a villain than things Jet did to Katara when he claimed to be a friend.

I actually don’t have anything to add to this, lol. It’s succinct and well-worded.

Lastly, in addition the relatability and the relationships being different (the manipulative, emotionally hurt, and self-proclaimed anti-hero versus the initially childish, explicitly confused and desperate cartoon villain, plus the girl they hurt horribly), there’s also the problem of Jet not being a main character. Jet is a relatively well-written side character, whilst Zuko is very quickly established as a main-ish character with his own POV (as the writers decided during the conceptualisation that he’d be joining Team Avatar eventually). Zuko’s troubling, self-destructive nature that has been forced upon him and his Tragic Childhood is shown in high definition. The audience is supposed to eventually be okay with Zuko and hopefully like him, slowly adding puzzle pieces to complete the picture of a horrific earlier youth and treatment by nearly everybody he knows except Iroh. Something like this isn’t necessary with Jet, not just because he was already incredibly likeable and understandable from his introduction and onwards, but also because he’s neither a villain nor a main character.

There’s multiple reasons as to why Zuko is often seen as the ‘better’ option, just like there are multiple reasons why Jet and Zuko are compared so frequently—they’re both traumatised teenage boys who ‘rebel’ to get some semblance of control back, but we see Zuko change into a kid anyone would be a little bit proud and fond of and that doesn’t happen with Jet. Double standard or not, Zuko and Jet are different characters who the writers also treated very differently, on purpose. It makes sense to me that the audience would think Zutara is the ‘less bad’ or far better option. We know far more about Zuko than we know about Jet; and Jet’s redemption arc, if we can even call it that, halts permanently when Zuko’s is reaching the height it for him to go into a freefall, ultimately culminating in a genuine redemption. We, the audience, know this. So does Katara.

#atla meta #zutara meta #not tagging this j*t*ra bc its a bit negative and i do not want to infringe on anyone's tag lmao #but i will tag it #jetara critical #just to be safe #jet atla #prince zuko #katara #zutara #the thing about both these ships is that katara can be put down as making an active choice in the narrative #though it wants to punish her for it #she is Wrong. he is Bad Guy. here's Better Guy go have babies #regardless. i feel like post-redemption zuko would be easier for her to choose--because she saw the proof of his change

158 notes · View notes

deepouterspacecandy · 3 months

Text

Ink and Paper Hearts

I wanted to write something for Valentine's Day, and wound up with over 8k words. Sheesh! Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for being here! Be kind to yourself and others. 18+ only. Violence and sexual themes. Angst, fluff, etc.

Raised on a cattle ranch, you spent your early days on horseback tending to the farm and living off the land. When disaster left you orphaned, a ragtag group of survivors embraced you as one of their own. Over time, they had become your family, and together, you’d endure natural disasters, famine, and hordes of infected.

It only took one sweep of malevolent raiders to destroy your home and turn everything you’d ever known to dust. You escaped the attack within an inch of your life.

Isaac was the one who discovered you withering away in an old diner off the freeway, fending off the infected with nothing but your integrity and a baseball bat. His medical team, which accompanied him as they moved between compounds, took care of your recovery, and nursed you back to health.

The leader of the Washington Liberation Front admired any person who possessed the strength to fight and the compassion to care for animals simultaneously, and in exchange for a safe place to lay your head, you promised to do just that.

It was a relinquishment of power; you learned early on. Anything involving Isaac came at a cost. Your bond with him was duty-bound, but he offered you another chance at having a family and a purpose. After being all alone in that desolate place, you’d been more than willing to fall in line.

Still, you were a different person when you first arrived in Seattle.

Some would say naïve. You saw yourself as a practical optimist. Now, you’re not so sure.

It’s truly astonishing how a year of unrelenting conflicts with the Scars can diminish the brightness of your silver lining.

The ability to find distraction in your work is a double-edged sword.

A jack of all trades, you spend most of your time working with the four-legged soldiers of the WLF. You have extremely limited patience for the human variety, on both sides of the fence. You tolerate a handful of your comrades, but between assignments, you’re happiest with your nose in a book, savouring the quiet and escaping into distant realms.

The drive for escapism hasn’t been a difficult undertaking lately.

A group of thirty soldiers left the grounds on assignment last month, and only two returned.

It left the stadium halls quieter, heads hanging lower than what you’d ever witnessed. Interactions that would otherwise leave you with a sunny lilt, instead left you carrying a heaviness that you couldn’t quite shake.

Few civilians choose to dive into surface level banter like they used to and the collective fear and sadness shrouding the compound has kept it that way for some time.

It serves as a reminder that even with extensive training and the most advanced military equipment, tragedy can strike without discrimination.

Unchecked and alone, the infected will forever wander through the shadows, driven by an unending quest to find their next victim. Maybe the same idea is true for all adversaries.

Your primary objective is to ensure the community remains united and intact. If you manage to stay sane, that’s a plus.

“How are you today, my little sunflower?” Manny asks, mischievously tugging your jacket.

“You better be talking to the dogs.”

“And if I’m not?” he asks, kneeling to offer unlimited ear scratches to the newest litter.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to refer you to every other time you’ve ever asked,” you say, giving the bottom of his boot a kick. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yes, he does!”

A woman’s voice booms from the other side of the unit, and Manny forces a smile.

“The bane of my existence.”

You chuckle at his misery, knowing little about his relationship with Abby outside of the kinship they portray in combat and their supposed insufferable roommate arrangement. Something you’re only privy to after running into her after hours at the library as she was trying to catch some shuteye on the couch there.

“Will you quit harassing pretty girls and grab a damn dog already?”

As she approaches, tails of all shapes and sizes wag with incredible speed, exuding pure happiness. You wonder how much time she has spent in the kennels when you’re not around. Isaac has her spearheading every mission from here to Chicago, so you rarely see her. But the dogs never forget a kind face.

You exchange a few pleasantries with Abby before she drags her unenthusiastic partner to work. Manny’s womanizing ways at the stadium serve as a constant reminder of your boundaries in relationships.

You’re safer by yourself.

Abby does seem like a sweetheart, though.

----------------------------------------

“We ship out tomorrow morning,” Abby says, handing you an empty canteen and a backpack, a clipboard braced to her side by her white knuckled grasp.

Her abrupt tone makes you jump when it normally wouldn’t. She’s struggling to keep her voice steady, but you suspect she has more important things to worry her mind about.

“Right,” you nod. “Any idea how long?”

As she’s rushing to complete the next task, your query hits her at the worst possible second, adding to her already teetering stress load. You recognize it a moment too late and your teeth ache at the back of your jaw when she spins on her heel, pinning you with a glare.

“Do you expect a serious answer, or are you just trying to piss me off?”

“No, I—”

“Promises around here are as worthless as the ETA themselves, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Promises? What did that have to do with anything?

“I’m sorry, I swear I wasn’t trying to—”

“Anything else I can assist you with, soldier? Or can we finish wasting my time?” Abby bellows.

You knew it would be a mistake to leave the K9 unit, but circumstances with the Seraphites have forced your hand. They not only invaded WLF territory, causing destruction and casualties among your people, but they’ve also been blocking your teams from conducting supply runs, leading to a rather grim situation in the reserves.

“You don’t have to bite my head off,” you say, feeling the tension rise as you widen your stance against her more imposing one. “We’re all stuck in this mess.”

“Oh, really?” she seethes. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to hand you a shovel next time our people turn up in body bags. Give you a break from scooping dog crap to help us grownups with the actual shit.”

Abby is your superior and you know better than to test the hierarchy. The moment you denied Isaac’s advances, you tumbled from the top spot. But you’re no chump.

“What’s your problem?”

In a split second, Abby’s body looms over you as she detonates, “You’re my problem,” her breath hot against your face.

She flinches when you lose your balance and stumble backward, narrowly catching yourself. If her instinct was to rescue you, she restrained herself just in time, her hand frozen in mid-air. A twitch nags at the corners of her tired eyes.

“You’re no different from the rest,” you say, walking backward, chest heaving. “It’s all the fucking same.”

You’re down the hall and veiled by the four walls of your room before the opportunity to fumble your conversation further buries you in shame.

It’s going to be a long night.

----------------------------------------

Manny runs through his roll call sheet twice, inspecting each soldier with every measure but a squat and cough. If he thought he’d catch you on a minor clothing infraction, hell, a mismatched pair of socks, he’s sadly mistaken. You wouldn’t give Abby the satisfaction and besides, you hadn’t slept a wink preparing for this assignment.

“Where’s Anderson?” Manny asks under his breath. The team surrounding him dip their heads and you try to avert your attention. Brush it off like you had been too busy inspecting your gear to overhear him.

“We’re not going blind, are we, Alvarez?” Abby says, shouldering through the group to drop her bag on the tailgate of the Humvee.

When her arm brushes yours, you recoil, your fist hitting your stomach with a muffled thud. Her head snaps in your direction, but her gaze is less volatile than before. You make a point not to place too much trust in that emotional assessment, finding solace in the familiar sensation of your twisting hands.

“Alright,” she shouts above the murmurs of your unit, the quiet chatter falling into silence. “You will work in pairs, at all times, even when we are in proximity to each other. This is unnegotiable, so don’t ask me if you have to bring a friend to the pisser. The answer is yes.”

The group’s attention is undeterred, even as a faint chuckle escapes them, their eroded black boots facing her commanding presence.

“If you hear something, say something,” she continues, her chin bowing slightly. “It may save a life.”

You swallow thickly and lean against the armed vehicle, its cold steel biting into your back. It’s possible that your sleepless night will affect your performance, but you decide not to emphasize it and hoist yourself upright before anyone notices.

“Our destination is approximately sixty miles from here, and we will cross into Scar territory temporarily, so we’ll need to be cautious. Eyes on rooftops, balconies, you know the drill.”

The group divides between the Humvee and a military truck, and it’s only after twenty minutes of driving that you realize Abby has chosen you as her combat partner for the time being. You feel the weight of her thigh against yours, as she adjusts her legs to accommodate her backpack, and you’re left pondering her decision.

There is a clear sense of trust between her and Manny, making him not only her closest friend, but a lifeline in warfare. Does she think you’re weak and in need of a stronger match? You gnaw on your bottom lip at the notion, focusing on the greenery flitting past your window.

“Come on, Anderson, your balls aren’t that big,” Manny teases, gesturing to her outstretched posture, particularly the way her legs take up enough room for two. You shift toward the door to free up some real estate between you and concentrate back on the road.

As their banter fades into background noise, your attention shifts to observing the deserted surroundings, vigilant for any indication of danger. Apart from a pair of rabbits hopping around, the streets are completely motionless.

--------------------------------------------

The cavalry parks outside a derelict warehouse, its craggy roof adorned by a lush carpet of moss. Rust-bitten chain link fencing surrounds an expansive lot at the rear, cube vans with faded labels scattered throughout. It’s a tempting location to scavenge, but the prospect makes your stomach lurch.

The presence of tall grass and the lack of windows on each vehicle creates ample opportunity for trouble. A lurking enemy, dead or alive, is something you’d like to avoid. It’s possible that someone has already searched the vans, despite their undisturbed appearance.

“Let’s break this down into teams and tackle it all at once,” Abby announces, nodding at the parking lot and the adjoining building. “Six outside, inspecting the trucks, and six inside. We’ll scour the property first, and then we can set up for the night.”

“Wait,” you say.

She blows out a frustrated breath.

“This better be good.”

The temptation to tell her to fuck all the way off is intense.

“Maybe we should put a couple scouts up high, search the grounds together,” you say, pointing to the safest vantage points. “Eyes in the sky.”

“Any other suggestions?” she asks.

“I mean, no—but,” you begin.

Abby interrupts, holding her hand up. “Like I said. Six and six. We don’t need to be out here longer than necessary.”

“Fine.”

She guides you toward the building, her palm on your lower back, and you jerk away from her grasp. She may have the authority to call the shots, but you decide where you place your neck on the chopping block.

“I’m with them,” you say, trudging toward the trucks.

“Hey!” Abby says.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. What?”

She gives you a once over, gritting her teeth.

You throw your hands up and let them slap against your sides, waiting for her to hurl her discontent at your head, clearly eager to tear a strip off you in front of your squad. With a distant gaze, she fixates on the hollow space behind you before heading towards the warehouse.

----------------------------------------

It took several hours to secure the perimeter and set up camp inside.

Your heavy eyelids rejoice at the promise of rest. The team in charge of the mail trucks uncovered a mother lode of undelivered packages, chock full of useful supplies. It was almost as impressive as the haul the WLF brought back from the airport a few months back.

Within the building, soldiers set up their bedrolls among a labyrinth of cluttered offices. It’s quite comical to overhear the entertainment value of some dusty, redundant telephones and keyboards. You catch snippets of the amusing conversations while rearranging your own space, the sound of playful jabbering rising from the ashes, finally allowing you to release a deeply trapped breath.

Abby eases up on her protocols to make the rounds and ensure everyone is okay. You make use of the time alone to freshen up and explore, gathering candles from various boxes to arrange in your shared office, the wax and wicks a rare, comforting find.

Abby spots them as soon as she returns.

“Nighttime always feels darker away from home,” you explain, worried she might find them frivolous.

She doesn’t.

“Candles are good,” she says, picking one up to roll in her hands. She scrapes her thumbnail along the wax base and shifts on her feet. “I like them.”

“Alright,” you say, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

You try to ignore the intensity of her gaze as it grazes over you, but beads of sweat build along your lower back. It might be time to crack a window. Occupying yourself with that activity, you grow increasingly frustrated as the most accessible ones refuse to budge.

“Let me try,” she offers.

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” she huffs, and you glimpse her crossing her arms over her broad chest.

You reckon Abby isn’t used to being turned down, and it sours your stomach a little to be the outlier.

By climbing the desk closest to the wall, you gain some leverage and drive your palms into the ridge of the window. You feel the sharp edge digging painfully into your flesh, your back muscles tightening to an impossible degree.

“For fuck’s sake,” you grunt, putting all your might into another attempt, the image of a bottle smashing through the pane something you’d seriously consider acting upon if you were alone.

“Stop being stubborn and let me help.”

“I don’t need your help,” you groan, the tickle of sweat now threatening to break into a full stream down your spine.

“Sure seems like you do,” she says, the arrogance in her tone combined with the weight of her gaze on your back, sending your lid rocking chaotically over a burgeoning boil.

You suck in a rigid breath and ignore her remark.

“Look, if you just—”

“Abby!” you say, jolted by your own shout.

Manny must overhear the commotion, slinking against the door frame to clear his throat. As they murmur behind you, you bow your head and brace your hand against the glass, waiting to be reprimanded.

When you twist your body to offer an apology, the room is empty.

----------------------------------------

Even as the sun disappears below the horizon, the air in your office, as well as the rest of the building, becomes oppressively warm. You dig through your bag for a less cumbersome shirt but resort to stripping down to your sports bra and a pair of boxers. Abby hasn’t come knocking for a while, long enough for a clicker to obliterate you ten times over, but you temper your outrage.

Downstairs, there’s a treasure trove of unopened loot piled on racks, beckoning your interest. Abby abandoned her rule of two and frankly, you couldn’t care less.

Truthfully, she never wanders too far from her pack.

It’s possible she’s unaware of your whereabouts while you gather boxes from the metal racks downstairs in your underwear.

But it’s also possible she has eyes on you wherever you go.

----------------------------------------

“What’s all this?” Abby asks, lingering in the doorway.

Lost mail spills from the bins surrounding you. You’re captivated by the untold stories inside them. A peek into a world you’d never known.

“Letters, mostly,” you say.

Just inside the entryway, Abby slouches against the wall, absentmindedly playing with the fibers of the carpet using her socked feet.

“What kind?”

You’ve torn through dozens of envelopes, the contents of each one wildly different. It’s almost disturbing to imagine how many people had an entire universe they experienced through their eyes only.

You’ve already envisioned yourself journeying from one post office to another, gathering historical accounts and breathing new life into forgotten tales.

“I’m a bit lost with most of them,” you say, credit card debt and bank statements flying straight over your head. “Structures before the outbreak are a lot different from ours.”

Abby clicks her tongue, moving further into the room to sit across from you. She’s careful not to encroach on your space and a twinge of remorse worms into your belly. You offer an olive branch, handing her a photograph.

“But then there’s stuff like this,” you continue.

Abby’s eyes widen at the provocative image of a woman, her slender figure draped across a pristine silk sheet, the vibrant red of her lace panties and sharp stilettos creating a striking contrast. Attached to it is a note that reads:

When you’re alone, close your eyes, and I’ll be whispering your name.

Abby puffs a quiet laugh as a flush of pink creeps along the high points of her cheekbones.

“Who’s it addressed to?” she asks.

You search for the envelope among a sea of scribbled addresses and realize it’s a futile endeavour.

“I’m honestly not sure,” you admit. “I think I lost it.”

“Damn,” Abby smirks, running her thumb over the curled edges of the polaroid. “Lost in transit twice.”

You give a half shrug, noticing how enraptured she is with the picture. Her blonde lashes catch the candlelight at an angle that cast long shadows across her freckled skin.

“Manny would lose his mind,” Abby says, rolling her eyes. “He’s obsessed with shit like this—women in general, really. Horny bastard.”

You can feel the giggles bubbling up inside you, and you clamp your lips together to keep them from escaping. Abby Anderson, the most revered soldier of the Washington Liberation Front, sitting criss-cross applesauce talking smack about her best friend.

It is about the funniest thing you’ve seen in weeks.

“Have you—ever sent one?” you ask, treading dangerous waters and bracing yourself.

She blows out a ragged breath, pocketing the evidence.

You wonder if it’ll be a gift for Manny or something she keeps for herself. The notion causes vicious heat to rise across your forehead and down the bridge of your nose.

“Not a chance. It’s not really my thing.”

The mountain of mail between you becomes a welcomed distraction, and you make use of having a focal point to stare at.

When she tosses the question back your way, it throws your stuttering heart into a full gallop.

“Have you?” she whispers, leaning back to study you with a leg outstretched. The heel of her foot rocks to a slow tune only she can hear.

Her muscular arms bulge as she balances herself and you do your level best to pretend you don’t care. You expect her to wriggle uncomfortably or try to change the subject, but she doesn’t. Instead, she waits on you to bounce the ball she has rolled onto your court.

It’s you who can’t stop squirming.

“I haven’t found anyone worth the effort,” you say, and it feels a little embarrassing, maybe, but you figure honesty goes a lot further with Abby. “People suck.”

“Would you?” she asks. “If you found someone.”

Your racing heart leaves you dizzy.

It’s too goddamn hot in this office. You crane your neck to fire silent vitriolic arrows toward the stubborn windows, desperate for a fresh gust of air to grace the back of your damp shoulders. Abby stumbles to her feet, stepping over you to solve your problem once and for all.

With a soft click, the lock releases, and the window glides open, allowing the cool evening breeze to sweep through the space.

You squeeze your eyes shut and groan.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” Abby smirks, dropping back down to her spot on the floor. This time, she lies on her side, head propped up by her arm. “You almost had it.”

The crooked smile quirking up on her mouth hits you like a flashbang.

“I kind of hate you right now,” you say without venom. “But I should probably say thank you, huh?”

“Probably,” she grins, teeth raking slowly over the pout of her bottom lip.

She has freckles there too, and you’re suddenly envious of them.

“I won’t,” you blurt, tearing open another envelope. “Say thank you.”

“I wouldn’t either,” she laughs, and it’s a deep, warm cadence. A laugh meant only for your ears. She gestures to the letter in your hand. “What’s that one?”

The grin you’re desperately trying to hide causes your face to ache.

The brash woman you’re hardly accustomed to sharing a home with at the stadium is full of surprises, it seems. There’s a side to her that isn’t militant and melancholy, but rather the opposite.

She’s playful and witty. Her eyes, a staggering blue lake, are gentle and kind.

You could fall madly, painfully in love with a woman like Abby.

Abby herself, even. If she wasn’t an unstable box of dynamite.

You skim the handwritten letter with the tip of your finger, and another wash of warmth blooms inside you at the bulk of the sentiment.

“It’s a confession,” you explain, fixing your attention on the last paragraph. “He’s been in love with her for a long time, since they were kids.”

“Will you read it to me?”

Her gentle query sends a shiver of sunshine down your spine. Her eyelids are heavy like yours, and the shadows beneath hers speak volumes about the burden she carries. The weight of the world.

“Only if you promise to read the next one.”

“Deal,” she murmurs, sliding your bag over to use as a pillow. She snuggles into it and your whole body vibrates.

----------------------------------------

The trip home is lighter, despite the nearly crippling load. Clothing, toys, garden seeds, tools, home goods, toiletry items — the list is a mile long. You couldn’t take everything, but the mass of what hadn’t deteriorated or spoiled made it through the gates.

It’s a hopeful thing, not only to witness your group returning home unharmed, but with enough supplies to ease the strain taken from a new fruitful avenue.

The moment you and your squad walk into the chow hall together, you’re met with a chorus of cheers and applause. As Abby vanishes amidst the swarm of people, you exchange a few handshakes before seeking escape from the cacophony.

Your sleeping quarters are the chaotic aftermath of hurried packing and abandoned reading material, with your mattress being the only semblance of order in the disarray. It was Manny who taught you how to make your bed to military standards and perhaps his goal was to inspire more in you than routine, but either way, the habit stuck.

Gratitude simmers for it now more than ever, the crisp, clean sheets offering respite. Freshly showered and dead on your feet, you crawl into your cozy bed and drift away.

A thunderous crash shocks you awake.

You blink against the abyss, immediately comforted by the stadium lights leaking through your curtains. It drives other citizens insane, the absence of darkness, but you’re thankful for it.

Someone appears to be banging your door down.

“Cool it, already,” you say, scrambling for your cotton robe. The brutal assault on your sleep at this hour deserves to be outlawed—prohibited by the laws of the WLF. “Holy hell, are you trying to wake the whole neighbourhood?”

You tear open the door and any visceral anger coursing through you evaporates at the sight. Tall, fierce, and devastatingly gorgeous, all blended with the rich spice of amber liquor.

Loose tendrils of hair cascade along her shoulders and collarbone in protest of her braid.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have something for you. Can I come in?” Abby asks, and it’s not a question.

Before you can even request a moment to compose yourself, she unceremoniously dumps a heavy grey bin on your living room floor, adding to the chaos, before collapsing onto your couch.

“What’s going on, Abby?”

She may be a delightful, luminous drink of water when she wants to be. But damn, can she ever snore the walls down in record time.

You plop yourself onto the bin beside her and try to make sense of her unexpected visit. Should you venture down the hall to wake her roommate? There’s likely a sock hanging from the doorknob by now, but it’s an option.

“Anderson?”

The sound of your hands drumming on the sides of the plastic container fills the room, while you contemplate the amount of bourbon your crew has consumed from lunchtime until now. An indulgence that landed on your doorstep all the same.

When Abby whimpers and curls in on herself, you resolve to drape her in your heaviest blanket, hoping to help her tackle the unsteady beats of her sleep cycle and a looming hangover. She bundles the fabric in her fists and clenches it underneath her chin.

Captivated by her klutzy aura, you nearly trip on the forgotten bin.

The lid doesn’t want to come apart from its secured spot and you have the presence of mind to check for a locking device, just to be sure. There isn’t one, of course, but you’ll never let yourself live down the office window debacle.

It’s going to require elbow grease and a hefty tug. You hiss as it separates in several loud pops. Luckily, the noise only costs the weary girl on your couch a flinch or two.

Letters fill it to the brim, and you’re enthralled by Abby’s decision to bring them back with her. Your instinct is to open each one, but it doesn’t feel right without her there to chirp commentary at you.

“I don’t get it,” you breathe in disbelief, expecting your words to meld with the shadows and disappear.

Her ghost-quiet voice turns the thermostat up a thousand degrees.

“I was mean,” she stammers. “You didn’t deserve it.”

It appears that you’re tapping into her guilt-ridden subconscious, which feels so delicate you consider shaking her awake. You doubt she’d want to lay it all bare.

Does she always talk in her sleep?

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “Water under the bridge.”

Your response seems to placate her overworked brain. You can relate, as your own tries to lure you back to the land of lonely slumber.

You notice her face doesn’t relax, even when her breathing slows, the lines in her forehead streaked with dirt. To never find peace, even during sleep, must be exhausting beyond what most can fathom. It seems cruel to disturb her, even if she’s restless. You settle for leaving a glass of water on the side table for her before settling in at the end of the couch. If she startles awake, you’d rather she doesn’t do it alone.

Cramped onto the only slice of cushion she hasn’t claimed, you let the commotion of the day pull you under.

As morning greets you, you find yourself back in your bed.

The familiar scent of Abby drenches your blanket, but she’s long gone.

----------------------------------------

It’s your first day off in months, but you check the work assignment list to confirm. On your way back from the bulletin board, the classrooms are abuzz with joyful energy. Children eagerly play with the toys and delve into the books your squad brought home, and it gives you a sense of belonging. A goal beyond surviving.

Until now, you have thought little about your life beyond protecting the community. It always made sense to put your neck on the line for the greater good. While casually strolling past the gym, not in search of a certain soldier, you can’t help but wonder if there might be other adventures awaiting you.

Abby’s breath tickles your ear, and you leap a mile out of your skin.

“Looking for me?”

“Son of a bitch,” you wheeze.

She doubles over with laughter, imitating the strangled noise you make when you’re caught off guard. She takes a minute to catch her breath before she gives you a generous shove.

“You’ve got quite a potty mouth,” she teases, wrinkling her nose impishly at a passing group of young ones. “There are little ears around here, you know.”

“Yeah, well, they probably know better than to sneak up on a person,” you say, finding Abby’s laughter rather infectious. You bite back a grin. “Who does that? Is an apocalypse not enough for you people?”

Abby breaks into another bout of giggles, seeming to enjoy your newfound passion for merging the old world with the new one.

“Is it our apocalypse though, if we were born into it?”

“Yes, Abby, it is,” you huff, eager for your heart rate to return to baseline. “We’re in an active apocalypse and you’re awful.”

As she leans against the large window you’d been peering through, the sounds of the gym fade into the background. She tilts her head at you, eyes sparkling with intrigue. Clad in workout gear that accentuates her sculpted body, she doesn’t appear sweaty.

You must’ve caught her on her way in.

“Are you busy later?”

“Not really,” you say, fidgeting with a frayed string on your sleeve. “Are you?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Okay,” you say, staring at a scuff on your sneaker before catching her gaze.

“Okay,” she mimics, directing her nose scrunch at you this time, turning your mouth dry. “Feel like being busy later?”

It’s not as if her tone is explicit or even her language, but this woman is a supernatural force. So, tingles rise into gooseflesh from your head to your toes, regardless.

“What do you have in mind?” you ask.

The roars of a lively group of soldiers reverberate through the gym, their spirited chants urging their champion to hurry her ass up. They beckon to her as if they are a part of the kindergarten cohort, causing both of you to snicker and shake your heads. One of them wolf-whistles, the rise and fall of the pitch echoing into the hallway. Abby wastes no time throwing up her middle finger in response.

“I can come by around seven. Does that work?” she asks, reaching for your wrist. She gives it a quick squeeze and slowly pulls away, her fingers sliding to the tip of your pinky.

Her simple touch is unexpected, and it electrifies you.

“Works for me.”

She beams, walking backwards through the gym doors, brows jumping at your frozen form.

You amuse her. This much is obvious.

----------------------------------------

A rhythmic tap grabs your attention, a stark difference from the first time Abby came knocking. But to keep with tradition, she doesn’t arrive empty-handed.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, gesturing to the dishes balanced precariously in her arms.

“I wanted to.”

She sets the meal fit for an army battalion down onto the counter and searches your kitchen cupboards for something to drink from.

With a single, forceful movement of her forearm, she clears space by shoving your knick-knacks aside to make room.

“Juice cool?”

The way she effortlessly makes herself at home in your space leaves you speechless. You nod.

“Good,” she says, a repentant grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Pretty sure I’m off booze for the rest of my life.”

With the same delicate touch she used to tidy your countertop, she pours the freshly squeezed liquid, causing both glasses to hover on the verge of spilling. Abby takes a step back to assess the situation before bending over the rims, producing the most obnoxious slurping noise. It nearly sends you into hysterics as she levels out both glasses.

She hands one to you with droplets of orange decorating her chin and the collar of her shirt.

“Thanks,” you chuckle. “Quality service right here. Plus, I love germs.”

Balancing the glass to the best of your ability in your right hand, you pull your sleeve over your left and use it to pat her face dry. Abby snorts, her normally lively body becoming static under your ministrations. She swallows heavily, and a calmness settles over you.

“I don’t have germs,” she pouts. Her eyes drop to your mouth for a split-second before her cheeks erupt in swaths of vibrant pink. “I swear.”

“You’re a mess,” you scoff, enamoured by this clumsy woman, blazing a path directly into the pit of your stomach. “Did you know that?”

As she nods, her broad shoulders relax, and her frenetic breathing begins to slow.

“Nobody else sees it,” she says, her words hanging heavy in the air.

The pressure of that emotional cargo would cause any person to buckle under the weight sometimes. It’s a strenuous life for everyone on base, but the expectations placed on her are especially burdensome.

“I see it.”

Your confession doesn’t offend her; instead, it seems to liberate her.

She sighs an exhale of relief, and it makes your heart squeeze.

“I can live with that,” she whispers.

The food was prepared with love as is anything set aside for Abby, and she tells you all about the cook who put it together. An original member of the Salt Lake crew, and a phenomenal chef, he got them through their bleakest days.

When the WLF opened their arms, he committed fully to helping Abby achieve her goals, working tirelessly to support her training and keep himself on the straight and narrow after their tragic end with the Fireflies.

She doesn’t go into detail about what happened, and your instinct is to let that be okay. The heart-wrenching rumours are more than enough to go on for now.

“He’s stoked for me to have a little downtime,” she says, waving her fork at the spread now spilling onto your coffee table across various plates. “Hence the whole smorgasbord situation. As soon as I told him—”

She pauses, letting out a little whimper of embarrassment, seeming to scold herself for being so open.

“Told him what?” you press, detecting a subtle grin playing at the edges of her eyes.

“He wanted to make an impression on my friend, I guess.”

Your neck tickles with heat and you attempt to ventilate by pulling the collar of your shirt away from your collarbone for a moment.

“The man can cook,” you say with your mouth full. It comes out funnier than you expected, muffled by chewing. “Sorry.”

“You’re quite a mess yourself,” she smirks, leaning to drape her arms along the back of your couch, scanning the state of your apartment. “Your poor books.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with my books!”

She hauls herself off the couch to make an example of you, crouching at a cluttered stack. So, an earthquake must’ve hit only your room—what of it?

“I mean, this is just sad.”

“We can’t all have bookshelves and organizational skills, Anderson.”

“Says who?” she chuckles, her attention diverted by a novel that has piqued her curiosity. “This isn’t a lack of skill, either. Where’s your discipline, girl?”

Maybe it’s crouched in front of you, a blonde bombshell waiting to go off and properly reduce you to human rubble.

“I’m plenty disciplined, thank you very much.”

“Yeah?” she says, tongue tucked behind her teeth in challenge.

The audacity, when you’re currently over the moon about this delicious meal, you’ll likely never get to enjoy twice.

“Yeah,” you retort, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve like a feral beast. You strip off your shirt and toss it into the abyss, grabbing a clean one from its home on a toppling lamp.

Her bright bursts of laughter make you giddy, a woman who never finds time to play, sitting on your carpet waiting for you to join her.

“Who even are you?” she asks, and it’s so gentle it stops you midway through redressing to ponder her question.

The cotton tank top falls past your hips and you smooth it out, sensitive to the wrinkles in a way you haven’t previously been.

“It looks good,” Abby blurts, reading you like the sea of books strewn about. “You’re—good.”

There’s something about the fortitude of her honesty that helps you decipher between barbs and a genuine fondness for your idiosyncrasies.

Maybe she’s someone you can trust after all.

She shuffles across the floor to the bin filled with letters and lifts it above her head with ease.

“What on earth are you doing?”

As her brows jump mischievously, she dumps the skeletal remains of a past life onto your floor, filling the room with a waterfall of bones. It ignites a fierce desire to protect this girl—create a time capsule of this moment for the next generation to build upon.

A reminder that not all broken things are hopeless things.

“Well, now you’ve gone and ruined my tidy apartment.”

“My bad,” she giggles.

----------------------------------------

Each passing moment feels like tiny punctures in an hourglass, causing time to trickle away. You’re both aware of it, trying to stretch the night. Abby leaves for a spell to hunt down her chef, in pursuit of caffeine. She returns flushed and sleepy, the bitter aroma wafting through the door alongside her soothing presence.

Curiosity and exhaustion get the best of you, and you ask about her friend. His thoughts on your late-night rendezvous with history. She does a goofy impression that makes you want to wrap your arms around her, and you watch her in fascination like an old cowboy reel, projected onto your heart.

“He says you’re a bad influence.”

“Bullshit,” you snicker, tossing her another envelope.

“Okay, so he didn’t say that. But he did tell me to give him a heads up if I decide to run away with you.”

You try to push that thought aside.

“Really, now? And why does he think that’s in the cards?”

“He thinks you’re my dream girl.”

She speaks as if she’s describing weather patterns to you, and you’re bewildered. The blunt force of her words mixed with the softness of her tone leaves you shell-shocked. You search for a tether; silently categorize every reason it can’t be true.

“What did you tell him?” you ask, busying yourself with a letter you read while Abby was away.

A tale of woe between two quarrelling families. It reminds you of Romeo and Juliet, some less violent, modern-day version, and based on the contents of their struggle, you gather at least one of them was grateful for the pandemic.

“Do you really want to know?” she asks, pinning you with her gaze.

You nod, a buzz of energy flitting through you.

“Yes,” you say.

“I told him to go fuck himself.”

Cackles burst from your chest, finding her candour rather precious. Of course, Abby told the guy off. But she doesn’t look away after she tells you; doesn’t shrug or scoff. She studies your reaction and holds her breath until a tiny smile breaks her anxious expression.

You forget where you are in proximity to the earth for a second.

“I guess I’ll debrief you on that situation at a later date,” you say.

“I hope so.”

----------------------------------------

The sound of her steady breathing is peaceful as the light of early morning whispers through the fog. She idly sips at her coffee and takes her time, setting each letter into their respective piles. It’s engrained in her to keep things orderly, an obvious clash with your paper heap. Unlike you, she finds the government letters intriguing, even the boring ass mortgage and debt related ones, and reads them all thoroughly.

Your hand catches on an envelope shaped differently from the rest. Inside is a card, with a dozen raised hearts adorning the front in varying shades of red. When you flip it open, it reads:

With you by my side, every day feels like Valentine’s Day. Thank you for being my rock, my love, and my everything.

Your family never spoke of this while you were growing up.

“Valentine’s Day?” you yawn. “What’s that all about?”

You show her the card, and she rubs her eyes, nursing the tail end of her own yawn with the back of her hand.

“Give it here, woman.”

She looks it over to confirm her suspicions, and with a knowing smile, sits up straight. She taps the card against her knee.

“My dad told me about this.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s um—it’s a tradition people celebrated near the end of winter. A day to do things for the ones you love, I guess.”

“Like a holiday or something?”

“Sort of,” Abby says, fumbling a bit with her own understanding of it. “Romantic stuff, mostly.”

She rubs her neck, mulling something over while you try to wrap your head around this new information. One day out of the year to do what exactly? Who was supposed to do the things—both people? Did the traditions start after breakfast or were you meant to wait until suppertime? Was it an endeavour meant to last the entire day?

“My dad didn’t really make time to celebrate it,” Abby continues. “He was always too busy at the hospital and then my mom—well, she worked there too, so.”

The veil of exhaustion lifts when you realize she’s peeling back a wound right before your eyes. You suck in a breath and hope she doesn’t mistake it for anything but your desire to let her speak. She drops the card on her lap and wrings her hands.

“They did these small things instead, you know? On regular days,” Abby explains. Her body droops as she seems to pick through her retention of their conversations.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice just a hair above a whisper.

“Like—okay. My dad loved to dance,” Abby says, leaning forward with a sad smile, the slouch of her shoulders regaining composure at the happier memory. “He was fucking terrible at it,” she puffs a laugh. “But he was a music buff and when he met my mom, he said it was the best excuse he could find to get close to her.”

You ache for her to have them here to tell the story, instead.

“So, they danced together a lot?”

“All the time, according to him,” Abby says, her face lighting up. “He told me that my mom was super shy, so she’d always give him hell about it. But he’d ask her to dance pretty much anywhere. Parking lots, gas stations, one time they danced in the middle of the grocery store.”

You try to imagine what Abby’s mom looks like, but your mind can’t seem to conjure up anything beyond Abby’s own image, a showcase of strength and grit.

“Do you remember much about her?” you ask.

“Not really. She died when I was a baby,” Abby explains, adjusting the cuffs of her shirt. “She loved being pregnant with me, though, apparently.”

“Well, duh,” you murmur.

Abby crinkles her nose at you and bites the edge of her smile.

“Dad said her stomach got so big that he started dancing with her from behind. She’d rest her head on his shoulder, and they’d just sway back and forth.”

“I love that,” you say.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, fondness heavy on her breath.

Abby’s speech becomes slurred as the birds on your balcony greet the dawn.

“Every time they danced, the scent of her reminded him of a cabin in the woods, surrounded by these giant pine trees he used to pass on his way to work. He’d dream up this elaborate plan for them to quit their careers and live off-grid. I think he promised it to her about a thousand times.”

“That sounds kind of amazing, actually.”

“Yeah,” she says, tapping her nose with the Valentine’s card, her sleepy gaze drifting to yours. “He was a sap.”

She finishes with the most outrageously loud, cavernous yawn and you’re too tired to do much more than giggle at her larger-than-life spirit.

“You can crash on my couch again, if you want,” you offer.

She wobbles to her feet, reaching for your hand to help pull you up.

“I’m on assignment in a couple of hours anyway,” she says, supporting your elbows while you try not to slip on the paper graveyard below. “I’ll be MIA for a while, but let’s meet up when I’m back, if you’re up for it.”

“Totally.”

“Cool,” she whispers, her fingers tracing patterns on the tips of yours before reluctantly letting go.

As she turns to walk away, her steps falter, and she abruptly spins around to face you.

“Can I hug you goodbye?” she asks.

“Of course.”

Before you can blink, Abby’s arms wrap around you, and you’re a puzzle piece, snug in her embrace. She melts you from the inside out, the comforting rhythm of her heartbeat thrumming against your body. The heat of her chest against your cheek lifts blissful sleepiness from the edges of your resolve and a part of you wants to ask her to stay.

As she gently moves to cup your head and support the back of your neck with her warm hands, you instinctively wrap your arms around her waist, afraid she might drift away.

“I feel so safe right now,” you whisper into her shoulder, and she nuzzles closer, squeezing you tight. Your feet are nearly off the ground before she relaxes her grip.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

----------------------------------------

Two weeks have passed since your visit with Abby and it’s hard to think about much else. It’s a pleasant distraction, even when the memory of her makes your insides flutter as if she tipped a bucket of butterflies between your ribs and set them free.

An unusually large number of soldiers from different stations have packed the grounds, and you’re grateful to have a unique job to keep you relatively separate from the chaos.

Dogs are coming home, but not all of them, and it shatters your heart to toss out their registration papers. You understand the nature of your contribution to this war machine, but it never gets easier. If you could, you’d gather up all the puppies and take them to the same cabin in the woods Abby’s father always dreamed about. Let them bask in the warm sunlight and frolic together amidst a maze of towering trees.

It’s a lovely thought followed closely by the sobering reality before you.

“You’ve done well.”

You drop the leash you were holding, and it clatters on the concrete.

“Isaac. You scared me.”

If Abby is a rare sight at the stadium, Isaac is a ghost. You haven’t seen him in months. He has expanded the WLF across several locations along the west coast and the number is only growing. Reports of a nearby prison piquing his interest have been swirling for a while now.

You’re not sure where he rests his head at night, but it’s almost never here.

“It’s nice to see you too,” he says, inspecting the four-legged fleet without getting close enough to pet them. “I hear your training program is working wonders.”

“I try. They make it easy,” you say, noticing that many puppies have tucked their tails between their legs. “What brings you to the stadium?”

“I’m—restructuring,” he explains, his footsteps echoing as he paces the unit, meticulously inspecting the facility.

Your heart sinks.

“What does this have to do with me?”

He exaggerates a smile, and it sets you on edge.

“You always ask the right questions,” he drawls, heavy hands landing on your shoulders. “I respect that about you. There’s never any fat to trim, just straight to the point.”

It’s more than you can say about him, frankly.

“I suspect you’ve heard about the prison.”

“I have,” you say, bending to pick back up the leash. A narrow excuse to put space between the two of you.

Isaac is still standing uncomfortably close, so you wrap the nylon around your wrist as an act of self soothing.

“Well, it’s proving to be an integral training facility. It’s both secure and unaffected by the flooding, which has been my biggest obstacle up to this point.”

You’d never seen the inside of a prison before, but you’ve read about them. A cold cement cage without access to sunlight, its surface striped with iron. It offered zero curb appeal. You made it a priority to give your dogs a comfortable enclosure for that very reason.

“They need me here,” you say, desperate to get ahead of his plan. “This is where I’ll be most effective.”

“I disagree.”

Your arms tingle with an icy chill as he turns to walk in the opposite direction.

“You said I’ve done well here,” you call out.

“It’s true,” he says over his shoulder. “And your expertise will be crucial. Transport leaves at oh-six hundred.”

---------------------------------------

You should pack to leave, but you’re frozen.

Isaac isn’t one to sugarcoat things and for once, you wish he would’ve.

You curl up in a plastic chair on your balcony and take in the fields below. Neatly organized rows of vibrant crops bordered by fruit trees, bursting with hues of orange and red. Berries snaking through walls of trellis, sweet and ripe. People milling about with baskets of laundry and boxes of produce, keeping society peaceful.

“You should’ve married him,” Manny sighs, dropping beside you. His hand rests on your knee. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you admit, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose. “All these fresh faces, and I’m the only one leaving.”

Manny moves his hand to your arm, offering a kind squeeze.

“You are not the only one,” he says, handing you a clipboard.

It’s a short list of dogs you’ll be taking with you, and you’re caught between wanting to laugh at Manny’s ridiculous disposition or sob at your utter misfortune. You wish the dogs could stay behind. They love when the little ones throw the ball for them in the afternoon.

“I have a life here,” you say, and it’s a plea to the universe. “This is supposed to be my home.”

Manny offers you a freshly picked apple and you roll the waxy surface between your palms. The image of Abby’s face flashes in your mind. Maybe it’s silly to feel so much, but you can’t stop it. The weight of never seeing her again makes you nauseous.

“I’m fucked,” you groan.

He wraps an arm around your shoulder to pull you in.

“Keep your chin up, Hermosa. Something tells me you won’t be gone long.”

----------------------------------------

Hey you,

I’ve tried to write this about a dozen times, and I still don’t know where to start. Fuck it, right?

I barely know you and somehow you made me miss you so fucking much while I was away. When I got home and you weren’t there, it felt like someone shot me in the chest.

Manny brought me your bin of letters and I swear I cried for the first time in years.

How did you get under my skin so fast?

I hear you were sad when you left, and that breaks my heart. It kills me thinking of you being unhappy. I hate that you’re somewhere I know nothing about.

What is it like over there? Are you safe?

I check in on the kennels every day. You’re missed around here a lot.

Keep your head up for me. I’m going to make this right.

Please write me back,

A.A.

You’re busy fixing the fence with a skeleton crew when a delivery truck arrives, and someone throws a letter at you. The thrill of it causes your heart to pound in your throat, a rush of adrenaline washing over you. It takes every ounce of self control to keep from disappearing to read it somewhere private.

Trucks come and go regularly, as they divide resources between stations. Isaac seems to prioritize the prison, especially on the artillery front.

You finish reinforcing the fence and race to your cell to lose yourself in your first piece of mail.

You can’t wait to steal a pen to write her back.

Abby,

I read your letter every day.

Okay, maybe more like three times a day, but who’s counting? Seriously… this place has no concept of time and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a single clock to be found.

It makes me sad you were sad. I feel like we’re on a carousel of sadness! We should change that. (Have you seen a carousel before?)

The dogs aren’t doing too bad. They like the open fields here and they’re allowed to sleep in bed with these smelly ass soldiers, which I think is more for us than them, truly.

Thanks for checking in on my crew there. Means a lot.

My bed feels like a hard slab of steel because it is, but at least I don’t have to make it every day. Don’t tell Manny.

It’s nothing like the stadium here. We don’t have gardens and schools and we definitely don’t have a gym. I know, devastating! How will I ever beat you in an arm wrestle now?

The hot water is a work in progress, so I’m learning how to not die during cold showers. That’s also a work in progress, but I squeal less now. Which is something, right?

Try not to worry your beautiful head. I’m tough. I miss your face, though. There’s so much I want to ask you.

Please tell me something about you that nobody else knows. I promise I’m the best secret keeper, ever.

P.S.

If you find any letters from actual prisoners, be sure to fill me in. I feel like they’d have some great tips!

Yours truly,

You hope she lights up as much as you did when her letter arrives. It’s all you can hope for, aside from her safety and possibly a warmer blanket.

To: My Favourite Inmate,

You sure know how to make a girl laugh.

It’s good you don’t have clocks. That way, you can’t obsess over how long you’ve been gone the way I do.

Shit, I should send Manny over there for one of those cold showers. I gave him that polaroid we found, and he hasn’t come up for air in weeks.

It helps a bit to know those pups are there to keep you warm at night. I hope I can be that for you soon. I considered writing another letter because I was afraid to say it, but I think I want you to know. You belong in my arms.

Something I haven’t told anyone before…

Sometimes I miss being a Firefly, especially since things around here are getting worse by the day—but sometimes I guess I don’t want to be anything.

Maybe I’d like to try being just Abby for a while, you know? I’ve never tried that before. What do you think that would look like? Would you want to be a part of it?

I wish you were here beside me.

I’ve made it my mission.

A.A.

P.S.

When you wrapped your arms around me, it felt like lightning.

#abby the last of us #abby x fem!reader #abby tlou #abby x reader #abby x you #tlou abby #abby anderson #lesbian

177 notes · View notes

toxicanonymity · 9 months

Text

Shooting Practice

1600 words, raider!Joel x f!reader

mood board by @milla-frenchy

A/N: FLASHBACK TO BEFORE YOU ESCAPE.. This isn't what I was working on 🚬🤡. WARNINGS: I8+ inner conflict, dubcon p in V (captivity), angst. plz suspend disbelief about shooting, etc. Raider Joel Master List, His trailer

FLASHBACK / IMAGINE

Between "Stash House" and "Failed Escape. "

Joel leaves you in his trailer sometimes if he isn't taking you on a raid. His trailer is nice compared to the stash house. Especially because his men aren't there, but it's also a little cleaner. You sense he’s a practical man. He doesn’t have things he doesn't need, aside from whiskey. He could sleep on the ground with nothing. The fact that his bed has sheets and a blanket–no, the fact that he even has a bed and lets you sleep in it–feels like a luxury. He doesn't just let you sleep in it. He holds you. It feels more protective than affectionate but you feel safe.

Joel only uses the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. When you come in the front door, you enter into the eating area, and turn left for the bathroom and bedroom. But if you turn to the right, there’s more. It’s a small galley kitchen. There’s a pantry full of ammunition and cabinets to your right, a utility closet, a closet, and then a room you’ve never seen Joel use.

In the living room, the carpet is scratched through in some places. It’s dusty. There’s an old forlorn sofa. The roof leaks on that end of the trailer. There’s a giant spot on the thin, blue, speckled carpet.The carpet is full of stains with various items scattered around. A dust buster. Two empty pet bowls in the corner, covered in cobwebs. There’s a TV/VCR combo and a radio. There are shelves with warped and faded books.

The first time you notice the children’s books, it makes your stomach turn. You ask Joel who used to live there. Hell if he knows, it was empty, the whole trailer park was. Most of the trailers are gutted, their insides destroyed by a fire. This one had been far enough away. You try not to think too much about who used to live there. You try spending time in the living room and it feels like your own space, but it's also spooky.

Joel has one of his men keeping an eye on you from down the hill, but it's for protection--to stop any of his men from going up there. You're allowed to go outside. When you have an opportunity, you explore the immediate area around the trailer– the top of the hill, and the woods. There isn’t much to see, and you don’t go far, afraid he’ll come back and think you’re trying to escape.

When you're hungry one afternoon, you try to forage for mushrooms in the woods. You find a collapsed, faded tent with a lump under it. Your gut tells you it’s a body. The next day, it’s in the same spot. You’re probably right. Joel always says it’s too dangerous, you shouldn’t go in the woods, and now you know why.

----------

One day, you’re feeling particularly restless, but you stay inside. When Joel gets home, he grabs ammunition from the pantry and is about to do target practice outside. You overhear him shooting when he does it.

“Can I watch,” you ask.

He glances at you skeptically, then mutters “yeah okay.”

You walk around back with him, the opposite side of the stash house, to the opposite ridge of the hill, facing the trailer park, with the woods on your left. There are shells of abandoned cars scattered behind the trailers.

The two trailers you’re looking at are marked up with spray paint, x’s, o’s, stick figures. One of the stick figures has a gaping hole in the head and smaller holes around it.

Joel sets up his rifle and gets down on his stomach, which gives you butterflies to watch. His triceps flex as he gets into position and his shapely lower body holds an interesting pose as he peers into the sight of his gun. He takes a shot and you don’t see where it goes.

“What’d you hit?”

Joel glances at you. “Trailer”

“Where?”

“See that guy with the hole in his head? went through that.”

You settle in to watch, legs folded to the side, fingers exploring a clover patch while he shoots. You pluck the little white flowers and consider making a crown out of them, but you would feel silly in front of Joel. You tear them to pieces instead with a lump in your throat.

Joel takes a few more shots, then asks, “wanna see?”

He scoots over and you swallow your emotions. You get on your stomach next to him. When you peer through the sight, you can see right through the trailer to the next one where he’s shot a large hole in the middle of an X. “wow,” you marvel. “all the way through?”

“yep”

“you’re really good at that.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “Wouldn’t keep ya if I wasn’t. Someone’s gotta keep ya safe, sweet pea.”

You nod and give a small smile.At this point, you’re still unsure where you’re better off.

You get out of his way. He takes a couple more shots while you pensively look for four-leaf clovers.

There’s nothing waiting for you back home, but sometimes, the way Joel plucked you out of your life doesn’t sit right. You didn't get to choose.

—------

Joel lets you watch him most days when he does target practice, and one day he asks if you wanna try.

"Look, uh, you don't need to be usin' a gun like this okay?"

"yeah, I know."

"but if ya wanna try it, right here with me. . .I can show ya."

"really?" He showed you his pistol before but didn't offer you could shoot it.

Joel nods for you to come over. You've shot a pistol before, in your old life, but never a long gun. You lay on your stomach, trying to emulate his stance. He moves your legs into position for you and you can feel the air on your inner thighs as your dress bunches up near your hip on your right side.

Joel cages you to the ground with his body, laying his chest flat against your back. He puts your hands on the gun and keeps his hands over yours. “You’re gonna wanna look right here.” He points at the sight then returns the hand to yours. “And hold the gun real steady. It’s gonna jump back at ya.”

“Okay.”

“Ready? I'll squeeze it the first time”

“Yeah.”

He squeezes the trigger and his arm muscles flex against you as he fires. It goes straight through the hole to the x. With Joel holding it steady, it doesn't jump back. The next time, he lets you pull the trigger while he holds the gun steady. When he shifts his weight in between shots, you can feel him getting hard. Each time, he puts less and less of his strength into it until he thinks you’re ready to do it on your own. He gets up off you and watches.

You line up the shot and take it. The recoil startles you even though you knew it was coming. The bullet pings a blank spot on the trailer next to the stick figure’s neck. You’re disappointed but Joel says “Good girl, look at that.”

-------

He takes the gun from you and puts it aside. Then he cages you to the ground again. He lowers his hips and you feel the shape of his stiff cock through his thin jeans. “my gun looks good on ya,” he murmurs.

You’re still up on your elbows. He put his weight on one of his forearms and reaches his other hand under your arm to cup your breast. He rolls his hips into you and gropes you. You’re getting wet. He does it once more, and you sigh.

"Not here," he says. "too exposed."

He begins to push himself off, and you feel the cool air against your damp panties as he sits back on his knees between your legs. He mutters, “fuck" and defies himself by reaching between your legs. He slips a finger under the cotton and when he feels how wet you are, he inhales sharply then mumbles, “gotta be quick.” When you hear his zipper, a wave of arousal hits you.

He hovers over you resting on his forearm again. "relax, sweet pea." You put your arms down and rest your head on top of them. "want it here, right?" He presses on the damp spot.

"Yeah"

He pushes your panties to the side and nudges his tip into place. You're wet but not quite wet enough. He spits on his hand and adds saliva to his tip before returning it between your legs.

He lines himself up and shoves into you, his girth splitting you in two. Your body rushes to catch up but he doesn't allow much time to adjust. He slowly brings his cock back, then slams in with a grunt. Then he goes at a jackhammer pace, breathing vocally and railing into you until he moans "ohh, ah–" and slows his hips.

He plunges to the hilt and sighs in relief as he fills you with his cum. You whimper on the edge, almost there yourself, but you don't know how he'll react if you touch yourself, so you don't.

------

Maybe you'll have a moment to yourself later. Or maybe--you catch yourself wondering--maybe, he'll fuck you later and take his time. You shame yourself for the thought.

There's no mistaking what your body wants. It's always wanted him, but there's something that scares you now. You're beginning to fear it's not just your body anymore.

-----

Thank you for reading

she's afraid her desire/acceptance isn't just physical anymore

Next would be Failed Escape

the last line:

she's afraid her body belongs to him and not just herself

#joel miller x reader #dark!joel miller #tw dubcon #cw dubcon #joel miller smut #toxicanonymity ☠️

424 notes · View notes

thelightsandtheroses · 1 month

Text

seven: me and the devil, walking side by side

Your Hand In Mine | Joel Miller x female reader.

Chapter summary: an unwelcome visitor brings everything to a head Chapter warnings: Reader is a single parent to a teenager, mentions of breakups, discussions of cults/religious movements and violence within these, threat of a gun, tension, lightly implied panic attack/anxiety, 18+ blog mdni, Notes: Chapter title i

s from Me and the Devil, originally by Gil-Scott Heron but I have both this and the Soap&Skin version on my playlist for this fic. Thanks for all of your patience with this chapter. It’s a big one! Word Count: 5.4k

Previous | Series | Next

You’ve been through breakups before. It’s nothing new. Usually you like to be the one to leave before you can be left. That takes out some of the salt in the wound.

Your separation from Joel hurts though. It physically hurts.

Your chest aches, your eyes sting, you miss him. Every small detail brings Joel to you; a flannel shirt, the soap everyone in Jackson.

You’re not sure if it’s because you’ve distanced yourself from a good man - and aren’t those rare to find?- or the impending fear of The Junction. Perhaps it’s both.

On the moments that Joel is not haunting you, your past is.

Beau once asked you whether you were sure that breaking up with Joel was a good idea, if it would perhaps be better to bring him on side. That’s Beau; a survivor, pragmatic to his core.

You can’t quite find the words to voice what it would have meant to you to tell Joel. You still feel complicit somehow in everything that Ethan did, you realised too late, you didn’t stop him. There’s too much shame ingrained in your body for you to tell Joel.

The pain of the breakup feels like a suitable punishment.

“Anything?” you ask Beau as you sip your tea in the kitchen.

Beau shakes his head wearily. “No sign on anyone yet.” He pauses. “If I had to say anything though, it’s almost too …. clean. There’s no sign of anyone, sweetheart, anyone or anything.”

“They’re cleaning their tracks?”

“Probably.”

“Shit. We should leave.”

“We’re better off here than out there,” Beau replies calmly, “‘sides, we can’t just haul Gabe off in the middle of the night now. He’ll ask questions.” There’s an unspoken question - will you ever tell your son the truth?

“I hate this.”

“Me too. We’re going to get through this though.”

“Are we?”

“Of course.”

“Who were you patrolling with?” you ask, eager to change the subject.

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “Just -”

“Joel?”

He nods. ‘Did he notice the clean-up?“

“Things like that don’t get past him. He’s … aware of techniques like that.” probably for the same reasons as Beau. Their chequered histories made them survivors and in some strange kept people they love safe - Ellie for Joel, Sean and you for Beau. “We both commented on it. Joel doesn’t know about the junction though, he’ll assume it’s more like raiders. He wants to raise it in the town meeting tonight - I think he’d mention it sooner if it was more than just a theory. Maybe that can work to our advantage though.”

“How?”

“Well, if he says to Maria then she’ll probably put a stop to traders for a bit. That might protect us a little longer if Jackson’s more closed. It’ll give us time to decide on what we’re doing.” Beau smiles at you. “You and Sean, you’re not alone in this. You, Gabriel, Sean and me … we’re sticking together.”

You nod, sniffing loudly. You won’t cry, you won’t.

“There’s a trader in,” Esther says casually, smiling as you look up from your books.

It’s probably nothing, it’s probably just one of the usual traders who passes through Jackson, but that doesn’t explain why your blood is turning cold and your palms are sweaty.

“A trader? One of our usuals?”

“No, no, never seen him before.”

“Oh, really?” you ask, schooling your expression as much as you can. “What does he look like?”

“Not as good looking as Joel Miller, how you let a man like that go, I will never know.” Esther sighs and you remember that when Joel first came to town, Tommy had been trying to match the two of them. It hadn’t lasted long. You’d asked Joel about it once but he’d been polite, a southern gentleman to a tee so you knew even if there was a story, it wasn’t one you’d hear any time soon.

“Well, I’m sure he’d be heartened to hear your support on that. So, the trader?”

“I don’t know, he had dark hair and he - he had presence, a slight limp though.”

“A limp?”

“Uh huh. Shame really, and some burns but other than that …. he seemed real friendly, had a Victorian doll for trade too, might have some things for your boy. I heard a rumour about coffee.”

You walk past Esther, barely letting her complete her sentences before you’re heading out of the library.

Beau’s on the way to the hall. He’s in the stables and you can see him chatting with Ellie as you approach them.

“Hey Beau, Hi Ellie,” you say, walking in and smiling broadly. You think it’s a normal, false smile but by Beau’s expression, and Ellie’s, you’ve failed miserably. “Beau, there’s a trader at the community hall, want to go check it out?”

Beau looks at you and you hope he’s noticed how you said trader, how you all but winked and raised an eyebrow at the gesture.

“Oh, really?”

“We were talking about trading some of our old stuff soon, right? From back when?”

He definitely understands now. “Of course. Ellie, it was real nice talkin’ to you.”

Before you can leave, Ellie grabs you arm. “Wait, can you just wait a moment?”

No, you think, but it’s Ellie and you’ve already let her down so many times recently, that you nod. “Catch up in a moment, Beau?”

“Okay. I’ll be outside.” If you know, he’ll probably be working on a plan, just in case. He’ll be looking for signs of more of them. You and Sean told him about Ethan’s strategies, about his plans if that first gated community failed.

Ellie looks worried, her arms are folded around herself and it reminds you she’s still just a child, only fifteen. Younger than your own son.

“How are you doing, Ellie?”

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“You’re sorry?”

“Yeah, over the whole arm thing and the accident. I know it made you and Joel argue and then - and then you broke up. I know it’s-”

“Ellie, it was nothing to do with that,” you say vehemently, “Nothing at all about you. I promise.”

“Then why? I thought you liked him?”

“I did.” You do.

“I’ll never understand any of this,” Ellie laments, shaking her head. “Why not just - why’d you come into our lives just to do this then?”

You would have preferred it if she hit you. “I never wanted to hurt you, or Joel. I promise that. I’m - I have to go, Ellie, but I - we can talk more.”

“‘S no point. Unless, is there?” Ellie looks up hopefully.

You shake your head, digging your hands into your pockets. “Take care, Ellie.”

You have to get to the hall, you have to hope your fears are unfounded.

You can’t feel your fingers.

You know.

There are fresh flowers on each table in the hall; it’s a simple gesture, one that intimates the security, the homeliness of Jackson. It’s a place where you can do that again, it’s about living not surviving.

It clashes with the raging survival instinct in you, the fear that your home isn’t as safe as you hoped. The knowledge that everything is about to come crashing down.

What if they’ve already infiltrated? What if there’s been a Junction spy reporting back for months? They would despise you for what you did. They would demand your blood. But what if he …

You look over at the crowd around the trader and begin moving forward with Beau, each step in sync, his presence an unspoken crutch.

You hope you’re wrong about this.

He is not who you remember. That is the first thing you think when you see him. His hair is longer now with his limp, thinning dark locks tied back in a scraggly ponytail. There are more lines on his face, a vicious burn on one hand and you know underneath his clothes will be the hidden scars you left him with - you missed the first time. The second time you hit his leg though.

His eyes widen with delight when he sees you walk into the building. “You,” he exclaims, “At long last, we meet again.”

In your imagination, this scene always was more obviously like a horror film. In your nightmares, you’d be bleeding, taken, surviving once more. The scene was always in some abandoned warehouse, cabin or barn too.

You watched too many movies growing up.

However, you could have never expected this moment would happen in Jackson’s community hall. You could never have expected there would be an audience either. People are still milling around, looking at his potential wares, going about their day like the world hasn’t just ended once more. You want to scream at them, you want to call the insanity of this situation out but your feet are rooted to the floor with thick tendrils of fear holding you in place.

You notice Joel and Tommy at one table. Joel’s eyes look confused as he seems to gauge your expression.

You can see Sean standing near Maria. Sean looks so uneasy; almost grey, and you cannot imagine how your friend is feeling right now, you know he suffered in his own way at The Junction. His face is calm though, he’s planning, waiting for the right moment. You recognise the way his hands are shoved into his jeans pocket though, the way his eyes move wildly around the room when he thinks no one is looking at him.

Your legs feel shaky but you refuse to lean against Beau, to show any weakness in this situation. This situation has been a long time coming.

It’s been seventeen years. You are not who you were then. You have been shaped by him and the Junction, that is true, but you’ve become your own person again. Each tragedy, each win, each memory has sculpted who you are at this moment, has trained you for this moment.

Beau whispers your name, gives you choices on how you play this. He’s on your side, that’s clear, that’s beyond question. Part of you wants to hand the situation over to him, to let Beau deal with it while you bury your head in the sand once again.

That’s not possible though.

You wonder if it’s only the four of you who are aware of the tension at this moment. It’s a secret that your neighbours and friends can’t see, that you never wanted them to see.

And Joel -

Everyone is in danger now.

“Hi honey,” Ethan says loudly with a smile, “It’s been a while. Why don’t you come on over and say hi to your husband now?”

His words have the desired effect; everyone stops, everyone stares, heads moving in a ripple of movement throughout the hall.

Next to Sean, Maria’s smile fades and her face hardens. You hear the hushed whispers around you as they realise Ethan is looking and talking to you.

It’s Joel you want to look at though. You feel drawn to him like Orpheus, knowing you can’t look and desperate to all at once. You remember how he was unable not to turn around in those Greek myths, how you’d argued in class it was foolish and inevitable all at once.

Is this you now? Are you the damned, foolish one? Is your failure, your doom, inevit

Seeing Ethan solidifies everything; Joel is the person you love, the man who loved you and you have lost him because of your secrets and past, in a foolhardy attempt to protect Gabriel.

Gabriel. He’s nowhere to be found as you look around you and you’re grateful for that. You can protect him for just a few more minutes.

Instead of your son, instead of Ethan, you finally allow yourself to glance at Joel. Joel’s face is pulled into a frown and he looks … hurt. You’ve hurt him once again.

You can imagine his thoughts right now - he’ll be wondering why he bothered to trust you, how you hid this from him and why.

“I -” you stutter words, your mouth opening and closing without making any sense. You exhale slowly. “How’s your leg?”

Sean bursts out laughing. It’s a strange, mangled giggle borne of surprise and worry that immediately stops as people look at him.

“So how’s that how we’re playing things, huh?”

“This isn’t a game, Ethan.”

“Isn’t everything you do a game?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t - you were married, you were married to him?” Tommy exclaims, looking at Joel and then you in the vain hope one of you will provide an answer. There’s an unspoken conversation between the two brothers, one clearly Tommy isn’t happy about. “Who is he?” Tommy says your name in a low voice, imploring you to confide in him.

“He shouldn’t be here, he needs to leave.”

“I need to leave?” Ethan asks, an unreadable expression on his face. “So you haven’t told them anything about who you really are then? They don’t know there’s a fox in the chicken coop?” He says your name, tutting with disappointment.

Whispers carry around you like leaves in the wind. You’re not sure what people are thinking right now. You’ve been too quiet, too secretive, it would be easy to wonder who you really are. In another world, maybe this is who would have been - his dutiful wife and spy.

You notice Maria saying something quietly to Tommy, how the two of them are subtly clearing the hall of bystanders. Joel is staring between you and Ethan with a blank face.

Do they think you’re a victim or the perpetrator in this scenario? You notice Beau take the smallest step forward, readying himself for something.

“I don’t think this conversation is serving our community right now,” Maria says flatly.

“Hey Joel,” you hear a familiar voice call. ”Has the trader got anything good? You better not have traded like half of everything you own for coffee again. I honestly don’t get the whole coffee thing anyway, it tastes like burnt- ” Ellie’s voice breaks off.

Your heart races as Ellie, Jesse and to your horror Sean walk into the community hall, completely oblivious to what’s happened but seemingly starting to realise that something is going on.

“Not now, Ellie,” Joel gruffly says.

“What’s uh -” Ellie breaks off.

Ethan is staring at Gabriel and your heart sinks. For sixteen years, you have convinced yourself that Gabriel doesn’t look like Ethan, that there’s no passing resemblance at all.

There is though.

You see it now and it feels like a glaring beacon, another lie come home to roost. A truth you couldn’t avoid forever. He’s yours, you know that, but together in the same room you can see the similarities.

“Mu-” Ethan begins warily, noticing the tension around the room. He looks alert, worried, ready to do whatever is necessary. That’s how it is in this world - you have drummed survival into him from an early age. It feels antithetical though, that the child you want to protect and nurture knows how to fight, how to endure this world you placed him into.

Sean immediately takes a step towards him, but Joel’s there first, a strange look in his eyes. “You need to go home, all of you. Now.”

“But -”

“No arguments, Ellie.” His tone is firm. To anyone else, they would think him a strict parent, a firm, resolute man who accepts no arguments. You can hear the worry though, the slight fear in his voice that Ellie is here. That you have endangered her. Endangered everyone.

“Ergh,” Ellie says but she holds her hands up and takes a step backwards exit with Jesse. She looks over at you and then Ethan and then Gabriel, a frown forming on her face and then she pauses.

“Well, isn’t today full of revelations,” Ethan says in a wonderstruck tone. “It’s curious. He really does look -”

“Oh fuck off.”

It’s enough though. Those few words and you realise Gabriel is putting things together. The betrayal and fury in his eyes eviscerates you.

You look at the ground, hearing the shudder of your breath. No. No.

“Holy shit,“ you hear Ellie mumble under her breath.

“Ellie!” Joel says, the desperation starting to become clearer.

How much does our -” Ethan continues.

“Ethan, shut the fuck up and just go,” Sean interrupts.

��You’ve got braver on the outside. It’s a shame you showed none of this in the Junction when -”

“Thank you for stopping by,” Maria says, her voice even and cool, “It’s time you head on out now though.”

Joel clasps Gabriel’s shoulder so he can’t pass, can’t get any closer to the chaos around you.

“Leave, huh? Well, I think that perhaps you’re mistaken. I didn’t just come here for my son after all.” Ethan sighs. “It’s been a hard winter.”

Joel tightens his grip on Gabriel’s shoulder. Beau and Tommy exchange a look.

You wish you had a weapon, had something to stop this.

You shouldn’t have missed the first time, you shouldn’t have aimed for his leg the second time either.

“So, how many settlements have you been through now?” Sean asks in a nonchalant tone. “I think after two or three, it really says more about -”

“The Junction goes where it is needed. I have heard it is needed here.”

“We don’t need the Junction here,” you say quietly. “No one needs that.”

“You’d rather be damned?”

“If the alternative is an eternity with you, with pleasure,” you say icily.

You hear a slight snort of laughter and turn to meet Joel. He’s still resting a hand on your son’s shoulder, but he’s looking at you. He nods, a subtle gesture anyone else might have missed but that fills you with relief.

You might get through this.,

“You got your fire back, I’d almost forgotten. Now, what was it you used to say when we discussed this. When we discussed what to do about reluctant participants, people who didn’t know they needed to be saved? You remember this is the nice way? It could have been very different after all, but I am here offering magnanimous absolution, even to you.”

“I don’t need your absolution. I don’t need anything from you but for you to go now. For you to leave this settlement, leave these people alone. That’s what all of them need, to be away from you.”

“You think it’s right that they’re here without the Junction’s Word, but maintain all these resources while your own-”

“Leave. While you can,” you say flatly.

“Do these people even know you?”

“You need to go, Ethan, now,” Sean says firmly. “We said we don’t need the Junction here. This can end amicably.”

“Amicably?”

“Yeah, no need for it not to, right? Democracy over depravity - that’s the Junction’s way, right? The old ways, the right ways as you used to call it.” Sean’s face twists into a tormented grimace at those words.

Beau scowls and you realise that while you’ve kept the Junction in a box for seventeen years, Sean hasn’t. He has told Beau, he has talked about it. It’s you who has been stuck.

“You dare speak of the ways when you -“

“Just go, now. Sean’s right,” you say firmly.

“Amicably, is that what he said?” Ethan asks, regarding you again with a scornful expression that turns your blood so cold, you’re amazed you’re not exhaling ice. “Amicably.”

“Ellie, all three of you, I am not playin’” you hear Joel say in a deadly tone.

The three teenagers make a move to leave, relief flooding your veins as you gratefully nod at Joel.

Gabriel is the last to leave, he hangs back until Joel nods at him firmly, but as he moves to the door - he’s almost gone, he’s almost safe - there’s a sound.

“Nope,” Ethan says coldly, “He stays.”

You look at Ethan, at the gun in his hand, pointed directly at you.

“Mum?” Gabriel asks, his voice shaky.

“I thought Eugene fucking searched the traders,” Joel yells at Tommy or Maria, or perhaps you or Beau. All you can see is the barrel.

You’ve always known how this is ends for you.

“You should leave now,” Joel says in a deadly tone. For a moment you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or Ethan. You spin around, meeting his gaze desperately.

His hand on Gabriel is firm enough to stop him from either fleeing or running towards Ethan. You notice the way his muscles are slightly tensed, not too tight, but you make out his vein snaking down his arm.

You’ve mentally prepared for a dozen reactions to what is going on around you: disgust, hatred, pity, but you didn’t expect what meets you. Joel’s face is steely, poised to fight but a flash of fear passes his eyes when you connect with them. He is afraid for you, he is worried. There is no hatred, no disgust, nothing you expected.

He is not asking for you to leave. He is trying to protect you.

It’s like a lead balloon in your stomach. Maybe, maybe you could have said something all this time ago.

“Trust me, she’s not worth it,” Ethan says conversationally. “This settlement, my son? Now those are different stories.

“Are there others here?” you ask suddenly as you piece more of the day together. You can barely recognise your flat voice, the way you’re not entirely in your own body any more. You’re existing, and now you know that because you’ve finally been living and now you know what that is, you’ll lose it all*. “Did they help you keep the gun?”* Someone could be here from the Junction and you need them gone too.

Ethan pivots, takes a couple of steps forward and turns around the room, observing the rapt, frozen crowd around you both. It transports you instantly to dusty rooms, to a younger, more vibrant man you thought wanted to do something good in the world. It takes you back to a place you wanted to belong in, to a time you believed and hung off every single word he said.

“Others?”

“Yes, are they already here?”

“Why would -”

“I know your plays, I know them all.”

“Do you?”

You stare blankly at him, raise an eyebrow slightly. “No. I thought I did, but I didn’t. I thought you were someone else.”

“I am the voice of -”

“You’re a tyrant, a hypocrite and a snake oil salesman all wrapped up. You don’t speak a word of truth and you never have.”

“I’m the vessel, and so is my -”

“If you speak about my son, I will rip you apart so violently it will make the infected look tame.”

“You didn’t have these teeth before. What a pity. It would have been useful.”

“Go.”

“We’re past that.”

You realise he’s right. He’s in Jackson now, this ends one of two ways. Tommy and Joel, they can’t let him leave like this. You can recognise the desperation in his eyes, the hunger, the plans and strategies.

“You’re my wife. I am not going without you and my son.”

“We’re staying here.”

“No. I’m not,” Gabriel says, “Not with her.”

“Gabriel, shut up,” Sean snaps uncharacteristically. “Just leave it now.”

“My son ”

“You want to talk about the Junction? Let’s talk about it then. Gabriel, did you want to grow up in a place that would kill you if you -” You zone out as Sean continues, unable to fully bear the full truth of life in the Junction being exposed to the people around you.

You remember being hungry so much, the fear of breaking a new rule or tenet that your husband came up with. You remember how the inclusive, welcoming commune it was supposed to be shifted. How it became radicalised, against any sign of difference or subversion of what Ethan thought a person should be like. You remember the sexism, the way your voice began to become quieter and quieter.

You remember that Ethan scared you, that his move to the Vessel was antithetical with everything you knew about him. How his words, his dreams became literal, how he looked like he hated you by the end. You remember the violence of the Junction, you remember the lack of excuses.

In some ways, in many ways, it was worse than Kansas.

“Did I physically harm you? Did I not lead you to salvation, to the tenets of hope?” Ethan asks, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“The tenets? The ones that started off just close enough to normal and then suddenly you decreed that women couldn’t wear trousers because it affected the crops, or that if I spoke unless spoken to it would damn me, or that declared you the sudden voice of hope, or a - they never held hope, your rules. Not for anyone but you. You were dangerous, you are dangerous. You harmed us all without laying a finger, that was the beauty of your plan, right?”

“You never said a word to stop me from this though, did you? In fact, you -”

“I’m not finished, Ethan. You’re not a good person, Ethan, and I will never regret keeping my son from your dangerous, frankly nonsensical shit. That’s being a parent. So tell us who’s inside, who’s helping you and maybe we can figure a way out for you to leave.”

“You and I know they won’t let that happen. Do you remember the plan for then?” He laughs then. “I’m leaving and i’m leaving with my son. He’s the future of the Junction.”

“There is no way in hell that will ever happen.”

“He wants to. I can see it in his eyes.”

“No, Ethan, you know how this is going to end.”

Ethan sighs and nods. You exhale shakily and then look up as you hear the sound of the gun load. “Then I’ll take you with me to the eternal life instead.”

You don’t shut your eyes. You don’t look down. You will not cower for him.

You wanted to live. You’ve had more years than you expected. You wish you had more. It was always going to end this way though.

He will have to look at you. You will not make this easy for him.

“No, Mum -” your son’s voice is enough to make you waver, but perhaps, perhaps everyone else can keep him safe. If Ethan kills you, maybe they’ll protect him. It’s fine.

It’s fitting.

It was always going to be this way.

You wish you were outside though. perhaps by your bench and that quiet sanctuary you found. You want to hear birdsong, feel the sun on your skin one last time. You want to breathe in the fresh air and remember that.

Maybe they can scatter your ashes on the bench.

The bench bought you so much - peace on nightmare ridden nights, Joel, the difference between surviving and living. If it wouldn’t make Ethan happy, you’d tell Gabriel that now, or Sean. It’s too much for Gabriel.

Perhaps Joel knows. You hope he does. You hope he doesn’t.

You’re sorry. So sorry these people you love have to see this, have to mourn you. You should tell Gabriel you love him one more time, but you don’t want to burden him.

There’s a sudden crash, you feel yourself hit the floor and you finally allow yourself to shut your eyes as the gun goes off.

You expect to feel pain, to feel warm or cold, or something. Instead there’s nothing.

There are hands around you, pulling you away, words - Joel? Is she hurt? Did it get her? Words fade in and out. Something’s gone wrong. This doesn’t feel like death.

You open your eyes.

Ethan is on the floor and unconscious. Joel is shaking his fist and Beau squeezes your shoulders before heading over to a shaken looking Sean. Next to him, your son stares at the floor.

“So yeah, we used to be in a cult,” Sean says, running a hand over his hair and shaking his head.

You hear an almost laugh, a polite but awkward acknowledgement, from maybe Tommy or Beau, but you’re still glued to the floor, still reeling from this day.

You feel eyes on you and look up to meet your son’s gaze. Gabriel looks at you as though he has never seen you before, through you in fact, and immediately runs out of the room.

“Wait, Gabriel.” You make a move to go after him, to explain. If you can just talk to him, then maybe it will be enough. You shouldn’t have avoided this, you should have told him this.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got him,” Sean says, moving quickly.

“Where do we put him?” you ask flatly, staring at the unconscious form in front of you.

“The jail,” Maria says quietly. “The jail, Joel.”

“Guess we’ll finally use it,” Tommy replies.

“He can’t stay,” Joel says. “Tommy, he’ll -”

“I know, brother, I know.” Tommy looks down and then at Maria whose lips are pursed.

“He tried us,” Maria says, “We have to do what we have to do.”

“I’ll handle it,” Joel says calmly, authoritatively. He isn’t looking at you and you feel ashamed of what you have bought into his life. Blood, anger, pain. He’s bought you peace and calm and love and this is how you repay him?

“Me too,” Beau replies calmly, examining his nails in a pseudo casual pose. “It won’t be a problem at all.”

The two of them each grab one of Ethan’s unconscious arms, dragging him outside and towards the bank. Beau nods at you on his exit.

They’ve left you. Sean and Gabriel are outside somewhere, Joel and Beau are gone and while Tommy and Maria are here, they are not your people.

You feel empty and numb. You brace the edge of the table and fight back the racking, great gasps of breath as shock courses through your body. You’ve been fighting tears, fighting back the fear and emotion of the past weeks.

It wasn’t just this moment, it wasn’t just today. It was the anticipation, the fear, the secrets that have lasted seventeen years.

“You need to let Gabriel, Sean and Beau stay,” you say, “I know you won’t want me here and I’ll go. I’ll go, but please let me see them from time to time. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry because I bought them here with my secrets and I’m sorry, Maria, please, please know that -” You cough, a sob Breaking through. “Please don’t make them leave too.”

“We’re not making you leave, we still want you here,” Maria says in a gentle voice. She��s looking at you in the same way as someone would a startled deer, trapped in the headlights. “We need to understand more - if you’re right, if there’s anyone here, what we need to worry about it, what this - this group could do. You can help though. And you’re not leaving. This is your home, you didn’t do anything -”

You feel warm, soft hands around you, hear soothing sounds as you finally allow yourself a moment to feel.

Tag List

YHIM: @orcasoul@pedropascalsbbg @yoursoulsunbreakable @iamskyereads @genetics4life @everyth1ngfan @frickatives @perennialdoll247 @joelsgreys @pedrobaby @missladym1981 @noisynightmarepoetry @picketniffler @titlee78

Everything Pedro tag-list: @harriedandharassed@pedrostories@hiroikegawa @pedrosaidsheispunk @pastelnap

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x female reader #joel miller #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us #your hand in mine fic #fic: your hand in mine

102 notes · View notes