#embroidered denim shirt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jiminrings · 6 months

Note

good day miss jimjiminieerings 🫡 i hope i’m not being a bother for asking this but may we 😍 with deepest humility and pleasantries 🥹 have a tiny tiny sneak peek of your brothers bff single dad au 😍👉👈 😍? again if it’s not a bother miss jimjiminieerings!!! feel free to ignore this ask if u are unable to post– im just excited 😍🙏😅🥹

fail-safe (sneak peek)

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

sneak peek 01

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye.

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself.

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.”

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot.

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion.

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

sneak peek 02

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that Yoongi was right — nothing valuable was left for him in your hometown anymore. He was as right as you were wrong every time he went on a monologue of how he thinks there’s no problem in him admitting that he’s full of envy. He had been right for being bitter that there’s people who have and get much more than him, more than what they deserve, by not even putting a fourth of the effort that he does.

In the same way that he was right, you were wrong for thinking each time that Yoongi would soon outgrow his ambitions and instead, see things for what they are. You were wrong for thinking Yoongi would stoop down to your page, much less ever think of it.

Yoongi was right for saying that his stomach’s made of steel, and you were wrong for trying to convince him otherwise. He’s always had the appetite for more, the digestion of whatever life throws at him coming easy. Yoongi can choke down the reality of leaving Namjoon, your brother, who’s been buddies with him even before they could talk. He could forgo the only brother figure he’s ever had in his life if it means making something of himself.

He doesn’t get constipated from the reality of no longer having the homemade meals your mother would make that the younger, more innocent, and less ambitious version of him would literally jumps fences for. In fact, Yoongi’s palate craved something more foreign and sophisticated; not familiar, hearty meals served in dinnerware dulled from years of routine.

His stomach doesn’t turn thinking about how the skyline he said he’d never get tired of, wouldn’t appear in his new side of the world. The little, unassuming, and far too comfortable version of him who used to chase sunrises with his bike as a child and chase sunsets with his car as a teenager, doesn’t feel like he’d be poisoned if he were to see the sunlight in a high-rise instead of a run-down pavement.

Yoongi’s right when he said he had a tolerance because he doesn’t even get heartburn when you cry for him to no longer leave. You’re not in the position to beg him to stay (and you probably never will be) because as you’ve come to realize, he would only stay for the big things.

The only thing that would anchor Min Yoongi into place and dissuade him from chasing more is by being the most. One would have to be extremely significant, even bigger than Namjoon’s brotherhood, your mother’s impact, and what your hometown has to offer. You can’t even hold a candle to the aforementioned.

In Yoongi’s grand plan that’s as big as the galaxy, you’re merely a speck of dust that had the luck of hovering around him. You realized it back then when you blew over and fought with him right before his flight; right when Yoongi was clutching his one-way ticket, right when one foot was already out of the door.

“But the future that you want is not easy, Yoongi!” you gritted through your teeth, the grip you had on his suitcase too visceral that it bends under the pressure. Yoongi snatches his luggage from you in a blink, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Of course you’d be the first to say that,” he seethed, eyes wild and unforgiving. He drills his finger into his temple, inching towards you with an anger he had never shown before. “You don’t work as hard as I do, Y/N! You always settle. You always go for mediocre. You never put your head into anything because you’re too immature for any of this shit!”

“I’m not immature, you asshole!”

“Yes you are, you dipshit!” Yoongi scoffed, throwing his head back. “You cave and you bend and you let the whole world fuck you over, then you come running to me whining. You don’t have a passion in life, Y/N! You’re begging me to stay in the same predicament that you’re in now, what’s not immature about that?”

“When you leave now and decide to come back one day, Yoongi,” you spat with resentment, the tears that pour down your cheeks no longer out of sadness but instead, out of promise. “Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Good,” Yoongi clipped, turning his back on you for the last time. “Good for me.”

In the grand scheme of things, you realize that when Yoongi left five years ago, he also took the large chunk of your soul that had been shaped over and over again the entire time that he stood by you. He’d gotten his hands on the security and contentment you used to take pride in, weaponizing it against you.

You’re unsure if you have to thank him for that, the uncertainty being on par with the insecurity you had felt when he left you with his truth.

When you visit your mother for her birthday and see Yoongi emerge from your childhood bedroom, hand-in-hand with a toddler that looks like an exact carbon copy of him, you’re unsure of what to do either.

You’re not hysterical in the same way you stood before him when you even considered ripping up his plane ticket, but on the other hand, Yoongi’s inconsolable in the way he flounders before you.

“Y/N,” he says breathless, the lump in his throat even bigger than the tiny fist that grips his hand. “I… I-I didn’t-…” Yoongi tries again, his mouth dry at your appearance. “You came home.”

“I’m only visiting,” you answer, the curt smile on your face that Yoongi recognizes to be the one you’d give to strangers making his blood run cold. “I don’t plan on staying.”

ruh-roh new series alert :O wanna read the entire first chapter of fail-safe now + intermission 01 + chapter two + gain early access to succeeding chapters + read other exclusive content?? subscribe to my patreon :D

also to get ahead of the questions: yes, this is a general fic aka it WILL be posted on tumblr too!!!

#sneak peek

400 notes · View notes

parth0238u · 3 months

Text

"Explore a versatile collection of denim shirts for men, blending style and comfort effortlessly. From classic blues to modern designs, find the perfect denim shirt to elevate your casual wardrobe."

#black shirt #check shirts #denim shirts for men #designer shirts for men #embroidered shirts for men #printed shirts for men #stylish shirts for men #white shirts #Tistabene

0 notes

justagalwhowrites · 7 months

Text

Yearling Ch. 13 - Falling

You try to find a way to repay Joel for all his kindness. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-12 found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only

Length: 5.9k

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

For a change, you wished you’d paid more attention to your mother.

She’d tried to teach you how to sew. She’d tried to teach you plenty of times. She had this antique notion in her head that you should know how to embroider shit, that you should be able to repair your future husband’s shirts and socks and jeans and make your future babies little onesies. She’d tried to teach you to hand stitch and use a sewing machine and every time you counted the seconds until you could go do something - anything - else. Ride horses, play music, read. Hell, math homework sounded better than stabbing yourself in the finger with a needle for no damn reason.

Besides, with a Wal-Mart in every town, who even needed to sew anymore?

You regretted that at the end of the world.

You’d had to figure it out when you were living on your own in the wilderness. You’d traded for more clothes and the things to keep them in good working order but that didn’t get you far when you couldn’t actually sew. The first repair you made didn’t hold well and you had to redo it again and again. Eventually, you could at least keep your clothes functional without wasting your precious few materials but you’d never done a particularly nice looking job. The stitches were never the same size or evenly spaced and doing any kind of design was completely out of the question.

You wished it wasn’t though.

“Ow,” you muttered to yourself, stabbing your thumb with the needle yet again. You sucked the bead of blood off your fingertip. “Fuckin’…”

You were going to have to call it good soon otherwise you’d never actually finish this damn thing. You’d already spent far too much time on making something as simple as a guitar strap out of canvas, flannel and denim from the scrap pile and leather from saddle bags damaged in the raider attack. If you’d actually bothered to learn how to properly sew, you were certain that you’d have finished the fucking thing weeks ago. And that it would look much better than it did after all that extra work.

But at least it was useable. And it looked like something Joel would like. Or you thought it did, anyway. You hoped it did.

It was, in fact, hard to figure out what to give someone at the end of the world. It’s not like you could go to the mall and browse and, while you were closer to Joel than you were to any other person in town, you didn’t know him intimately enough to know things that he deeply longed for or needed but wouldn’t get for himself. Even though you were starting to think you wanted to know him in that way. A thought that made your heart flutter and head get light.

But you’d watched him play guitar enough that you thought he wanted a strap for his guitar and you were pretty sure he didn’t have one. So you’d gathered the materials and started piecing it together, just making up everything as you went along. It’s not like you had a pattern or much of a plan to speak of. You just found ways to make even cuts, pinned it all together and did your best to make it look like someone besides a clumsy toddler had sewed the damn thing.

Overall, you were pretty happy with how it was turning out. Had turned out. It was done now if you could just stop fucking with it. You held it up, looking it over, eyes catching on every flaw in the stitching.

“Think he’s gonna like it?” You asked no one, an old habit that was hard to break after spending years with almost no interaction with other people. “Fuckin’ hope he likes it.”

You’d tried to make it something special, something that would speak to Joel somehow. The outer layer of fabric was a subtle plaid flannel, one like he wore so frequently you figured he had to like it. The underside was thick, sturdy denim, the leg of a pair of pants that had one side shredded by barbed wire while the other was left intact. You’d brought the scrap leather around the bottom and even burned Joel’s initials into it using nails that you’d shaped into the letters yourself.

You’d found Tommy working on building something in town one day and you picked up a few bent nails off the ground.

“What’re you tryin’ to get away with?” He called after you as you headed back home. “Know you’re itchin’ to cause trouble…”

“Makin’ a voodoo doll so I can fuck with you when you’re not around,” you replied. “Needed somethin’ sharp.”

“You would,” he laughed. “Gonna get you back one of these days, Bambi!”

“Lemme know when you got the brain power for it, Miller!”

It took a surprising amount of force to bend the nails into the right shape but you got them eventually, the M in two parts because doing that many bends in one piece of metal wasn’t going well. Then, you heated them up and burned the letters into the leather, ignoring how your hip itched where you’d been branded years earlier as you worked. You anchored the ends of the fabric into the leather and added loops to hook onto the guitar.

You still felt strangely nervous as you wrapped the guitar strap in paper and tied string around it even though you knew you’d done everything you could and it wasn’t going to get any better. The strap was holding together well, the stitches were at least in fairly straight lines if not equally spaced and evenly sized - and you doubted Joel would even notice things like that - but it still made your chest tight. It had been a long time since you’d given someone like Joel anything at all. But you wanted to.

The night he’d returned from hunting Simon, he’d walked you home with his arm around you, holding you to his side. His knuckles were bloody and bruised as he pressed his nose into your hair. When he went to leave you on your porch, you caught his wrist and held him there, feeling his heart beat below your fingertips.

“Stay,” you said, knowing you were all but begging him not to leave but you didn’t care if it was pathetic. You didn’t want to be far from him. You didn’t want to try to rest without him. “Please.”

He slept next to you again, his damaged hand gently cradling your face in the dark, the steady rise and fall of his chest so close to yours comforting you enough that you could relax for the first time since you’d watched him ride away.

You weren’t sure how to repay him for that kindness.

It didn’t help that you weren’t sure what you were to Joel, what he was to you. It was the end of the world, after all, labels seemed silly at a certain point. Besides, what did you call someone you sometimes shared a bed with but were too afraid to go into their house? Whose touch you longed for but just the thought of him undressing you made you very nearly panic? Who you wanted to be around all the time but couldn’t bring yourself to tell the things that hurt you most? You weren’t sure. You weren’t sure what he’d want to be, either.

But you wanted to give him something. You had for weeks, wanted to do something after for letting you play his guitar, for helping you through the pain of finding your home burned to the ground, for giving you who knows how many shirts now, for being a good and decent man in a world where it seemed like there weren’t any.

Then, he’d saved your life. Again. And killed the men who’d tried to hurt you, the man who’d possibly sold you out to the people who had taken everything from you, to keep you safe.

You couldn’t repay all that. You wouldn’t even know where to begin.

So you finally finished the fucking guitar strap.

Joel opened his front door before you’d had a chance to knock and smiled.

“Hey,” his eyes were so soft and the edges of them crinkled when he smiled like that. “Was just about to make some tea, want some?”

“Sure,” you said, trying to smile back but you weren’t sure you managed it, your heart in your throat. You thrust the small, paper-wrapped package forward and stared at his chest instead of his face. Or you tried to, anyway. You still glanced up at him and caught him frowning, brows scrunched together in question.

“What’s this?” He asked, taking it from you and turning it over in his hands.

“Nothin’ crazy, don’t get excited,” you stuck your hands in your back pockets. “Just somethin’ I thought you might need so I made it…”

“You made this?” He asked, smiling again as he held the package up. You nodded, cheeks getting hot.

“Like I said, It’s nothing crazy…” you muttered, clenching your jaw as you looked off the porch, anywhere but directly at him.

He properly stepped outside, going for the stairs and sitting on the top one. You sat next to him, your nerves calming a little bit now that you were in this more familiar setting. You’d still never been inside his house but you were starting to want to. Want to go behind closed doors with him, be truly alone with him in his space, be that close to him, know him that well.

He unwrapped it slowly, pulling it free of the paper, a confused frown on his face at first before he gently, almost reverently, unfolded it.

“You made this?” He asked quietly, looking at you with raised brows.

“Yeah,” you shrugged awkwardly. “Look at it too close and you wouldn’t need to ask that…”

“This is incredible,” he cut you off, running his fingers over his initials in the leather, a sense of almost awe in his voice. “I love it, this is…”

He looked up from the guitar strap to look at you for a moment, his eyes ranging over your face.

“Would… would you let me try somethin’?” He asked.

You weren’t sure if you could speak, your heart in your throat. Instead you just nodded.

He reached one large hand forward slowly and gently took your cheek in his hand before pulling you - slowly, gently - toward him, until his face was aligned with yours. You froze, your breath catching as his lips pressed softly into your temple. It took you a moment to remember to actually breathe and you took a shaky inhale as he held you close, his mouth against your skin.

He pulled back as slowly as he’d touched you, looking over you again like he was waiting for you to bolt. Which, you figured, was a fair thing to worry about, given your track record. But instead of relief at the distance, you resented it. He was only inches away but it was too far now. Your head dropped to his shoulder, the skin he’d just kissed pressed against him as you moved closer until your whole body was against his side.

That was better.

“Really love it, Sweetheart,” he said softly, his thumb running over the leather again. “I’ve been wishin’ I had one of these and this is so much better than I could have hoped for. Thank you.”

“Glad you like it,” you said, staying close to him.

“Not some occasion I don’t know about is it?” He asked, voice light, teasing.

“You’ve just done a lot for me,” you shrugged. “Wanted to do something for you. And I realized that I’ve known you the better part of a year so there’s a good chance I missed your birthday.”

He chuckled.

“Haven’t missed that,” he said. “Don’t really celebrate it but… didn’t miss it.”

You frowned.

“You should,” you said. “Celebrate it, I mean. When is it?”

“September 26th.”

“Oh shit,” you laughed once, darkly. “Yeah, alright, can see why you might not want to throw a party.”

He laughed a little.

“Yeah, hard to want to celebrate the worst day of your life,” he said. He paused for a moment before he pressed a kiss into the crown of your head. “When’s yours?”

“November 1st,” you said. “It was great when I was a kid, my parents let me stay home from school so I could be out late for Halloween. Always ate too much candy with my friends the night before and then spent the day of with my horses.”

“Little different now,” he said.

You laughed and pressed closer to him. His arm went around the back of you, his hand going to your hip, holding you to his side.

“Just a bit.”

You sat there with him for a moment, just listening to him breathe, the birds chirping in the trees nearby. It was comforting, the sound and feel of his existence.

“Should go get the guitar,” he said quietly. “Try this out.”

“In a minute?” You asked, adjusting slightly to see part of his face while still being pressed against him.

He was quiet for a second before you felt his lips in your hair again, his nose nuzzling against you.

“Course. In a minute.”

You stayed like that for what felt like a while, quiet and tucked against him, his thumb slipping below your shirt to brush the skin at your hip. You closed your eyes and breathed deep, focusing on the breeze on your skin, the heat of Joel at your side, the woodsy musk of him, the sound of the wildlife just out of reach. It was like you could feel everything within you, the way your lungs moved, your heart beat, your blood flowed, in tune and safe with Joel beside you.

Eventually, you sat up slowly and opened your eyes again, the side that had been against his feeling oddly cool with the space between you.

He turned to face you and leaned into you, his forehead against your temple, his nose brushing your cheek. He took a deep breath against you before sitting up again.

“Right back,” he said, voice oddly gruff.

He took a little longer than he usually did to get the guitar but, when he came outside with it, the strap was attached. He went to drape it over you but you leaned into the railing of the stairs, stopping him.

“It’s for you, you have to be the first one to use it,” you smiled. “That’s the rule.”

He smiled back, making his cheek dimple.

“Alright,” he put it on and sat down, admiring the leather and running his thumb over the stitching on the flannel before looking at you. “Any requests? I’ll play if you sing.”

You thought for a moment.

“Know Just Like Heaven? The Cure?”

You hummed a little. He laughed.

“Yeah, know that one,” he said. “Just gotta swear you won’t show me up with it when I give the guitar over.”

“Promise,” you smiled.

He tapped out the time on the body of the guitar and then started to play. You just listened for a moment, all but forcing him to loop back around on the intro before you came in with the lyrics.

“Show me how you do that trick…”

Joel handed the guitar over after one song, before you were really ready for him to. You liked making music with him, there was an intimacy to it that you hadn’t found in anything else. You’d never done much of that in the past, never wanted to perform so never taken up with a band in your youth. Your music had always been just for you. Joel was the first person you’d ever known that you wanted to share it with in that way.

He chuckled when he handed the guitar off to you and you frowned at him.

“Promised you tea,” he said. “’Sides, rather hear you play for a bit.”

He joined you on the porch again later, you just playing whatever chords popped into your head, no real melody to it. Joel put the cup of tea beside you and sat on the step below you, stretching his legs out, leaning back against the railing and closing his eyes. It looked comfortable, so you did the same, facing the other way so you could look at him, the shadows and filtered sunlight from the leaves of the nearby tree dappling over his skin.

You liked to look at Joel. You hadn’t ever really had the excuse to do it for a long period of time before but it was easy to fall into it now that you had the opportunity. Your eyes traced over his face, the creases around his eyes, the arch of his nose, the graying hair and beard, his features soft and relaxed as he sat, arms crossed, listening to you play.

For a second - a split second, one that you doubt you’d have paid much mind to even just five years ago let alone before the world ended - you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to put the guitar down, find your place on this thick legs, lean your body against his and press your lips against his own. You wanted to feel his mouth on you, feel him breathing, slip your tongue past his teeth and see just how he tasted. You wanted to tangle your fingers in his hair and hold him against you and find out where his hands would find a home on you.

You froze for a moment, a thrill of fear running up your spine the second you actually processed what that would mean. That you’d be that close to someone, that out of control of your own body. It made your chest get tight. Joel opened one eye, frowning a little. You’d stopped playing without really realizing it.

“Everything OK?”

“Fine,” you said, looking down at the guitar. Looking at him was apparently dangerous. “Can I ask a favor?”

“Course.”

“If you don’t got other shit to do tomorrow afternoon, I need to take a few of the new horses out and try to open ‘em up in a less controlled environment,” you said, absently plucking quiet notes on the guitar. “Could use another set of hands. If you’re up for it.”

Joel smiled a little.

“Make you a deal.”

“Really gonna try and barter?” You raised your brows.

“Movie night tonight,” he said. “You go to that, I’ll help tomorrow.”

“What movie?” You frowned a little.

“Pretty Woman, I think.”

“Pretty Woman,” you snickered.

“What?”

“You’re gonna go watch Pretty Woman?” You were skeptical. “Just on your own if I don’t go, you’re gonna go watch Pretty Woman.”

“Maybe I will,” he smirked. “Before you agree, you gotta actually sit down for it. We can sit at the back and I’ll be there but no standin’ back against the wall.”

You made a face.

“Bambi.”

“Fine,” you groaned and kicked his thigh lightly. “Gettin’ to be just as bad as Tommy, making demands and shit.”

He laughed a little, the arm closer to you going to rest between your calves, his hand finding your knee and he closed his eyes again, a small smile on his face. Your heart beat a little faster.

“You were going to help me even if I didn’t go, weren’t you.”

He shrugged.

“Never know now, will ya?”

You laughed a little and took a sip of tea before going back to playing.

Joel put his arm around your waist to walk to movie night and it stayed there as people milled around, picking seats.

“Want to sit away from an aisle or next to one?” He asked, holding you to his side.

“On an aisle,” you said quickly. That would make it easier to run. If needed. Joel just nodded toward two seats on an end and let you pick first. You took the inside one and Joel took the seat on the aisle, draping his arm over the back of your chair and, as the lights dimmed, you sank against his side, your head going to his chest. For a moment, before the movie started, you could hear his heart beat. You could have sworn it got faster when his nose brushed against your hair.

***

Seeing you with Ares made Joel nervous.

Consciously, he knew it shouldn’t. It wasn’t the horse that was the problem before, it was Simon. And Simon was no longer an issue. Joel had made sure of that. Ares was just another animal and you were nothing if not an expert with animals.

But it was still a thing that had damn near killed you. And watching you saddle him up, pet him, speak in that soothing voice to him made Joel uneasy, his stomach knotting as he clenched his jaw.

“You’re sure he’s ready for this,” Joel was skeptical. You gave him a look and he ground his teeth a little. “Look, I know he’s had problems…”

“He was just stubborn,” you reached up and gave the massive horse’s head a scratch. He leaned into your touch, his large head nudging your chest. “He knows we’re on the same side now. Don’t you?”

The horse dragged a hoof along the stable floor and you smiled.

“See?” You looked at Joel, your face bright and open, always looking your most relaxed around animals. “We’re good.”

You had Joel ride a calmer mare, Cassiopeia, while you took Ares. You led a third horse, Hera, behind you and Joel watched as you took a deep breath as the two of you left the town’s walls and headed out into the wilds.

“Promise not to laugh at me?” You asked, your smile broad under the shadow of your straw cowboy hat now that the two of you were about a mile out of town and truly on your own. You had on one of Joel’s shirts, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows and the bottom of it tied around your waist in the heat.

“Can’t help it if you say somethin’ funny,” he half smiled at you. You ignored him.

“Any time I work with more than one horse, I always want to do Roman Riding,” you crinkled your nose as you said it and Joel frowned.

“I don’t know what the fuck that is.”

You laughed and shook your head a little.

“Forget that you weren’t a cowboy before,” you said. “Just seem like you would have been. It’s trick riding, where you ride two or more horses at once, side by side, each foot on a different horse.”

“Jesus Christ,” Joel shook his head and smiled. “Was your hobby tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

“Sometimes,” you smirked. “One trick is called a suicide drag after all…”

“It’s a miracle you survived to the end of the world,” he said.

You laughed.

“And just think, that’s the only riding my mother was OK with me doin’,” you said. “But it worked out. That’s the only reason I was able to get up on Samson the day he threw Ellie and who knows what would’ve happened then. Been a while but I remembered how to get on a runnin’ horse.”

Joel looked at you for a moment. He’d brought you to Jackson to save your life. He hadn’t expected anything more from you except to survive. But instead you’d become a part of the fabric of life there, your work with the horses essential to the survival of the place he’d come to love.

You’d become essential to him, too. This core piece, he’d realized, something that couldn’t be pulled away without critical damage.

It had been so long since Joel had felt anything like this for a woman. Most of his life, really.

Before the outbreak, his life has revolved around his daughter. He worked more than he wanted to give her a good life and, when he wasn’t busting his ass at a job site, he just wanted to be with her. Friends were already too much of a time commitment let alone a girlfriend. There were occasional lovers, a few casual dates and sex or even just a woman he picked up at a bar on nights Sarah spent at a friend’s, a woman who wasn’t interested in anything more than a night of satisfying sex. He hadn’t been looking for love and it certainly never jumped out and bit him in the ass.

After the outbreak had been worse.

He had no desire to want anyone, care for anyone at all let alone love them. He fucked women when they offered - the world was over, why deny yourself what little pleasure there was left in it - but the thought of feeling something for anyone was horrifying.

Tess changed that. He’d come close to loving her that way, or he thought he had, at least. He’d cared about her more than he had anyone else but he was never able to love her, not in the way he thought he should have been able to. He wasn’t stupid, he saw what she felt. But any time he even considered falling into that with her he’d shock away from it. Falling was the exact word to use, something that he’d have no control over and could kill him when he hit the bottom. He’d stood on the edge of that cliff with Tess, caring enough to want to jump but too afraid to do it. And then she was gone because he’d failed to hold up his end of the bargain. He’d failed to protect her.

You were different. Maybe it was because you appeared in his world after he’d loved Ellie. Maybe you were so inevitable that he’d have fallen regardless, tripped over that cliff’s edge and plummeted toward the bottom, all but welcoming what he’d find there. He hadn’t intended it, hadn’t wanted it but you were just… you. Beautiful and brave and smart and so damn alive in a world that, for so long, had been so dead. He hadn’t been able to help it and, once he’d started falling, he couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop hurdling toward the ground after tumbling off the cliff.

And he was in it now. The incident with Simon in the barn had proven that, the fear that gripped him stronger than anything he’d felt in so long. It was worse than when his own life was under threat, far worse, akin only to what he’d felt when he knew Ellie had been hurt. What had been an amorphous thing hanging on the edges of his consciousness was suddenly clear and at the forefront: He loved you. Without meaning to, he loved you. Without wanting that kind of connection with anyone, he loved you. Without thinking that would ever be possible, he loved you. He would do anything and everything for you if it would keep you safe, make you happy because he loved you.

But there was a sense of guilt with it, too. You hadn’t told him what happened to you but he could hazard a guess. You didn’t want to be touched - though you said you liked his touch - but touching you was sometimes all he could think about doing. Ranging his hands to feel every inch of your skin - you would be soft, he knew you would be so soft - and pulling you close to him to kiss you. Really, properly kiss you, taste you, have you tight against his body as he swallowed every delicious moan and whimper you let slip from you. Fuck, he wanted that. He wanted it so much it was almost painful.

He was starting to think that you wanted it, too. The way you fit yourself into his arms, the way you’d guided his hand to your body, the way you relaxed into his lips when he brushed them against your skin. But Joel couldn’t ask you for more. Not when it could hurt you. Even if he wanted it, even though sometimes that felt like all he wanted, what you wanted was more important.

“Challenge for you, Miller,” you smiled, almost smirking, watching him as you pulled him out of his own head.

“Shoot.”

“Race you,” you said. “Out to the trial head and back to where we tie out the third horse.”

Joel looked at the distance, probably half a mile round trip.

“I’ll make it interesting,” your voice had a teasing edge to it.

“You’ve got my attention,” he smiled a little.

“If I win, you have to make me more of those chips,” you said. “Say… four times. Whenever I want.”

“And what do I get if I win?” He asked, brows raised.

“What do you want?”

You.

He didn’t say that.

“Two movie nights, two bar nights,” he said. “Have to sit down for the movies and dance at the bar.”

You scrunched you nose for a second.

“You drive a hard bargain, but done,” you said, slipping off Ares to tie Hera off. Joel smiled a little, watching you. You climbed back on the horse and settled into the saddle, cracking your neck and loosening up your arms. “Ready to lose to a girl?”

“Don’t think there’s much shame in losin’ to you, all things considered,” Joel laughed a little. “But don’t matter, not going to lose.”

You patted Ares’ neck and shook your head a little before adjusting your grip on the reins.

“Ready,” you said, staring straight ahead, eyes narrowed, your horse in alignment with Joel’s. “Set. Go!”

You shot forward, Joel half a second behind you. He pushed Cassiopeia faster, harder, but it was no use. You were just better. There was a lag between Joel’s action and Cassiopeia’s reaction, time for her to understand what he was asking of her. But that didn’t seem to exist with you and Ares, his movements and yours in perfect sync.

He caught a glimpse of your face just as you turned to run back the other way, smiling like you were having the time of your damn life, eyes wide open and eager instead of cautious and afraid.

You, smiling and happy and secure, had quickly become Joel’s favorite sight in the world. He’d seen it the night before at the movie, too. It took some time, your body stiff against his for the first half hour or so. But, after a while, you relaxed into him, smiling and laughing and making snarky little observations in his ear and he’d do anything you asked of him, anything at all, to make you feel that happy and safe all the time.

You reached Hera a few seconds before Joel, bringing Ares about to watch him close the gap. You just shook your head, pulling your horse alongside his, facing the opposite way.

“You let me win!” You shoved him playfully.

“No I did not,” he laughed. “You beat me fair and square I’m afraid.”

“Damn,” you were still smiling, leaning forward in the saddle to pat Ares’ neck. “And here I wanted an excuse to go with you to the bar.”

The two of you led the horses down trails at first, their first time going through anything but open land with a person on their backs, and then moved to winding through the woods off trail. You switched out horses regularly, each of them disconcerted by navigating the more crowded, natural environment while taking commands at first. But you got them to be more comfortable with it and, by the end of the day, they were taking your commands just as easily as they did in open country.

“Trade me,” you said, dismounting from Ares. Joel frowned.

“Sure it’s a good idea…” he began but you waved him off.

“He’s fine, Joel,” you laughed a little. “Really. Wouldn’t let you get on ‘em if he wasn’t safe.”

“I get thrown off this damn horse…” He got off Hera and went to Ares, standing so close to you in front of the horse that he could feel you beside him.

“Then I’ll watch however many movies you want,” you looked up at him, teasing.

“Alright,” he sighed, offering the larger horse his palm. He sniffed it, skeptically, paying closer attention to you than to Joel.

“You know him,” you said, voice soothing and soft, dragging your nails gently over the underside of Ares’ long jaw. “He’s a friend, he’s good, we can trust him…”

Joel watched you, almost feeling like he shouldn’t, like he was intruding on a private conversation with a dear companion. But even if he were, he wouldn’t have been able to tear himself away. He loved what you were saying too much to turn away from it, his heart swelling with it. You trusted him. Of everyone left in this godforsaken world, you trusted him.

Ares pressed his velvet muzzle into his hand.

“Good boy,” you kissed the horse’s massive head and took better hold of the reins, turning your attention to Joel. “See? He’s harmless. Hop up.”

“Yes ma’am,” Joel smiled - couldn’t help but smile - and climbed onto Ares.

You were right, Ares was fine. You took over Hera and led Cassiopeia as the two of you worked your way through the forest back to a trail and, eventually, back toward Jackson. Ares responded well to Joel’s commands, calm and trusting, nothing like the horse that you’d cautioned him against touching so recently. You’d done just what you’d said you’d do, made it so he would be a good, reliable mount for patrol, no longer the wild creature he once was.

The two of you were almost back to the trail when your face fell.

“Joel?” You said, the tension obvious in your voice. He rode alongside you and you nodded toward a tree. There was a clean, clear x cut, about shoulder height, into the trunk. Like someone marking a location. “Look like something anyone from Jackson might do?”

“No,” Joel shook his head, brows drawn together. “No, it doesn’t.”

You looked at him, the relaxed joy he’d seen in you all day entirely gone.

“We’ll report it,” he said, nudging Ares a bit closer to you, as close as the horses could really get. “Get a team out here…”

“We don’t want to check it out now?” You asked. Your whole body was stiff. Hera stomped her feet below you and she chuffed unhappily.

You were afraid.

“No,” Joel said. “We’re not equipped to go huntin’ anyone down. We go back. Nothin’ that says they’re here now, not going to risk you. We go back, tell Tommy, make sure we’re equipped to handle whatever it is.”

Your eyes searched his, wide and vulnerable, and he wanted to pull you into his arms and hold you close. Close enough that he knew you were safe.

“It’s gonna be alright,” he said, holding your gaze. “I promise. I’ll keep you safe. Promise I will.”

Next Chapter

A/N: Eeeeeeeeek!

Y'all. They are so close. I promise. Next chapter ramps everything up and I've been looking forward to writing it for a while now. I hope you'll enjoy reading it, too!

Thanks for sticking this story out! I know it's been a hell of a slow burn but I've loved getting to settle Joel and Bambi into this comfortable place and building their trust and relationship before we move on to the next part.

I do have an updates blog. Follow and subscribe for post alerts to get an alert whenever I post a new chapter! I promise I won't spam ya!

I so appreciate you all being here and I love you more than words can express. Thank you thank you thank you!

Taglist: @ashleymsnodgrass@planet-marz1@kalea-bane @juneswonderlust@ilovepedro @h-annahayy @starstruckmusiciansartghost@beccerjune@mumma-moonchild@netonetoneto@mellymbee@purplelye@n7cje@flugazi@evyiione@randomhoex@aliengirl99@orcasoul@reds-ramblings@pedropascalsbbg @fupoola @tinypotatothing @knopes-waffles @lilmizmoz @ayamenimthiriel@jenispunk@panda-pascal@sarap-77@flugazi@your-slutty-gf@daniegraceg@partyofone3413@cumberpegg@noisynightmarepoetry.@fifia-writes@grumpygrumperton @srmacaroni @txlady37 @bigboiseason123

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #yearling #joel miller x oc

222 notes · View notes

tistabeneramesh · 8 months

Text

Explore the enduring allure of shirts in our comprehensive guide. From classic to trendy, discover why shirts are a wardrobe essential. Explore styles, fits, fabrics, and more. Elevate your look with Tistabene's high-quality men's garments.

#shirts #denim shirt #printed shirts #tistabene #striped shirt #embroidered shirts #new trendy shirts #oversized cotton shirt

0 notes

ladamedusoif · 9 months

Text

20/20 - no outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

(gif by @nicolethered)

Summary: After months of pestering from Sarah, Joel finally concedes that he might need to get his eyesight checked and makes an appointment at your optometrist practice. He really doesn’t want glasses, though.

Pairing: No Outbreak!Joel Miller x Optometrist F!Reader

Content/Warnings: MDNI; 18+; not explicit as such but implied; no outbreak AU; Joel and reader are broadly around the same age; fluff; Joel in glasses is his own warning; me making stuff up about eye exams

Word Count: 1600 (this was supposed to be a drabble)

Notes: So @lunapascal and @julesonrecord decided I needed to atone for being incredibly thirsty for the sight of a certain someone putting on a pair of glasses. And voilà, a “glasses are hot” one-shot and my first attempt at Mr Miller.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. But they’re also fascinating little machines in their own right, and you should know: you’ve been running your own vision care clinic in Austin for almost twenty years, after qualifying as an optometrist and gaining experience for a couple of years at various chains.

Some people love finding out they’re going to get to wear glasses. Others? Not so much.

Your last customer of the day definitely falls into the latter category.

“Mr Miller?”

He looks around him in the empty waiting area, sighs, and stands up to join you in the testing suite. He looks like he’s being sent to the rack, not going for a routine eye examination. You introduce yourself and gesture towards the seat in front of your desk.

“So, Mr Miller -”

“Joel.”

“Joel. What brings you to the clinic today? You’re a new customer, have you just moved to the area?”

Joel looks uncomfortable, shifting in the seat. You guess he’s in his early fifties or so, salt-and-pepper hair and a patchy beard. He’s broad, still evidently a strong and well-built man. His denim shirt, embroidered with a logo that reads Miller Family Contractors, fits snugly but perfectly over his frame.

“No, not new to Austin. Been here my whole life. Just…new to the eye doctor.”

“I see.” You pull up his file on the computer system and note his age. “If you don’t mind me saying, Joel, you’ve done pretty well getting to this stage in life without needing some kind of sight correction. What’s changed?”

He exhales, and for the first time since he sat down he actually makes eye contact with you.

Holy shit. You look at irises and pupils and corneas all damn day. You admire and respect the human eye, but you didn’t think it had the same power of attraction over you. Turns out, it had just been a while since you’d seen eyes as beautiful as his.

Even in the shitty artificial light of the testing suite, you can see that Joel Miller’s eyes are a perfect dark brown: at times like black coffee, at times like fine whiskey, depending on the light. They’re warm and enticing, even without him trying. You notice, too, the laughter lines and wrinkles around those extraordinary eyes - here, despite his stern exterior and manner, is a man who smiles and laughs. Who knows happiness.

“My daughter… she made me. Said she was gettin’ sick of me holdin’ up my phone so I could see the screen, and of missin’ half the stuff in my shows because I was squintin’.”

“Ah, she sounds like a wise person. Well, Joel, let’s get going.”

You conduct the retinal exam and the glaucoma test, Joel flinching as the puffs of air hit each eye. When he almost drags himself off the stool to move over for the pupil reactions and visual acuity testing, you decide to just ask.

“Joel, is everything okay? Are you comfortable with the procedures I’m doing?”

He arranges himself in the chair, his broadness making the equipment look comically small. He flashes you another look with those big brown eyes.

“I…I don’t want glasses.”

It’s not the first time you’ve heard this. “It’s okay, Joel. If you need vision correction we can look at contacts, or even laser surgery if you think that might be an option.”

He grimaces.

“I don’t want pokin’ in my eyes, either. Or lasers pointed at them. Absolutely not.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, let’s hope you don’t need glasses, then, Joel Miller.”

You have to get up close to him for parts of the eye test, as normal. To your horror, you realise that every time you do so, you get a surge of desire. He smells of shaved wood, of pine soap, of peppermint, and of leather. You notice the smattering of freckles across the tan skin exposed by the snaps left open on his shirt. You can’t take your own eyes off his hands: big, broad, long, and strong.

Your mind immediately wanders to thinking about what those hands could do to you. Where they could go that you can’t reach with your own fingers, how they’d feel against your skin, reaching for you, groping at your tits as you -

You clear your throat and turn back to the lens unit, away from Joel, lest he see how flustered you are becoming. He’s got a daughter, you remind yourself. He’s got a wife, or a partner.

“Everythin’ okay?”

“Sure, yes, fine, Joel. Sorry, just trying a new lens combination.”

***

Of course he needs glasses. It’s not a very strong prescription, but he seems crestfallen as you talk him through it.

“Joel, I don’t want to be condescending but glasses are a minor hardship when you think of being able to see clearly again.”

For the first time, he cracks a smile. “I know, I know. I just - I dunno. I feel like I’m an old man now, with my glasses and my stiff knees and my tight back. That’s why I didn’t want them, I - vanity, I guess. Didn’t want to admit I was old.”

You smile in return, noting how kind and warm his expression was. “You’re not old, Joel. You look great.”

That was unprofessional.

He blushes. “Until I put the specs on, that is.”

You point to yourself. “I’m wearing contacts today so it’s easier for me to do my job, but in my downtime - I’m glasses all the way.”

He scoffs. “Different for you, though, you’d look pretty no matter what.”

“Pretty?”

Joel looks up at you from under his lashes. “I mean…yeah, you are. Probably even prettier in your glasses, too.”

It’s your turn for the heat to rise to your cheeks, but you can’t help smiling. “Let’s just double-check the last of the personal contact details before we go look at some frames. Says here your emergency contact is Sarah Miller but there’s no description of your relationship - is she your wi-“

“Daughter. Sarah’s my adult daughter. No wife, no girlfriend.”

You try not to smile too obviously. “My emergency contact is my younger sister. Same reason.”

As you print out Joel’s new prescription, there’s a knock on the door - Meghan, your assistant who usually looks after customers when they choose their frames.

“It’s closing time… you want me to stay late?”

You shake your head. “Of course not, Meghan. I think I’ll be able to help Mr Miller choose his new frames. If that’s okay with you, Joel?”

He smiles and turns to Meghan. “I think I’m in good hands.”

***

Joel studies the selection of frames on display in the main public area of the clinic, looking completely overwhelmed. He turns to you, shrugging helplessly.

“I don’t even know where to start. What would you suggest? You’re the expert.”

You move closer to study his features, taking in the size and shape of his face, the firm set of his jaw, the strong line of his nose, the softness of his lips.

Fuck, this is a beautiful man.

You catch your breath momentarily. “Many men who don’t want glasses choose the invisible frames, like these.” You hold up a pair of the lightweight style, placing them gingerly on Joel’s handsome face.

He studies himself in the mirror. “Not bad. Can’t even tell.”

“If I might suggest something, though?”

He nods. “You’re the expert, like I said.”

“I think your features could carry something a little stronger. More definite, more distinguished. Can I show you?”

You pick a couple of acetate frames from the rack, one in a dark caramel brown, the other in a sort of charcoal grey. You hold them out to Joel.

He wavers, and settles on the caramel pair. You watch as he examines the frames, before gently putting them on.

That’s when you give yourself away. The sight of that man putting on those glasses is so devastatingly sexy that you let out a tiny moan. Joel turns, the frames beautifully complementing his colouring and the darkness of his eyes, and it’s all you can do not to moan again.

“You okay?”

“I’m…I’m fine. You just look…very…”

He moves closer, a little smile on his face. “You sayin’ the glasses are doin’ it for you?”

You nod. “That pair, yes. Yes, I think they might be. I’m sorry, this is horribly unprofessional of me.”

He grins. “Can you explain what it is you like about them?”

You swallow hard, turning him to see himself alongside you in a mirror. “They’re stylish. They are strong. They’re distinguished. They’re very…masculine.” You let the next words slip before you can stop yourself. “In other words, they’re very you.”

Joel turns his back to the mirror, focusing on you. “Only because you found them for me. I’d never have tried somethin’ like this.”

“You glad you did?”

“I am. And I’m glad I came in to get my old eyes checked out by the prettiest optometrist in all Texas.”

You laugh, and he catches your hand to pull you in. Your fingers rest lightly on the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the taut denim underneath. You look at him expectantly.

“I know this is probably mighty unprofessional, but…”

You nod. “But I’ve already gone over the line, so…”

Joel leans in, frames still on, and kisses you: hot, hungry, deeply. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, returning his kiss with the same intensity. When you break away, you take his hand and lead him back towards the testing suite.

“More tests, darlin’?”

You arch an eyebrow as you pull him inside and close the door. “I suspect you’ll pass these with flying colours, Joel Miller. You don’t need 20/20 vision for what I’ve got in mind.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller one shot #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x f!reader #no outbreak!joel miller #hbo the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us au #joel miller au #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedrostories

268 notes · View notes