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keeshya6 · 1 month

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Disorganized Attachment - Chapter 1: Fibonacci

IT'S FINALLY HERE!

Dieter x adult actress reader (no age gap, both in their early/mid 40s)

18+ although this chapter does not contain any explicit smut yet.

This work contains a lot of cursing, talks about substance abuse, mental illness, violence, and I have not researched anything about the film or p**n industry, so if that's not your thing, scroll on. (it is surprisingly soft and fluffy though)

More warnings: Negative self talk/thoughts, body image issues.

word count: 5364

Where to begin?

You and Dieter met in high school, drama and art classes. You had a secret crush on him back then, but thought he was kind of a dick, too. He was envious, or even jealous, of your ability to memorize long monologues seemingly overnight. These ridiculous reasons were mainly why you didn’t become friends then yet, just secretly harbored certain feelings for each other. If just one of you had pulled their head out of their ass and talked to the other, you would have realized very quickly that you were two peas in a pod.

When you met again in college, you had all your acting, theater and film related classes together. You stuck to each other then, because you were both from the same hometown, and you’d both changed and grown. Experimenting with drugs welded you closer together, and you woke up in each other’s dorms after lawless nights quite a few times. Dieter began auditioning long before you both graduated, so did you. He was more successful pretty much from the beginning. You congratulated each other on a few projects, his always bigger than yours, and then at some point you just went your separate ways in Hollywood.

You still privately kept up to date with Dieter’s work and achievements; you watched the Oscars the year he won one of the categories he was nominated for, with a friend over the phone, squealing over the line and damn near rupturing her eardrum at the announcement of the winner. And he looked so handsome on screen, even with the sadness and hubris in his dark eyes that you were well acquainted with.

He’d told you all the stories throughout your time in college together. The abuse, the violent reign of his strict parents drilling him to be the best in all his classes, to always get the big roles he auditioned for… and the harsh punishment if he didn’t. The constant pressure to be perfect and likeable, the emotional neglect in between his successes. What they never really gave a shit about was if he was happy.

While Dieter went off to become a real movie star, you struggled and clung on to shadier and shadier gigs, until you finally landed in the adult film industry. You’d tried your best and worked really hard to make a name for yourself in this new field, and you did, you succeeded!

Your screen name was a secret to most people you interacted with in your daily life, you kept a strict line between your private matters and your work. Many of your loose acquaintances believed you were simply “in the film industry”, which was technically true. Sometimes, when you met someone new and they asked what you did for a living, you could see the split second of recognition in their eyes and then, as soon as possible, you’d drop them like hot potatoes. Better not to get involved with fans.

Now…

Around the time when you sign a contract with a new agency, Dieter’s spiraling into another crisis. He’s coked up to the max, never not high anymore, and during the short, intermittent down periods he thinks he’s worthless and needs to rebrand himself. All of his unusually bottomless lows are followed by particularly severe manic episodes lately, in which he comes up with things to do to revolutionize his public persona, and he won’t hear anyone out who tries to stop him. Because of the excessive amount of cocaine he consumes, he believes himself to be in possession of the necessary skills and fortitude to star in a real, professional porn movie during this particular spiral.

And thank Mother Gaia for modernity, because his manager isn’t even opposed to the idea.

“Get me the most expensive co-star you can find to do this with me!” he barks into his phone, ordering some poor fool at his agency out to get him a role in a big production.

There isn’t much hope, Dieter thinks, that he’ll get anyone exceptionally hot, no matter their price tag - he’s getting old and has gained a few pounds since the peak of his career. But then again, it’s mostly the women in porn who are under pressure to be perfect, fresh off the rack, if they want to make it in the industry. And not just in some niche fetish market, but instead the very top of the food chain, the big studios, like Brazzers or Tushy dot com. His other, admittedly quite reasonable, hope for a really fuckable scene partner is that having an actual Oscar winning movie star like himself, aging and getting heavy or not, fuck his pent-up frustration into a dimepiece on camera would drive sales exponentially more than if he did it to a bridge troll. Fuck, he really should see his therapist again. These horrible thoughts about people’s looks, including his own, can’t be beneficial to his already dwindling mental stability. But that guy is a leech; even as rich as Dieter is nowadays, the rates of a decent therapist are nauseating.

When you receive the offer, you’re just on your way to a set, somewhere up in the hills. You don’t read the e-mail until late that night. The header gives away what type of shoot it’s going to be - a celebrity, a real movie star, and this time not just for a private sex tape. No, this time an A-list Hollywood actor wants to actually publish the tape. It’s guaranteed to make headlines for weeks. This would most definitely be the next Big Thing for you.

It takes you a while to read the wall of text before you find the name of the actor at the bottom of the page. You gasp, then break out into a fit of bewildered little laughs.

Dieter Bravo! You damn outlaw.

You know he probably has no idea his people sent yours an offer, nor that you would definitely say yes, if he’s even aware you’re in this business - it isn’t likely that he knows your screen name either, because you would hope to have heard from him on social media if he had. You’ve followed him since you made your professional account.

The next morning, you wake up bright and early to give Dieter’s agent a call back, accept the job, make an appointment to sign the contract, and go get a fresh bikini waxing. You can’t wait to see Dieter again. Get to fuck him again, if the surprise of seeing you show up for the shoot doesn’t turn him off of it entirely.

As the aesthetician, a close friend of yours affectionately nicknamed Barbie, rips away at the wax strips to get rid of the bush you’d grown out for a vintage shoot, you think about him and what he used to mean to you.

You tell Barbie about him, in between wincing through the pain of the waxing; you tell her that when you were young, your bodies taut and lean, you enjoyed each other’s company very much. And about the things you’d say to each other in bed, how you could never stop praising his heavy cock, how deliciously it burned when he pistoned it into your welcoming heat; how he couldn’t stop sucking on your tits and emptying his balls into you, again and again for hours until there was nothing left to fill you with, always high on something.

You know what he looks like, you’ve seen him at red carpets from the comfort of your living room, even this year - Barbie remembers when you screamed at her over the phone and she tried to match your excitement. She also remembers all the times you were intoxicated and reminisced about past loves, your dreamy retelling of your experiences always circling back to Dieter in the end.

But the new memories all just come from images on screens, they’re not real memories of him. The last real one is over a decade old.

The contract you sign is your agency’s standard adult film production contract, you’ve signed hundreds like this before. Every rich adult film connoisseur who’s into “older” women wants a piece of you.

Several days pass after you sign, before you hear back and receive a shooting date very soon after.

“Mr. Bravo would appreciate it if we could make it happen as soon as possible.” your agent relays to you on the phone. “Fine by me. I can definitely squeeze it in next week.” you reply.

That day…

Rolling up to his house in the hills, your manager drives you through the LA afternoon traffic, and ultimately you're twenty-five minutes late. “We should have known it was gonna be like this” you complain to your manager, a woman your age named Tonya with round, red cheeks, who’s raised five children by herself. “Nonsense. I guarantee you, this guy’s going to be even later himself. These A-listers usually are, they’re too self important to be on time. Now go, get up there! I’ll be right behind you.”

You grab your handbag and your cosmetics, wallet and phone secure in your jacket, and make your way up the thirty-something steps to ring Dieter Bravo’s doorbell.

A stern looking woman with a sleek black librarian hairdo and penciled-in eyebrows of the same color lets you into the mansion; she’s surprisingly nice. You’re instructed to take a seat in Dieter’s living room, on a comfortable couch. You don’t mind the staff standing by the open doors, and change into your outfit out in the open there - a pitch black, crotchless leotard, equally dark ballerina flats, and a thin pink robe for modesty before the shoot starts. Someone from the production crew arrives and brings a make-up artist, who makes you look a decade younger. That takes almost two full hours and removes any remaining shred of your guilt about being late. It's a bothersome process, but might increase the chances he’ll recognize you.

Finally, after another ten more minutes of waiting for him, his majesty makes an appearance, coming from the garage. He’s dressed in a cornflower blue robe, a fluffy, well-worn thing, and chanclas, along with sweatpants. He holds a starbucks cup in his hand and peeks at everyone in the room over the rim of a pair of sunglasses, chewing gum. His hair is as messy as ever, a patchy, scruffy looking beard on his face now. He’s sporting several heavy rings on various fingers and has a chain with an upside-down cross around his neck.

And then he spots you. You can see the exact moment it clicks for him, and everything falls into place. A sultry smirk at him, a wink perhaps, should do, so that’s what you respond with, to the look of pure befuddlement he shoots you.

He crosses the room so fast, he spills some of the whipped cream peeking over the rim of the cup he’s holding with an iron grip.

“What on earth are you doing in my house, Dolphin?” Oh, God, not that nickname… you visibly cringe, but then sigh and go in for a hug. He accepts without hesitation, and you note that he’s wonderfully warm and soft. It almost balances out the reminder of that time he renamed you against your will, when you were sitting out on the fire escape stairs of your dorms, smoking a blunt together. It would be a good memory if it wasn’t tainted by that nickname designed to drive you up the wall, when your hysterical laughter at one of his jokes resembled the call of a marine mammal.

“I was hired to have a certain movie star fuck the shit out of me on camera.” you tell him nonchalantly, and he bites down a laugh to counter. “I didn’t know you do porn. I thought you might still be doing theater, because I never saw you at any award shows. Is everything okay?” “Yes, Dieter, I’m fine. I’m financially stable, I’m nominated for an AVN this year; the only setback is I’ve recently been pushed into the MILF category. Absolutely killing it there, though.”

Dieter laughs at that, finally - a hearty cackle, and it causes your already buzzing head to flood with memories of that same laugh that are aeons old. You realize he never laughs like this in any of the interviews you’ve seen.

He pats your shoulder almost fraternally and sets down his drink to give you another hug. “I missed you, Dolphin.” “Please don’t call me that again. I’ll fucking leave and go home, I swear to God.” “Didn’t peg you to be particularly religious.” “I’ll fucking show you a pegging, amigo.” Again, you make Dieter laugh; he seems like he hasn’t earnestly laughed much in quite some time.

The two of you waste everyone else’s time while you catch up; you hear about his last ten years, he hears about yours, while you wander around the house and he shows you his awards. At some point, his manager shows up in the dining room, where Dieter is feeding you with the best bread you’ve ever had and antipasti from the catering cart, and reminds you both that you’re here for work.

You think it’s odd that Dieter decided to shoot this film in his home. He doesn’t seem to care and says this house has seen weirder things. It’s more convenient for him to do it here. Your worries about the media backlash directed at him that would inevitably follow the release of whatever you tape today remain a secret for now. It’s not your job to bring it up and you trust that all the adults involved know what they’re getting themselves into.

The set in a spare bedroom is all done, assembled, lit up and prepared; as a last effort to prevent disaster, somebody wearing a headset is grabbing a sphinx cat and removing it from under the massive king size centerpiece of the shot. They just exit the room with their arm full of what you think is a raw chicken when you walk in with Dieter and both your managers, who know each other and proceed to go have a conversation somewhere in the corner.

He introduces you to the director, a Finnish-American talent of the erotic arts, who then introduces herself as Ansa, and who’s supposed to make Dieter’s filthy vision a reality. The six foot four blonde with an angular jaw, who looks like she could easily be a famous basketball player, explains the concept of the Golden Ratio to you, but you have difficulties following, with the way Dieter is already staring at your mouth. “...in each shot, your two bodies have to be arranged in the exactly right way to align with the ratio, which you might know under its other commonly known name, the Fibonacci sequence. Well, technically the golden ratio and the Fibonacci sequence are different things, but they are closely associated with each other. We’ve come up with a few positions that work, they’re shown here-* She rambles on, then hands you a thin stack of cards, each depicting a drawing of a sexual position in which the visual lines and boundaries of the lovers’ bodies resemble a spiral from a certain angle. You look through them, wide-eyed, while Dieter chews on an Olive and ogles you over the rim of his sunglasses - shamelessly.

Ansa continues, “Somebody might have to touch you to adjust the position of a body part for the perfect shot. I hope you have an active gym membership, you might be forced to stay still and hold a difficult position for a while, through up to a few dozen of his thrusts, so we have enough material from each shot.”

Can’t we just start fucking? Why does it matter how I sit on his dick? Besides, the whole Fibonacci sequence thing is kind of overplayed, isn’t it? Hasn’t this shit been done a million times before? There’s songs about it, media that’s structured according to it, stuff that won Grammys and everything. It’s been a meme online, too, people already laugh about it.

Those are the gripes coming up in your head in quick succession, and you don't fully realize that you say all of them out loud and worded exactly like that, making Dieter snort and bend over in a cackle. You blush, hard, and begin to stammer an apology for the bluntness, because she’s not used to your Modus Operandi yet and deserves some grace. This job could have very well been given to somebody else, somebody more demure and accepting of bullshit executive decisions.

Ansa just smiles at you, not quite as amused as Dieter seems to be, still giggling to himself. “You’re funny, I like your attitude,'' she says to interrupt your desaster of an apology before you embarrass yourself, and you notice that you like her subtle accent, although her non-answer annoys you.

You demand to know why they would ask you to sign a contract before letting you know this was going to be a cringefest, and then attempt to ask your questions again in a more respectful tone.

This is when Dieter realizes he’s missed you a whole lot more than he thought; you’re so quick on your feet, as you’ve always been. Just based on this, you haven’t aged a day. Ansa welcomes the rewording of your questions and finally grants you a real response.

She explains that that’s exactly the point of the scene. It’s supposed to drag this pretentious bullshit through the mud. It’s a direct parody of a short film Dieter starred in, ages ago, which you’d never seen, because it was such an obscure release with practically no advertising budget.

“I want to ruin that motherfucker’s career.” Dieter bites; he’s talking about whichever poor soul directed the atrocious short film. “He’s acting all uppity in the media after he landed a couple hits with some military propaganda, wastes of precious lifetime, bullshit ass movies.” You wonder why he’s so genuinely livid at this director, but he answers the question before you can ask it.

“This guy screwed me over so hard on that stupid short film, I almost died trying to appease him and his artistic sensibilities, because he convinced me he was doing something worth my while with it. He had me drenched outside at night in Whateverthefuck, Ohio, in the pouring October rain, wearing barely anything, contorting and curling up and posing like a spiral for hours, because no take was ever perfect. And then that garbage didn’t even make a profit, so I got pneumonia for nothing. I had to pay someone to take that disgrace off my Wikipedia and IMDB. I want to make fun of his yuppie ass, I want to make a pornographic parody of his dumb, pseudo-intellectual garbage movie that nearly cost me my life.”

You get it then. The second layer reveals itself to you from behind the curtain of your initial reaction. And with it, you drop the robe they’d handed you.

Dieter apologizes that he didn’t take the time to talk you through the project before you signed, but he wanted it done as soon as possible. You tell him it’s fine, usually your agency would have sent a request for more information, but you saw his name in that e-mail and didn’t hesitate.

He’s touched by this, though you begin to get a feeling that Dieter isn’t being honest about his intention to do this scene, or at the very least about his constitution. Constantly on edge, fidgeting, shifting his weight back and forth between both feet, extroverted. Friendly. He used to be quieter, and you wonder if he was miserable back then or if he is now, and if it’s your place to even ask.

There’s no time to, anyhow, with droves of production staff pouring into the room, until you and Dieter are practically pushed onto the bed while the camera tests begin. It’s busier than at any normal shoot, but he seems used to it, conversing with his assistant standing close by, about what he would like to order for dinner after. You’re puzzled when he turns to you to ask if you’d like to stay.

But again, no more time to answer questions, the stylist invades your space and touches up both of your faces and hair, and when the cameras are set to roll, everyone who isn’t essential to the shoot leaves the room. The question is long forgotten, when two more people roll a whiteboard into the room that has each of the possible Golden Ratio sexual positions pinned to it for easy review, before leaving as well.

Dieter is awfully quiet over the next few minutes, when the last round of preparations begin, right before they have some time to get each other turned on, and then the cameras are going to start rolling.

But it never comes to that.

What happens next is Dieter is having a panic attack. A full-on hyperventilating, pacing up and down, cursing and yelling and… crying? He’s crying, crashing. A second ago you were busy holding still for the touch-up, and now he’s sobbing.

You’re immediately overwhelmed with the situation, in your leotard and the ballerina flats, adjusting the shoulder straps and wordlessly watching as Dieter’s team attempts to calm him down. His manager seems to be desperate to get him to stay away from the set while he’s melting down, so he doesn’t ruin the professional relationships they were able to forge over it.

He’s so loud when he yells, you’re speechless. A moment ago he was content, laughing, talking about having dinner with you… Oh. You hadn’t given him your answer. You completely ignored his advance. He asked you to have dinner with him, and you ignored him, and now he’s breaking down in front of everybody.

It can’t be because of that. Can it? You stand up and put your pink robe back on, tying it in the front. Then, tip-toeing around the expensive equipment and slipping past all of the people outside the room, you make your way up to Dieter, who’s currently trying to vandalize the dining room, wielding some kind of award, ready to smash a glass table to bits with it. However, he’s being held back by his apparent crisis team, his manager trying to talk him down.

Now it makes sense to you that the set was so crowded, with half of the workers not even doing any active tasks. They’re there to monitor him and mitigate the damage in case he goes off the rails. On second thought, that sounds cartoonishly conspiratorial, like they’re drugging him on purpose or something.

You decide then and there to find out and try to help him, through whatever it is he’s burdoned with.

A step closer to him earns you a glare of disapproval from his manager, but you ignore it and take another. He’s like a feral animal, if only they had Steve Irwin here with a tranquilizer gun.

“It’s okay, Dee… it’s me. Look at me.” you say calmly, raising your hands to show him you don’t mean to restrain him like the others, and it’s not like you would even stand a chance to. He looks at you and you almost start crying too, he looks fucking miserable. “I don’t know what to dooo, oh God” he whines, still looking right at you, fat tears spilling from his wide open eyes that are so dark you can’t tell how blown his pupils are.

His manager looks surprised that he hasn’t tried to swing a fist at you yet, you’re stepping so close to him, and finally she gestures for the two burly guys holding him back to release him and give you both some space.

The out-of-control Hollywood actor in his giant mansion is coming back to his senses slowly, closing the remaining two or three feet of distance to pull you into a desperate embrace, soaking the strap of your leotard with his tears.

You wrap your arms around his middle and shush him, swaying him in place like a big baby and whispering reassurances into his ear. The entire thing is so fucking surreal, everyone’s eyes on you, and when they start whispering to each other so you can’t hear what they’re saying, you ask Dieter where you two can be alone.

You don’t expect him to be able to answer coherently, but the finger he points at a door down the hallway is enough. Keeping one arm around his waist, you lead him there step by step, past all the gawkers. It’s on you now to shoot them a glare, causing them to scatter behind you.

The door leads to another bedroom, which is in complete disarray and stuffed full of boxes overflowing with all kinds of shit. You lock up behind Dieter as he stumbles to the dusty bed and curls up on top of the covers, and you realize he’s been butt ass naked the entire time.

You grab a thin blanket hanging over a chair in the corner and make your way through the narrow path to the bed, past all his stuff. Climbing into bed behind him, you cover him and yourself with the soft blanket and spoon him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. He grabs your hand and squeezes it with a trembling sigh.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” you ask quietly, so careful not to tread him loose again with the wrong words. He breathes for a minute, deep inhales and long exhales, then croaks, “I hate myself.”

It’s a simple response, easy to understand in theory, but the reasons aren’t clear to you and you’re not sure if you should ask. “Why?” you whisper, pressing your cheek to the side of his neck and nuzzling closer to him. He’s so fucking soft and warm.

He scoffs, like it should be obvious, and you have a hunch but don’t dare to bring it up. “I’m such a fucking waste of space. I’m a piece of shit. I’m so sorry.”

Barely coherent through his tears, you just tighten your arm around him and give his shoulder another kiss. “Don’t say that. Let me help. We can figure this out.”

He shakes his head, “No, it’s fucking pointless. I’ve b-been to rehab so many times.”

“Are you high right now?” you continue to pry some answers from him with the patience of a saint that you’ve really only ever had for him, nobody else. He nods, sniffling and turning around in your grasp to face you. His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks wet, tears soaking his mustache. Up close like this, you can see the state of him clearly in his fully dilated pupils and everything else, and you swallow the emotions so you can be there for him, because what else are you supposed to do?

Thumbing away the tears that still keep coming, a seemingly endless well of them hidden under his eyes, you give him a soft smile. “I missed you, Dee. I’m so sorry we lost touch. Wish I could have been there for you all this time.”

“No, no, that’s not your fault. I’m an asshole, I should’ve called.” He brushes your hair behind your ear with a gentle touch that stands out in overwhelming contrast to his earlier demeanor, when he was about to smash his table with his award.

“Oh, you stop it. It doesn’t matter, I’m here now. And I’m not going to leave, unless you want me to.” you reassure him, and that finally seems to help, his features soften and he manages a crooked smile to try and match yours.

A harsh rap at the door startles you both, and suddenly he looks like a cornered animal again, sitting up and clutching the blanket to his chest. Giving his calf a reassuring squeeze, you slowly get up and walk to the door, unlocking it and cracking it open to peek out at whoever would have the audacity to knock like a cop right now.

It’s Tonya, your manager, behind Dieter’s manager whose name you’ve forgotten since you were introduced. You make an effort to look annoyed at them breaking the brief moment of peace, expecting an explanation. “We’re all leaving. I’ll call you in the morning, alright, sweetheart? Take care, and let me know if you need anything.” Tonya says, looking apologetic and her motherly nature appeases you. “Let me speak to him for a minute, please.” Dieter’s manager demands, but you refuse her with another glare. “Absolutely not.” Then you look back at Tonya with a much less furious look and a nod, “Drive safe, Tonya, I’ll text you if… yeah, I’ll text you.”

Tonya leaves, Dieter’s manager reluctantly follows, and you see some more people leaving and carrying gear out of the house. It’s suddenly very quiet, not even Dieter is making a sound anymore.

“Are they gone?” he asks after a while, when you shut the door again, locking it just in case.

“Yeah, they’re gone.” you assure him, and he lies back down on the bed with you, facing each other and holding hands. Yours are cold from clutching the door knob so harshly, and he warms them in his.

“Did I fuck it up?” he asks you after a while, the silence starting to make him uncomfortable.

“No, you didn’t fuck anything up. I promise.” You hook your pinky around his and look into his deep brown eyes, still filled with residual tears. “Pinky promise.”

He laughs again - not loud like earlier, it’s a quiet chuckle, but it seems even more genuine now that it’s between the two of you. “Pinky promise.”

You end up staying the night. It turns out he didn’t mind you not answering his question on set at all, you were busy. He orders dumplings for dinner and rolls a joint you share by his pool out back, huddled together on the side with your feet in the water. The pool is fucking heated and the emerging steam billows around you in the lights like the smoke you blow out your noses.

You haven’t smoked weed in so long, you’re a lightweight and he smokes most of it himself, content with just handing it over whenever you lift your hand to request a few tiny little puffs that make him giggle at you; he still thinks you’re adorable after all these years.

Dieter has make-up wipes for sensitive skin and scrunchies in his en-suite bathroom, and you even discover a half empty box of tampons under the sink. You don’t need any right now, but the fact that he has them on hand at all makes you a little emotional.

He gives you a shirt that’s three sizes too big and puts on a quiet movie for background noise, turning down the brightness of the enormous TV mounted to the wall opposite his bed. You toss the fake lashes into the bin, burying them in there like a casualty of the disaster of a set.

You finally properly meet his cat, which you’d mistaken for a whole raw chicken earlier as he was being carried off set. The friendly little guy - named Mad Max - lets Dieter put a sweater on him with no complaint, strutting his stuff all pretty in pink as he goes to devour the contents of a can of wet food from a bowl on the kitchen floor.

Dieter offers you a guest room, but you decline, climbing into his unbelievably comfortable kingsize bed, the effects of the weed making you feel heavy and deeply content. Exhaustion creeps into your bones as you curl up next to him with your head and hand on his chest, your eyes falling shut. His slow even breaths and the shapes he gently draws on your back with his fingertips lull you to sleep soon after.

This is not how you expected this day to end, but you’re the opposite of upset about it. If only it could be like this forever.

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keeshya6 · 3 months

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Somewhere Beautiful is so fucking good. I'm on Chapter 8 of Something Like Home now. For a hot minute there, I was just sobbing through the chapters -- which I love, don't get me wrong. Your ability to draw me in and make me ache for these characters is incredible.

I love your characterization of Din, I love all the richly built out side characters, I am obsessed with Reader's backstory and her character development. I will scream about this fic forever. It's so good.

I’m thrilled you’re enjoying it! Or… enjoying it as much as you can. One reader called the first few chapters of Something Like Home “the time of tears”. 😂 It had to happen.

Enjoy the rest! I just posted the final chapter a few days ago.

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keeshya6 · 3 months

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I know this is generally kind of a rude thing to ask, but I've become hyperfixated on your fic "An Unexpected Meeting" and I was wondering when you planned on updating it?

I can't say with certainly. Depression is a hell of a writer's block, unfortunately, but my hope is to do so soon. I have recently started the next chapter, but it is slow going. I am very sorry to you, and all my readers, for the unexpected and long delay.

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keeshya6 · 7 months

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I made these wallpapers for your amusement and your phone screens!

Please feel free to use and share but I ask that you don’t remove my watermark. 💋

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keeshya6 · 9 months

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ask game numbers 27 and 32

Hello!!!

27. Writing strengths: smut and fluff. I love both.

32. I haven't really thought about it. My writing motivation has been down lately unfortunately. However, a request that is inspiring might actually help with that! So I'm open to requests, but won't make promises right now.

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keeshya6 · 11 months

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III ║ Edgestitch

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part II: Threads | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: M

Summary: You wear those jeans for Joel when you see him again at the baby shower at Tommy and Maria's - like he asked you to.

Warnings: Spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, flirting, mention of food and drink, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 7k

Notes: It's here! This one was a long and winding road as I mentioned in Behind the Seams, I'm so relieved and excited when it all finally clicked and fell into place! I'm absolutely blown away by the love you guys have shown Joel and Pin so far, thank you, there's no greater motivation for a writer ❤️ I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!

‘Damnit, Lucy,’ you mutter under your breath, this close to stamping your foot and pouting at the door that refuses to lock up.

Lucy may be your best friend, but you’re not blind to the fact that she literally cannot be trusted to get anything done around the shop. It’s been two weeks since she promised to get the locksmith to come in, but here you are on Friday evening, wrestling with the key that refuses to turn the last quarter of an inch in the faulty lock.

‘Hey, Pin!’

Glancing over your shoulder, you force a wane smile at Tommy, who has his hands full with a cardboard box at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Need some help?’

‘Yes, please,’ you reply sheepishly.

You nod at the bottles of wine that clink delicately against one another as he sets them down. ‘Getting ready for the party on Sunday?’

Tommy steps up to the door and wriggles the key left and right experimentally. ‘Yeah, you comin’, right?’

‘Yes, with Lucy.’

‘Good, the more the merrier!’ He makes a face at the door lock, which is not cooperating with him either. ‘You should get someone to look at it. Probably time for a new one.’

‘Lucy was supposed to get Andrew to fix it, but you know Luce.’

Tommy yanks the door knob backwards hard as he twists the key. There’s a grunt of metal, and a triumphant aha! when it finally turns, the internal mechanisms of the lock sliding into place with a satisfying click.

You nearly fall onto your knees in relief. ‘Thank you so much, Tommy. You’re a lifesaver.’

He grins and deposits the key in your waiting palm. ‘You can ask Joel for help, you know. He’s handy with this kind of stuff.’

You blink, blindsided by the seemingly random mention of his brother - but his dimpled smile tells you otherwise.

His brother, who was so solid and broad under you on the studio floor, just a few days ago. His brother, who you can still feel pressed between your thighs, in your bed in the dead of night. His brother, who has taken up residence in your mind, waking or otherwise, since he sauntered out of your shop with that infuriatingly attractive confidence when he asked you to to wear those jeans for him again on Sunday.

Joel has existed solely and safely in the parameters of your workspace for the past fortnight and a half, with only Lucy bearing witness to whatever it is between the two of you. Having to suddenly deal with any mention of him outside of it, especially with that knowing arch of Tommy’s eyebrow, has you completely flustered. It doesn’t help that his eyes are uncannily like Joel’s, a gorgeous deep brown, expressive and sharp, though the mischief sits a lot closer to the surface in the former’s.

Mercifully, your brain unscrambles long enough for you to reach the conclusion that of course, Joel must have told Tommy that he invited you and Lucy. It’s their party, after all. Surely, he doesn’t know anything else -

Or does he?

You’ve been quiet for too long to say anything about it now, so you clumsily change the subject, stumbling over your words. ‘I, uh - I was just wondering what I could bring on Sunday?’

Tommy graciously lets you off the hook. ‘We’re a bit short on sweets, actually, if you bake.’

You latch on to that gratefully. ‘I do - what kind of cake were you thinking?’

‘Do you make a carrot cake?’

You perk up. ‘It’s my favourite!’

He flashes you a cheeky grin. ‘What a funny coincidence, it’s Joel’s as well - the only way to get carrots in him.’

Your pulse spikes with adrenaline at the unexpected tidbit Tommy drops in your lap, and you greedily squirrel that little fact away, slowly colouring in the Joel-shaped space in your head.

With a wink, Tommy bends down to pick up the wine. ‘See you in a couple of days, Pin!’

At least you have the decency to wait until he turns the corner - once he does, you sprint across the road to the Jackson Grocer’s and clear out their stock of carrots for the day.

There are many things about Jackson that throw Joel.

The plentitude after years of rations. The safety, which comes off more jarring than comforting.

But most of all, it’s the sounds. The kettle on the boil and the pop of the toaster in the morning when Ellie gets ready for school. Friendly chatter on the high street. Laughter. It still makes him jump when he hears playful shrieks in the neighbourhood playground, blood rushing in his ears and sending him halfway across the house for his rifle before he remembers where he is.

Where he is not.

It was always loud in the QZ. Loudspeakers blaring, alarms wailing, the indistinct hum of conversation and radio through paper thin walls in the slums at all hours of the day. And he was always listening - for danger, for trouble, and everything in between.

And then all that noise had blown up, literally, with the State House. With Tess.

Joel finds it hard to remember those first few days after leaving Boston behind. Mostly the raw cuts on his knuckles that wouldn’t heal and the ring in his right ear from the explosion, lingering like a pesky fly.

But he knows it was Ellie who broke that silence first. And once that door was kicked down -

‘Fuck no, dude!’

His face snaps up and he scowls across the lawn, the stern reprimand rolling off his tongue like second nature. ‘Ellie!’

She’s sitting with her friends, crowded around her most prized possession of the moment, a boombox she found in the thrift shop a couple of months ago and begged him to buy and fix up for her.

Not that she needed to do much begging, he caved far too easily. It plays a bit wonky - the bass too heavy - still, it does the trick.

The teenagers around her cower immediately, but she defiantly stands her ground. ‘What?’

‘Watch your language,’ he barks, no real bite behind it.

She rolls her eyes so hard her head falls back, and he has to press his lips together to not smile.

It helps him sleep better at night seeing Ellie fit right in - at least one of them has. She doesn’t hate going to school half as much as she pretends to, the routine of homework and chores anchoring her to small town life. She’s even volunteered to help out at the farm, spending most afternoons in the stables with the horses.

There are times when he wonders to which extent all this is a coping mechanism. But well, at least she’s coping.

And while Joel still hasn’t made up his mind about Jackson, its townsfolk seem to have unilaterally made theirs up about him. The wary whispers and watchful stares have given way to cautious gestures of acknowledgement, some even bold enough to throw a good morning in his general direction as he walks down the street.

They nod at him now as they file into the garden party, still keeping their distance, but not as much as he would’ve liked.

The expectant parents have gone all out for the occasion. Several tables are lined up end to end in the middle of the garden, filling up with potluck dishes as guests arrive. Tommy lords over the barbeque, the brisket having been smoking since dawn, with chicken, bacon and homemade sausages sizzling on the grill. Maria is in her element, flitting from well wisher to well wisher with a protective hand over her rounded belly, making sure everyone has a drink and a loaded plate in hand.

Joel hovers in no man’s land, dodging the crowds and sipping on beer that has long gone flat, trying to remember the last time he celebrated anything.

Well, he supposes dinner parties at Bill and Frank’s count, as far and few in between as they were. Not that they ever celebrated anything specific, per se - they didn’t need a reason beyond the fact that they were all still alive and kicking. Bill, bless his soul, did make a mean roast, and Frank used to host with enough flair for forty instead of four. Tess had a black dress she stowed away at the back of her closet for these parties, and a red one that she saved for the really special occasions -

A strong hand on his back jolts him forward and out of his thoughts, spilling lukewarm beer over his fingers.

‘Havin’ a good time, brother?’ asks Tommy jovially, cheeks stretched with joy.

‘I was just now,’ he grunts pointedly.

Tommy grins. ‘Lighten up, man. Get drunk, be merry! You’re gonna be an uncle.’

‘Don’t try to butter me up. I ain’t babysittin’ for you.’

Thumping his chest in mock hurt, he asks, ‘What about all those times I babysat Sarah, man?’

Joel gives him a long-suffering side stare. ‘Please. You used to hire that college chick ‘cross the street to babysit whenever you were supposed to. Then you’d hit on her all night long.’

Tommy chuckles. ‘Damn, your mind’s in better shape than I give you credit for, old man.’

He can’t help a smile. ‘But for all your devious plans to get into her babysitter’s pants, Sarah did love her Uncle Tommy.’

He goes quiet for a beat and takes a sip of his beer, his eyes softening. ‘I think about that girl every single day, y’know.’

Joel nods, staring into his own beer, and it suddenly strikes him that he’s missed the shape of her name on his lips. ‘I know.’

Tommy nudges him on the shoulder. ‘I can only hope my kid will love their Uncle Joel just as much.’

Eventually, he harrumphs, ‘If they do - I’ll think about the babysittin’.’

Tommy chortles just as the backdoor to the porch swings open with a loud creak.

Joel spots you easily, trailing one step behind Lucy. You’re holding onto a cake on a round wooden board like a security blanket, shoulders tense and eyes wide at the noise of the festivities. Spotting Maria, Lucy bounds down the stairs, leaving you hesitating at the landing, and -

You’re wearing the jeans he asked you to.

Something primal swells in the cavity of his chest, between his ribs - a pride that is distinctly male.

Tommy shouts, ‘Pin! Over here!’

Joel shifts on his feet, swallowing thickly as you approach. If your shy smile is anything to go by, he’s not the only one feeling the nerves.

His brother gives you a careful hug around the cake and plants a kiss on your cheek. When he steps aside, Joel hesitates, uneasy with having an audience, his palms suddenly clammy with indecision.

Does he… hug you? He can count on three fingers who he’s hugged for the past twenty years, and he’s sorely out of practice. A kiss is an option, but the way his eyes dart to your mouth, it’s dangerous even entertaining that thought -

Tommy elbows him in the ribs and puts him out of his misery. ‘Why don’t you kids catch up, I think the brisket’s burnin’. Have fun tonight!’

Joel can feel the tip of his ears turning red as he stands there with his drink, one hand shoved in his back pocket, not knowing how to do this. How to entertain. Clearing his throat, he stammers, ‘Uh - can I get you a drink or somethin’?’

You give him a small smile, lips moving in an answer too quiet to reach him over the music. Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, he admits, ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. I’m uh - a bit deaf in my right ear.’

You look apologetic, speaking up, ‘I’m sorry - I didn’t know.’

With a shrug, he jokes, ‘It’s ok, I’m a bit broken all over.’

You pinch your lips, and he recoginses that face - he knows that you want to disagree with him. But you hold your tongue, skirting around him to his good ear, and he stoops to close the distance, even though he doesn’t need to.

Your breath brushes his ear. ‘I’d love a drink, but I want to put this cake away first.’

‘Yes, of course - sorry, don’t know where my manners went.’ He puts his unfinished beer away and takes the cake from you despite your protests. The potluck table is packed to the brim, so he gestures towards the house. ‘It might have to go into the kitchen for now.’

You follow him, side by side with one polite body width between you, past bands of neighbours and friends catching up, the fairy lights catching your eyes and the well-kept lawn crunching beneath your soles. Unsurprisingly, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back as you go - Joel is still very much a novelty around town. Neither of you speak until he holds open the backdoor for you to slip inside.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, the muted conversation outside a low hum through the double-glazed windows. The free-standing island is already chock full of all kinds of baked goods and pudding, and Joel has to move an actual jelly castle (which wriggles precariously) to free up space for your contribution.

Dusting his hands, Joel turns to you. ‘That carrot cake?’

You nod, keeping mum.

‘It’s my favourite.’

‘I know - Tommy told me,’ you confess with a bashful half-shrug.

His warm eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Talkin’ about me behind my back, sweetheart?’

Your breath quickens at the sweetheart, and you wonder if the thrill of the nickname will ever wear thin. Emboldened, you tilt your head to one side and tease, ‘Why? You like the attention?’

A smirk on his lips, he steps into your space, the very proximity of him stealing the air from your lungs. ‘I might if you’re not careful.’

And there you are again - with nothing more than a dozen words exchanged and even more unsaid - on the brink of something, right where you left off on the workshop floor.

‘Wanna grab a bite to eat?’

Tucked away in an intimate corner of the back porch in a wicker chair, Joel surveys the party with a seriousness that is borderline comical.

The strategist in him clearly favours the higher ground the porch affords him so he can keep an eye on everyone and spot whoever approaches from a distance. His seat is an easy three steps to the door, an escape plan in his back pocket. For all his stillness, the intensity is unmistakable, if slightly out of place in a baby shower.

Two dirty plates licked clean are stacked on the coffee table between you, piled high with bones and leftover gravy, the delicious food sitting warm in your stomach.

‘They’re comin’ closer,’ Joel complains, taking a long gulp of his beer.

‘I guess they figure if I’m talking to you, it means that you don’t actually bite,’ you quip.

‘Will they back off if I make you cry?’

Your shoulders quake with a chuckle. ‘I think you’re too much of a gentleman to do that, Joel Miller.’

You’re taken aback by the flash of heat in his answering glance, as if there’s something he wants to say. But then, he changes his mind and leans back in his chair, one palm resting on his spread thighs, and he nods towards a couple standing close to the barbeque.

‘Who’s that over there? He lives on my street.’

‘That’s Andrew. He owns the only hot tub in Jackson.’

Joel splutters, ‘A hot tub?’

‘To be fair, it came with his house, but he managed to connect it to the water a few months ago.’

He snorts. ‘Not very communist of him to divert public resources for a private hot tub.’

‘Let’s just say Jackson is a commune with American characteristics,’ you say diplomatically.

He arches an eyebrow at you. ‘A cynic, sweetheart?’

You reply matter-of-factly, ‘We all know how communism ended.’

Fuck. He takes a swig of his beer and swallows hard. A woman after his own heart.

‘You want to keep him on your good side though. He’s really handy with electrics and the like.’

He shrugs. ‘So am I.’

You turn to him, surprised. ‘Oh?’

‘I was a contractor in another life.’

He notices your attention flicker to his hands, before you catch yourself and look away bashfully. ‘That’s good to know.’

‘You need things fixed?’ he asks, and promptly wants to kick himself for sounding so hopeful to be of service.

‘Here and there,’ you say with a dismissive wave. ‘It’s not important. It’ll hold up.’

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip thoughtfully. You have to work on asking for things, but it’s ok - he doesn’t push you. He files that away for later.

Glancing across the yard, he catches Ellie’s eye, who’s arching an inquisitive eyebrow and pointing straight at you with all the subtlety of a flying brick. He knows he should probably introduce you at some point, but he’s not ready to share your attention with someone else just yet, let alone the nosy teenage loudmouth.

Joel gives her a firm shake of the head, to which she responds with a disgruntled I’m watching you gesture.

Ignoring her for now - and knowing that he’ll pay for it later - he asks you, ‘And who’s that in the red dress?’

You crane your neck until you spot her. ‘Ah, that’s Patricia. She’s the dance teacher down at the school.’

‘Why’s she starin’ at me?’ he mutters.

You shoot him an amused grin. ‘Why, it looks like you’ve caught the fancy of our local femme fatale.’

He scoffs. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘Well, she’s been married and divorced three times since she arrived,’ you answer with a straight face. ‘The last one just disappeared. Never found his body.’

Joel stares at you in stunned silence, until you let out a poorly contained giggle. He grumbles, ‘Havin’ fun pullin’ my leg, sweetheart?’

‘Just a bit,’ you tease.

‘I liked you better when you were shy,’ he ribs.

You shrug. ‘Too late. You don’t scare me anymore.’

Glancing the other way, Joel sits up in alarm at the flutter of crimson fabric. ‘Shit, I think she’s comin’ this way.’

‘Time for carrot cake?’ you prompt.

He’s out of his chair quicker than you’d expect his knees would allow him to. ‘Let’s go, sweetheart.’

The state of the kitchen island stops you in your tracks, while Joel lets out a low whistle behind you. ‘Jackson really turned out for this party, huh?’

‘Well, your brother and sister-in-law are pretty popular around town,’ you quip.

You didn’t think it was possible, but every square inch of the kitchen island is now jam-packed with sugary confections, stacked on top of one another.

‘I can’t even find the bloody cake,’ you laugh, literally searching high and low as you skirt the parameter.

On the other side of the island, Joel tosses a dry good luck in your direction and puts the dirty plates and cutlery that he brought in into the sink with a clatter, turning on the hot water. You stutter to a stop opposite him, gawking at how his broad shoulders fill the frame of the window that sits in front of the sink, before your gaze inadvertently trails south - over the nip of his waist and the hem of his shirt skirting the back pockets of his jeans. You find yourself wishing he’d tucked the tails in.

Rooted to the spot, you watch him unbutton the cuffs on his flannel shirt and push up the sleeves to the crease of his elbows, baring his strong forearms. Your mouth goes dry despite the wine you’ve been sipping on all evening, peering at the sinewy muscles flexing and straining as he lathers the plates with an offhand familiarity, his thick fingers dwarfing the sponge in as he works the grease stains.

Making quick but thorough work of the washing up, Joel dries the plates and then runs the tea towel over his big hands and wrists, catching you staring as he turns around. If he knows you’ve been watching all along, he lets it slide. Tossing the towel to one side, heat prickles under your cheeks when he sidles up to you with the clean plates.

The sight of this man doing something as mundane as dishes really shouldn’t get you this hot and bothered.

‘Is that cream cheese?’ he asks conversationally with a nod at your cake, which you have found sitting on top of a tall plastic caddy, a chocolate cake inside.

Having to consciously unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you’re surprised your voice doesn’t shake. ‘It’s not carrot cake without it.’

‘Where did you get the cream cheese? Never seen any ‘round town.’

Almost bashful, you admit, ‘I made it.’

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘You made cream cheese? How?’

‘It’s not that big a deal. It’s just milk, lemon and salt,’ you say, trying to downplay it. Your arms are definitely not aching from the hours of straining and beating and whipping.

‘And the walnuts?’ he asks.

‘Someone I know grows it,’ you say vaguely.

Joel hums doubtfully. ‘Ain’t seen any walnut trees in town.’

Biting your bottom lip, you can pinpoint the exact moment he figures it out, brows drawing together in a frown. ‘The only ones I’ve seen are outside the walls, ‘round the north side of the gates.’

Knowing for a fact that you’re a terrible liar, you don’t even try. You choose to ignore him, idly smoothing the frosting on top with a clean knife, trying not to flinch at the weight of his gaze on you.

‘Sweetheart, please tell me you didn’t go outside just to get walnuts for me.’

‘Not for you,’ you shoot back unconvincingly, flustered. ‘I made the cake for Tommy and Maria.’

Lies. You know it. He knows it.

His shoulders stiffen, the fabric of his shirt bunching with the movement. ‘You can’t just go outside like that, y’know, there could be infected ‘round -’

‘Joel, I’ve been living here for years, I know what I’m doing,’ you argue huffily, not expecting a lecture, of all things. ‘I’m not stupid.’

He shakes his head. ‘Ain’t what I’m sayin’, Pin -’

‘Just leave it, ok?’ you reply sharply and, signalling an end to the conversation, you slice into the cake with an aggressive stab - not noticing that it is hanging over the edge of the caddy below.

You squeak when it flips unceremoniously, and on pure impulse, you pitch forward to stop its upward trajectory, meeting it mid-air with an ominous splat.

‘Fuck!’

To his credit, Joel barely skips a beat, quickly but calmly grabbing hold of the cake board and pulling it off you, setting it down on the counter, while you gape in dismay at the damage done.

The side of the cake that made contact with you is smushed in, most of the thick frosting now painted all over your front, from your neck down to the lovely, thin cashmere top that Lucy picked out for you for the party.

You really hope there’s a big guy up there watching, because someone might as well enjoy this mortifying brand of comedy you keep dishing out around this man.

Two seconds more, and you’re pretty sure you would’ve burst into tears for lack of knowing what else to do - but without another word, Joel takes the lead, wrapping a firm hand around your wrist and pulling you out of the kitchen.

You gratefully let him.

It’s none of your business really, but it comforts you that Joel’s obviously here often enough to know his way around the house.

You glance around the dimly lit room where he deposited you on the edge of a neatly made bed, water trickling in the adjoining ensuite. When he returns, he has a small, wet towel in his hands. Towering over you, the low lights don’t quite reach his face, but you can see the way his gaze slips downwards, carefully, as if he’s afraid to startle you.

But he doesn’t - not even when he slides the crook of his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up and opening up your throat.

His lips twitch wryly. ‘What a waste of perfectly good cream cheese.’

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you at the absurdity of the situation. ‘Must something always go wrong whenever we’re in the same room?’

The corner of his mouth teases a smile. ‘Never a dull moment with you, sweetheart.’

You smile back, but it falters when his eyes burn in a quiet but unmistakable smoulder.

‘May I?’

You’re not even sure what he’s asking. But he can ask you anything in that raspy, low baritone, and there will always only be one answer.

At your nod, Joel drags the tip of his index finger down the column of your neck, and your lips part when it glides over your windpipe - pressing just hard enough for you to feel the pressure - collecting the velvety frosting as it goes.

Then, holding your eyes, he sucks the cream cheese off his fingertip, a hum deep in his throat. ‘Delicious, sweetheart.’

You’re sitting down, but somehow, you still feel your knees give way at how he smacks his lips at the sugary aftertaste.

He looms closer, bending at the waist and for one moment of madness, you think he might lean down and lick your neck clean.

At the prospect of those plush lips and the burn of his silvered, patchy beard on your skin, your head tilts further back invitingly. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, like he’s picking up on what you’re thinking, and his eyes dip to your mouth.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t even have time to be disappointed before Joel carefully gets down on one knee in front of you, one palm landing on the mattress next to your hip for balance. Knowing the state of his joints, you want to ask if he needs a pillow, but instead of your mouth, it’s your thighs that part to make room for him. His chest keeps them splayed open, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his ribcage with each breath through the denim.

You try to focus on your own breathing as Joel presses the wet towel to your skin and mops up the sticky mess, his face set seriously as he cleans you up inch by inch. But all you can think about is how you can feel the imprint of his fingers through the thin fabric, and how the span of his hand can easily fit over the column of your throat -

You don’t realise you’re leaning into him until he draws back when he’s done, and you tip forward, chasing his touch. His knee groans as he stands up to his full height, and he nods towards the bathroom with a wait here in his eyes.

The water is scalding as Joel washes out the frosting from the towel, but he keeps his hands under the tap, longer than he needs to. Wringing it dry, he takes a moment, wet palms gripping the cold porcelain edge of the bathroom sink, shoulders hunched over as he tells himself to calm the fuck down.

Except, he is calm. He’s held back, even when you looked at him with such straightforward, honest want that has him grinding his teeth.

Thing is, he knows you would’ve let him nudge you backwards into the mattress and crowd you between his arms, switching places the two of you were in under your sewing desk in the workshop.

He knows you would’ve let him wrap your legs around his hips, sliding his palms up the back of your thighs in those skin tight jeans - the sight of which is enough to make his head spin - and he knows you would’ve let him nip, suck, lick the tangy buttercream off your very neck.

Not only would you have let him - you would’ve trusted him to do all those things to you.

That last realisation awakens something he’s not so sure he has a handle on. But he knows for a fact that with the whole of Jackson milling about downstairs, in the middle of his brother’s baby shower, is neither the place nor the time.

You’re where he left you when he steps back into the bedroom, your palms planted on the bed, your shoulders relaxed. The neckline of your blouse gapes loosely, teasing the soft skin of your cleavage.

Joel breaks the loaded silence with a bit of common sense. ‘You best get that top off and soak it in the bath before the stains really set in, sweetheart.’

You bite your lip hesitantly. ‘I - I don’t have anything to change into.’

‘You can have my shirt,’ he offers.

You sit up, attention piqued, when his hands move to the top of his flannel, thick fingers sliding each button out of the holes one by one. You know he’s just taking off his shirt, but you can’t help the way your jaw goes slack, watching shamelessly, the comforter twisting in your grip as you scrabble for something to hold onto.

Joel doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him like that, but it’s so flattering to watch you watch him, eyes hooded and your tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip, like he’s giving you a fucking strip tease or something.

Goddamn if it doesn’t go straight to his head.

A white undervest comes into view, inch by inch, as the shirt falls open, the thin fabric pulled taut at the seams over the broad stretch of his chest. When the last button is undone, he shrugs the shirt off with a smooth roll of his arms, and your jaw drops.

The undervest barely contains the bulk of him, and you’ll be damned if you know where to look first - the lean, solid line of his arms, or the effortless ripple of muscle in his shoulders - but it’s lower where your attention makes landing, and it takes you a second to realise why.

He’s not sucking in his tummy.

The swell of his abdomen sits above the top of his jeans, where the vest is neatly tucked in. You remember too well the brush of that soft strip of skin against the back of your hands when you were on your knees, cutting him out of his jeans; and then beneath you, straddling him under the sewing table.

While there’s an undercurrent of self-consciousness in the way he holds himself, conspicuously missing is the self-deprecation that drew your ire the day he walked into your shop with a broken zipper. A tentative confidence has taken its place, which is at the same time so endearingly vulnerable, as if your reaction to the little show he gave you just now isn’t enough to assure him of what you’re thinking.

Your fingers twitch, yearning to reach out and tug him in by the front of his jeans, to untuck that vest and push it up and off. You want to snake your hands around his waist, hold him to you by the small of his back, and starting with his tummy, kiss your way across the soft belly - maybe with a cheeky scrape of teeth - up to his firm chest, his strong neck and to his lips.

Or maybe, the calling southwards will win out. You’ll push him back to make room for yourself at his feet, nudging your way down his front with your nose, breathe him in, your hands finding his belt buckle and tugging it out of the loops instead. Never mind you've lost count of how many years it's been since you've wanted to do that, or if you remember how at all -

‘Pin.’

Your whole body jolts backwards when his voice pierces through your addled haze, low and raspy, snapping out of your sordid stupor almost grumpily - how rude of him to interrupt? - only to find him peering down at you with a lopsided smile.

‘Get changed, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.’

Leaving your top to soak in the sink, you pad back into the bedroom in just your bra, and you stare down at his shirt laid out neatly on top of the bed.

You press your palm over where his heart would be, the flannel still warm. For one indulgent moment, you pick up the shirt and hug it to you. It smells like him - the outdoors, a crisp spring day, with a whiff of the barbeque smoke from downstairs. You bury your nose into the soft fabric, eyes closed, imagining the weight and shape of him in it.

Even as you put your arms through the sleeves to button it up, you already know it will be hard giving it back. You leave the last three buttons undone and you’ve just tied up the too-long ends in a double knot when there’s a polite but firm knock on the door.

‘You decent?’

‘Yes.’

You hope your face doesn’t fall too obviously at the sight of Joel wearing a shirt again, probably one borrowed from Tommy. He leaves it unbuttoned though, which is small consolation. The air hums between you with stolen glances and words unsaid.

‘You wore those jeans for me,’ he says suddenly.

The for me rolls off his tongue coated in his delectable Southern drawl and a heady satisfaction.

You decide to be brave and shrug one shoulder in a show of attitude. ‘It was the only thing I didn’t have in the wash.’

His grin makes your heart swell. Stepping out of the open doorway, his eyes trailing heat where they linger over you, he says, ‘You look good in my shirt, sweetheart. Real good.’

You bite your lower lip at the compliment, replying shyly, ‘I like this look on you too.’

‘Used to be Tommy’s uniform during our contractor days,’ he reminiscences. ‘I’m just missing the utility belt.’

Oh. You actually find it offensive that the fleeting mention of something as banal as a utility belt should get you going like this. You try to palm off a non-committal hum, but your body betrays you with a strangled choking sound that gives you away.

Joel arches an eyebrow and closes the gap between you with three long, deliberate steps, one finger skimming where his shirt meets the waistband of your jeans. He teases with a smirk, ‘What’s that, sweetheart? This contractor look doin’ somethin’ for you?’

Your cheeks grow hot as both his palms latch boldly onto your hips, and you swear you can feel the burn of his fingertips through the denim, a moan gargling in your throat as your ability to form words abandons you.

‘That a yes?’ he prompts, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops in your jeans and tugging your body flush against his, his stubbled chin brushing the sensitive crook of your neck as he speaks into your ear.

‘Joel,’ you whine, which is the best you can do right now, grabbing onto the open flaps of his shirt just to stay upright.

You feel the rumble that goes through his chest under your palms when he purrs, smiling down at you, head cocked to one side with a playful condescension that’s going to be the end of you. ‘Yes, Pin?’

Your mouth opens, but you’ll never get to find out what you intended to say, because you hear it first - his right ear is to the door - the thunder of rubber soles on the stairs, and you're lucky you manage to stumble two steps back before a deafening (no pun intended), drawn-out call of his name follows.

‘JOOOOOOELLLL!’

Ellie crashes into the doorway with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, slightly out of breath like she’s been running all over the place searching for him, already in the middle of a sentence, as usual.

‘- also Maria says they’re doing a speech now and you’re not getting out of -’ she breaks off abruptly when she spots you, eyes wide and brows - all one and a half of them - reaching for her hairline. ‘Oh shiiiiiit.’

Running a tired hand down his face, Joel’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender. ‘Ellie, this is Pin. Pin, I’m sorry.’

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh at the resignation in his tone as the teenager wrinkles her nose. ‘Pin? That’s a weird name.’

‘Ellie!’

You smile. ‘It’s ok. Pin's just my nickname. I’m a seamstress at the Main Street Outfitters.’

Her face lights up excitedly, an open book if you’ve ever seen one. ‘No shit! I’ve been bugging Joel for a leather jacket for ages. Can I get one?’

‘Please,’ he interjects.

Ellie tucks in her chin and juts out her bottom lip at you. ‘Please?’

You demur. ‘Well, it depends on what you can trade in for it.’

‘My boombox!’ she volunteers without skipping a beat.

Joel scoffs. ‘Good to know those three weeks fixing that piece of junk for you was time well spent.'

‘Sorry, man, but I can’t wear a boombox can I?’ she argues.

Giving Joel an amused look, you come to his rescue. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie, but we only take clothes in exchange.’ At the way she deflates, you counteroffer, ‘Or, you can come work at the shop on Saturdays for the next couple of months. Lucy always needs help out front, and you get a staff discount.’

He turns to you, protesting, ‘That’s very kind, but it ain’t necessary -’

Ellie cuts in, rushing up to you to shake your hand before you can take it back. ‘Deal! When can I start?’

‘There’s no rush,’ you reply with a chuckle. ‘I’ll get back to you next week.’

Stepping back, Ellie winks, ‘So - let’s put a pin in it for now?’

Joel groans at the terrible pun. ‘Get outta here!’

She cackles, firing triumphant finger guns at you as she retreats. ‘What? Pin liked it, she laughed! You’re no fun old man!’

She then pauses by the door, her eyes narrowing as she zeroes in on something smeared on your jeans. ‘Wait - what’s that white stuff on your leg?’

‘It’s cream cheese, you little shit!’ Joel snaps as your ears burn in embarrassment. ‘Out!’

She scampers out of sight, but then reverses into view, sneakers squeaking. ‘ - Are you wearing Joel’s shirt?’

‘ELLIE!’

She throws her hands up. ‘Alright, I’m gone, I’m gone! See ya Pin!’

Joel is the very picture of an embarrassed dad, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince. ‘Sorry, she’s a handful.’

You grin, ‘She’s just a teenager.’

‘You can say that again.’

The quiet seems louder after Ellie, and you restlessly pick at the sleeves. Lifting your eyes shyly, it seems the moment has passed - but Joel has other ideas.

‘C’mere,’ he hums, drawing you close again with one hand on your waist, peering down at you through his lashes. ‘This ok?’

At your nod, he brushes his thumb on your bottom lip, catching the soft plump skin, and your tongue darts out to taste him, his eyes darkening.

‘Can I kiss you, sweetheart?’ he asks, voice hoarse.

It’s been years. Years since anyone has cared enough to kiss you, let alone cared enough to ask if they could. And it’s as if he knows - you don’t know if you’ve somehow given it away, or maybe it’s just him.

‘Yes, Joel.’

He coaxes you closer so that you’re pressed along the whole length of him. His big palms are warm and solid on the small of your back, holding you to him like he intends for you to have trouble standing after he’s done with you.

The tip of his nose bumps into your cheek, nudging its way across and down, and your eyes slide shut when his shaky exhale grazes your gently parted mouth. Your breath hitches at the sweet burn of his beard on your jaw, fingers grabbing onto the scruff of his neck when he finally, finally brushes his lips against yours.

For a man as hardened as Joel Miller, he sure kisses soft. He steals a whimper straight from your throat with nothing more than the clever angling of his lips, the slow drag of tongue on tongue, and a growl deep in his windpipe that you answer with your own moan.

You don’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed when your shins knock into his, breaking the kiss with a laugh as Joel hauls you up into his chest, looking very much pleased that he’s literally made your knees buckle.

‘Sorry,’ you squeak, beaming despite yourself.

‘You really know how to flatter a guy, sweetheart,’ he answers, his voice warming you like a smokey campfire, steadying by his hands on your hips.

‘We should probably go before Ellie comes back for us,’ you say reluctantly.

Joel huffs, ‘Ain’t gonna hear the end of it if she does.’

‘Something tells me you won’t be hearing the end of it tonight anyway,’ you tease.

He chucks you gently under the chin, his eyes soft. ‘Let’s go, sweetheart.’

‘You’ve made yourself scarce,’ remarks Lucy as she ambles up to you with a glass of wine running low. ‘Where you been, hon?’

‘Had some trouble with the cake,’ you answer vaguely.

‘Sure,’ she winks at you, unconvinced. ‘If we’re calling him that.’

Right on cue, Joel strides across the lawn with three plates to join you. ‘Thought you might want some of Pin’s carrot cake.’

‘Such a gentleman, Joel Miller,’ chirps Lucy, making what can only be described as a 'thirst face' at you when his back is turned to her.

‘Thanks, Joel,’ you smile at him, letting your fingers graze his deliberately when you take the plate from him.

Saluting you with a forkful of cake, he says, ‘Thank you for bakin’, sweetheart.’

You watch as his lips close around the fork, dragging the cake clean off the slots, cream cheese smearing the corner of his mouth. He frowns, as if in deep pain as he chews, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows.

‘Okay?’ you ask nervously, your slice still untouched.

‘Perfect,’ he declares, already having a second, bigger bite. Knowing he doesn’t have a superfluous bone in his body, your chest warms at his words.

‘Wait a second,’ Lucy interrupts, bringing up her plate to inspect it closely. ‘Why does the cake look all wonky?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Luce,’ you answer coolly, taking a bite yourself.

Humming around a mouthful of moist crumb, the sweet carrot balanced out by the tangy frosting, you meet Joel’s eyes in the soft glow of fairy lights, and he flashes you a conspiratorial smile that makes you grin.

More notes: On Ellie - I was so so nervous about writing our resident teenage badass. I hope I've done her justice, I certainly had a lot of fun writing her introduction to Pin! If you're interested in a detailed deep dive into my process writing this chapter, I do recommend you read the Behind the Seams for this part ❤️

I also went back and forth on the tone and style of this chapter a lot. I wasn’t happy with the way it read, probably still not 100% happy. I like the way Seams and Threads were written better, but the fact is that this chapter is a very different setting and narrative compared to the first two, so I’m trying to be too hard on myself.

So, I have some ideas for where the story will go from here, but nothing concrete. As I've mentioned, I see this fic as more of a loose-fit series, so there's no overarching plot per se, but there's definitely a lot of room for future episodes of these two - I mean, they haven't even done the deed yet 😉

Comments, asks and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always! Thank you so much for reading, I'm so excited to hear what you guys thought of this chapter 😘

#Saturday reblog #I will always reblog Seams

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keeshya6 · 11 months

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Thought I'd toss this out into the atmosphere again, since I'm connected to a few more people on here now. 😁

Fanfiction Writing Asks

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#ask game #writing ask game #fanfiction ask game

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keeshya6 · 11 months

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Last Chance

Chapter 5 - The Last Doubt You Have

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Rating: E (18+ only, minors dni!)

Word Count: 4.8k

Summary: We're starting off in the past this time, picking up where Joel and Reader left off after the first dinner at his place, getting to know one another a lot better. And, of course, we'll need to see how things go in our current timeline, as long lost lovers meet again.

Content Warnings and general info: This is a steamy one, ya'll. We've finally gotten to the much anticipated smut. Lots of dirty talk, bit of manhandling, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f receiving), PiV sex, safe sex, praise kink, pet names, bit of a size kink, explicitly descriptive sex acts (use of words like pussy/cunt/etc.), high emotions, fluff. If I've missed any, let me know!

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! My DMs/Ask are always open too!

Also available on Ao3

Tag List: @vickie5446

If you'd like to be added to the tag list, please let me know!

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Chapter 5 - The Last Doubt You Have

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Your belly was twisted up in knots as Joel led you upstairs and you forced yourself to take steadying breaths as you followed. Heartbeat hammering against your ribs, your free hand trembled a little as you tucked back stray strands of your hair.

Joel looked back at you and gave you a smile, squeezing your hand gently. The smile pulled up higher on one side of his mouth, letting that dimple crease his cheek beneath the patches of facial hair, and sent those knots in your stomach into excited somersaults. Then, as you both reached the second floor, he leaned close and lifted his free hand to press a finger to his lips with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

A giggle threatened to escape you, even shook your shoulders, but you bit it back and pressed your lips into a stern line, narrowing your eyes up at him playfully in return.

After pausing for a heartbeat, Joel broke into a grin. Then he leaned down to steal a quick kiss before pulling you to the left and further away from Sarah's closed bedroom door.

Oh, I hope she's a heavy sleeper.

Joel tugged you past him into his room and you couldn't help the snicker that finally tumbled out of you as you paused in the center of it, looking around.

It wasn't immaculate. There was a small heap of laundry in the corner by the dresser, which was strewn with miscellaneous items, and the bed could barely be considered made.

You didn't mind though. It looked lived in.

Joel caught you again, this time by the waist, and then you were pressed back against the now closed door with your breath hitching in your chest.

Joel's hands found yours, fingers interlacing, and he pressed them against the door on either side of your head as he leaned into you, overwhelming your senses. He took in the details of your face, eyes darker than you'd ever seen, and it was like he was trying to devour you with them.

He was still for a few moments like that, his body pressed against yours in a long line of delightful heat.

Nibbling at your lip, you could feel a flush warming your neck and cheeks beneath his intense gaze. Finally, another little laugh huffed out of you and you gave him a quizzical arch of your eyebrows, even as your breasts rose and fell with shallow breaths, lifting against the press of his chest.

"Are you just planning to stand here all night, Mr. Miller?" you teased, and giggled at the way his brows tugged down into a soft scowl. "Or do you plan to make good use of that bed?"

His face came to within an inch of yours then and you'd swear that, by the way your breath caught, you'd never been kissed by the man before. That you hadn't had several exquisite make-out sessions already: in his truck, outside your front door, on your couch…

"Oh, we'll get there," he growled out softly. "And don't call me that."

There was an almost dangerous edge to his voice that you'd never heard before, and it sent heat spearing through you, going straight between your legs as your core tightened.

Then, just when you thought he might lean in to kiss you, he surprised you by lifting one pair of your intertwined hands away from the door. He brought them up to his face and placed soft, tender kisses against each of your fingertips. A faint groan passed his plush lips as he did, and the tip of his tongue darted out against the pad of your index finger, before his voice rumbled over you again.

"Damn, Darlin', I want to take my time with you," Joel drawled as his accent became more prominent, much like the bulge in his jeans, pressed against your lower belly. Then, he grinned at the little shiver that he could feel race through you. "Just not sure how much longer I can wait to see these sweet, little fingers wrapped around my cock."

Your breath audibly stuttered at his words, your neglected pussy aching. Hips arched against him a smidgen, as if with a mind of their own.

There was another pause as Joel chuckled and released your hand. His hand slipped behind your head, fingers tangling into your hair as his lips hovered over yours again, those impossibly dark eyes holding yours. "Someone likes a bit of dirty talk, hm?" he asked with a quirked brow.

You gave a little snarl at him in return, making his grin widen, as your freed hand pushed into his soft curls. A hissed out "Yes," barely passed your lips before you tugged him down, molding your mouth against his.

His broad shoulders only shook with amusement for a moment before he was kissing you back hungrily, his tongue delving in for the familiar taste of your mouth.

You weren't sure which of you broke the kiss first, but you both drew back to catch your breaths, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his.

Those gorgeous brown, desire-filled eyes dropped to your kiss-swollen lips and the faint redness around them from his beard and mustache. His tongue flicked over his lower lip as he smiled languidly, before his gaze dipped down to your top's neckline, drawn by the way your breasts lift with labored breaths.

"Fuck, Honey," he husked, eyes darting up to yours again. "Can I…can I please see those pretty tits?"

A tremble raced up your spine even as you gave him a nod and a smile, with a playful wink. "Since you asked so nicely," you purred. The hand still buried in his hair slipped free and you lifted it above your head in invitation, along with the hand still intertwined with his.

Joel grinned, releasing your hand to drop both of his down to your hips. Calloused fingers dragged up over the denim of the jeans that hugged you there, and under your shirt, skirting along the soft skin of your sides and gathering up the material as they went. He peeled it up your torso and off of you, almost reverently.

When your shirt blinded you for a moment, and you giggled behind it, Joel paused. He smirked and leaned in to steal a kiss while your face was still half covered, arms caught up in the soft material.

It stole the breath from your lungs and you leaned into it. Then, a mewling whimper tumbled out of you when Joel pulled away again.

He went still at the sound for a moment, just for a breath, and then it was like something snapped inside him.

His mouth claimed yours again in a rush with a bruising kiss, as he tore your shirt the rest of the way off of you and then pushed his hands between your back and the door, to find the fasteners of your bra. It joined your shirt on the floor then, somewhere, as he moved to trail searing kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat to your clavicle.

You tilted your head back, relinquishing to him with a breathy moan, as your hands moved over his broad shoulders and down his chest. Your fingers curled into the cotton, tugging, until he took the hint and yanked the t-shirt off.

Before you had a chance to really appreciate the view of his bared torso, Joel was leaning into you again. Beard and mustache teased your skin as he captured the peak of one breast in his mouth. He lingered there for a bit, laving his tongue over the nipple until the nub tightened and hardened for him, and you were panting. He switched to the other peak, while his big palm replaced his mouth on the first.

Soon, you were trembling and mewling for him, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders. Heat seared through you and your belly tensed as arousal pooled between your thighs.

Then Joel was up at your mouth again, capturing your panted breaths with heated kisses as his fingers worked to open your jeans.

You matched his hunger, your tongue dancing with his as you dragged your nails down his chest and stomach until he hissed into the kiss. When your eager fingers found the button of his fly to work it open though, he stopped you with one large hand grasping your wrist.

"Hold on, there, Sweetheart," he rasped against your lips, a smile pulling up his mouth. "Gotta let me take care of you first."

His free hand dipped into the front of your jeans, between denim and your panties. Another grin crossed his face when you gasped softly as his fingers smoothed over your aching core, through the cotton. Then his lips were at the hinge of your jaw, teasing beneath your ear.

"Need to make you cum for me, Darlin'," he rumbled. "Just need to know if you want my fingers or my tongue to do the work."

A moan escaped you, your pussy throbbing beneath the cotton as he barely let his fingers brush over you. Then you pulled back, and gave him a pretty, little pout. "Joel," you whimpered as your free hand snaked back up his chest and neck, to bury your fingers into his hair. "I just wa-want your cock, handsome…"

The guttural sound that came up from his chest was positively obscene, and you smiled against the brief crush of his lips. He was shaking his head a moment later though. "Fuuuck… I don't… don't want to hurt you, Darlin'," he stuttered out, as the hand holding your wrist guided your hand to palm over the hardness of his erection through his jeans.

You were about to protest again. After all, this isn't exactly your first rodeo.

Instead, you went still, your eyes popping open and your jaw dropping a little as his thick shaft more than filled your hand through the straining fabric. Your eyes darted down the scant space between your bodies and the outline of his cock in the denim was more obvious to you now.

Well, shit… maybe he has a point.

When your eyes met his again, there was a soft smile curving up his lips and mustache, and his eyebrows were lifted.

It was not an arrogant look. He wasn't silently bragging. (Although, what you were feeling in your hand told you he had every reason to brag.) It was a quiet confidence, as he waited for you to answer his question, that he knew what he was talking about.

Darting your tongue out, you let a smirk pull up one corner of your lips as you shrugged a little, sheepishly. Warmth crept along your skin as you nibbled on your lower lip then, your eyes drifting down to the curve of his mouth.

"Tongue…" you mewled.

Joel groaned and then grinned. "I was hopin' you'd say that, sweetheart."

He effortlessly lifted you and the room spun until your back hit the bed. You giggled, blinking up at him as he leaned down to press a kiss against your lips. Then his fingers finished working your pants open and he was tugging them down your hips and legs, along with your panties. Your simple slip-on sandals got caught with the clothing and everything ended up in a heap on the floor.

He towered over you for a few moments, his head canted to one side as his tongue slipped out to wet his lower lip. His eyes dragged over your body and an appreciative hum came out of his throat.

"So goddamn gorgeous…"

Warmth prickled across your skin as you watched him savoring your nakedness. Your tits rose and fell with your shallow breaths and you could feel the slick between your thighs gathering as you resisted the urge to squirm beneath his intense gaze.

Finally, with a languid grin, he sank to his knees and tugged your hips to the edge of the bed. Then he pulled your legs up over his broad shoulders and you bit back a whimper just at the sight of him between your thighs.

Joel's lips, mustache and beard teased along the inside of one thigh, as he peppered kisses between tiny nips of his teeth that finally did had you squirming and whimpering with need. Then he repeated it on your other thigh until your fingers were fisting in the sheets and you were whining out his name in a plea.

His breath was warm, dancing over your aching center as he paused. "Oooh, this all for me?" he drawled. The pad of his thumb stroked through the wet folds of your sex as he gave an appreciative hum. "When's the last time someone ate out this sweet little pussy, Darlin'?"

You tried to arch at that first touch, whimpering and chasing after more friction. His other hand held you in place though, broad fingers splayed across your belly and pinning you down to the bed.

He leaned in close then, so close that you could feel the whisper of his lips and facial hair against the needy flesh of your sex –almost there, but not quite– and his breath was sinfully hot. "Answer me, sweetheart."

The next whimper that escaped you was high pitched and followed by a snarl of frustration as your fingers dug further into the sheets beneath you. "Ahh….um… I don't know… a c-couple years?"

A soft sound of disappointment passed his lips with a click of his tongue. "That's a shame… sweet girl like you deserves to be devoured regular," he rumbled. His lips barely ghosted over your mound before he was pausing again to glance up at your face. "Oh, remember, Darlin', can't be too loud…"

Your eyes snapped open and you looked down at him sharply at that, only for your head to drop back and your hand to fly up to cover your mouth as you cried out from the long stripe he licked up through your pussy's lips.

Joel groaned at that first taste, repeating the swipe up your dripping seam with torturous slowness to gather your tangy slick on his tongue and swallow it down. Your muffled moans made him grin and with one more appreciative hum, he delved into eating you out with enthusiasm. His tongue traced every line and curve of your pussy, or stiffened to push into your slit, licking as deep as he could. The added abrasion of his mustache, or the way he nuzzled the curve of his nose against your swollen clit, had you gasping for air and crooning for him behind your hand. Your other hand found the crown of his head, fingers digging into his locks and making him growl against your tender flesh.

Stars were dancing behind your eyes as Joel pushed your pleasure higher with that skillful tongue. You could feel a climax building and you writhed against the firm hold of his hand.

When his lips wrapped around your clit, drawing the sensitive bundle of nerves in to suck firmly, even his hand couldn't entirely keep you from bucking up and grinding against his mouth. Then he pushed two long, thick fingers into your throbbing core and you moaned again, biting into the meaty flesh of your own thumb in an attempt to keep somewhat quiet.

He pumped those fingers into you as he sucked at your clit and flicked his tongue over it. His fingers scissored inside you, opening your tight tunnel a little more for him and making you jolt. When your walls began to throb around them, he slowed down, before carefully adding a third finger and picking up the pace again.

Your legs trembled as they tried to clench around Joel's head, but he pushed his broad shoulders between them to hold you open for him. Whimpers and mewls slipped past your hand as your orgasm built with increasing speed now, to match the rapid stroking of his fingers.

When you started to shatter, Joel could feel it in the way your cunt fluttered. He gave one last swirl of his tongue over your clit before he surged up to lean over you. Tugging your hand free and covering your mouth with his, he swallowed down your wrecked keen as you came undone around his fingers, arching against the press of his palm.

Trembles raced through your body, outward from your shuddering core, through your limbs, and back again. You met his searing kiss with a mewl as you came down from your orgasm, his fingers still stroking into you through it.

"That was beautiful, Honey," he husked against your neck as he finally drew his fingers out of you, absently wiping them on the edge of the sheets before his fingers curled around the back of your neck. "So good for me…"

You purred at the praise, shaky hands raising up to dig into his curls again as you returned the kiss he pressed to your lips. Your breaths were still coming jaggedly and a sheen of sweat glistened on your skin.

"Want you, Joel…" you cooed softly, breaking away to nuzzle against the patchy hair on his jaw.

A low growl came out of him, his teeth nipping at the pulse point below your jaw gently. "Sure you're ready for me, Darlin'?"

A little grumble slipped out of you as you tugged his head up so your eyes could meet his lust blown ones. He was smirking.

"Joel Miller," you hissed up at him, despite your own smirk, "I want that fat cock you've been hiding away from me." When his smirk turned into a devilish grin, you tilted your chin up to nip at his lower lip. One of your hands slipped out of his hair at the same time and you reached down to finish undoing his jeans. "Keep denying me and I just might start taking it personally."

That brought a rumbling laugh up out of him and he kissed you again. He shifted to help rid himself of his jeans and boxers, and ended up standing to kick them off along with his boots.

You drank in the sight of him for a moment, biting your lip.

Joel Miller was absolutely gorgeous, every line of his tan body exuding the strength brought on by years of construction work, with the smallest hint of softness at his stomach. And now you knew he definitely hadn't been mistaken in thinking you'd need an orgasm to take him, his thick dick standing at attention for you and making your mouth go dry.

With a coy smile you scooted further up the bed and crooked a finger at him.

Grinning, Joel reached over to the nightstand beside the bed, withdrawing a condom. He tore into the packaging with his teeth as he climbed into the bed after you, on one hand and his knees.

Once he was close enough you snatched the condom from him with a grin, eager for the excuse to get your hands on him, and helped roll it onto his shaft. Joel's groan was like a melody to your ears as he moved over you while you squeezed the base of him in your hand. You couldn't quite get your fingers fully around his girth and that realization had you shivering with excitement, and just a hint of anxiousness.

Bracing on his forearms on either side of you, Joel plundered your mouth with his tongue again as you hooked your legs up against his ribs and guided the head of his dick to your slicked entrance.

Then he was pushing forward, stretching you open around his blunt tip. Your fingers found purchase in his sides as you tilted your hips for him with a desperate whine.

Both of you let out long moans then, muffled into your kisses, as his cockhead pressed into you and slipped past the tight stretch of your slit. For a moment he was still, letting you get accustomed to that first bit of penetration, and then when you eagerly rocked your hips he flexed forward and sank further into you, inch by exquisite inch.

When he bottomed out, you broke the kiss and your head dropped back as you whimpered. You bit hard into your lip to keep it quiet as his head dipped down to bury his face, and his groan, into your neck.

"Holy shi-iit, Darlin', you feel a-amazing," he rasped against your sweat-dampened skin, his breath raising goosebumps.

Panting for breath, you couldn't quite find your voice yet to respond, overwhelmed at feeling so full of him. Instead, you moved, ghosting your hands up from his sides. One slid across the back of his shoulders, clutching at the taut muscles, as the other curled around the back of his head and you nuzzled against his hair.

Finally, when you found your voice with a breathy plea of "Please, fuck me, Joel", and squirmed a little beneath him, Joel groaned and began to move. Shallow thrusts at first, just barely pulling back before grinding into you again. Soft grunts dissolved into your hair as an arm slid under you, strong fingers curling over your shoulder to hold you there beneath him as he began fucking into you.

You moaned with him as you arched to meet his thrusts, clinging to him like a lifeline as bliss lanced through your body.

Joel growled lowly against the curve of your neck, his strokes into you getting longer as he began to pull further out, only to snap his hips into the cradle of yours again. Soon he was drawing out almost completely, finding a hard and fast rhythm as he drove back into the welcoming, wet clutch of your cunt. The sounds of skin meeting skin filled the room as you both tried to muffle the louder pleasured sounds that escaped your lips.

"Uunngh, h-hell yeah, handsome," you gasped out, purring into his ear as your fingers clamped into the now damp locks of his hair. "That's it. K-keep going… just like that, big boy… feels so fucking g-good."

You could feel Joel's smile against your neck, even as another growl escaped him. He trembled beneath your hands, and you felt it as he fucked deep into you. You weren't sure if it was because of the pleasure, the praise, or the pet names that tumbled out of you, surprising even you.

It wasn't long before you could feel another peak building, like a storm, low in your belly. Each impaling thrust drove you higher, until you were gasping for it, clawing at Joel's shoulder and spurred onward by his rough baritone in your ear.

"Takin' my cock s-so well, pretty girl. So fffuckin' perfect." He shifted above you, bracing on one arm so he could reach between you with the other. "Got another one…for me, sweetheart? Feel you shiverin'. Can ya cum for me again?" he asked as his thumb found your clit and circled it.

You gave a frantic nod, panting, and let your eyes flutter open to meet his. Joel's breaths were ragged too, and his dark eyes held yours as you shuddered around him.

"Come on, Darlin'. Wanna f-feel you cum," he husked between grunts, his thrusts beginning to lose their steady rhythm as he pressed his forehead to yours, all while his thumb kept circling your tender clit.

You mewled, your thighs squeezing around his hips as your climax sped towards you. "D-...don't stop. Keep talking," you begged, your brows knitting together and your eyes fluttering. "I'm so close, Joel."

"Oh, fffuck yeah, Honey. I can feel it," Joel growled, his thrusts coming a little harder. "Tight li-little cunt likes being fucked by my fat cock…hmm?" When another shiver ran through you, he groaned, "That's it. Cum for me, good girl…"

It was the praise that finally pushed you over the edge, your body jolting beneath his and your back arching sharply. An unhindered cry started to tumble from your lips but it was cut off as Joel tugged his hand up from between you to press it over your mouth and soften the sound.

Lightening arced through your body as you trembled beneath the force of the orgasm, clinging to him while it rolled over you in waves. Joel's name was a litany on your lips, muffled against his palm.

Face buried into your hair again as you came, Joel fucked you through your orgasm, grunting as your cunt fluttered and pulsed around him.

Then, it only took a few more ragged, hard thrusts, grinding into your spongy center, for Joel to follow you over that peak. His body tensed and his back bowed as he came, balls drawing in tight, muscles trembling.

He came undone above you, his voice a muffled growl through the room.

It was loud to you though, with his face buried in your hair and his mouth next to your ear as he groaned out your name, low and long.

—

You stop short in your next step, your breath leaping into your throat when you hear your name echo off the walls of Jackson's Main Street around you.

It feels like an eternity passes in the span of a few breaths as you stand frozen in place, your hands curled into trembling fists at your sides. Air burns in your lungs and your heart is hammering up into your ears.

Beside you, Maria also stops, but she doesn't seem to be having the same issue with her limbs not working because she turns to look back immediately. You think you hear her grumble some kind of curse, but you aren't sure past the pounding in your ears.

Slowly, you turn on the toes of your boots, just in time for a man to come to a stuttered halt about five steps from you.

You swallow hard, and then the breath you were holding escapes in a shudder as your eyes sweep over him.

He's even broader than you remembered, with a roughness that's instantly obvious but also hard to pinpoint. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, and his stance is wider, forward, like he's ready to move at a moment's notice. Those curls you had loved are far more gray now than brown, as are the mustache and patchy beard. His face has more lines, the two between his brows are much deeper, but there's still no denying that it's the same face that has haunted your dreams from time to time over the last twenty years. Especially once your eyes settle on his and, despite the additional crows feet at their corners, you know you could never forget the depths of those brown pools.

It isn't until he says your name again, softer this time, with that rough baritone you had almost forgotten the sweet sound of, that you're able to somewhat snap out of your dazed state.

An unexpected sob of relief escapes you and your vision blurs. Until now, you hadn't realized that you hadn't been sure if you believed Tommy's words.

It just seemed too good to be true.

You take a faltering step forward and, when your legs threaten to give out beneath you, Joel is there.

His arms catch you and you go still again, your fingers clutching at the front of his green flannel shirt as you stare up into his eyes and barely whisper his name.

"Joel…you're really here?"

—

Joel is frozen now with you held against him, his heart threatening to break out of his rib cage again, the pounding trying to drown out everything else in his head. He almost can't hear what you say, but he can see it in the way your lips hesitantly form the words.

He swallows around the dryness in his throat, mind reeling. His eyes move over every inch of your face, taking in the little details that have changed over the years, and those that haven't.

When he settles back on your eyes, it's the wetness rimming them that brings him back out of that haze. He lifts one hand from around your waist to brush hair back from your face and then cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your cheekbone to wipe away a tear that escapes your lashes.

"Y-yeah, Darlin', I'm really here," he roughly chokes out.

—

You nearly sob again at hearing those words, and the endearment you hadn't let a single soul call you in twenty years.

Your mind leaps all over the place for a moment, unable to fathom how you've suddenly found yourself in Joel Miller's arms again.

And maybe it's bold of you, and later you might question the decision –there's so much for the two of you to talk about– but at this moment you can't help it. He's so close, with that familiar warmth and strength wrapped around you, and his dark eyes drawing you in just like they used to.

You push up on your toes, your chin tilting your face up to his.

And Joel meets you there, sealing his lips to yours in a soft but desperate kiss.

#fanfic #reader insert #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #ao3 #ao3 fanfic

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keeshya6 · 11 months

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Oh, we all hope so! Just wait and see! I promise, I'm working on the next chapter. Thank you so much for the comment and reblog! 🥰

Last Chance

Chapter 4 - The Last Thing Stopping Him

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Rating: M (Eventually will be E. 18+ only, minors dni!)

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: Reader explores Jackson a little, meets a couple more people, and we learn a bit more history.

(This chapter includes spoilers for The Last of Us, season 1, episode 1. Stop HERE if you don't want spoilers.)

Content Warning and general info: Angst, grief, some build up of spiciness, discussing death, loss of a child, Reader has a nickname

Oh, this chapter is kind of edited... it was late again. I'll probably be editing a little more when I look at it later. Lol.

Thank you for reading! As always, I'd love to hear from ya'll! Any comments and reblogs are loved and appreciated!

I hope you enjoy!

Also available on Ao3

Tagging: @vickie5446

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Chapter 4 - The Last Thing Stopping Him

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The next day you keep yourself busy, exploring more of Jackson and introducing yourself to people. You learn some of their stories: where they're from, how they came to be in Jackson, what they do here, etc..

It has you contemplating what you're going to do to contribute to the community, though the councilwoman you met a few days ago told you not to worry about it right away. She said you could take a couple weeks to recuperate and get settled. The community would take care of you.

Being part of something so well organized and so companionable again is a very foreign feeling. It's going to take some getting used to again, but you're looking forward to it.

It's a little after noon when you cross paths with Tommy again, on his way to help with the community's livestock. He greets you with a grin and a hug. Then he invites you to dinner, to meet his wife and son.

Your eyebrows shoot upward. "You're married? And… a father?" you ask, amusement laced into your tone. "Mister New-Girl-Every-Couple-Months?"

Tommy heaves a long suffering sigh and rolls his eyes, giving a shake of his head. "Don't start on me, Eeps," he says with a warning tone, even though he's smirking. "I get enough of that from my big brother."

A faint chuckle passes your lips and then you take a slow breath. You breeze past the way your stomach does a little somersault at the mention of Joel. "I'm happy for you, Tommy. Just a little teasing," you say, with a grin. "And I'd love to join you."

He grins in return with a nod, gives you directions to his house, and continues on his way to the stockyards.

Taking another deep breath as he walks away, you exhale slowly and let your eyes close as you try to still the rapid beat of your heart.

You'd been spending the day out in the town to keep your mind off Joel, and now he's the center of your thoughts once more. Along with those thoughts, the anxiety creeps up on you again, the same mix of excitement and fear that barely allowed you to sleep last night.

Some of the night you had cried, overwhelmed with the relief of knowing he's alive and somewhere nearby; or because the uncertainty caught in your throat about whether or not he'll be happy to see you. Other times when you woke up yet again, you had just laid there in quiet thought, pulling up happy memories from so long ago that you hadn't often indulged in thinking about.

Opening your eyes again, you swallow hard and clench your jaw with determination.

You can do this. You'll make it through this, no matter how it goes, just like everything else since outbreak day.

With one more clarifying breath, you turn away from Tommy's retreating back and resume your exploration of Jackson.

Several hours later finds you standing at the door of a cute house, nibbling at your lip as you hesitate to knock. After a few minutes pass, you finally manage to trample down your anxiety and rap your knuckles against the door.

You're surprised to see the door answered by the councilwoman you met a week ago.

"Oh! Maria!" you say with a somewhat embarrassed smile. "You're…Tommy's wife?"

Maria gives you a kind smile and nods, opening the door and gesturing for you to come inside. "Yes," she responds, before a confused expression crosses her face. "But he told me your name was Eeps. That's not what you told me when we met."

An exasperated sigh escapes you. "Eeps is the nickname he dubbed me back in Austin," you say with a faint laugh despite yourself, "when it was found that I squeak when I'm surprised or…tickled." You give her a tortured look.

For a second, she does chuckle as she guides you into the house from the entryway. Then she goes quiet and her brows pinch together as she looks at you curiously.

It's not a jealous look, but you can guess that she's wondering about the extent of your past friendship with her husband. You give a little shake of your head. "He liked startling me, but he wasn't the one that tickled me," you say with a smirk.

Her expression grows serious at that as she nods and leads you through the living room, towards the kitchen. "Oh. Joel."

You give her a curious tilt of your head, brows peaked. "Yes…"

She pauses near the entry into the kitchen, turning to fully face you and leveling a concerned look at you. "Look, I don't know you well," she starts, "but you seem like a considerate person. I'm concerned, and so is Tommy, about you meeting Joel again." She holds up a hand to stave off your response when you scowl, shift your weight to one hip, and cross your arms. "Just…hear me out, please. With everything Tommy has told me about how things were, and considering how they are now, we're just worried you're setting yourself up to be disappointed."

You stare at her for a moment, shocked that someone you barely know would talk like this. Then again, she does know Tommy and Joel, and she probably didn't get to being a council member by being timid with her words. Inhaling deeply through your nose, you force your expression to soften.

"I hear you," you say simply, then add, "and maybe I will be disappointed." Shrugging, you throw your hands up briefly before dropping them down onto your hips. "But I'm not so worried about being disappointed that I'm just going to give up and not try."

Maria's dark eyes narrow a little and she studies you for a moment before a smile curves her mouth upward. "Fair enough. I can't fault you for that… too much."

After a moment you return her smile and then follow her as she turns to head into the kitchen.

"Come on," she says. "I've got a couple things to finish for dinner before Mikey is up from his nap. You can cut up some veggies."

The next couple hours pass pleasantly with easy enough conversation. You learn a little about Maria, about how she and Tommy met, their whirlwind romance, and how they balance their community roles with their new roles as parents. You also meet little Micheal, their one-year-old, immediately adoring his cherub smile.

As you get up to take your leave, Maria bids you goodnight and scoops up her toddler to take upstairs for bed. Tommy, with a proud smile on his face, watches them go for a moment before turning to you and offering to walk you out.

You make it about halfway back through the living room before you stop short, a soft gasp catching in your throat and making Tommy tense and spin back towards you.

He finds you frozen in place, a stricken expression on your features as you stare at the mantle over the fireplace.

Tommy's eyes follow yours and his shoulders relax as he sighs softly.

Tears rim your eyes as you look over at Tommy and then back to the small chalkboard sitting on the mantle, with two candles in front of it. Two names are on the board, with dates written below them: Kevin, 4/3/00 - 9/29/03… and Sarah, 7/20/89 - 9/27/03.

A lump forms in your throat and it takes you a few tries to swallow around it as you stare at Sarah's name. You don't even realize you're moving then, until Tommy has led you to sit in a chair, your eyes locked on the little memorial.

Tommy crouches beside your knee as you sit there, a few silent tears slipping down your cheeks. He waits, patiently, nodding to Maria when she comes back in. Realizing what has happened, she sits on the nearby couch to wait too.

When you finally find your voice again, it cracks with emotion. "The day after outbreak?" you ask in barely more than a whisper.

Tommy gives a slight nod. "Yeah… really early hours."

You swallow hard again and nod. Then, you hastily swipe at the tears on your cheeks, heaving a sigh. "I don't know why this is hitting so hard," you whisper in a broken voice. "I-I basically mourned all of you years ago. And… I still suspected something happened to her. You would have mentioned her otherwise."

He nods again but it's Maria that speaks up. "Suspicion is one thing, but knowing for certain can be harder sometimes."

Glancing over at the other woman, you nod again after a moment of thought and sniffle a little.

Then, you freeze for a second, your mind reeling. It feels like a rock drops into your gut as your eyes dart back up to the chalkboard memorial and then tear over to Tommy's concerned face.

"Please, Tommy," you choke out, "please, t-tell me Joel didn't have t-… Sarah didn't get bit a-and…" Your words catch in your throat, the thought too horrific to even finish.

To his credit, Tommy catches on quickly and is shaking his head before you have to finish the thought. "No, no. It wasn't like that. He didn't have to… to do that," he assures you and you sigh heavily in relief. Then, at the sad and quizzical look you give him, he shakes his head. "It's not my story to tell, Eeps."

You mull on that for a moment, worrying at your lip with your teeth as you look back up at the board. With a steadying breath, you nod and gulp against the thick feeling in your throat.

"Okay. I'll wait for Joel to tell me… if he wants to," you say, taking another cleansing breath and unsteadily pushing to your feet. After all, you thought, it's not like knowing exactly what happened would change anything. "I should get going," you say, giving Tommy a sad little smile as he rises to his feet beside you.

Saying your goodbyes again is more somber this time. You thank Maria for dinner and her hospitality. Tommy finishes walking you out, even going all the way down the path from his door to the quiet street.

Once there he gives you a brief squeeze of a hug and smiles at you, a tinge of sadness in his eyes now too. "Thanks, Eeps, for…giving a shit about us all."

You give a strained laugh, punching his shoulder lightly. "How could I not? You Millers have a way of digging into people, one way or another."

His chuckle follows you as you turn on the toes of your boots and start the trek back to your house.

—

You had learned something that night, outside the club.

Joel was a damn good kisser.

After that night, he didn't hold back on the kissing anymore either, and you didn't question it.

Hell, you learned the heady taste of his kiss, the contours of his mouth, and the way he liked to tease your tongue with his own, before you ever learned about things like his favorite sports teams and the best concert he'd ever gone to. That knowledge did start filtering in too, of course, but not nearly as quickly as what way you had to drag your nails across his scalp to get him to moan a little into a kiss.

Things lingered there for a long while, with dates scattered across several more weeks as you tried to fit in time together with both of your busy schedules. At least they were no longer ending with just a peck on the cheek though. The heat in the lingering kisses, or even full on make-out sessions, was amping up each time you got to see Joel, and the more time you spent together the more you liked him. Just thinking about him throughout the days in between dates often had you lost in daydreams, unable to find the relief you could at night with the help of your clever fingers, and you'd end up fighting a blush when something or someone would pull you back to reality.

One Friday night, after you'd been seeing each other for a little over three months, Joel surprised you.

He liked doing that.

Standing in the threshold of your front door, he had you wrapped up in his arms and lost in one of those delicious kisses. Then, he pulled back just enough to break it and held you there for a moment, dark eyes searching your face.

Your lashes fluttered a little before you could focus up at him, and found him with a faint, self-satisfied smirk on his lips. A small snort escaped you and you rolled your eyes as he chuckled.

Yes, you enjoyed his kisses and you were both well aware.

Then you lifted a brow at him.

His tongue darted over his lips, conveying his nervousness, despite the soft smile. "Would you… like to come over for dinner tomorrow night?"

Your eyebrows had reached high at that. "What about Sarah?" you asked.

Saturdays were normally reserved for time with his daughter, and Joel had been very clear about that. On other nights, when the two of you went out, she was usually at the neighbors' house or at home spending time with Joel's brother or one of their parents. Either way, it was why Joel always headed home earlier than you might have liked otherwise.

But you couldn't deny how endearing his devotion to his kid was.

His jaw twitched a little to the side as he ground his teeth for a second, and then gave you an uncertain smile. "I'd…like you to meet her."

A light breeze could probably have tipped you over if Joel's arms hadn't been around you.

"R-really?"

He barely nodded. “It won’t be anything fancy…”

You smiled brightly and pushed up on your toes to give him a quick kiss and cut off his nervous words. "I'd love to."

The next night you couldn't believe how nervous you were as you drove to his place, your nails drumming on the steering wheel with erratic rhythms. You had changed your clothes about a dozen times before deciding on something, even though Joel had assured you that 'casual' was the way to go.

Pulling up to the house, you looked over the two-story home and smiled softly. It was simple in design but functional, and it fit exactly what you would have expected for Joel.

When you reached the front door, it yanked open so suddenly, before you even had a chance to knock, that you jumped with a squeak of surprise.

You were greeted by a beautiful young girl with a beaming smile on her golden-bronze face, her dark honey-brown eyes shining. She said your name as a question and, when you nodded, she giggled. "You really do squeak like Uncle Tommy said. Can I call you Eeps too?"

You sighed with a laugh over the recently acquired nickname and nodded. Grinning, she opened the screen door and hurriedly introduced herself as Sarah. She grabbed you by the hand then and tugged you inside.

Still laughing, you stumbled into a small-ish living room that led straight into a dining room and kitchen, where Joel stood over a steaming pot of something, stirring it. Your eyes met his across the space, over miscellaneous pieces of furniture, and the wide smile he gave you made your heart skip a little.

His broad shoulders moved up in an amused shrug. "She was excited."

"I gathered," you said with a smile of your own.

"I'm going to give her a tour!" Sarah announced and, without waiting for confirmation from either adult, she tugged you along again, upstairs.

There wasn't a lot to show up there: a decent sized bathroom with Joel's room on one side of it (you barely caught a discreet glimpse inside), and Sarah's room down at the other end of the hall. The way she lingered with you in her room, showing you some of her favorite things and talking excitedly about her favorite music and movies, you realized that the girl was probably just happy to have some feminine companionship. Joel and Tommy didn't exactly fit into that puzzle piece.

So, you stayed up there with her for a while, letting her chatter on cheerfully. Eventually she got around to asking questions about you: what some of your favorite things were, why did you become an architect… how much did you like her dad?

Preteens aren't exactly subtle.

You gave her a slow, broad smile, nibbling your lip a little. "I like him a lot," you said, and then paused, noticing how inadequate that word felt. "Actually… I adore him," you amended with a shrug.

Sarah beamed at you and then leaned in to whisper, as if sharing a secret. "Good, 'cause I think he's a little crazy about you. He's always in the best mood on the days after he sees you."

That made your smile brighten and you could feel warmth creep up your neck and into your cheeks, just in time for Joel to call up the stairs for you and Sarah to come down.

Grinning at you, Sarah hopped up from the edge of the bed, her tight curls bouncing. She paused, a soft grimace crossing her face. "Just… don't judge his cooking too much," she said, as she held out her hand for yours again.

You laughed, eyes widening dramatically as you let her take your hand again. "Oh, great. Now you've got me scared," you said as she led you out her door and back downstairs with a giggle.

As you and Sarah settled into chairs at the table, Joel glanced back from dishing up what looked like spaghetti. “Either of you scare the other off yet?”

Sarah grinned. “Not yet!” she quipped, then she turned back to you. “Dad actually makes the best spaghetti.”

“Then I’ll take notes,” you said with a smile. You glanced up and tossed Joel a wink as he set plates down in front of you and his daughter, making him smirk and show off that dimple of his before he turned to grab his own plate.

Dinner passed quickly, with Sarah leading most of the conversation with exuberance. She told you about her soccer tournaments, a play she’d been in at school, and how much she was looking forward to a camping trip with her best friend’s family in a couple of weeks. You listened intently, asking the occasional question to encourage her. Now and then you would look over at Joel and find him smiling softly between bites of his food, either at you or at Sarah.

After dinner, you and Sarah got up to wash the dishes. Joel tried to disuade you, as his guest, but you just gave him a playful shove towards the couch and took over the task before he could come up with a better excuse. Once finished, you and Sarah joined Joel on the couch to watch some reality t.v. car show, with Sarah curling up into his side.

Within half an hour, the girl was snoring softly with her head on her dad’s lap, and you exchanged a smile with him when you both noticed. Joel chuckled and let her stay there for a little while, to make sure she was really out, before he carefully gathered her up in his arms and carried her upstairs to her room.

When he came back down, he found you standing at the front screen door, looking out at the view of the sky. He stepped up behind you and slipped his arms around you, making you squeak and then giggle as you leaned back into him.

"You alright?"

You nodded, an easy smile curving your mouth. "Yeah. Just watching the stars come out," you said with a thin laugh. "My place is too close to the city center. Can barely see them."

He nodded and you could feel it against your hair.

“So…" he said after a few moments of quiet, "I think she likes you." His voice rumbled in his chest against your back.

With a grin, you rested your head back against his shoulder. “You think so? I figured she was just a chatty, little almost-teenager.”

A soft laugh escaped him. “She is, but not usually that much.”

Your hands slid along his forearms, across your midsection, as you huffed a little laugh. Then, after a moment of thought you smiled brightly, “I like her too, Joel. She’s a great kid.”

You could feel the way his chest swelled with pride against your back and you pressed your lips together to keep from grinning like too much of a fool.

For a while, the two of you stayed like that in comfortable silence, watching as more stars blinked to life in the sky's dark canopy outside the door. Occasionally, Joel would tilt his head down and press a kiss against your shoulder or to the side of your neck, until you hummed contentedly and could feel his smile against your skin.

Glancing down at your watch, you took a deep breath and then exhales slowly. "Well, it's about time for me to get to driving," you said, shifting in his arms.

Then, you froze, when his arms tightened around you, just a bit.

"Do you…want to stay?" he softly asked against your hair, near your ear.

Your mouth felt instantly dry and you swallowed hard, eyes widening a little as you twisted in his arms, just enough to look back at him over your shoulder. Dark eyes met yours, so close, warm and intense, and after a moment his brows ticked upward a fraction of an inch.

With your lip caught by your teeth, it took you a moment to find your voice. "Be…before I figure out how to answer that," you started softly, your tongue darting over your lips. With the way his eyes followed the movement you might have melted into him right then and there, if you weren't still a bit confused. "...why now? What changed?"

It was Joel's turn to look confused, brows drawing together to deepen the creases between them.

You swallowed thickly again and let a little puff of a laugh tumble from you. "It's…not like there haven't been other…opportunities," you said, warmth fluttering into your cheeks. "Of any night, I wasn't expecting tonight with…being here," you finished with a slight shrug and a brief glance over his shoulder towards the stairs.

He nodded in understanding and let a smile pull at his own lips as he shrugged too. "Honestly… seeing you get along with my kid is what changed." When you gave him another incredulous look, he chuckled and then shrugged. "Until I knew if you two got along, I couldn't risk gettin' more invested in… seeing where this all goes."

For a few moments, you were quiet as you processed that, until a gradual smile was drawing up the ends of your mouth. You canted your head at him with a curious and playful look. "'More invested', hm?"

Joel grinned, unapologetic, and didn't elaborate. Instead, he slipped one hand up from your waist to cup your cheek and pull you into a kiss over your shoulder. It only lasted a few seconds before he broke it and whispered against your lips, "What do ya think, Darlin'?"

Your breath stuttered as you found yourself nodding eagerly, turning in his arms. Just as you were about to kiss him again, as his big hands splayed across your back, you paused and a laugh escaped you. "You know," you said, a coquettish smirk on your lips, "you would choose the one date I figured there was no possible reason to wear one of my sexier bra and panty sets, and just went with cute and practical instead."

Joel's brows lifted with piqued interest as he smirked too, blatantly letting his darkening eyes drift down over the lines of your covered body and then back up to your face. The smile he gave you then was almost wolfish before he dipped his head down to nuzzle his mouth against the hair by your ear.

His voice was a lower timbre than normal, sending heat spearing straight to your core. "Guess I better make a good impression then… to up my chances of seeing those other ones…"

A giggle tumbled out of you as your fingers fisted into his curls, making him hiss, and pulling to lift his head. "I like the way you think, Joel Miller," you purred, and then slotted your mouth to his as he tugged your body up flush against him.

—

Joel grumbles as he stretches his neck from one side to the other, shifting uncomfortably on his horse's saddle.

Two days of riding to get back home is a damn long time, and he couldn't be happier to see the gates of Jackson as they creak open.

It's still fairly early and only about half of the town seems to be awake as the patrol group makes its way down main street towards the stables. They're spotted a few times by residents greeting them and asking questions. No one bothers Joel though, so he nudges his horse on ahead.

He's nearly to the stables when his fists tighten on the reins and he pulls the horse up short, making the animal paw irritably at the dirt. Joel doesn't notice though, his eyes locked further down the road.

His chest starts to burn with the shallow breaths he's taking and the way his heartbeat is rocketing upward. A ringing fills his ears as he clenches his eyes closed, dropping his chin down towards his chest.

Ellie draws her horse up next to him about then, her face scrunching up with concern as she reaches over to his shoulder. "Woah, Joel? You okay?" When he doesn't answer immediately, she shakes his shoulder a little. "Joel?!"

Joel grunts, batting her hand away, and continues to focus on evening out his breaths until the ringing in his ears starts to subside. When he does finally speak, his voice is choked though.

"Ellie, do you see Maria up a-ahead? Near the grocery?"

There's a pause as Ellie looks. "Ummm…yeah."

"Is…" he starts and then pauses, swallowing roughly, "...is there someone with her?"

Fucking hell, it had to be his imagination, right? Right?

"Yeah. Don't recognize her though."

Joel's jaw clenches against an unfamiliar tremble. "What… does she look like?"

He can practically feel the questioning look Ellie gives him but then she starts listing off descriptors.

Hair color. Skin tone. Build. Her best guess at height.

His fingers tighten on the reins as every word matches his memories and a painful ache builds in his gut and claws up into his chest.

With every breathful of labored air burning his lungs, Joel finally lifts his eyes up again to find where Maria is standing about a block away.

Talking with you.

He lurches out of the saddle, boots hitting the road hard, and then he's moving forward before he even realizes it.

His voice cracks the first time he tries to raise it and he has to try again.

This time, your name comes out of Joel in a pained bellow, echoing off of the storefronts of mainstreet.

#comment reply #fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you

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keeshya6 · 11 months

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OMG! I love this so so much! It's so perfectly sweet with just the right amount of spice! (Don't get me wrong though, I want *MORE* spice!) I love how you've portrayed Ellie! I think it's perfect for how she would be once she's in a safe and comfortable place like Jackson. And her multiple double-takes in the bedroom had me cracking up! And the kiss, omg, the KISS! Gurl, I think my knees actually went weak. That was absolute perfection. There are so many fics out there with Joel just being hard and gruff all the time (justifiably so), that I didn't realize just how much I needed soft!Joel in my reading. Thank you! I'm soooooo excited for whatever else you come up with for these two! I feel no need for an over-arching plot for this pair. I'll be happy with domestic and hot if that's all they ever end up at. Lol. LOVE IT!!! 🥰😍🥰😍🥰