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poeticpascal · 5 hours

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I loved this so much 😭😭😭 you write them both so beautifully holy shit

Best I Ever Had

Jackson!Joel Miller x afab!reader | w/c: 2.3k

Summary: Someone tries to hit on you on your night out with Joel, insulting your man in the process, and oh you don't like that. You blow off some steam in more ways than one.

Content/Warnings: Reader is able-bodied, no physical descriptions. Feminine perception of reader and feminine pet names (Joel calls you mama and babygirl), but no pronouns used. Reader's a fucking badass and can hold their own fights (probably Joel's too, tbh). Slight description of reader getting physical/violent with another person (bby has some anger issues). Established relationship. Implied age gap (exact number unspecified). A bit of insecure Joel. 18+ MDNI! Dom!reader !! Sub!Joel !!!! P in V unprotected. Slight breeding kink (reader just likes being filled, no children talk). Joel has a fast refractory period (don't think too much on it, just enjoy). Definitely some overstimulation. Cockwarming. Riding..straddling.. Teasing. Begging. Edging. Sloppy making out. Multiple orgasms. Please let me know if there’s anything I missed that should be up here!

A/N: Some get post-nut clarity, but I get post-nut lust. This was the product of that. Hope you enjoy, my angels. Thank you @honeyedmiller for beta’ing 🩶 also I picture both game Joel or hbo Joel, so it’s entirely up to you what you wanna visualize ;)

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It was a busy night at the Tipsy Bison. Everyone was out. Everyone was mingling, getting to know each other. As if it wasn’t a small town already, but hey, it wouldn’t hurt to make sure you really knew the people living in this little forever-town.

Except, Joel was not one to mingle—especially on nights like tonight. Tommy insisted that he come, it’ll be nice, he tried to reason.

He eventually agreed. Not because of Tommy, though, but because of you.

You knew Joel was a certified grump, through and through. And you love Joel, you really do. But the post-apocalyptic world caused you to react differently than your man. Yeah, you’ve become tougher, harder to break, harder to trust. However, you crave any sense of normalcy you can find. So on occasion, you like to go out and get to know the people of the town. You like human interaction.

And when they say opposites attract, the saying couldn’t have been more true. Joel was absolutely smitten the day he met you. It’s been a long time coming between you two—with his vulnerability, or lack thereof, and his initial unwillingness to accept that he can finally relax and unclench his jaw—but you’re together now, stronger than ever, and everything is worth it.

You are worth it.

Which is exactly why all you needed was to give one raise of your brow during his protesting before Joel promptly shuts his lips and takes a defeated breath, fixing his answer to Tommy. “Oh, hell. Alright, brother, we’ll be there.”

And to be quite honest, Joel would go as far to say that tonight’s little get together was actually decent for once. That is, until he sees you waiting on the bartender for his beer and your old-fashioned, and a man—a boy—approaches you.

“Hey,” you heard a voice beside you say. Not realizing it was meant for you, your attention stays on the bartender. Still, the voice persists. “I was thinking, uh-” you look at the guy then, eyes staring him down in a way he perceives as a challenge.

He clears his throat. “I was thinking I could buy you a drink?”

“No, I’m good,” you say shortly. The bartender comes up to you, pulling you away from the guy’s feeble attempt at flirting. You tell the bartender your order, and before you can take another moment to speak, the guy pipes up.

“Put it on my tab,” he smirks triumphantly, taking a closer step to you.

You pull yourself away on instinct— out of disgust, but your eyes stay trained on his gaze. You’re pissed, but this naïve little boy has no idea. Both of what you're capable of and what the older man, your older man, across the bar is capable of.

“Thanks,” you smile, “my boyfriend’s gonna appreciate the free drink,” you tell the guy, turning to Joel and giving him a sweet smile. You’ve been feeling his stare the second this waste of space walked up to you.

Joel would pounce if you told him to. He knows you can handle yourself, though, and you confirm it through that pretty smile you flash him. He can’t deny the way his cock twitches at the way this scene is unfolding. Part of him is begging for the guy to try something more, to test you—to unleash you.

The guy scoffs the second he sees Joel. “That old man is your boyfriend? Come on, baby,” his hand reaches for the crook of your elbow. “You can do so much better than that,” he taunts.

And that was the something more you needed. Immediately your hand takes hold of his wrist, twisting the man to face the bar in a rough fashion as you lean him over the bar counter, his arm twisted behind his back, shoulder ready to snap out of his socket with the tiniest of movements.

“Wanna say that again?” You seethe, knocking the breath from his lungs as you push him into the wooden counter.

“I said—”

He’s cut off by his own high-pitched scream. You push his arm higher, a sharp pain shooting through every nerve center in the guy’s arm.

“Sweetheart,” a southern twang says softly, but it’s not your man. Tommy. “I know he probably deserves it, darlin’, but it’s not worth it,” he says, not wanting to aggravate you more. Everyone knows not to test you.

Well, apparently not everyone.

You roll your eyes, knowing Tommy’s just trying to keep up the liveliness of tonight. “Fine,” you mutter. Leaning closer into the guy, you whisper into his ear. “Talk about my fuckin’ man like that again, and I’ll snap your shoulder so fuckin’ hard, Jackson’s doctors won’t even know what to do with ya. Ya hear me?” You’re not from the South, and before the outbreak, you’ve never even been. But get angry enough, and Joel’s twang possesses you.

You release the crying boy with a shove, and you back up, wanting to pull yourself away from the situation. Your back is met with something hard, and immediately you know who it is. You soften in his touch as his arms immediately wrap around your waist. “You alright, babygirl?” Joel rasps in your ear. You can feel his fucking hard-on pressed against your back.

The guy looks at you and Joel, chest still heaving as his face turns into disgust, a fuck you muttered under his breath, an aftertaste of jealousy on his lips.

Smiling wildly at the guy in front of you, you snake your hand up to wrap around Joel’s jaw before you turn your head back and tilt your head up, pulling Joel into an open-mouthed kiss, your tongue pushing into his mouth as he eagerly sucks it, lapping up your spit. He groans into you, his arms pulling you impossibly tighter into him.

You pull away with a harsh nip to his lip, feeding off the little whimper Joel lets out. “Baby,” he whines.

You look back to the guy, and the silent audience you’ve accumulated. “Come on, cowboy,” you breathe. “I’m not done with you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies happily, spinning you two around and walking out with you still pressed against him.

The bar stays quiet after a beat. Tommy’s hand slaps the bar counter before he speaks. “Well. Get the music back going unless y’all wanna hear ‘em goin’ at it all night!” The bar roars in laughter, the music coming back to life.

Before returning back to Maria, Tommy turns to the guy. “You. Out.”

He scrambles without looking back.

“Oh my God, baby.”

“Fuck— I- I can’t, baby, I can’t hold it much longer, baby, I need to come.”

“Just one more second, baby.”

“Mama, please,” he cries out, his head lolling from side to side on his sweat-soaked pillow as you grind your hips into his pelvis, lifting yourself on and off him every other moment. His hands hold onto your hips, not in a way to control your movement but to simply feel you.

“Oh, come on, be a good boy for me, baby,” you moan, your hand fixing itself onto his jaw to make him look at you. “Just wanna feel you twitch inside me a little bit more ‘fore you make a mess inside me, okay?”

“Oh, fuck— yes, yes, mama, yes, okay,” he rambles, trying his hardest to breathe through the pleasurable pain as you take and take and take.

A particular grind sends your back arching, his pubes soaked in your arousal nudging perfectly against your clit, sending an electric pulse up your spine. You cry out in ecstasy, your climax hitting you instantly. “Oh fuck, oh shit- fuckfuckfuck, baby, come with me— come inside me, baby, fucking fill me,” you nearly scream, hoping that boy can hear you now.

“Shit, baby, oh my God- fuck- I’m coming, mama, holy fuck- I-” he stutters, his thigh muscles shaking underneath you as you bounce on him through his climax, the mix of his spend with yours bouncing lewdly across the walls of your shared bedroom.

Your hips come to a slow but never stop, your chest heaving as you lean down to bring your lips to Joel. You let them ghost across his lips, but you don’t let them touch. He knows better not to chase it, not yet, anyway. He can still feel you fuming.

You can do so much better than that.

“Can you fucking believe him?” You whisper against his lips, barely audible yet fucking scary nonetheless.

Joel thinks that boy is right, deep down. Even though he’d never want you to leave him, and you’d never want him to leave you. Joel thinks that there’s a crumb of moral rightness in that statement. But he keeps that to himself.

Nevertheless, you know Joel like the back of your hand. He doesn’t need to utter a lick of anything to you. You already know what he’s thinking.

“Joel,” you say again. “I asked you a question.”

All questions must be answered.

Fuck.

“Y-yeah, baby,” he rumbles, too distracted by the comments from the bar, but mainly still caught up in the way his softening come-covered cock is still nestled inside of you.

You sit up now. A whine leaves his throat at the movement. “So you do believe him?”

Only then does he realize what he said. His eyes shoot up to yours. “W-wait, no, baby, ‘m sorry, no. No, I don’t believe him, baby,” he panics.

You quirk your eyebrow at him.

“The fuckin’ audacity on ‘em,” he adds for good measure.

You’re silent for a beat. Then—

“You’re lying.”

Joel’s heart starts to race. “No, baby. Please. Mama, I’m not lyin’,” he tries.

Still straddling his hips, you grab onto his bicep, pulling upward. He gets the hint and sits up. He’s still inside you, his cock slowly growing to full mast again the longer you sit here.

You’re face to face now. His arms are loosely wrapped around your waist, your arms tightly around his neck.

“Look me in my eye,” you whisper, “and tell me you’re the best I ever had.”

Joel audibly gulps.

Slow— so slow, your hips begin to move again. A breathy little moan escapes your mouth, and he lunges forward for you, his tongue dancing along the tip of yours, swallowing your breath. You allow it.

“Tell me,” you groan into his mouth, practically swallowing his tongue as you shallowly bounce yourself on him.

“Baby,” he whines, getting lost in this dance of heat and sweat he’s become utterly addicted to.

You break yourself away from his mouth, not allowing him the option to reach for you anymore. He pulls back, eyes wild and sad. His mouth turned down into a literal pout.

“My poor baby,” you mutter. “Tell me what I wanna hear,” you say again. “Or you’re not getting my lips nor are you coming for the rest of the night,” you tell him, switching back into your grinding motion to stimulate your sensitive bud, letting him feel the way your pussy flutters around him.

“Baby,” he begs again as you grind, your warmth forcing him to another climax. Please don’t make me say it, he’s trying to convince you.

Your fingers find their home at the base of his salt and pepper curls, tugging them in warning. “Tell. Me.”

You force his body down to lay flat on the bed again, towering over him, allowing your body the space to lift yourself off of him, only his tip inside of you. He takes a sharp breath in, knowing what’s coming.

You drop yourself down on him, fucking yourself on his cock at a bruising pace. You grab his hands and drag them up to your chest, wrapping his thick digits around you encouraging him to squeeze.

“Fuck- mama, I’m gonna—”

“No the fuck you’re not, baby,” you moan, lost in the pleasure but still rightfully in charge. “Swear to God, Joel, gonna leave you fucking swollen and pulsing for a fucking week— oh fuck,” you cut yourself off, a familiar sensation building at the base of your spine, sending you convulsing around his length yet again.

Joel’s eyes clamp shut, finally giving into your request so he can finally let go. “I— shit, I’m the—” a rugged moan forces itself out, “—the best you ever had, mama, please, the fuckin’ best, baby,” he cries out, his hips bucking up into you as he covers every inch of you with his spend.

“Shit,” you moan, his words affecting you a lot more than you anticipated, your hips doing overtime, unable to find it within you to stop even as he begins to soften. “Yes, fuck, that’s my boy, shit—” you breathe, “—the fucking best, always make me feel so fucking good, baby.”

His hands finally use their strength, trying his best to slow you with ease, his nerves reaching the point of painful overstimulation. “Alright, baby, alright,” he winces.

Recognizing his limits, you immediately begin to slow, lowering yourself onto his heaving chest. You let him slip out of you this time, giving him an actual break. “I’m sorry,” you whisper into his chest.

“For what, baby?” Joel responds with a kiss into your head.

“Did I go too far?”

He couldn’t help the belly laugh that shakes the both of you. You immediately sit back up, your hands on his chest to keep your limp body up. “What?” you glare at him.

“Too far? Which part, darlin’? Nearly breakin’ that guy’s shoulder or my dick?”

A belly laugh erupts out of you this time. Taking a moment to compose yourself, you respond. “...Both.”

“Mmm…” Joel puts on a fake thinking face. “Maybe to the former, but not at all to the latter,” he hums, his hands finding the back of your head to pull you in for a chaste kiss.

You hum into his lips, a smile stretching across your cheeks.

Resting your head on his chest, you let a few moments pass before you speak again. “Tommy’s not gonna invite us to another one of those, huh?”

“Probably not, mama,” he smiles. “Probably not.”

I’d love to hear what you think!! Any feedback or interactions with you all truly brightens my day. So so so much love for you all. Thank you for being here 🩶

I cannot get myself to write for Joel or for TLOU without mentioning the horrors occurring in Palestine. Please check out the links in my navigation + bio to learn about the situation in Palestine and also learn about some ways in which you can help🇵🇸. Reading and interacting with those links takes 5 minutes of your time at the bare minimum.

graphics by @saradika-graphics (middle divider in fic by me)

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller smut #fic rec

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poeticpascal · 2 days

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Oh this was SO worth the wait. You are such a wonderful writer and you’ve had me gripped on this series since you first announced it 🥺❤️🫶

daddy next door | j. miller (three)

❝ trust fall ❞

chapter summary: you’re forced to face joel following the events of the fair.

tags/warnings: MDNI. age gap (20s/50s). angst. depictions of anxiety. reader is a sensitive gal. foul language. blood in the form of scrapes/cuts (accidental). tending to wounds. joel lifts reader once. insufferably poor communication of feelings. pet names. yearning!!! fluff. sexual tension. impure thoughts. violence. alcohol abuse. VERBAL & BRIEF PHYSICAL ABUSE occurs in the latter half of the chapter and may not be suitable for all readers. you are responsible for the content you consume. reader wears a sundress & rides a bike. reader implied to be shorter than joel, but no other physical descriptions.

word count: 5.6k

a/n: smut very soon i promise pls don’t hate me. sorry it took so long pls don’t hate me. as always, thank you to @kiwisbell for beta’ing and being my other hand. and the other side of my brain. and my whole heart.

two | series masterlist | four | playlist | read it on ao3!

These violent delights have violent ends.

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss, consume.

— Romeo & Juliet, Act II Scene VI

Three days pass before you summon the courage to leave the house.

Not for lack of wanting or trying, but out of fear. Fear outside, fear within. It follows you, an unwelcome shadow.

You start to believe it may be branded into your being; a mutation of DNA, carried, inescapable, and unwanted. And in those three long and lonely days, you experience a range of emotions so vast, it’s as though the Earth has tipped off its axis.

Unstable. Lost without the guidance of gravity.

The flicker of light you deemed a threat three nights prior never came to hunt you. You remained cautious, even after the laborious task of sneaking into your own home succeeded. You’d expected to meet a great wrath, look it in its eyes, and accept whatever suffering followed.

But it never came. He never came.

And on that following morning, there were no signs of your father or the destruction he carried. He left for the station long before you woke, and returned after you settled in bed.

In the days that follow, you lose any sense of self; you’re bound by the fear that follows you, and it feasts on rationale. You seem to notice everything around you, like the way the floorboards creak and how they startle you in a way they never had before. You’re glaringly aware of your father's movements, panic seizing you if he’d look too long or speak too often. The skin around your fingernails grows raw from chewing on them.

You can hardly eat.

Can’t sleep.

Not when you have this secret, too hazardous to enjoy despite the fleeting, marvelous thrill it gave you.

You haven’t allowed yourself the time to dwell on it.

To dwell on him.

His name, his eyes, his lips—you put more effort into wiping them from your memory, your fantasies, than you do clinging to the comfort of them. It's the first time in weeks you don’t devote yourself to him and, oddly enough, you feel guilty.

You’re the one who kissed him. And yet here you are, avoiding the repercussions of your own actions like a child fearful of a scolding. You suppose the rationale isn’t too far-fetched, given your circumstance, but all you’re able to conjure up when you close your eyes is the bewildered look on Joel’s face when you left him standing there in the yard.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

On the third morning, your father acknowledges you only to order the necessary ingredients for a proper dinner to be fetched while he’s away at work. He’d be home at an acceptable time and expects it to be ready on the table when he returns.

You’ve heard the spiel a dozen times, but still only nod and grab the notepad to prepare your list while he rattles off adequate options. With longer nights at the station, your household expectations often lessen in the summer. A luxury you do not take for granted nor particularly like to push the limits of. Especially now.

Still, you sit awaiting some anticipated doom—perhaps he’s festering it, waiting for the right moment to attack—but it never comes. And all that’s left once he’s gone is the formidable silence, your erratic thoughts, and a list.

Lasagne. Easy enough.

The challenge?

Getting to the grocery store.

You’re aware of the inevitable. You have been aware of it for three days now. At some point, one way or another, whether you like it or not, you have to leave the house. Up until now, the risk had substantially outweighed the reward.

He can’t see you. You can’t see him. Seeing him makes it real. Seeing him means facing demons you’re unable to admit even exist.

It doesn’t matter that your chest aches at the thought of him.

It doesn’t matter that the smothered thing inside of you has been scratching at your insides for three days, pleading for a moment of reprieve.

What matters is completing the task at hand, the impossibility of juggling each fear simultaneously growing burdensome.

You look out the front window first. Once before tying your sneakers and once after. Your bike is propped up in the garage, and you worry about the time it’ll take between leaving the safety of the window and opening the garage door.

Speed is your only companion, and so you’re quick, diligent. Darting across the house and towards the laundry room door, making haste in clicking the garage open, and shoving your wallet and the list into the bike’s basket before mounting it. You know you have to ride past his house to get to the market, so you reach for the keypad outside the garage before you can even push the kickstand off. You take another swivel of your head in the direction of his house, no sign of any life, before you skate down the driveway, holding your breath.

The journey is considerably more climactic in your head, and when you make it down the block with not so much as a whiff of being seen, you’re relieved. Perhaps for the first time in days, your shoulders relax, your mind silences, and you find yourself enjoying the mindless task of rummaging through the market aisles. A beauty in simplicity after days of dilemma.

You’re less inclined to trepidation on the way home, silently unaware, even enjoying the breeze while you ride and the way it kisses your skin, a bit cooler today, the sun toasty, and the sights and sounds of summer in all their beauty surrounding you. A blank slate, a thoughtless mind. Numb. And there’s a comfort in it, regaining parts of yourself in tiny fragments. Believing that, just for a moment, you are allowed to resign yourself to absolution.

But the daze is a farce, and it has you weak, vulnerable. You’re nearing your house, caution loose and tenuous, to the point where you foolishly miss the glare of a front door opening and the body that emerges from it.

The sudden sound of your name being called from across the lawn startles you off balance.

You land on your hands and knees when the bike finally tips. Groceries topple out of the basket, the impact of the concrete radiating a sharp pain through your joints and stinging your eyes with tears.

“Shit. Shit,” you heave under your breath, hands scrambling every which way to collect the strewn items.

You make out the shape of a body moving towards you in your periphery, but your mind cautions you to stay focused, to get away as quickly as possible. You can hardly see in front of you, eyes blurred with emerging sobs, when the shape kneels before you.

“Here, let me help you.” The rich timbre of his drawl is a salve over your self-inflicted wounds. Don’t look, don’t look, but hands are reaching out for assistance.

“No! No, I got it. I got it,” you’re quick to combat, attempting to gather every item before he has a chance to get his hands on them.

But it’s useless. Your shaking fingers can’t find a good grasp, and the pain in your palms and knees increases by the moment, too engorged in your panic to notice the blood staining the concrete and your groceries.

“But you’re—”

“I need to get everything inside; some of it’ll spoil.”

And someone could see you. Someone could see both of you, floundering about, too close for comfort.

“Darlin’, please just—”

“It’s fine, okay? I’ve got it!” you snap, and you don’t mean to sound as harsh as you do.

He’s silent then, still. Only for a moment. Long enough to notice the way your chin starts to tremble and how tears spill down your cheeks against your better attempts to conceal them.

“Hey,” he beckons, and you notice the way he tries to tilt his head further into your line of sight. You do your best to avoid him, but, “Hey,” he tries again, and this time, it’s got an edge. Enough to startle you out of your misery-filled stupor. “Look at me.”

And fuck, you’re so weak.

He’s a sight for sore eyes. Tousled curls, an old white t-shirt, and his flannel pajama pants are all indications that his morning has just begun. The newspaper he must have been coming out for is abandoned in the grass a few yards back, his attention solely on you.

You find clarity in the sight of him.

“You’re hurt. Let me help you,” Joel says calmly, matter of fact. A wounded animal, and he’s guiding you back to safety.

And you need it more than you care to admit, the guidance. Allowing yourself the pleasure of looking into his wide, worried eyes smothers the anxieties. Silences the panic. Dulls the pain in your chest from days of denying yourself of the remedy you needed most, so when he presents you with an outstretched hand, you take it hastily.

He helps you to your feet, and when he’s sure you’re stable, stands your bike upright, gathers what he can of the mess of groceries, and tucks them back into the basket. He places one hand on the handlebars, the other steadily finding its way to the small of your back, and your body comes to life.

You welcome his stability, leaning your weight into the crook of his arm. He guides you and your scuffed bicycle up the lawn, leaning it against the banister of the front porch. You let him lead you up the steps, overbearing and doting in the way he holds you steady at the ribcage, muttering under his breath, c’mon, I’ve got ya.

You would think you just fell from fifty feet with the way he coddles you, but you don’t care. How could you? Not when your hands and knees sting, your nerves fray weak and exhausted, and your heart and soul and body crave so little outside of the warmth that is Joel.

Crossing the threshold of his door is sacred. An uncharted, forbidden territory that, up until three nights ago, you had no reason to assume you would ever explore. You wish you were more coherent, that tears weren’t blurring your eyes, and your body wasn’t in a state of panic, so you could properly take in your surroundings.

You notice a few moving boxes still pushed up in the corners of his living room; other than that, the space is pristine. There’s a wooden, rustic theme that carries across his décor, and he leaves all his blinds open for ample natural light. Bright, warm, inviting. A drastic change of pace from the stale air that always seems to occupy your home.

He’s leading you into the kitchen, and you're torn from the daze as soon as his hands are on your hips.

You yelp softly as he hoists you onto the countertop, wide, wet eyes finally mustering the courage to meet his gaze. It drops almost immediately to the state of your bloody knees, and he shakes his head, a gruff sort of displeased sound expelling from his chest.

“Stay put,” he instructs, giving you a stern look before he vanishes around the corner.

You can’t quite process the world in front of you. Simultaneously heavy and weightless, the internal conflict, the lack of sleep, catching up to you. But when Joel returns a moment later, first aid kit and damp washcloth in hand, you’re grounded. A firm, clear presence of stability that removes all weight, all sense of falling.

You feel, perhaps for the first time in your life, that someone would catch you.

He drags one of the bar stools over, settling himself in front of you. He still doesn’t meet your eyes, fiddling open the kit and scouring for materials. You can feel his breath on your thighs, eliciting a warmth in the pit of your stomach.

Suddenly, the pain of your fall seems minuscule in comparison to the way his proximity sets your body alight. You’re thankful for the shorts below your sundress; intended to give you some decency on your ride to the store, now a barrier between his counter, his watchful eyes, and a part of you that always seems to ache at the sight of him.

You dig your fingers into the edge of the wood so as to not waver, sniffling back the ceasing tears and clearing your throat. You blink the haze out of your eyes, the ringing in your ears stops, and like magic, his effect makes the world seem clearer.

“Hold still.” He starts with the washcloth, tenderly cleaning off the dirt and drying blood from your skin, and you shiver when one of his hands lightly dances at the crux of your knee.

You watch him intently; focused brows, and careful fingers. Your perched position gives you a glorious view of his shoulders, firm and broad, muscles flexing below the thin fabric of his t-shirt. You’re reminded then of the day he moved in and your voyeuristic tendencies, how the sheer breadth of him had enticed you, left you lost to your fantasies long before you even knew him.

It’s hard to grasp that the same man, worried and attentive to your well-being, sits before you now.

The sudden cold, sharp sensation of an antiseptic wipe against your skin makes you hiss through your teeth, snapping you back into focus. Finally, he peers up at you through furrowed brows, a sympathetic downturn on his lips.

“Stings?” he asks, and he’s so gentle. His voice, his touch, his being.

You shrug, feeling bashful under his gaze. “A little, yeah.”

He purses his lips and nods solemnly, as if your discomfort causes him a great deal of pain, too. “M’almost done,” he promises, returning to his diligent work.

The two of you sit in silence while he finishes cleaning your wound, sufficiently less daunting with all the blood removed. The scrapes are hardly deep and you’re certain the bruises will heal in a week’s time. He retrieves two bandages from the kit, one purple and one blue, and drapes them delicately over the scuff of each knee.

“Hands,” he requests, and you present them to him palms up. He takes each wrist between his fingers, lifting them to his chest in examination. No blood, just the burn of the concrete on the heels of them where you clumsily caught yourself. “Don’t look too bad; may just be sore for a little while.”

You’re nodding even though you hardly hear the words that come out of his mouth, too enamored with the way his fingers warm rings around your wrists.

He catches you staring, and surely now, he’ll send you on your way. Now that he’s done his due diligence, he’ll make up some polite excuse to get you out of his space. He’ll choose avoidance, just as you had, and you’ll be forced to endure the misery of the unknown, to be complicit with a life of no risk and missed opportunities.

But he surprises you, a frequent trend, when he leans forward and presses two, soft kisses to each battered palm.

Your breath catches audibly in your throat, and he shoots his eyes back up to you, lips still dangerously close to your skin. His own inner turmoil is so plain, so clear, in the way he studies you that you don’t even try to mask the emotion that creeps back into your eyes.

“Better?” he whispers, the brush of his breath on your skin raising goosebumps up your exposed arms.

Untrusting of your voice, you breathe a wavering mmhm, the urge to melt into him overwhelming by the way he looks at you. It’s a familiar look. One you’ve seen before, only once. Three days ago. Dire and conflicted, and god, you want to kiss him again. You think he must lean forward, or maybe it's you, because his breath is on your face now too, and you can see every line of worry that plagues him.

“Joel…” you whisper, and it’s a question, a plea, a warning all at once. You see his eyes flicker, if only for a moment, your lips and back again, a frown creasing at the edges of them.

He sighs a despondent sound, abruptly standing, jarring you, losing your hands in the process as he drags the barstool back to its designated spot. Suddenly, he’s got his hands on his hips, and he’s pacing the modest kitchen space, eyes and thoughts amiss. It may be the first time you see him as anything other than the picture of composure, save for the fateful moment three nights prior where the same eyes and thoughts screamed retribution for Trevor rather than strife for you.

“Listen,” he finally breathes, and it’s painful, “we needa talk about what happened.”

And there it is. The unavoidable.

“O-okay.” Your voice wavers and your stomach drops, and you suddenly feel like a child under scrutiny. The first words that come to mind tumble out in an attempt to lessen the tension. “I’m… I'm sorry, Joel. Really, I am—”

He rapidly shakes his head. “Stop. Stop. I’m not askin’ you to apologize, alright? I’m the—” he stops cold, and you stiffen. You can’t read his mind, but you know his eyes, and they speak words you’d rather not hear.

I’m the grown-up here.

I’m the older one.

I’m the responsible one.

You cringe at the plausible fill-in-the-blanks, conscious of their validity, and you think he does too.

He expels a heavy, tired sort of sigh. “I’m the one that shoulda put a stop to it,” he settles on.

You consider what he says for a long while, unsure of whether to scream, or laugh, or cry, or all three at once; unsure if his confession soothes you or crushes you from the inside out. You know you should be grateful for the apology, thankful that he willingly takes the burden of fault off of you. But in seeking forgiveness, he makes another notion, a far more painful one, abundantly clear.

Regret.

“And I understand if you want me to leave ya alone from now on,” he continues, and you can’t help but feel like the spiel is rehearsed. As if he spent hours talking to himself in the mirror, debating the right things to say. Questioning, now that the line has been thoroughly crossed, what is even right or wrong. “But I couldn’t do that without talkin’ to ya first. Settin’ things right.”

“I don’t want you to leave me alone.” You jump on top of his words, and Joel’s brows shoot up on his forehead. He stops pacing.

You curse your eagerness, eyes falling to your hands in your lap where you aimlessly pick at the skin around your nails. “I mean… I’m not–I’m not mad. I’m not mad at you for what happened, I just”—you look back to him, uncertain—“want things to go back to normal.”

As if there is such a thing. As if one taste of him hadn’t changed the world as you know it. As if there is any version of you, then and now, that wouldn’t want him.

You know nothing as familiar as wanting him.

The silence that follows is torturous. He takes you in, unreadable, for what seems like eternity. You see a boundless bounty of emotion in his eyes—eyes that have become familiar, comforting in the way that the thought of losing them seems too grand to endure, even if you never have them in the capacity you long for.

He’s nibbling on his bottom lip, tapping his foot, and his hands fall from his hips to fold his arms across his chest. “Well, then I think we oughta just… go on s’if nothin’ happened. Put it behind us.”

And still, a dagger in the heart would have been less painful.

You wait, staring at him for a long while with the false hope that he would go back on his words. That he didn’t want to forget, and you search for it desperately. The truth behind his eyes and his words, that you assume he imagines will protect you, protect the both of you.

Sensing no form of retraction, you take a deep breath hoping the excess oxygen will calm your racing heart, and straighten yourself up on the counter.

“Alright.” His mind has already been made up; arguing would make you a desperate fool. Still, you find yourself adding: “If that’s what you think is best.”

Surprise flashes across his face, and you watch the way his mouth falls open only to shut rapidly. He presses his lips into a thin line and his nostrils flare. There’s a beat of adrenaline, challenge. And the caged thing inside of you, something you have recognized as the sliver of hope you still carry for your life, comes to life. A bright sensation, wondering if she’s succeeded in breaking down the final choice of savior.

“Yeah,” Joel mutters, and the light goes out. “Yeah, I think it is.”

Rejection.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

You try your hardest to feign acceptance.

“Okay. Well”—you’re sliding off the counter, blood rushing to your head when you land on your feet—“thank you for um, for taking care of me.”

You think he knows you well enough by now to hear the familiar warbling in your voice, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything. You keep your eyes fixed on your feet so he doesn’t see the way they gloss over.

You wonder if life's circumstances had always been the root of your downfall, or if it really is hope herself.

He offers you the option to stay a while longer, give yourself a chance to regroup, but you politely decline. The air in his home is suddenly suffocating. You mumble something about needing to get the groceries inside as you shuffle towards his door, hoping he won’t follow, but alas, he’s walking you to it, stepping around you to reach for the handle himself.

“You’re sure you don’t, uh… you don’t need anythin’ else?” he asks again, hand steady on the door but making no effort to open it, arching his brow over his shoulder at you.

Please, don’t make this harder than it already is.

You give him a trained, tight-lipped smile. Polite. The same one you give everyone in town, lackluster. “No.” And it’s a lie. You need everything from him. “No, thank you. I’ll be alright.”

If he’s unconvinced, he doesn’t say so, and there’s another pang of hurt in your belly.

When he finally turns the handle, Joel peeks out the door first before allowing you to pass. Good, you think. At least he’s just as aware of the risk of you being here. A minor thing to cling to, but you take what you can get.

You shuffle past him silently, reaching for the handles of your bicycle still tucked safely beside the door. You do a quick scan to make sure you have everything, but really, you’re stalling. Attempting to let the past hour marinate so you can form some sort of cohesive thought, say something of substance, something true.

When you look back, he’s still in the doorway. You give him a once over, taking your missed opportunity to admire him. Comfortable, poised, a little disheveled from the morning in the best of ways.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and you snap your eyes back to his. His lips part, and there’s a rush of it again, that hope deep inside of you. But again, he clenches them shut without a word, and disappointment regains its leverage.

You don’t look at him after that.

“I’ll see you around, Mr. Miller,” is the last thing you say to him before hoisting your bike off the porch stairs and carefully rolling it down the driveway.

On the walk back over to your house—damn near a sprint despite the searing in your knees—you think the duality of your relationship with Joel Miller may finally drive you to insanity.

On the one hand, your agreed-upon boundaries are nothing short of practical. Safe, sustainable with minor difficulty, and realistic.

On the other, you’re unable to count the number of times you’ve experienced the urge to break every rule, practical or otherwise. And worse, how easy it’s become to convince yourself he feels it, too. There shouldn’t be such an assuredness in it, but it lives. Feeding and festering and waiting for one of you to bend.

Only this time, you’re certain you would break.

Once inside, you mindlessly shove the groceries into their respective spaces and drag yourself up the stairs. You’re tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally, every ounce of you drained. And it’s welcomed, the exhaustion. It’s the first time in three days you feel unburdened enough to even entertain the idea of settling. And you’d like to chalk it up to handling your own bullshit, but you know it’s because of him.

Even if the outcome would leave you solemn for days to come, seeing him, feeling him, it eased you. There is a lingering feeling of closure. It would take time to accept, but is far better than the alternative of sitting with your unanswered thoughts.

He doesn’t hate you.

He isn’t shutting you out.

He’s still there if you need him.

You’re nearly certain of it.

You flop your body onto the center of your bed, nestling your head into the pillows. Your limbs feel like weights melting into the mattress, and it’s not long before your eyes feel the same heaviness.

You let yourself drift off, clinging to all that is nearly certain.

The window is already dark when you wake, and you're roused by the sound of banging and grunting. Despite the commotion, your eyes don’t open at first—your body’s subconscious attempt at protection from the horrors in front of you. But as you gradually blink awake, the sight before you leaves you scrambling up in your sheets.

Pages coat your bedroom floor, toppling from the bookshelf in the corner of the room. Your father stands before it, clumsily tearing out row by row of your most prized possessions.

“What are you…?” The terror doesn’t register, not until the sound of ripped paper and cracked bindings become loud, thunderous, in your ears.

“No, stop. Stop!” Pleadingly, you cry out to him, twisting the sheets off of you and darting across the wooden panes. You hadn’t meant to sleep this long. “Stop, please! Please!” you screech, foolishly grasping for his shoulders as you trip over the growing pile of tarnished literature.

He shrugs you off, a mere nuisance in his pursuit of destruction. “If you’re gonna be so damn distracted you can’t get somethin’ as simple as dinner done, I’m gonna get rid of the distractions,” he seethes, a vow he intends to keep, and you’re tugging on the back of his shirt, grabbing at his hands and trying desperately to pull them away from the shelves.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It won’t happen again, I swear it! Please just–ugh!”

The wind escapes your lungs when he whips around and a firm hand presses to your throat, your back making sharp contact with the wall adjacent to the bookshelf.

Liquor and tobacco, his breath is hot against your face. His eyes are void of all feeling, and you struggle for air against the stronghold on your neck. Your sinuses burn, your eyes fill with tears, and there’s a moment, brief, where you wonder how long it would take your heart to stop. How much oxygen would need to be deprived to slip into blissful mindlessness.

You know he wouldn’t be so forgiving.

“Don’t you ever put your hands on me like that again, girl, you hear me?” he barks, slamming his unoccupied hand against the wall beside your head. “Do you hear me?!”

Your mouth gapes open, and you try to speak but nothing comes. The salty taste of tears coats your lips, and in an act of desperation, you dare to claw at his wrists, mustering up the strength to nod as well as you can. When he still does not release you, the fight or flight kicks in, and the blur that washes over your vision and the dizziness in your head fills you with fear. Genuine and unadulterated, how easy it would be for him to make nothing out of you.

“Yes,” you croak, and the sound of your own voice startles you. “Y-yes, sir!”

He lets you go, and your knees give out. You slide your back down the wall, heaping over on yourself. You hug your knees close to your chest, gasping breaths and wet, watchful eyes as he prowls across the room.

The final blow is the most devastating, and you think you may actually be sick to your stomach. As he steps over the debris towards the door, he picks up what you assume to him is only a random book. But you catch the title, fine calligraphy sprawled, Romeo & Juliet, just before he mercilessly tears the spine in half, letting the pages fall amongst the wreckage.

No sound comes out of your open mouth. No feeling reaches your fingers or toes, and you wonder if your state of shock has allowed you to finally leave your own body. Teleport somewhere else, somewhere far away, to not endure another moment of a pain you cannot decipher what you ever did to deserve.

It is, was, your only copy of the play.

And it belongs, belonged, to your mother. One of the few things you pulled out of the sparse pile of her tucked away deep in the attic. One of the only pieces of your life that confirmed she was ever even real, that your memories were real.

And much like her, it’s gone in an instant.

“Clean this up,” is the last thing he slurs before your bedroom door slams shut.

You sit there, unmoving, for what seems like an eternity. You’re hollow, and yet, the space you inhabit isn’t yours to fill anymore. Succumbing to the numbness has always been easier, but there is an overwhelming bough of raw anguish that lingers in you now.

It’s moments like these, disappointing in their frequency, where you wonder what you truly are to the man called kin. Burdensome. A lingering reminder of all that he once had and lost.

A matter of circumstance. Something disposable. And with that realization, you feel the impending need to get out.

You wait until you’re certain he’s asleep before you plot your escape. You won’t get far, but luckily, you don’t have to.

You move on autopilot, numb to anything other than putting as much distance between you and this house. This room, once a sanctuary, now tainted. The tears fall steadily, but no sounds escape you. You wouldn’t provoke him, nor give him the satisfaction of hearing your defeat.

Echoes of thunder rumble in the distance, a summer storm upon a somber evening. And when the sun sets and the world sleeps, bolts of lightning illuminate your path to refuge.

You find an old zip-up sweater left out of winter storage, pulling it over the clothes you had no energy to change, and shielding your damp face with the hood. You take the back door; there would be less suspicion in leaving it unlocked. Scattered drops fall from the darkened sky, and the grass tickles your bare feet as they carry you to the only place you know you’ll be welcomed. The only place you seek.

When he first opens the door, Joel looks confused. The street lights reflect off the panes of his glasses, and you wish you had more time to appreciate the gentle reminisce of sleep in his eyes. But when the sob finally tears through your throat, confusion makes way for concern, and he’s blinking away the fatigue.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he demands, pushing the whole of himself through the doorway until he’s standing toe-to-toe with you on the porch.

You peer up at him, trembling, the picture of desperation. “Can I stay here tonight?” you beg, and there’s little care for how feeble you look. “Please, can I stay?”

Joel shakes his head, disbelief, looking you over with such uneasiness as if you would shatter before his very eyes.

“Christ,” he sighs, and maybe you are breaking. Maybe you’re finally falling apart piece by piece, and he is to be the sole witness. “C’mere.”

But the part of you inside, shriveled and forlorn, still seeks reprieve, and she knows where to find it. His voice is a beacon, a promise.

The anchor of his arms when you rear forward is the only thing that keeps your body from sinking to the ground. You bury your face into his chest, hands clinging to his shirt, while tears stain his skin. He shushes you, raking his palms up your spine in soothing sweeps, keeping you snug against him.

“‘Course you can stay. You can always stay.”

There are no questions or explanations necessary. No price to pay for the gift of solace. You take it at face value—much like the last time you cried to him, three days prior, when he told you to never be sorry for feeling the way you felt—and allow him to pull you back into the house.

You cross the threshold, still sacred, still uncharted, yet wildly more freeing.

A great weight leaves your shoulders as soon as he shuts the door.

His face is in your hair when he whispers, and you think the scent of him alone could heal you.

“Always.”

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Ao3 | Kofi

#fic: daddy next door #joel miller x reader #joel miller #fic rec

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poeticpascal · 3 days

Text

This is BEAUTIFUL!!!

But Daddy I Love Him

summary: You and Joel shouldn't be together. According to the people in Jackson, he's a bad, cruel, crazy man, and yet... he's all you ever wanted.

Warnings: smut (unprotected p in v), angst, blood, physical fight (?), happy ending (cause of course)

a/n: ive been obsessed with this song since it came out, please just go listen to it

Now I'm runnin' with my dress unbuttoned Screamin', "But, Daddy, I love him I'm havin' his baby" No, I'm not, but you should see your faces I'm tellin' him to floor it through the fences No, I'm not coming to my senses I know he's crazy, but he's the one I want

— — —

"fuck"

"god"

His breath, his hands, his beard, his mouth, his cock

Him

He was all you could feel, he was all that existed,

nothing but him and his intoxicating aura, his manly mist, his sweaty body his strong arms,

Him

Joel Miller

The man you should not want, the man you should be terrified of, that you should run and hide from,

the terrible, crazy, Joel Miller

The same one everyone told you to stay away from, your friends, your family, strangers, the entirety of Jackson

And yet he was the only man you ever really wanted, really needed.

"I missed you so much"

Even your own voice was nothing, it was a phantom of something that existed long ago, something that stopped living every time he was near, every time he would make everything dissipate into thin air with just his presence.

"I missed you too baby girl" he grunted,

oh how he grunts, how he groans, how he moans

nobody does it like him

"missed you so fucking much darlin'"

His voice felt like a prayer, like a sweet invocation to the sky up above, to whomever would listen,

one that countered completely what he was doing, the nothing but sinful way he had you up against the wall, his hands gripping your waist as he thrust his cock in and out of you so fast you might just break.

The bed was right beside you, but that didn't matter, that's how you were

You and Joel,

like animals, like soulmates, like desperate, desperate lovers

Your minds didn't work the same when you were near, they didn't work at all, one could argue

But isn't that was love is after all?

"oh my god" you moaned, hiding your head in the crook of his neck as one particular deep thrust made you see stars

"I know darlin'" he cooed, only going faster, deeper "I know"

"Joel" you cried, biting down on his skin "f-fuck"

It had only been two weeks since you last saw each other, but it might as well been decades.

They had sent him away.

Nobody liked him in Jackson, not once they'd learned his story, the terrible things he'd done

And when they found out about you... not even his own brother could protect him.

So they'd exiled him.

But they couldn't keep him away forever, not when he had something to come back for.

"god fuckin' damnit babygirl- you feel so fuckin' good"

Your moans only got higher, your nails clinging to his back like a rabid cat.

"perfect lil' pussy" he growled, his hot breath on your sweaty neck pulling shivers from your body "Perfect fuckin' girl"

"oh fuck" you whined, tightening your legs' hold onto his waist

"you feel so good too Joel" you promised, breathing heavily in synch with him "You and your perfect cock"

He groaned so loud he sounded like an animal

"might want to keep that pretty mouth shut if you want this to last, sugar"

You didn't know where you found the strength to laugh, but you did

"you're gonna come too soon, old man?"

His hold on your waist pulled you even closer, as you raised your head to look him in the eyes

God, he was handsome

"just might, if you keep saying stuff like that"

but before you could tell him how it wasn't fair, how he did it all the time and you couldn't do it even once, his thumb was on your clit and your eyes were to the back of your head.

"no" he stopped you before you could hide your face from him again "I want to see you"

And as warmth filled your chest and your forehead fell to his and pressure built in your belly, he murmured:

"good girl- come for me, just like that- Jesus Christ-"

And so you did,

You came and moaned and cried, and it didn't take much before he was doing the same, pumping you full of him until he'd given you every single drop.

And then you kissed, he kissed you slowly and gently and in the same exact way that made you fall for him the very first time.

"god I missed you so much" he breathed once you leaned away

A smile from ear to ear took over your face and all you could do was kiss him again

"me too baby" you murmured, as he helped you to your feet

You both smiled like silly idiots as you dressed again,

but neither of you could resist being in each other's arms, so you didn't.

He pulled you closer and wrapped his arms around you, kissing the crown of your head once you rested it on his still bare chest.

You didn't get how anyone could hate him,

You swore they wouldn't, they wouldn't if they only got to meet him, the real him, not the idea of him they had painted in their minds.

And so you hummed, breathing him in, clinging to him as he clung to you

Up until the very moment it all went to shit

Again.

"hey honey I just got back I-"

It was sad really, the fact you'd seen this scene before.

The disappointment in your dad's eyes, the fear turning into primal rage inside his iris, his fists tightening, Joel taking a step back

A deja-vu had never felt quite so devastating

"Arthur" Joel tried to speak, but your dad was already on him, his fist had already connected with his cheek

"What did I tell you!?" another punch "Last time was just a fucking warning!" and another

Joel was on the ground

He wasn't going to fight back.

This wasn't how he wanted to handle things

Not this time

Not with you

"I'll kill you this time you fucking disgusting pervert!" you swore you heard Joel's cheekbone crack with another hit "How dare you!?" your dad growled, Joel's bloody face beneath him "In my own home- how dare you take advantage of my daughter you fucking- pig!"

Your eyes were overflowing with tears, the top buttons of your dress were still unbuttoned, and Joel's chest was rising and falling too slowly, much too slowly

"dad"

But he kept going

"dad stop!"

you grabbed his wrist, and the moment his eyes met yours it felt like the word stopped, like it had frozen over.

You caused all that anger, all that pain

But if he just would listen to you...

"y/n"

"dad" your voice trembled as much as your fingers "dad I love him"

You saw his heart break. For all the wrong reasons,

for his poor daughter who was taken advantage of, for the naive, innocent daughter he couldn't protect. For the daughter that didn't exist. Because that wasn't you, that wasn't how things had gone.

"you don't know what you're saying"

His voice was harsh, cruel, cold.

"But I do!" tears ran down your cheeks as you glanced down to where Joel lay, to the cuts and blood coating his face "I love him dad, I really really do"

"You don't know who this man is" he said "The things he's done..." he said with a snarl, as if disgusted, as if the rage was surging from his chest all over again

"I know" you whispered "I know everything- He told me all of it dad, please" you begged "Please just let him go, let him talk"

"I don't need to listen to a word that comes out of this fucker's mouth"

"but dad-"

It was like a bomb went off

"HE'S 56!" he yelled, his grip on Joel's neck tightening "he's fifty fucking six y/n! You just fucking turned 21!" his voice bounced off the walls like thunder, "You're not even half his age!"

"who cares!?" you screamed too now, only your voice was interrupted by sobs

"I DO!" he roared "Your mom would!" his eyes were wide with urgency, and although he was mad you could still hear the care behind his words "He might have made you think this is ok, that he loves you, but trust me none of it is true" he sighed "He's using you honey, I know it's hard to understand right now, but you- you're young- you don't know-"

Your hand left him, shaking as it went to wipe your tears.

"dad" you said more firmly now "I might be young but I'm not stupid"

"y/n-"

"no" you stopped him "Dad this is the first time I've ever felt this way, like I cannot breathe when he's not close, like I need him more than I need air" you swallowed thickly "And I know- I know it's hard to understand, I know it's easier to just go with the narrative in your head, of the fragile little girl and the big creepy guy, but this-" you took a shaky breath as you glanced at Joel again

His eyes were barely open, he was barely conscious

"This isn't like that" you promised "I- I love him, and he loves me"

"Honey-"

"I'm not done" you stopped him again "I'll never forgive you dad" you shook your head, simply stating the truth "I'll never forgive you if you do this, if you don't even give him a chance to explain, to tell you how things really are"

You saw the conflict in his eyes, the searing pain caused him to hear such words from his daughter, to hear her beg and threaten and speak up all at once,

and yet... yet he couldn't shake off the honesty, the hope lacing your words, your voice, sparkling from your eyes

And so he did the only thing he could,

he agreed, he agreed to hear the full story.

___

That was two years ago now,

and sometimes you wondered if it all was just a bad dream, if your imagination had tricked you into believing some silly made-up story,

but the glares from the people in town always seemed to refresh your memory.

And yes, maybe you would have liked to live a life without people whispering ugly things about you behind your back every day... but then maybe, maybe it was all worth it

For this.

For the child growing in your belly, for the veil on top of your head, for the sound of your dad stifling his sobs beside you,

for the image of Joel waiting for you at the end of the aisle, for the tears in his eyes, for the smile on his face,

for him,

for you,

It was all worth it,

Yes, yes it definitely was.

— — —

Now I'm dancin' in my dress in the sun and Even my daddy just loves him I'm his lady And, oh, my God, you should see your faces Time, doesn't it give some perspective? And, no, you can't come to the wedding I know it's crazy, but he's the one I want

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fic #fic rec

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