After your father disappears, his old smuggling partner takes on the task of keeping you safe inside the Boston QZ— Until he, too, goes missing after accepting the mission of delivering a young girl to a group of Fireflies.
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warnings: qz!joel, age gap (reader is late 20s joel is mid 50s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, tess is an ass but she's got a point, kind of dad's friend!joel, they were more business partners than friends but joel knew reader as a kid, parental abuse (physical and verbal but it happens off age), drugs/alcohol use, smut (daddy kink, fingering f receiving, unprotected piv, 'just the tip', little bit of edging, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, pussy/tit slapping, creampie.) financial instability/money struggles, codependency, no use of y/n, some religious stuff, canon-typical violence, brief mention of possible sa, joel has ptsd, brief mention of misogyny, romanticizing the shit out of a toxic relationship, the dynamic between them is too trad wife-y to be healthy in my opinion, pre-canon, vomiting, death of minor characters, joel calls reader kid/little girl, unplanned pregnancy, talks of abortion, so many daddy issues for the both of them it borders on fauxcest????, seriously freud would have a field day with this one, kind of open ending, hopeful ending.
rating: 18+.
word count: 8.2k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! the idea for this started as a series, but i already have too many series going on at the same time and i felt like the vibe fit well for a one shot! (i could totes write a sequel at some point, though....) this was super inspired by dog years by halsey, that song just gives me mad joel vibesssss. as always, the pics are for aesthetics only & there is no description of reader!! the writing style is a little different from what i usually do but i just wanted to play around with something new so pls let me know if we like it because i had fun but i'm not super sure about it. also it gets super filthy halfway through and i'm so sorry i'm not sure i ever wrote something this nasty? lol
'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not strong, I'm very weak / I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not here, I'm somewhere else / I'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years / I have seen enough / I've seen it all — Halsey, Dog Years.
You haven't lived in the Boston QZ for your entire life, but it certainly feels like it— Your parents came in when you were eight years old, about a year after Outbreak Day, when the Quarantine Zone was still fresh, with FEDRA just starting to take over the country and people still willing to trust their government to keep them safe. It is the only life you know and, while it is not perfect, it's certainly better than facing the dangers outside FEDRA's protection: You grew up hearing stories of raiders and slavers and how the infected outnumbered people at an alarming rate, how it was utterly impossible to survive without the watchful eye of FEDRA and its harsh laws.
Things are comfortable, even though they're not good, and that's more than most people have. You mother died just before your tenth birthday, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire between FEDRA soldiers and the freedom fighters. Your father, a violent smuggler with a penchant for booze and pills, spends more time outside the QZ's walls than inside the tiny one-bedroom apartment the two of you share.
You're used to being alone by now, working triple shifts at the speakeasy and having to sneak your way back home just as the sun is starting to come up, risking your life for a couple of ration cards — more if you're in pigtails, even more if your shirt is low cut — that barely cover the amount you have to pay to keep a roof over both of your heads.
Everything changes when, for the first time since your mother died, your father is gone for longer than a couple of weeks. Usually his smuggle runs last a week or two at most before he comes home, drinks himself to a stupor over the weekend and then leaves again by Monday morning. This time, when the two weeks are up and he doesn't come back, there's a small part of you that is happy for it. The bruises he's given you are just starting to fade, the cut above your eyebrow finally closing up when the doubt creeps in and you begin to wonder whether or not this is the time your father will not come back home at all.
By the end of the first month he's gone, you know something happened. You're not sure if he simply left you behind or if he's dead or injured somewhere, but you know this isn't normal. So, one early morning, you make your way to the northern district of the QZ, where you know Abe lives— He's the only one with a long-distance radio and no affiliations to FEDRA or the Fireflies, the man your father once said he'd contact if he ever needs to speak to you while he's gone. In over a decade of smuggling your father hasn't tried to reach out to you once, but he also has never been late, and you figure maybe Abe would be able to give you a proper answer.
You stay in line for five and a half hours, a handful of ratios stuffed inside your bra, but your meeting with Abe only lasts a couple of minutes: He eyes you with suspicion, scowling the moment you say your father's name, and then tells that he would require ten ration cards to tell you if there's a message, and then another fifteen to read said message if it does exists— With no refund of the initial ten in case your father hasn't contacted you at all. You know extortion when you see it, has faced it plenty of times — Most men are always eager to take advantage of a young woman with no one to back her up —, and twenty-five ration cards is simply not something you can afford without going hungry or risking loosing your apartment.
For the first time in your life, you're truly alone. There's no one to run to, no one to help you or save you in this situation and that is somehow worse than all of the beatings and offensive words your father has thrown at you for the past two decades, the financial weight of having to provide for yourself in a world that is rigged against your survival brings you the sort of desperation you have never felt before.
It is that desperation that brings you to Joel Miller.
Joel has always been a constant in your life; he had worked alongside your father when you were little, always a solid shadow at the edge of your childhood memories, but they had a rough falling out after your father double crossed him sometime during your teenagehood and had, since then, become competitors inside the QZ. Now he is mostly a looming threat, some dark nefarious figure that might take away your father's livelihood at any moment.
He is not the sort of man you ever want to mess with, especially because you're not sure whether he's the vindictive type— He may as well hold your father's wrongdoings against you and refuse to help or worse: he could rat you out to FEDRA, use the opportunity to usurp the loyal clientele your father has or use his absence to wipe him out entirely. But you hear from Joan that hears from Elizabeth that hears from Eric that Joel Miller is friends with Abe and you figure that, maybe, Joel would be decent enough to bargain with the man for you. So, with an offering of bathtub moonshine you steal from work and tears in your eyes, Joel makes the deal; the bottle is probably worth a lot less than what he could've charged you but he doesn't bargain, instead choosing to grunt, take the bottle and slam his apartment's door in your face. He shows up at your place two days later, just as you start to panic thinking that maybe he's conned you out of some liquor, with a blank face and bad news: There has been no message, and although Joel promises to check in with the radio guy periodically, your father doesn't try to contact you at all in the days after that.
After that, Joel becomes a constant fixture in your life: He walks you home from the speakeasy after your shifts, and he fixes your shower or reinforces your front door or drops by with new shoes or food after a successful run. You find ration cards in your coat pockets or slipped under your door whenever you start working the triple shifts again, though he has never admitted to being the one putting them there: Every act of care comes with stony silence or a scowl, but Joel is always there, solid and within reach whenever you need him. So, you do the stupidest thing you could possibly do: You repay him with stolen alcohol. It starts with the small bottle that you use to bribe him that first time, but you become bolder and bolter as the months crawl on, swiping bigger and more expensive bottles whenever you can.
The owner, a mean-looking man named Bryan, catches you red-handed on a snow-heavy night in December. The beating itself isn't the worst you've ever gotten — someone robbed you when you were fourteen, taking a whole's week worth of rations and your father had always blamed you for that, his punishment even more painful than the shiner the thief had given you — but it's close enough and, as you stumble home through the snow-covered streets in the skimpy clothes you wear for better tips, all you can do is think that you got luck: Bryan could've cut off your fingers, or raped you or killed you or a thousand other horrible things that would wield a lot more damage than what he did and most people wouldn't have batted an eye; Hell, half the people you know probably would've thought you deserved it.
You're halfway home when panic truly sets in, outweighing the pain and the cold as you start to do the math— You're fresh out of a job, with rent looming within the next couple of days and you still don't have enough cards to cover it, let alone all of the other expenses you have; the pantry is almost empty, a single loaf of stale bread that you've been rationing for a few days while you waited for payday, and you still need to pay your neighbor for the winter socks she's knitted for you.
You're so terrified at the knowledge that you'll be homeless within the next week that you don't even notice Joel approach until it's too late, his cracked hands grabbing your shoulders and pushing you away from the main street just in time to miss the FEDRA soldier patrolling the area.
You shriek, your brain taking longer than it usually would to understand what is happening. Joel pins your back to his chest, one hand wrapped around your middle while the other slams over your mouth— The rough touch to your tender face has you whimpering, pain blossoming all over.
"It's me. Calm down." He whispers, holding the position for a moment longer while the soldier walks past the alleyway the two of you are in before he lets you go. You try to keep your head down so your hair fall over the bruises that are already forming but your face is so covered in blood that you can see the red liquid has stained Joel's palm. He looks at it for a second as if he can't comprehend what happened before he's crowding you against the wall, his surprisingly gentle hands tugging your chin towards him.
"I'm fine." You say in the silence that follows, though that's very much not true. Joel takes in a deep breath, his entire face scrunched.
"Who did this to you?"
"Joel, it's—"
"Who?"
You bring a hand up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist; the touch is meant to stop him, your intentions on fully pulling his hand away but you find it grounding instead, as if simply feeling Joel's rapidly beating pulse point beneath your fingertips is enough to melt the anguish away.
"Bryan." You relent, because you know he won't let go otherwise. "I had it coming."
"He'll pay. He ain't got no right to—"
"I stole from him." The admission is small, the words barely coming out of your lips; you didn't mean to tell him, the last thing you want is for him to connect the dots and realize you had been stealing for him. "I'm lucky he didn't do worse."
Joel goes entirely still, his hand still gripping your chin, his dark eyes staring you down so intensely it makes you squirm. A beat, and then another, and you watch in real time as realization washes over him.
Joel drops your chin like you've burned him. "Goddamn it, kid. Are you really that fuckin' stupid? Don't cha think that—"
"Joel, please." You whine, your eyes welling up with tears. "I don't need this right now. I'm cold, and everything hurts, and I'm out of a job. Just… Just don't lecture me right now, okay? I don't need it."
For a second, you think he'll ignore and go on his tirade— He looks like he wants to, but then his jaw locks and his nostrils flare and that's it. Joel swallows his emotions down in such an efficient manner it awes you and you barely have time to register the blankness of his face before he's wrapping his own jacket around you.
"Let's get you home and cleaned up."
Home, as it turns out, is Joel's place. You don't have the energy to argue despite the fact that the only thing you want to do is to crawl under your blanket and cry until you pass out, and you sit by the kitchen table as he cleans your face and neck with a wet rag. The apartment is cold even though Joel does his best to insulate the windows, and you shiver in your wet clothes— both from the remnants of snow that seem ingrained inside your bones and the heatwave that followed from Joel's touch, your body burning up from inside out at every careful touch of his hands. Once you seem clean enough, he brings you a chilled bottle out of the freezer, the clear liquid sloshing inside and you're sure it's probably either moonshine or vodka; Most likely moonshine, illegally made by some of the people brave enough to cook up such a thing within the city's walls.
"Put it over your eye, or it's goin' to swell shut."
You do as he says, but your heart races inside your chest as Joel kneels in front of you, carefully unlacing your boots.
"Joel, what—"
"Need to get'cha out of these wet clothes." He mumbles, not looking at you. Joel helps you out of your shoes and socks, and then turns his back at you and busies himself on the stove while you change from your work clothes to his— boxer shorts, wool socks and a thick sweatshirt that you're sure must've costed him a small fortune. You're still cold by the time Joel sets a steaming mug of tea on the table, but you're more comfortable than you've been in months.
Something changes between the two of you that night, tangled together in Joel's bed, his heartbeat steady under your cheek and his hand in your hair as you cry yourself to sleep. You go back to your apartment the next morning but just to pick up your personal belongings, Joel as a bodyguard as you collect what you can inside his backpack; you don't have much anyway, and you donate all of your father's belongings to the family two apartments down— More out of spite than anything else, you keep his favorite pair of boots as a gift to Joel. He takes the boots with an expression that seems to know exactly what you're doing, presses a kiss to the top of your head as if he's done it a million times, and clears out a drawer for you in his wardrobe.
Bryan goes missing three days after you move into Joel's place, and then they find his body five days after that, his face beaten almost beyond recognition, every single one of his fingers broken. His son takes over the speakeasy and invites you back, probably because he doesn't know what you did— Joel doesn't let you go back, claiming he doesn't trust the son and that you deserve better than being harassed by drunk men all night. You take odd jobs here and there, wanting to contribute with your share of rations but eventually Joel convinces you to quit altogether: Between the smuggling and the temporary jobs he takes from FEDRA he's certain he can provide enough for the two of you, and that you shouldn't be risking and exhausting yourself over nothing. You try to pull your weight around the house then, keeping it cleaner than he ever did, stitching up his socks and jackets and trying to make a meal out of the crappy food FEDRA distributes.
Housewife is the word that Tess uses for you. She says it with a sneer, scoffing whenever Joel tries to deny it; he says you're just a kid, that you're too young to be on your own and that you need him. She says that you're too old to need a daddy, and Joel slams his fist down on the table and they don't see each other for a few weeks. By the time Tess is back, it's as if nothing ever happened— She doesn't apologize and neither does he, or maybe they've exchanged apologies somewhere you weren't privy to, but Tess doesn't quit with the insults. Kept girl, plaything, pet— All names she uses whenever Joel isn't around, and then ignores you completely whenever he is.
Truth is, you find that you don't mind the nicknames. Joel calls you kid, kiddo, sweet girl— Also only when the two of you are alone, using your name whenever there is anyone listening and you've come to understand that there is a lot about Joel that he doesn't show to the world: He's feared inside the QZ, most people crossing the street whenever he's around, doing whatever they could to stay out of his way and only coming to him whenever they needed something no one else could bring but with you he's the sweetest man you've ever dealt with, quiet yet caring in a way that you haven't seen from anyone else.
The first time the two of you kiss, it feels like you've been doing it for all of your life; Joel had been gone for a couple of days, a pill run beyond the QZ's walls that made you sleepless. Tess hadn't gone with him this time around, which only made everything worse— For all the woman hated you, you knew she'd give her life to protect his. He comes home so late it's almost morning, his clothes soaked in blood that isn't his and his knuckles scraped raw.
You're not sure which one of you moves first: He's crowding you the second the door closes, and then his lips are pressing against yours, hungry and desperate. He kisses you until you the both of you are breathless, the still wet blood from his shirt soaking into yours: A bond that no soap or water can wash away even after the proof of your bodies mending together is discarded.
Joel tells you about Sarah in the middle of the night, when his nightmare wakes the both of you and he can't hide the tears. He doesn't tell you exactly how she died, just that it happened on Outbreak Day, and you request stories of happy memories to get his mind off of it. He tells you about the soccer practices and early Saturday matches, about the hikes they used to go on with Tommy and about the time she begged him to paint her room pink and then had him repaint it with purple a couple of weeks later, when she decided she hated pink. Joel talks more than you've ever seen him do, long fully formed sentences rather than the short words and grunts you're used to and it's like you're seeing yet a new side of him— Something soft and sacred that he's been hiding from the entire world, even from those closest to him.
"She would hate the man I became." He says eventually, after a short lull between tales of Sarah's first day in kindergarten. "The monster I became."
You're not certain how to deal with the self-loathing in his voice, especially because you know it's true— Joel's a terrible man, broken and violent and capable of unspeakable things, and you doubt the little girl from his memories would be proud of him for it. You press a kiss to the top of his head much like he seems to enjoy doing to you.
"There's always time." You whisper. "As long as you're alive, you still have time to make her proud."
He leaves before you wake the next morning but greets you with a kiss when he comes home in the evening, his breath smelling of whiskey and pupils dilated from the pills he swears he isn't taking anymore.
The afternoon you run into Robert's goons beating the ever living fuck out of Tess, there is a brief second in which you consider walking away— She's been nothing but horrible to you even when you were at your most vulnerable, and you doubt she'd intervene in your favor if it was the other way around. But your feet move before you can second guess yourself, plucking a large plank of wood from a rubbish pile close to you and hitting the bigger of the men as hard as you can in the back of the head: You miss a little, hitting him in the back of the neck but he falls like a sack of bricks anyway, his skull cracking against the pavement. Tess is on the smaller guy before he can jump you, her knee pressing to his neck until he stops thrashing.
Tess doesn't thank you, but you can tell she looks at you differently after that, staring you in silence for long periods of time. When she calls you by your name rather than an insulting nickname for the first time, you're so stunned that she scoffs and walks away in the few seconds it takes you to respond.
"You should leave him." She tells you once, her eyes glued to the radio as she waits for the message from Frank. Joel's nowhere to be found, but you still feel his presence in the cramped apartment anyway as if his very essence loomed over your shoulder. "This is not healthy for either you."
"I would die without him." You mean it literally, too— Joel is your saving grace, the only person to offer you a hand and keep you warm and fed in this horrifying world.
"That's exactly why you should go." She says. "No man should own your soul like that."
You wonder if she's speaking from experience, and you wonder if it has anything to do with Joel but How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees starts playing on the radio and then Tess is shuffling through the song book like a madwoman.
"80s?" You ask, worrying your bottom lip. You have yet to meet Bill and Frank, but you know how much they mean to Joel— Even if he would rather die than admit to it.
Tess shakes her head in denial, and the relief in face is clear as day. "1971. They got new supplies coming in."
"Do you think they'll have any yarn? Joel needs new socks."
"You deserve better than this." Disappointment washes over her face. "Better than a man that is using you to replace his dead daughter."
She's wrong and you know it; Joel doesn't treat you like your father ever did, there's nothing paternal about his touches and there is no replacing Sarah. But you'd be lying if you said you never envied her for having Joel as a father, even if she is dead now; the guilt you feel must show on your face because Tess' nose wrinkles.
"Or maybe you do. Maybe the two of you deserve each other."
The tone she uses is somehow more offensive than any petname she's ever used before. But the idea of belonging so deeply to Joel that even Tess can see it warms your inside so comfortably you can't find it in yourself to be offended by the implications of her words.
The first and only time Joel comes inside of you, you've been living with him for well over a year. It's been five months since the two of you shared your first kiss, and while you've both been using your mouths and hands on each other ever since, Joel's been hesitant to be inside of you— Pulling out is risky, and condoms expired for over two decades are probably even worse, so he pushes the idea away, making you come three or four times with his mouth until you're so exhausted you stop begging him to fuck you properly.
You're already two orgasms in, sprawled nude and sweaty on the bed while Joel fucks you slowly with his fingers. He bites and sucks at your neck, a collection of bruises of varying degrees of healing peppered all over your skin. Joel pulls his fingers away from you, rubbing his cock against your cunt.
"I'm going to put just the tip." He says, his voice just a little stern as if he's scolding you before you can even misbehave.
"Yes, daddy." You nod and, although you want to beg him to just fuck you already, you're afraid he might change his mind if you seem too eager.
Joel pulls back, leaning on his haunches, pushing your knee to the side. Your legs fall open and you push yourself on your elbow, wanting to see just exactly what he's going to do— Joel is a sight to behold, his chest flush and his breathing deep, his heavy cock gripped tight in his hand. You'd been intimidated by it at first, long and impossibly thick, but Joel has fucked your mouth so many times by now that you are certain you'd be able to take him anywhere he wanted. He presses the head of his cock against your clit and you moan as it slides to the side, coated in your slick.
"She's always cryin' for her daddy." He chuckles and you clench around nothing, his rough voice hitting you deep inside. "Winkin' at me like that, begging for my cock."
"Just for you." You say, so wet you can feel it sliding down to your ass. "Want you so bad it hurts."
Joel brushes his cock against your entrance, teasing, not yet pushing inside. " 'S okay, babygirl. 'M gon' make the pain go away."
The first stretch as he pushes the fat head inside is almost too painful, your head falling back as you mewl but Joel doesn't let you go very far, the hand not holding himself steady flying to your hair, pulling you up just enough so you can see where he disappears inside of you.
"Look at ya." He commands, thighs shaking from the effort of staying still. "Stretchin' so pretty around daddy's cock."
Joel rolls his hips, pushing just another inch inside before he pulls out, a string of your slick connecting the tip of his cock to your entrance. You clench, fingers digging into the mattress to stop yourself from seeking his hips with yours. He's just as wrecked as you feel, breathing deeply before he pushes inside of you again, just a little bit further this time, but still not nearly enough. You keen and give in, planting your feet on the bed to rock against him— His cock slides halfway in before his hand pushes you back on the bed by the hip. The two of you groan in unison, both from the touch and then the abrupt lack of it. His hand comes down onto your clit, slapping it so hard you almost scream, eyes rolling to the back of its sockets.
"Oh, you like that, naughty girl?" Joel asks, and then he gives your cunt another slap. He hums when you wail, sounding almost curious about this new thing the both of you have just discovered. "If you try that again, we're done for tonight, y'hear me? You'll take what I give you or nothin' at all."
You nod, eager, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside of you again. Joel gives your clit yet another slap and the sting makes your skin warm all over.
"Yes, daddy. I'll be good." You say as he rubs soothing circles to your sensitive clit. Joel brings his cock back to you, sliding in much easier than before; he fucks you slowly, no more than just a couple of inches— Just enough to drive you crazy, your entire body set aflame at the touch that is oh-so-pleasurable but still not enough. You hold your body taut, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from pushing back against him.
"Fuck, she's stranglin' me, babygirl. Never seen a pussy so tight—" Joel grunts, his body flushed red from his thick neck down to his navel, sweat dampening the hairs on his chest. "She's just suckin' me right in, isn't she?"
"She needs you." You bring a hand to your mouth, shoving two fingers between your lips and wetting them before you slide your spit-slicked fingers to your chest, rolling your nipples between them. Joel groans at the sight, loosing control of his hips just long enough to push a third of his cock inside of you. "Please daddy, it's not enough. I need to feel you deep inside of me."
You can see the moment his resolve cracks. He hikes your legs closer to his hips and then slams his entire length inside of you— It makes you wail, your mouth falling open and your back arching. Joel topples over your, pushing his index and middle finger inside of your open mouth much like you'd done just moments before. You wrap your lips around his thick fingers, humming as he shoves them as far as he can; you've learned how to control your gag reflex in the past couple of months, Joel's cock big enough to slide down your throat with a single thrust, but the way his fingers push down onto your tongue make your throat close tight.
"Suck on 'em." He orders, hips pulling back until his cock is almost entirely out before plunging back in. "I wanna see you choke on your daddy's fingers while his big cock fucks you open."
You do as he says, mainly because there isn't much else you can do other than take his commands, giving his digits the same treatment as you would his cock, licking and sucking and taking them as deep as you can. Joel's cock hits the same spot inside of you again and again and you can feel him everywhere; you moan around his fingers until he seems to take pity on you, pulling his hand away from your mouth. He shifts positions, kneeling in front of you and hiking your hips on his thighs; you only miss the weight of his body on top of yours for a second, because then Joel is pushing your knees up to your chest and the new position make you even tighter, the pressure making it seem as if his cock has doubled in size. Joel also changes the pace of his thrusts, going slower now and yet somehow even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.
"I'm gonna come." You say, the pressure building fast.
"No you won't." You blink at him, disoriented by his words. Joel pulls back, slapping your clit just as he plunges back inside. "You're goin' to be my good girl and you won't come until I let ya."
"I can't—" You say, the words cut off by the power of his thrusts. "I don't know how—"
"Yes you do." Joel hums, and he sounds almost mean as he slaps your cunt again. "Fuck, she chokes down my cock when I do that. Sweetest. Fuckin'. Pussy."
The last three words are punctuated by slap after slap, the moans falling out of your mouth becoming more and more desperate; you weren't lying, you don't know how to stop yourself from coming but you do the best you can, trying to focus on the mold spots on the ceiling or the chipped paint near the window or anything that isn't Joel's cock pushing time and time again against that perfect spot inside of you.
"Please let me come." You beg, tears pooling on the corner of your eyes and trickling down to your temples. "I can't hold it in, daddy, please. Please please please, I can't—"
Joel pinches your overstimulated clit and you gush around him, body locking up as you come against your will. It makes you black out for a second, black spots dancing in front of your eyes but Joel isn't done. He slaps your tit this time, the flesh jiggling both from the slap and the power of his thrusts.
"Such a bad girl." He grits out, slapping your breast again but he doesn't sound angry at all. "Should punish you for that. Ground you 'n' everythin'. Gotta learn to listen to your daddy."
"I'll take it." You say, gasping for air. You blink at him, the tears still blurring your eyesight. "Whatever it is, daddy, I'll take it. Anything for you."
"Maybe I'll fuck that pretty lil' ass of yours next." Joel threatens, and you clench around him. "Or maybe I'll spank you so raw you won't be able to sit. Use a belt to make sure your not comin' from my slappin' you. Naughty lil' thing, bet'cha like that, huh?"
Your heart jumps to your throat at the mention of the belt, a thousand different memories — bad, terrifying memories — of your own father and his leather belt jump to mind and your eyes well with real, uncontrollable tears.
"Anything for you." You parrot yourself, your eyes locking with the place where Joel clutched to your thighs as if you were his lifeline. "I'm yours, daddy. Anything you want, I'll take it. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
Joel's thrusts become more erratic, fast and deep and not calculated as they'd been before. He comes deep inside of you, toppling to moan against the crook of your neck, his thighs flush with your ass. It's never ending, his sloppy thrusts slowing down but not stopping as he comes and comes and comes until you feel so full to pushes into your bladder.
"Mine." He says, his voice full of wonder as his aquiline nose traces your jawline. "My precious lil' girl."
It's not an 'I love you', but you're fairly certain it's the closest you'll ever get to one.
You've been nauseated for about three weeks straight by the time Robert steals Joel and Tess' battery. Joel's been toying with the idea of leaving the QZ for good for several months now, quietly planning your escape in the late nights were sleep evades him, trading the pills and the alcohol for something ever more addictive: Hope.
You're sitting cross legged on the bed, a worn copy of a James Patterson book on your lap as Joel cleans the injuries on Tess' face. You'd been jealous of their relationship at first, unsure if they were just smuggling partners or something more but Joel never looked at Tess the way he did you, never touched her with the tenderness he did you. You forget all about the adventure Alex Cross is going through on the pages in front of you as you watch them plan their — your — escape route, the dangerous plan of going after Robert and taking back what is rightfully theirs.
"We'll be back before sundown." Joel tells you, and then he waits for Tess to leave the apartment before he leans in for a kiss. "Get our bags ready, we leave tonight."
You nod, already missing his touch by the time he crosses the threshold after his partner.
It's pouring rain outside by the time they come back, and you've spent most of the day pacing around the cramped apartment. Your backpacks are ready to go, everything of value stuffed inside of it, but you keep checking and rechecking all of the nooks and crannies of the apartment, making sure you've taken everything out of every secret compartment that Joel has hidden around the place. You had been scared the first time Joel brought up the idea of crossing the country after his brother, terrified really, but you'd rather face the monsters — both human and not — outside of the QZ than stay behind without him.
In the months after that, the idea has grown on you, and now you can't wait to see what it is outside; you've seen the top of skyscrapers from the roof of some of the taller buildings inside the walls, and you've heard all of the tales, but seeing it with your own eyes seems like the most exciting thing to ever happen in your sad life.
Joel looks exhausted by the time he comes back, wet from the rain with Tess and a young girl in tow. You frown at her, and she reciprocates the gesture.
"Who are you?" You ask.
"Who are you?" She retorts, dropping her sopping backpack on the ground.
"Joel's wife." You don't even hesitate, the words you've been mulling inside of your head for weeks now falling naturally from your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you see Joel freeze, and Tess' head snaps towards you so harshly you think she might break her neck.
The girl squints. "Aren't you a little yo—"
"We had a change of plans." Joel interrupts the girl, dropping down heavily onto the couch. "Robert fucked us over, his battery was no good. Tess and I are takin' the girl to the Fireflies, and then we'll come back to get you."
"You don't smuggle people." You say, your heart dropping down to your stomach. Joel's able to get in and out of the QZ with relative ease because of the goods he brings for the soldiers, but smuggling a person — a child — out of the zone isn't something the soldier will easily turn a blind eye to.
"We do now." Tess is the one that replies. She exchanges a heavy look with Joel before sneaking out of the apartment, the door slamming in her wake.
"Joel." You say, sitting next to him. You see the girl look at you wearily before she starts roaming around the room, her fingers touching every little thing she could. "This isn't right. What do the Fireflies want with a child?"
"She's some bigwig's daughter or somethin'. Marlene is desperate, she's givin' us all we need to get to Wyoming."
"What's in Wyoming?" The girl asks.
"None of your business." Joel grits out, though his face remains turned to you. "It's too dangerous to take you with me but if Marlene does good on her promise, we're set, baby."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then I'll come back home and we'll try again." He promises. "The girl is just another cargo, this is the same run I always do. The payout's just a hundred times' better."
You bite the corner of your thumb. This feels too reminiscent of your father's last smuggle run, a goodbye that doesn't seem final but feels like it— Like there's more, like Joel isn't telling you everything or perhaps making things seem less dangerous than they are. You nod, eventually, stomach still in knots.
Joel looks like he wants to reach for you, but one look at the girl makes him retreat; she's not even pretending not to stare, curled on the reclining chair and looking intently at the two of you.
"I'll talk to Abe. He knows how to contact Tommy— If I'm not back in ten days you're goin' to head to Abe's and tell him I sent ya. Hey, kid— Listen to me, this is important."
You nod, trying to focus on what he's saying. He watches you for a moment, making sure he has all of your attention before continuing: "If I'm not back in ten days, you're going to send a message to Tommy and tell him to meet you in Lincoln."
"Joel, how the fuck am I supposed to get to Lincoln on my own?"
"You're goin' to play an 80s song on the radio, and then you'll leave it playin' as you leave. Bill is goin' to meet you halfway there but you need to get out of the city first." He pulls your chin towards him, holding your face so he can look you in the eyes. "You have to get out of the city as fast as you can, y'hear me? You're goin' to follow the path on the map I'ma leave with you, and you're goin' to meet up with Bill. He's gon' keep you until Tommy gets there."
"You've never walked me through a contingency plan like this before, Joel." You try to blink the tears away. "If this is just like any other run, then I don't need this."
"Well, you never called yourself m'wife before, now have you?" Despite the call out, Joel has a small grin on his lips. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment, and you shrug.
"Tess calls me your housewife all the time."
Joel drops his hand, his eyes darting towards the young girl in the room as if he's just recalled her presence. "This is all hypothetical. This run is more dangerous than others, but I've survived worst. I been meanin' to tell you all'a this for a while now. Ain't gon' leave you on your own like your dad did."
Joel leaves an annotated map on the kitchen table— The same one he's been doodling over ever since he heard Tommy was in Wyoming, with escape routes from Boston and the safest and quickest ways to get to Tommy, the margins filled with extensive notes about the unsafe routes and places to avoid in the city; things are numbered and signed and there's a whole paragraph of symbols and codes Joel's come up with, the sort of detailed attention that means he's been working on this for far longer than you've noticed.
"How do I sneak out of the QZ?" You ask, staring at the map as if it's a bomb.
"James."
"The Jesus freak?" You frown. James lives a few doors down from you, a creepy-looking blond man that often has a bible in his hands and a superiority complex that makes you want to barf.
"He's cheap, and he knows his way 'round the place. There are two guns underneath the fourth floorboard by the wardrobe, you'll trade him one and keep one to yourself."
"Hypothetically."
"Yes, darlin'. Hypothetically. Only if I don't come back."
"You'll be here in ten days, won't you?"
"I will. Maybe even sooner than that." Joel promises again, holding your gaze steady. Still, you don't believe him. "I'll be here with a truckload of supplies, and then we'll skip town together."
They leave not long after that, a few hours short of sun up by the time Tess comes back with her pack and a clear exit for the three of them. Joel doesn't give you a prolonged goodbye, simply squeezing your waist and kissing the top of your head like he always does, but the terrible gut feeling that this run is unlike the others doesn't leave with him— If anything, it only seems to worsen in the dark, empty apartment.
You cry yourself to sleep and, distracted by your own anguish and the loud sound of your sobbing, you don't hear the song coming from Tess' radio.
The ten days are an absolute nightmare. You're sick most of the time, sleeping when you're not puking and crying when you're not sleeping or puking— It is Amelia, the young woman that manages the food bank closes to your apartment that brings up the possibility of you being pregnant; she catches you retching one morning outside of her food stall after a particularly strong waft of freshly baked bread, connecting the dots even before you can properly explain your symptoms; you have no proper way of confirming her hypothesis, not unless you want to go to a FEDRA-appointed doctor and alert them to your condition, so Amelia takes you into the backroom of her stall and offers you two different options: A ginger root for morning sickness, or a mugwort and pennyroyal concoction to make your problem go away.
You take the ginger root with shaking fingers, and Amelia simply holds you in silence while you cry.
When the ten days come and go with no sign of Joel, the dread settles so heavy it keeps you awake all night, and not even the bone-deep tiredness you've been feeling can make you get a wink of sleep. You give him some wiggle room, however, deciding to wait just a little longer before you contact Tommy— Joel is coming home any day, you're certain of it, and you'd feel silly to make a fuss just for him to walk through the door safe and sound. So you cry, and you vomit and you don't sleep and you wait.
For all of the despair you felt when you father went missing, you discover now that you never worried much about his safety— You worried that if he wasn't safe you wouldn't be as well, but it takes Joel leaving for you to understand the difference between worrying about someone to worrying about what will happen to you now that they're gone. A thousand different scenarios play through your head, from raiders to slavers to infected hoards to the fact that, maybe, he had simply left you behind: You're not certain which one hurts more, the idea of him being dead somewhere or the idea of him being alive without you.
You hold out hope for as long as you can but, by the fifteenth day, you know you can't pretend nothing happened anymore. You go to Abe early one morning, when the line is just starting to form and tells him exactly as you were instructed to: That you are Joel Miller's wife — which raises eyebrows from everyone in the room — and that you need his help. You give the codeword for Bill and Frank's home, and your estimated arrival there and, by the time Abe is done scribbling all of it down, you feel a little better about yourself; it's scary, and dangerous, but you've lived through scary and dangerous your entire life— And perhaps you haven't faced the outside before, but you've lived in a free-for-all war zone ever since you were a kid.
James isn't an easy man to find, but eventually you manage to track him down to an old building that is being used as a chapel— It's an old coffee shop that's been cleared out at some point, a few mismatching chairs stacked neatly in small rows. James gives you a warm smile when you walk in, your backpack clutched tightly to your chest, but it's visible that he doesn't recognize you.
"Joel sent me." You tell him. "Miller."
The smile slides off of James' face, and he takes a moment to regain his bearings; and despite being used to bad reactions when it comes to dropping Joel's name, the clear dislike on the man's face only increases your worries. James takes you to a backroom behind the church that he's assembled into something that might pass for an office, arms crossed over his chest— He's tall and lanky, non-threatening for most people but there's something about him that keeps you on your toes.
"I need out of the QZ." You explain, plucking the handgun from your backpack before offering it to him. "Joel said you'd help me in exchange of this."
The man squints, but eventually takes the weapon from you, carefully examining it before he puts it on top of the worn Bible on his desk. "Where are you headed?"
"Wyoming." The word slips out, and you wince, unsure if you're supposed to tell him or not— Joel certainly wouldn't have shared anything more than strictly necessary. "That's none of your concern, though. I just need your help to get past the soldiers."
"I got family on the Wyoming border, I've been meaning to head there. What part of Wyoming are you going?"
"I don't have anything else to pay you for chaperoning me. I can get there on my own, I just—"
"I just said I'm headed there anyways." James smiles, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "Do you know how to shoot? It's a rough path, I could use someone to help me."
You hesitate for a long moment, but James doesn't seem to be in any rush. You don't trust him, not one bit, but your mind goes back to the life you might be carrying, to the fact that you had no guarantee that either Tommy or Bill would get your message or even believe you at all; you had someone else to think about now, the fragile little thing you had growing inside of you— You still had no proof you were pregnant, but you knew it to be true. Could feel it deep in your soul, as if your body had been warning you about it before your brain caught up to the possibility of it.
You pluck Joel's map from your backpack, pointing it to the general area Tommy is. "I need to go here. Somewhere."
James hums, and nods. "My community is in Colorado, but it's close enough to that area. A couple of weeks on foot, less if we can get a car."
"Why are you so far away from home?"
He taps two fingers on the Bible. "Spreading the Lord's words."
You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from snorting. "I don't believe you when you say you don't want anything from me. Nobody does anything without payment."
"The Lord teaches us to be selfless, and help those in need. A young woman like you, crossing the country by yourself? You'll die before you cross state lines."
"Your community. Where is it?"
"Here." James points to the map. "It is close enough to the place you're going, Joel might even be at Silver Lake rather than Wyoming by this point. We're a very welcoming bunch."
You open your mouth to say you're not after Joel, but decide against it; James doesn't need to know why you're going and, maybe if he's scared enough of Joel, he might think twice before bringing you any sort of harm.
"Alright." You say, shoving the map back into your backpack. "Take me to Silver Lake, then."
💭 You told your parents you were dating someone. They were curious though a little cautious, American wasn’t their ideal, Frat boy dropout even less so.
rafe masterlist main masterlist
a/n where i grew up all our rich people are farmers so this is based off that
“This place is... different.”
You tilted your head, uncertain. “Different good or different bad?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just glanced out over the sloping fields, toward the marquee tent flapping in the wind and your mother laughing elegantly over a glass of Pimm’s.
Then his thumb traced a line along your wrist. “Different like... you.”
It wasn’t quite a compliment, but it landed in your chest like one. You looked at him, the Carolina boy dropped into the heart of English gentry like he didn’t give a damn about any of it, and you felt your mouth curve.
“So, amazing huh,” You tease with a smile. “it’s not really your scene is it?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You are.”
You didn’t kiss him, not there, not with the vicar’s wife barely thirty paces away and your aunt watching from the crest of the hill with racing binoculars, but your fingers tightened around his just the same.
Because it was true. You were different here.
You were frost kissed cheekbones and estate silver, you were all the parts of your bloodline stitched into something new, something that had walked away and come back changed.
Rafe looked at you like he knew that.
Like he saw it all and didn’t mind the sharp edges.
And when you tugged him toward the crowd, boots squelching, he followed without complaint.
Because no matter how out of place he was, no matter how your parents had side-eyed his accent, his past, his sudden place in your life, he was here.
With you.
And that meant more than all the well-bred country boys in the world.
-
You noticed him the first day.
Not because he tried to be noticed, though he did, but because he didn’t have to try.
There were a dozen loud boys in that lecture hall, but he sat at the back like the room belonged to him. Backwards cap, legs stretched long, AirPods in until the professor started talking. He didn’t open his laptop. Just spun a pen through his fingers and watched people.
He watched you.
You weren’t a nerd by any means, but you were polished. Pulled together. The kind of girl who wore tailored trousers to class and had matching notebooks for each module.
English. Upper class. A touch aloof, without trying to be. You hadn’t planned to draw attention, but in America, especially in a class full of sunburnt frat boys, you stood out.
And Rafe Cameron made sure you knew it.
“Let me take you out,” he said the first time, after class. No preamble. Just leaned back in his chair, grin lazy, dimples out.
You blinked. “Oh well…. No.”
“Cool, I’ll try again tomorrow.” And then he just walked off.
And he did. Almost every week. Sometimes with jokes. Sometimes with smirks. Once, when you rolled your eyes and walked off, he jogged after you just to hold the door.
You never said yes. Not because you weren’t interested. But because you weren’t stupid.
Frat boys didn’t mean anything.
Especially not ones who looked at you like they’d eat you whole.
Still, you caught him watching you in class. Not in a gross way. Just... looking. Like he was curious, like he wanted to figure out what made you tick.
And then one afternoon, he found you in the library.
“You’re good at this,” he said, nodding to the open textbook in front of you. “The way you explain things in class, it actually makes sense.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to flatter me or fail the course less miserably?”
He smirked, lowering his voice. “Maybe both.”
You gave him a look, half amused, half suspicious.
“I’m serious,” he said, slipping into the seat across from you, pulling out a notebook that looked like it hadn’t been opened since syllabus week. “I need help with the next paper. I figured if anyone could get me to stop bombing this class, it’s you.”
You knew it wasn’t just about grades. He knew you knew.
But the offer gave you both a reason, a place to start, something that felt safe, at first.
“You sure you can sit still for an hour?” you asked.
“I can sit still,” he said, “if I’m looking at you.”
You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t say no.
That first study session turned into three. Then five. He was smarter than he let on, but easily distracted, especially by you.
His eyes would linger when you leaned over the desk, lips parted slightly when you explained something complicated, sometimes he’d interrupt your train of thought just to say something maddening like, “You’ve got the cutest accent when you’re annoyed.”
You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss him.
Eventually, you did.
But only after the party.
You weren’t supposed to be there.
It wasn’t your scene, plastic cups, sticky floors, the too-loud bass that shook through your shoes and made conversation impossible. But your roommate had begged, and you’d had a long week, so you came. Lip gloss on, silk blouse tucked into a high-waisted skirt, heels sinking into someone’s lawn as you made your way toward the porch light.
And Rafe was there.
He always was.
Red Solo cup in hand, baseball cap backwards, some girl laughing too loud at something he’d said that wasn't worth a chuckle at best. He caught sight of you and did a double-take, eyes dragging over you like it was the first time he’d seen you.
You ignored him. Grabbed a drink. Found your roommate. Pretended you weren’t looking for him.
But He found you first.
“You came,” he said, leaning against the doorway beside you, voice close enough to skim the shell of your ear.
“I regret it already.”
“Still time to make it a good night.”
You turned, ready with a sarcastic reply, but stopped when you saw him properly. His smirk wasn’t as cocky, there was something else in his eyes. Something tired. Raw.
“You okay?” you asked, more softly than you meant to.
He looked away, then drained the rest of his drink. “My dad called. So just the regular parent stuff y'know.”
You didn’t know much about Ward Cameron yet, but you’d heard things. And Rafe had mentioned him once, when you were studying together, in that offhanded way people use when something hurts too much to hold still.
“I don’t usually give a fuck what he thinks,” Rafe said, voice rough. “But some nights, it’s harder than others.”
You hesitated, then stepped closer. “You want to get out of here?”
He looked at you like you’d just handed him air after hours underwater. “Yeah.”
You took him back to yours, tot because you had a plan, but because it felt like the only right place.
He sat on the edge of your twin bed like he didn’t know what to do with himself, eyes flicking around your tidy room, the fairy lights, the stack of novels on the desk, the polaroid's of all that you left back home .
“Looks like you,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You leaned against the door. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Put-together. Proper. But also...” He trailed off, then glanced at you. “Not boring.”
You snorted. “High praise.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the buzz of alcohol fading into something quieter. He looked so unsure of himself in that moment, shoulders hunched, like all the bravado had peeled back and left him bare.
So you sat beside him and didn’t say anything.
Just let the silence sit between you, warm and full.
“I dropped out,” he said eventually. “Didn’t tell anyone yet. Thought maybe if I stayed around long enough, it wouldn’t feel like quitting.”
Your chest ached. “Rafe…”
“I’m not asking for pity,” he said, shaking his head. “I just, I didn’t want you to think I’m some joke.”
“I don’t.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and whatever he saw must have been enough because he leaned in, slow and careful, like he was waiting for you to stop him.
You didn’t.
After that, it changed.
He started staying over more. You kept an extra toothbrush in the drawer. He sent you selfies from the OBX, surfboard tucked under one arm, dog barking in the background.
You went there for the first time over winter break. Met his friends, and saw the house he wouldn’t talk about, you met his father briefly nothing more than pleasantries but you could understand how the man could make his own son feel uneasy in his home.
You visited each other as much as you could, taking turns booking tickets, studied together, slept in, fought sometimes but always came back to each other.
You liked how he listened to you.
You liked how you could make him laugh when no one else could.
He started calling you babe in that lazy, Southern way that made your heart thump.
You told your parents you were dating someone. They were curious though a little cautious, American wasn’t their ideal, Frat boy dropout even less so.
But you insisted and when spring came, you invited him to England.
You didn’t tell him they’d judge. But he figured it out fast.
He still came.
And now you were here.
Back home. On your land. In the mud and wind.
And he was with you.
You weren’t five minutes through the front door before your mother was eyeing Rafe like he’d tracked mud onto the across the foyer.
"He's very...American," she murmured to your father over canapés. You heard her. So did Rafe.
He only smirked, taking a sip of the scotch your grandfather had offered him as if to say yeah, and?
Dinner that first night was stiff. Formal. Silver cutlery and bone China. Rafe had cleaned up, shaved, pressed shirt, even wore a tie, but it didn’t soften the edge of him. Not really. He didn’t belong in a Georgian dining room with gilded sconces and crystal decanters. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
You sat beside him, fingers brushing beneath the table. You felt him relax a little when your thumb traced his.
"So, Rafe," your uncle began, carving into the venison roast with all the theatrical precision of a surgeon, "what do you do now, since leaving university?"
You could hear it. That slight edge in since leaving. The implication curled around the sentence like smoke.
Rafe didn’t blink. “Work back home, mostly. Family business, for now.”
“Ah,” said your aunt, who always had something to say. “And that is…?”
He hesitated. You stepped in. “He’s figuring it out. Just like any of us.”
Your father raised a brow, but said nothing.
You hated the way they looked at him. Like he was temporary. A distraction.
They didn’t know how he held you when your world frayed, how he stayed on the phone with you until four a.m. the night your grandmother passed, how he drove six hours to surprise you before finals.
💭 your storyline wasn’t tragic enough for them to pity, but just messy enough to resent.
aka their first meeting
rafe masterlist series masterlist main masterlist
The air smelled like lemon zest, sharp, expensive, and a little bit bitter.
You’d been standing by the stone planter for the better part of twenty minutes, sipping something pink and fizzy out of a crystal coupe, half-listening to Lydia talk about her newest interior decorator, and wholly tuning out. She was trying to convince herself, and anyone who’d listen, that the palm leaf wallpaper in her downstairs powder room was very Palm Beach and not, as her husband had allegedly said, “tacky as hell.”
You smiled when it was polite. Nodded when it was necessary. But your eyes kept drifting toward the edge of the lawn, where the hedges broke open into a view of the marsh beyond, a man leaned lazily against the rail, lit cigarette tucked between two fingers like a secret he hadn’t quite decided to keep.
Rafe Cameron.
You recognized him instantly, even though it had been years. He hadn’t been on the show before, at least not really, just a name that got thrown around when his mother needed to explain an absence. My Rafe’s taking time off. My Rafe’s out west. My Rafe’s, well, boys will be boys, won’t they?
You weren’t expecting him to be… that.
Loose shirt, unbuttoned far enough to show sun-warmed skin and a thin gold chain, a loud blazer hanging from his arm. Faded jeans that didn’t belong in a crowd of pressed slacks and A-line skirts. Tousled hair, cut haphazardly like he’d done it himself.
You didn’t mean to stare, but then his gaze cut across the yard and met yours. Sharp, curious. A flicker of recognition? No. Just intrigue. And that was worse.
So when you moved, slowly, deliberately, the way a woman does when she knows she's being watched, it was half instinct, half indulgence. You stood beside him, placing your glass down on the stone balustrade, not too close, but close enough that your perfume would drift his way.
He took a drag, flicked ash into the wind, and gave you a once-over that wasn’t even trying to be subtle.
“You don't look like you should be here.”
You smiled faintly, eyes on the water. “That’s a line.”
He chuckled. Low, rough. “Wouldn’t work if it wasn’t true.”
You turned to him then, letting your gaze linger. “So which one are you?”
His grin widened. “Rafe.”
You raised a brow. “Cameron?”
“The one and only.”
You nodded slowly. “I’ve heard about you.”
“All good things, I’m sure.”
“Mostly rehab.”
That caught him off guard, just for a second. Then he laughed, tossed his head back. “Damn. Didn’t realise I was so news worthy.”
“You don’t. You have a mother on basic cable.”
Rafe dragged his teeth across his bottom lip like he was trying not to smile. “And you are?”
You gave your name, watching the flicker of recognition pass through him. A pause. And then-
“Wait, you’re the one who, shit, you’ve got a kid, right?”
You took a slow sip of your drink. “She’s with her dad this weekend.”
He blinked. “You don’t look like a mom.”
You shrugged. “You don’t look like someone who shows up to middle aged women's parties.”
Another laugh. This one softer. Like he liked that you gave it back.
“Touché,” he murmured. “So… what are you doing hiding out here?”
You tipped your head. “Maybe I was waiting for someone interesting to show up.”
His gaze dropped, your mouth, your collarbone, the hem of your dress. “Guess you got lucky.”
“You think?”
He leaned in a little, his voice a slow curl of smoke. “I know.”
And just like that, the energy between you shifted, thickened, like honey in warm air.
But before either of you could take the next step, a voice cut in, brittle and bright like champagne gone flat.
“There you are,” Catherine Cameron said, sharp-heeled and sharper-tongued. She didn’t look at you when she slid her arm around her son’s elbow, just offered a polite, cursory nod that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve been looking for you, darling. Everyone wants to say hello.”
Rafe shot you a glance, half apology, half something else entirely. “Rain check?”
You smiled, slow and knowing. “You know where to find me.”
And as Catherine dragged him away, all pearls and tight smiles, you watched the line of his shoulders, the lazy gait of his walk.
Oh yeah.
This was going to be fun.
You’d barely taken two sips of your champagne while watching him walk away when you heard it, laughter, too loud, too rehearsed. The kind that came not from joy, but from the thrill of blood in the water.
You turned your head in time to see Felicity Carrington lean toward the group of women clustered near the marble bar, one manicured hand wrapped around a glass of rosé, the other gesturing vaguely in your direction.
“She’s absolutely darling,” Felicity cooed, not bothering to lower her voice. “And so brave. I mean, to get married so young and then divorced so publicly? I would’ve hidden in Europe for a year.”
“I still can’t believe she’s actually coming on the show,” chimed in Vivian Langley, her voice smooth and saccharine. “How old is she again? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”
“Twenty-three,” you corrected, stepping closer, smile cool and controlled as you set your empty flute on the tray of a passing waiter. “But I’ll take twenty-six. Better for my visuals.”
The group turned, a ripple of tight smiles flashing like drawn knives.
Felicity tsked, feigning warmth. “Darling, you know we adore you. It’s just, most women your age are still figuring out who they are. And then there’s you. Divorce, motherhood, reality TV…”
“Some girls take gap years,” Vivian added sweetly. “Some take custody.”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t give them the satisfaction. But something inside you coiled, tight and hot, behind your ribs.
You smiled wider. “Better to grow up fast than not at all.”
Felicity tilted her head. “Well, you certainly have taste. Your ex-husband is… seasoned.”
Translation: old enough to be your father. Rich enough to be everyone’s mistake.
“I like a man who knows his wines,” you said lightly.
“I hear he also knows his way around custody lawyers,” Vivian murmured to Felicity, not quiet enough.
Your stomach clenched.
They didn’t care about the marriage. They didn’t care about the age gap or the drama.
They cared that you had something they hadn’t earned: a storyline.
And worse, your storyline wasn’t tragic enough for them to pity, but just messy enough to resent.
You stepped back from the circle, gaze flicking across the patio. Catherine was still laughing with her country club set. Rafe was nowhere to be seen.
You needed air.
“Excuse me,” you murmured, voice steady despite the rush of heat under your skin. “I have a headache.”
One of the women offered a faux-concerned smile. “It’s probably just the bubbles.”
Or the bitches, you thought.
You didn’t say another word. Just turned, shoulders square, and slipped into the dark where champagne couldn’t follow and the only sound was the soft hum of night, and the blood rushing in your ears.
The laughter from the table felt too sharp now, too brittle. You could still feel the bite of their smiles on your skin, perfect veneers hiding ugly barbs.
It wasn't new, more so a constant since the news broke.
You were so young when you married him.
I could never hand my life over to a man like that, but you were always so bold, darling.
At least you got a gorgeous little girl out of it. That’s what matters, right?
They said it all sweet. Said it like compliments. But their eyes told the truth, calculating, gleaming, the way women like them smelled weakness like blood in the water.
You agreed to join the show as a main cast member not just for the fresh start after her messy, much-gossiped-about divorce, but to carve out your own income, separate from her wealthy ex and old-money family, so no one could say she hadn't earned her place.
“Running away already?”
The voice stopped you mid-step. You turned.
Rafe leaned against the stone wall, sleeves rolled, tie loose, holding a half-finished glass of bourbon like he belonged in every Southern fantasy you’d ever secretly entertained. His smirk was lazy but there was something sharper under it, something knowing.
You didn’t smile. “Didn’t realise I was expected to stay for the full roast.”
He chuckled, stepping forward. “Let me guess. They brought up the ex they all secretly want.”
“And the age gap,” you said, eyes narrowing. “And the divorce. And the fact that I had a child with a man who could’ve paid for all their facelifts.”
“Sounds like a hit list,” Rafe said, mouth curling. “What’d you say?”
“Nothing.” You shrugged. “I’m trying to be classy.”
“That’s boring.” He was in front of you now, warm and far too close. “You’re more fun when you’re petty.”
You let your eyes drag over him. “You’re assuming you know me.”
He leaned down a little, grin widening. “I want to.”
“Didn’t realise I had a chaperone.”
“I was gonna ask if you ghost all your parties,” he said, sauntering closer, “but I figured you just couldn’t handle seeing me in that salmon-coloured blazer Catherine made me wear.”
You eyed him, amused. “Very yacht club of you.”
“God, I know. I’m gonna burn it.”
He stopped a few feet in front of you, just close enough that you could smell the whisky on his breath, feel the warmth radiating off him like he carried his own gravity.
"You didn’t say goodbye," he added, voice lower now. “Thought we had a thing going.”
You raised an eyebrow. “A thing?”
He grinned, slow and shameless. “Yeah. I flirt. You flirt back. We get kicked out of polite society.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Sounds scandalous.”
He tilted his head. “You’d like it.”
The wind tugged a lock of hair across your cheek and you went to brush it back, but his fingers beat you to it. Calloused, warm, and far too familiar for a man you’d only just met. You didn’t pull away.
“I should go,” you said, but it didn’t sound very convincing.
“You should,” he agreed, eyes not leaving yours.
You stayed still.
Rafe stepped closer, voice dipping into that drawl that was barely a whisper. “What’s the rush?”
You looked up at him, letting him see it, that flicker of want you’d been keeping quiet all evening. “You know what happens when I stay?”
He licked his lips, eyes dark. “Tell me.”
“I stop pretending I don’t want to kiss you.”
Rafe’s hand came to rest just above your hip, firm and possessive like he already had you memorised.
"Then stay," he said simply.
You leaned in, close enough that your breath mingled with his. “I’ve got a kid to get back to in the morning.”
His smile turned wolfish. “Then let’s not waste the night.”
You kissed him like you’d been waiting to do it all evening, which, honestly, you had. And when his fingers curled tighter at your waist, pulling you against him like he needed to feel the full press of your body to believe it, you let yourself get lost in it.
In the low hum of crickets. In the hum of blood in your ears. In the way his mouth moved over yours like a promise and a threat.
You pulled back first. Barely.
“Catherine’s going to love this,” you whispered against his lips.
Rafe smirked, voice rough with heat. “She'll love the attention.”
a/n i'm pretty sure i've seen someone write a real housewife reader au but i can't remember or find it, so if you know pls tell me!!
main masterlist series masterlist rafe masterlist
At just twenty-three, she’s already lived the kind of life that lands most women on the show by forty. Old money, equestrian trophies, a scandalous divorce at twenty-three leaving her with a toddler on her hip, and now, the youngest cast member to ever hold a Real Housewives of Charleston title.
But she’s not showing up single. She’s freshly married to Rafe Cameron. Yes, that Rafe. The brooding, barely-reformed son of long-time cast member Catherine Cameron. A few years older and known for his checkered past, Rafe’s return to Charleston society has Bravo fans buzzing.
But not everyone’s thrilled. Least of all Catherine, who masks her disapproval behind clipped smiles and toast-worthy lies. To her, the marriage screams calculated. A gold digger in designer heels, cosying up to her vulnerable son at his lowest.
To the producers? It’s reality gold.
She’s not new to the camera. She’s been in the background of past seasons, Catherine’s neighbours daughter, a family friend. Glimpsed at fundraisers and garden parties, now stepping into the spotlight on her own terms.
Glossy Instagram photos from weekend getaways. Loud declarations in Vanity Fair’s southern spread. Filmed dinner parties where her hand never leaves his thigh under the table.
But this isn’t just a love story. It’s reality television. And everyone’s watching.
💭 “You think it’s hope?” You shrug. “I don’t know what it is.”
Summary: You noticed the signs back at Bill and Frank’s - missed period, morning nausea. You told yourself you'd wait until you found Tommy, until you were somewhere safe. Until Joel was ready. Then Kansas City happened.
part one joel masterlist main masterlist
The silence after Kansas City hangs heavy.
It follows you like a second shadow, quiet and careful, just waiting for one of you to break it.
You hadn’t meant to say it. Not in the middle of a shootout. Not with your back pressed to a rusted-out car and Joel covered in blood. But fear had cracked you wide open, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them.
Joel’s reaction was instant. Unfiltered. The kind of knee-jerk panic you weren’t used to seeing from him.
But he hasn’t brought it up since.
Neither have you.
There have been nights, long, quiet ones where your ribs press into his under the blankets, where the fire dies too early and neither of you says a word, when you almost did. When his fingers brushed over your skin too gently for someone who hadn’t asked a single question about the possibility of a life growing between you.
But the words stayed in your mouth. Stuck. Swallowed down like ash.
You survived the ambush, but barely. Your body still aches from being thrown against the ground. The bruise on your shoulder blooms like ink, sharp and dark, another addition to the collection of marks you’ve gathered from trying to stay alive.
There are more immediate concerns: a place to sleep. The sharp echo of gunfire in your memory. Food supplies thinning. Joel’s shoulder, which he swears isn’t dislocated but still hasn’t moved quite right since.
So you hold it inside. Try not to count the days. Try not to notice the way your stomach swirls each morning, or the quiet weight that’s settled in your chest. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s nothing.
But it isn’t. And it’s getting too loud to ignore.
You find the pharmacy by accident.
A sun-bleached skeleton of a building, wedged between a burned-out diner and a tire shop caved in on itself. The sign is half-gone. Inside, it’s cooler. Still. Dust floats through the air like pollen.
Most of the shelves are empty. Looted long ago. But your feet move through the aisles anyway, like muscle memory.
Joel takes the back. You crouch behind the counter, sleeve pulled over your hand to avoid the shards of glass glittering across the cabinet doors.
That’s when you see it.
Tucked behind a warped stack of cotton swabs. Slightly crushed, but unopened.
A pregnancy test.
You pause. Just for a second. Then you grab it, fast and clumsy, like someone might snatch it away if you hesitate.
Joel’s boots creak behind you.
You don’t have time to hide it.
“What’s that?” he asks.
You turn slowly. It’s in your hand, stupidly obvious, like a bomb with the timer counting down.
His eyes flick down to the box, then back to you.
“You said you weren’t sure.”
“I’m not,” you say too fast. Voice too tight.
Joel doesn’t nod the way he usually does when he doesn’t want to talk about something. Doesn’t shrug it off and shut the door on you. Instead, he says quietly, “You wanna take it?”
You open your mouth. Close it again. Your throat’s dry.
“I want to,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “But… until we find Tommy. Until we’re somewhere safe. I don’t think I should.”
He watches you for a moment. Then nods.
“Okay,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”
Later, you’re tucked into the woods just off the highway. Ellie’s out cold, collapsed like a dropped coat. Joel sits by the fire, sharpening his knife with the kind of focus he only uses when he’s trying not to feel.
You settle beside him. Pull your coat tighter.
“So… you think we’re close to Tommy?” you ask softly.
Joel doesn’t look up. “I know.”
You hesitate. “I just- I want to be somewhere it’s okay to hope.”
He draws the blade down the whetstone. Once. Twice. Then pauses.
“You think it’s hope?”
You shrug. “I don’t know what it is.”
There’s a stretch of silence.
Then Joel says, voice quiet like it’s been untouched for years, “Sarah had this shirt. Blue. Covered in little butterflies. Got too small for her, but she wouldn’t stop wearing it. Said it made her feel like she could fly.”
You don’t speak. Just stare at the fire, the way the flames curl like hands.
“I kept it,” he says. “After. Couldn’t throw it away. Still had it when I met you.”
Your breath catches. He never talks about Sarah. Not like this.
“I haven’t been fair to you,” Joel says. “I’ve been… afraid. That nothing would ever matter after her. That nothing would be more than memory.”
You turn to look at him. Your heart hammers.
“But then you showed up,” he says. “Ran into me in the North Zone. Didn’t flinch when that clicker came at us. Shot it between the eyes. Called me old.”
You laugh, startled by the sound.
“You were limping,” you murmur. “I thought you needed backup.”
“I thought you were out of your damn mind.”
You smile. Eyes sting. “Maybe I was.”
He looks at you then. Really looks for the first time in days. His face is tired, lined, worn down from too many years of surviving. But there’s something steadier beneath it. Something warmer.
“I don’t know if it’s hope,” he says. “But if it’s you… it doesn’t feel like a mistake.”
Your throat tightens. The fire crackles.
“Still,” Joel adds, dry now, “if you ever tell me you might be pregnant in the middle of a gunfight again…”
You groan, covering your face. “Oh my god, can we not-”
“No, we have to talk about it,” he says, lips twitching. “That might’ve been the worst timing in human history.”
“I panicked!” you protest. “There was blood everywhere, I was panicking!”
“Even so. You couldn’t wait five more seconds?”
“I wasn’t thinking rationally! I just-” You hesitate. Your voice softens. “I didn’t want either of us to die without you knowing.”
Joel doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. His whole expression shifts, gentles.
“You’re not dying,” he says. “Not on me. Not like that.”
Your chest twists.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He reaches over. Brings his hand to yours. Callused and warm. Steady.
“We’ll figure it out,” Joel says. “Together.”
And for the first time since Kansas City, you believe him.
Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “Joel…”
“Hmm?”
You rest your forehead against his shoulder.
“It was positive.”
He freezes.
Then slowly, without a word, he wraps his arms around you. Holds you to his chest like something fragile and beloved. Like he’s not letting go.
after rick finds out the truth about lori and shane, he shows up at your tent looking for what he can't have. you call him out... and then you ruin him.
💭“But you’re not going to go, are you?” you said, voice soft now, velvet over glass. “No, you’re going to stay right here..... with me”
after rick finds out the truth about lori, he shows up at yours looking for what he can't have.
rick masterlist main masterlist
warnings: smut, cheating, age gap (reader is around 21), reader is a little shit i love it, my man needs a break, no lori hate!!! she did nothing wrong and i stand by that
The tent flap rustled like a secret. Soft. Hesitant. Like even he wasn’t sure he should be here.
You didn’t look up at first. You’d felt him coming, the way you always did, like the air changed around him, grew heavier, warmer. He carried something with him, a storm that lived just beneath his skin, always threatening to spill out.
There was something about Rick Grimes that always made you quiet when he entered a room.
Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like he’d been stitched together with duty and grit and a kind of pain most people couldn’t name. Maybe it was the way he looked at people, like he was measuring their soul, not just their words.
Or maybe it was the way you looked at him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmured, your voice barely breaking the quiet.
Rick didn’t answer.
He stepped inside, boots heavy on the ground, and closed the flap zip shut behind him like a line being drawn in the sand.
You didn’t speak for a long while after that. Just watched him from the corner of your eye as he stood there, hat hanging from his fingers like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore. The lantern cast gold across his face, caught in the dark scruff on his jaw, the lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there even a month ago.
He looked exhausted. Like he’d aged five years since the sun went down.
“You saw her." you said quietly. Not a question. Just fact.
That got you a flicker of something. A muscle ticking in his jaw. His fingers twitching.
You sat up a little straighter, legs tucked beneath you, blanket pooling in your lap. “You asked about Shane.”
Still nothing.
“It’s his kid, isn’t it?”
That did it, a fracture.
Just a small one, but it cracked right through him. His shoulders tensed, lips parting like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t summon the lie.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” he said. But his voice didn’t sound convinced.
You leaned your head back against the tent and sighed. “You do. You just hate that I’m saying it out loud.”
He turned then, finally looked at you, and the heat in his gaze wasn’t gentle. It was wounded. Torn between wanting to be touched and wanting to burn the world down.
“You think you know everything, don’t you?” he muttered. “Think you’ve got me all figured out.”
“I don’t,” you said, calm. “But I know what grief looks like. And I know what denial sounds like.”
Rick’s brow furrowed. “You think I came here to be judged by you?”
“No,” you said, voice low. “I think you came here because I’m the only person who doesn’t ask you to lie.”
That silenced him. Again.
And maybe that was what your connection had always been, not loud or dramatic or obvious. Just real.
You were younger, sure, but you weren’t naïve. You saw through him in ways that scared him. That tempted him. Like some siren in the woods, he kept telling himself not to follow but always ended up chasing anyway.
You just… watched. And waited. And when Rick was too tired to sleep, too tense to breathe, you were there. Not demanding anything. Just existing. And somehow, that made it worse.
Because you were young. Untouched by the life that had hardened everyone else. And every time you looked at him, it made something inside him ache.
You never said it, but you knew exactly what you were doing.
The way you lingered a second too long when you brushed past him. The way you’d lean in close when he was cleaning a weapon and ask him questions you already knew the answers to, just to hear him talk, just to feel the heat roll off his skin.
“You can fix this y’know, she’ll choose you.” You stood slowly, eyes never leaving him. “You’re not a man people just move on from.”
Something flickered behind his eyes.
You know that weren’t supposed to be important to him. Just another person in the group. Just another girl with a fast mouth and too much sarcasm.
You’d seen the way Lori looked at you, not like a threat, but like a warning sign. Something reckless wrapped in lip gloss.
But Rick… Rick looked at you like he was trying not to.
You noticed it before he did even realised what he was doing.
The way his eyes lingered when you leaned against a fencepost. The way his voice got quieter when he talked to you, as if it was dangerous to speak too loud.
And yeah, you wore short shorts when the sun baked down and tied your shirt too high when you went to wash up, but you weren’t doing it for him. Well, not at first.
It just became harder to pretend you didn’t know what you were doing.
And now here he was, sitting in your tent like he wasn’t quite sure what was about to happen.
He took a step closer.
Your heart thudded in your chest, but you didn’t move. Not away.
“But you’re not going to go, are you?” you said, voice soft now, velvet over glass. “No, you’re going to stay right here..... with me”
You stopped just in front of him, and the tent felt smaller, warmer. Like the space between you had started to hum.
He didn’t speak. Just stared at you, something breaking behind his eyes. You could see it now, the guilt, the craving, the tug-of-war between what he wanted and what he shouldn’t have.
“You think you’re temptation incarnate,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “And maybe you are. But that doesn’t make it right.”
You leaned in then, just enough for your breath to brush his cheek. “But it doesn’t make it wrong, either.”
“I ain’t stupid,” he said low, voice like gravel. “I know what you’re doing. God.” he said “I shouldn’t even be here.”
His eyes clenched shut as if he’s trying to burn the words into his brain.
“But you are,” you breathed, eyes never leaving his. “You always are.”
That landed like a punch.
He looked at you, really looked, and you saw it: the grief, the betrayal, the anger, the guilt. All of it, tangled up and fraying.
“Because I’m not her,” you whispered. “I won’t lie to you. I won’t make you feel small. I won’t punish you for needing something.”
“I don’t need you,” he growled, but it came out broken. Hollow.
You tilted your head. “Then why are your hands shaking?”
His breath hitched, and suddenly he was kissing you, his hands solid against your cheeks.
It wasn’t gentle, but it was slow, just as if he was testing the waters, pressing against your lips like a confession, a sin, a prayer.
You tried to kiss him back harder, mouth parting, hands threading into the collar of his shirt, but his hand knotted into your hair pulling you back, a hiss leaving your mouth.
“You think this is a game?” he murmured against your neck.
He kissed down your collarbone, slow and reverent now, like he was asking for forgiveness with every press of his mouth. His hands explored your waist, your ribs, slipping under the thin fabric like he wanted to memorize the way your skin felt.
You smiled, slow, a little wicked. “No, Rick. I think it’s the end of one.”
And then his mouth was on yours, all teeth and heat and desperation. Like he was trying to forget everything else. Like he was trying to remember how it felt to want something that wanted him back.
You felt his body lower over yours, pushing down, the bedroll rustling beneath you both, and your legs fell open instinctively, welcoming him between them. His hands slid beneath your shirt like he’d been dreaming of this moment but didn’t know if he was allowed to touch, and now that he could, he wasn’t going to stop.
You didn’t want him to.
You’d waited long enough.
You gasped against his lips, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “Fuck, Rick-”
He growled low in his throat, shoving you on your back, him right behind you, weight pinning you like he needed to own you.
“Think I haven’t wanted this?” he muttered against your jaw, dragging his mouth down your neck, biting just hard enough to make you whimper. “Every time you smart off. Every time you look at me like you know what I need.”
Your shirt was gone in seconds. So were your shorts, tossed to the floor, your panties with them.
He knelt back on his haunches to look at you, fully bare, flushed, panting. You watched his gaze drag over every inch of you, jaw clenched like he was trying not to break you in half.
“Touch me,” you breathed. “Or I swear I’ll scream loud enough to bring the whole damn farm runnin’.”
The smirk that touched his lips was wicked. “That so?”
He dropped his hand between your legs, and you cried out, hips jerking as his fingers slid through the slickness there, rough and unrelenting, the pad of his thumb grinding into your clit while two thick fingers curled inside you, slow and deep.
“Christ,” he muttered, watching the way your body arched. “You’re soaking.”
“Because I’ve been waiting for this, Rick,” you hissed. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He leaned down, biting your bottom lip. “Oh god.”
You didn’t get a chance to reply.
Rick flipped you onto your stomach, dragging your hips up as he knelt behind you. You could feel his cock, thick and throbbing, nudging against your entrance. He didn’t tease, didn’t ease in slow.
He slammed into you.
You cried out, fingers digging into the blankets, back arching as he bottomed out inside you, big hands gripping your hips so tight it bordered on cruel.
“Say it,” he grunted, thrusting deep. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” you gasped. “You, Rick.... fuck-!”
He thrust harder, punishing. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the tent. His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so your mouth opened in a moan, eyes rolling.
“Lori never let you own her like this did she,” you spat out against the mat. “Never begged. Never gave in.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he panted. “you slut.”
He growled, low and feral, as he fucked you harder, faster, each thrust brutal and perfect, hitting something deep and electric inside you that made your thighs tremble.
Then his hand reached under to wrap around your throat.
Not tight, just enough to make your pulse jump, to send fire racing to every nerve ending.
“You gonna let me come inside you, sweetheart,” he whispered darkly, though not stated as a question. “stuff you so full you feel me for days.”
Your body snapped.
You came hard, clenching around him, your whole body shaking as you cried out his name, your orgasm tearing through you like a live wire.
Rick cursed under his breath; voice strained. “Fuck, you feel so good-”
He slammed in deep one final time, holding you there as he spilled inside you, hot and thick and endless. His breath stuttered against your shoulder, his hand still around your throat like a brand.
You collapsed together, tangled, sweaty, wrecked.
His mouth found your shoulder, soft now, his body finally quiet.
“Told you,” You turned your head just enough to look at him, smirking through your breathless haze. “you needed it.”
At that he just lets out a low and quiet laugh of disbelief.
Hi, can you please write an imagine in which reader and Joel are in an established relationship and when they get to bill and Frank she starts to suspect that she’s pregnant but figures now that they got a car it will be a matter of days before they find Tommy and are done with their adventure. When they get to Kansas City and settle in the building (before Henry and Sam arrive) she asks Joel, “is now a bad time to tell you I think I’m pregnant?” And he says “yes! A very bad time!”
💭“Is now a bad time to tell you I think I’m pregnant?” “Yes!” he shouted back. “Yes, it is! It’s a very bad time!”
Summary: You noticed the signs back at Bill and Frank’s - missed period, morning nausea. You told yourself you'd wait until you found Tommy, until you were somewhere safe. Until Joel was ready. Then Kansas City happened.
bases on this ask PART 2
a/n i might do a part 2 cuz i'm not sure on the ending
joel masterlist main masterlist
The water was hot. Unbelievably, impossibly hot. You let it run down your back in thick, clean streams, soaking your hair, clouding the mirror behind the shower door. You braced your hands on the tile and exhaled through your nose, letting the heat pull the weight from your shoulders.
God Bill and Frank didn’t know how lucky they had had it.
You hadn’t felt this safe in… years. Maybe never.
You closed your eyes when you heard the door creak open. Then the soft shuffle of boots, the rustle of fabric being peeled away. Joel didn’t ask. He didn’t have to. You moved aside, just a little, enough to make room. When he stepped in behind you, his hands settled gently on your hips, grounding and familiar.
Neither of you spoke.
The shower washed over both of you, and for a moment - just a moment - it felt like you could pretend. That you weren’t in the middle of a collapsed world. That there weren’t scars across your backs and graves behind you. That this wasn’t temporary.
Joel leaned his forehead against the back of your neck and breathed in slow, like he was trying to memorise you. You turned, slowly, and pressed your hand to his chest, his heartbeat thudding steady beneath it.
His eyes were soft in that quiet way they only ever were with you.
You kissed him.
Not desperate. Not hurried. Just… steady. Like two people who had nothing left to run from for one goddamn night.
After, you sat in on of the spare rooms, brushing your hair as Joel made his way down stair to Ellie. You lost your self in the repetitive movements and let your mind wander.
You’d met Joel four years ago, on a run north of Boston. You were twenty-five, not long out of the Fireflies, still too idealistic for your own good. You hadn’t learned yet how to read a room, or a face, or a pair of tired eyes the way you could now.
He’d been gruff, cold. The kind of man you gave a wide berth, the kind who’d been burned too many times to let anyone close. But you were stubborn. You made him laugh once by accident and hadn’t shut up about it for a week.
Eventually, he started partnering with you more. Started trusting you. And once that door cracked open, you saw the man behind the steel, the way he carried too much weight, the way he always knew how to get home in the dark. The way he protected without making promises.
It had been a slow fall. But it was a fall all the same.
The world had taken so much already.
Tess. Frank and Bill, you could still feel the aftershock of it all, the emptiness they’d left behind, the letter Joel hadn’t been able to finish reading aloud. The echo of Frank’s handwriting burned behind your eyes.
Joel hadn’t spoken for a time after that.
You shifted slightly, brushing your fingers over your lower stomach. There was a tension there, not pain, just awareness. The same wave of nausea had rolled through you again earlier, faint and unwelcome. And you couldn’t stop counting days, even if you didn’t want to.
You weren’t sure. Not yet. But the thought had rooted itself in your head and wouldn’t let go.
And maybe, maybe, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. After everything. Maybe life finding a way wasn’t always a punishment.
But then you thought of the QZ. Of the kids you saw there, the ones already hardened by ration lines and curfews. Of the smaller ones, silent and too still. You remembered the fear in their eyes, how they flinched at loud noises. You remembered the stories. The trucks.
Your stomach turned.
No. That wasn’t a life. That was survival on a leash.
And Joel… Joel had already lost too much. He still flinched when he saw a girl with Sarah’s hair. Still looked away too quickly. He didn’t talk about her much, but you didn’t need him to, her ghost hovered between every unspoken word. You’d seen it in his eyes, the first time you saw him kill a man, not rage, not even vengeance. Just exhaustion. Loss.
He hadn’t recovered. You weren’t sure he ever could.
And you didn’t want a child, if there even was one, to live in the shadow of someone else’s grief.
…… But does that mean you’d never get the chance to love like that?
You let out a shaky breath and wiped your hand down your face.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. You weren’t even sure. It could be nothing.
But the idea… it stayed.
In the morning, the truck waited in the garage, full of supplies, with Ellie already sitting in the backseat. Joel muttered something about seatbelts and kicked the glove box shut with his boot and set off.
You watched the morning light spill across the passing fields and felt the nausea begin to bloom again.
You didn’t say anything.
The hum of the truck filled the silence between you.
Joel had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window ledge, eyes scanning the road like he didn’t trust it not to disappear beneath the tires. Ellie was in the back, flipping through the pages of a book she’d found upstairs. Something about astronauts. You only half listened.
You stared out the windshield at the endless stretch of cracked pavement, trees blurring past in soft, fading green. The world looked gentler in the early morning light. Like it could pretend, too.
Tommy wasn’t far now. Maybe a week at most. Joel seemed sure of it and he was rarely wrong when it came to that sort of thing.
So maybe that was the answer. You’d find Tommy, get back somewhere safe. There’d be someone who could know, someone who could tell you what was happening with certainty, not this vague dread coiled in your chest.
You rubbed a hand over your lower stomach absently, the motion slow and unconscious.
If it’s real, you thought, we’ll figure it out when we get there.
Because it couldn’t be real, not yet. Not in motion. Not while your life was still full of guns and raiders and infected waiting behind the next turn. You couldn’t carry something fragile through all that. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t fair.
But the truth was, some part of you was already preparing for the possibility. The way you avoided certain smells as much as you could. The way you carried yourself without realising it. The way your thoughts looped back, again and again, to the same impossible if.
You looked over at Joel.
He hadn’t spoken in a while, jaw set in that familiar way that said he was thinking too hard, probably about the highway, or Tommy, or the weight of what Bill had written.
His profile was etched in sunlight, and for a moment, you thought of what he would say, if he’d look at you like he had back in the QZ when you brought up kids once, half-joking. A flicker of pain in his eyes. Almost anger.
You hadn’t asked again.
You shifted in your seat and forced yourself to look ahead. The road stretched on like it had no end.
Just a few more days. That’s what you told yourself. Then you could stop running. Then you could breathe. Then, maybe, you could be honest.
But not yet.
Not while you were still surviving.
The first gunshot cracked through Kansas city like a lightning strike.
Your body moved on instinct, slamming into the ground behind a rusted-out car as bits of gravel and glass pinged in the air around you. Ellie dropped beside you, panting hard, her fingers digging into your arm.
“Sniper!” Joel growled, already assessing, eyes sharp as glass. “Up in the house. White two-story.”
You could barely hear him over the hammering in your ears. Joel’s face was tight, focused, the same look he wore when something bad was coming. You knew that expression too well.
“I’m gonna flank him,” Joel said, crouching low. “Stay down. Don’t move unless I tell you.”
Before you could argue, he was gone, slipping out into the shadows, his rifle close to his chest.
Your fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the car door, knees pressed into the rough pavement. Not from fear exactly, (well not just fear) but something heavier. Something you hadn’t said yet. Something you hadn’t let yourself say.
You weren’t panicking. You weren’t thinking this was it. But you were scared of what would happen if one of you got hit. If things got worse. If that little suspicion you’d been pushing down for days became something you’d never get to explain.
Joel had always been steady, solid, even when the world was crumbling around him. And you had always followed, always trusted he’d get you both out of it. But this, this thing inside you, this tiny maybe that had taken root during long nights and longer supply runs, he didn’t know. And that suddenly felt unbearable.
You peeked over the hood. Joel was a dark silhouette now, crouched behind a wrecked pickup across the street, rifle aimed high.
You didn’t want to die not saying it. You didn’t want to die pretending.
So you lifted your head just enough to shout across the street.
“Joel!”
Another shot snapped past your shoulder, and Ellie hissed, “What the hell are you doing?!”
“Joel!” you called again, louder. You saw him, just barely, ducking behind a low wall across the road. He turned at the sound of your voice, his face silhouetted by moonlight, alarmed and worried in equal measure.
You hesitated for a second, then blurted out:
“Is now a bad time to tell you I think I’m pregnant?”
Silence.
Even the gunfire seemed to pause.
Joel just stared at you, blinking, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.
Then his face contorted. “Yes!” he shouted back. “Yes, it is! It’s a very bad time!”
Another shot exploded into the ground between you, and you ducked back behind the car, heart hammering against your ribs.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered to yourself, chest tight. “What the fuck was that, what did I just do-”
“Are you serious right now?!” Ellie hissed, eyes wide.
“I don’t know!” you snapped, voice breaking.
Ellie looked stunned for a moment, then, “...Shit.”
There was no time to unpack it. A clicker sprinted head first into the car. You grabbed Ellie's arm and ran, lungs burning, weaving between wreckage and gunfire as Joel’s shots cracked beside you from his perch.
You could barely hear over the noise the shrill cries of the infected and your own blood pounding in your ears.
A child clicker lunged at you, its shrill screech piercing. Before it could reach you, a bullet tore through its skull, sending it sprawling. You turned to see Joel, rifle raised, eyes scanning for threats.
The chaos subsided as the last of the infected fell. Joel rounded the rubble, weaving through the carnage until he reached you. Sweat matted his hair, but his eyes searched yours with unspoken questions.
He reaches you, dropping the riffle to hang around his back, his arms instantly reaching out, holding you as he scans for injuries.
“I’m okay too if you’re wondering.” Ellie calls out, you don’t respond but Joel throws her a harsh glare before continuing his search.
You opened your mouth, attempting to explain, to apologise, but words failed. Instead, Joel pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms encircling you, grounding you amidst the turmoil. You clung to him, the world fading away, leaving only the shared heartbeat between you.
Summary : you go to meet him after like always, warm food waiting at home, heart full, only to be met with silence and the shape of grief pulled behind a horse.
💭“Still warm. Still untouched. Still waiting for a man who was never going to walk through the door again."
a/n ANGST, just angst. i'm never recovering from this episode
joel masterlist main masterlist
You’re still wearing his shirt.
Not the clean one. Not the one he folded for you two mornings before he left. The one that still smelled like woodsmoke and sweat and a hint of soap , the one you were supposed to wash while he was gone.
But you didn’t.
He never came back to wear it again.
It’s been four days.
The house is still quiet. Too quiet. The fire doesn’t burn unless you make it. The door doesn’t creak open with heavy boots. There’s no deep voice asking what’s for dinner even though he’ll end up cooking something better anyway.
And the silence… it’s the cruellest part of it all.
Because for a while, you’d built something here. A home. A rhythm. A life with him.
Now it feels like it’s all been hollowed out.
You were happy.
Giddy, even
You’d just managed to trade for enough to make his favourite dinner, nothing fancy, just stew enough meat to make it worthwhile and the kind of bread he always teased you about burning. It was still warm, still steaming on the table when you left to meet him at the stables.
As you were on your way you heard the gates open.
He was early. For once.
The snow caught in your lashes as you stepped through the street.
And then you saw Ellie.
Stiff and hollow, walking beside a horse that carried something wrapped in canvas. Her face was grey, her eyes rimmed with red. And even though she didn’t cry, you could feel the scream sitting in her throat.
Your feet stopped moving. The warmth drained from your body like someone had ripped open your skin.
“Ellie?” your voice cracked.
She didn’t speak.
Just looked at you - wide-eyed and silent - before turning away, walking off without a word. Dana called her name and ran after her, but not before pausing, giving you one look. It was quick. But it was all there.
The guilt.
And then you saw it.
The shape of a body. Dragged behind the the horse like it was nothing more than some extra supplies.
Your body reacted before your brain did.
The breath rushed out of your lungs, tear quickly forming in your eyes. Your ran as far as you could before your knees buckled and hit the frozen ground. Your hands shaking as they reached for the tarp with trembling hands.
Someone tried to hold you back, but it was too late.
You had untied the first rope opening a gap to see underneath. A hint of grey hair matted with blood.
Your scream ripped through Jackson like thunder.
Everything else was silent.
And then, suddenly, hands were once more on you, dragging you back. “Stop! You have to stop!” he shouted, Jesse, but you wouldn’t listen.
“No! I need to see him... I need...”
Your chest heaved, the air a heavy, suffocating weight, but he wasn’t letting go. He yanked you back harder, away from the body, away from the truth you didn’t want to face.
You screamed again, louder this time, until your voice cracked. “Joel!”
But the grip on your arms didn’t waver.
Tears burned your eyes, but you couldn’t see through the blur. All you saw was him, all you heard was silence.
And all you could think of was the stew still waiting at home.
Still warm. Still untouched.
Still waiting for a man who was never going to walk through the door again.
Your boots are still by the door.
You don’t remember taking them off when you got home. Jesse had walked you back, steadying you when your knees gave out again halfway there.
Now you sit on the floor by the fireplace, one hand still clutching your coat like armour.
The fire’s out.
You haven’t had the strength to relight it.
You keep hearing that song from the dance. The way his hand felt against your lower back. The way his breath had hitched just before he’d pulled you in closer.
He’d looked happy.
He’d looked truly alive.
He hadn’t planned to dance with you.
Joel didn’t dance. Everyone knew that.
But the lights were warm, the music was soft, and you were swaying gently by yourself near the corner of the room, smiling at the way some of the kids clumsily twirled each other. He walked in late, still brushing snow from his shoulders, and his eyes found you like they always did.
You hadn’t expected him to come.
“Was wonderin’ if you’d show,” you teased.
He grunted. “Didn’t have a reason. But it’s your first one so I thought I’d better had.”
And then, to your shock, he held out a hand.
You stared at it, eyebrows raised. “You? Dancing?”
Joel scowled half-heartedly. “Don’t make me regret this.”
You laughed and stepped into his space.
He was stiff at first, like he didn’t know where to put his hands. But you guided him gently, your palms resting at his shoulders, your body moving with his like you’d done it a hundred times. The world melted away until it was just the two of you.
“You’re not terrible,” you whispered.
“Don’t lie,” he muttered, but there was a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Later, he held your coat open for you, helped you wrap up against the cold before walking you home. He didn’t kiss you yet. But the way he looked at you that night, like maybe this thing between you was real, it lingered.
Everything was untouched.
His jacket was still slung over the chair by the kitchen table. His mug still on the counter, rim stained with coffee he never finished. The smell was fainter than it used to be, but you could still catch it, the leather, the pine soap, the faintest trace of gun oil.
You sat at the table and stared at the chair he usually took. The one that always creaked when he leaned back, sighing like the weight of the world was still on his shoulders.
Your eyes burned. You buried your face in your hands.
And for a minute, you let yourself pretend he was just late.
That any moment now, the door would groan open, and he’d grumble about being caught in the snow, stomp off his boots, and come kiss the top of your head like always.
That this wasn’t really it.
That there was still time.
But there wasn’t.
And pretending made it worse.
You’d taken a hit on patrol. A stupid slip twisted your ankle bad enough to be benched for days. Jackson was quiet, snow swirling in soft gusts outside your window as you curled up on the couch with a book and a bandage, two mugs on the table ready to help him relax when he returns.
Joel was supposed to be out till sundown.
But he came back early.
Stormed into your place like a man on fire, cheeks red from the cold, breath fogging in the doorway. His eyes scanned you top to bottom, zeroing in on your leg.
“You didn’t tell me.”
You blinked. “Tell you what?”
“That you were hurt.”
You shrugged, suddenly feeling small. “It’s nothing, didn’t want you to worry.”
Joel didn’t say anything.
Just crossed the room, knelt in front of you, and touched your ankle with uncharacteristic gentleness. His hands were rough, his voice low.
“You think I wouldn’t wanna know if somethin’ happened to you?”
You’d expected irritation.
What you got instead was concern.
And when he finished rewrapping the bandage, he kissed the inside of your knee, just above the bruising. Pressed his forehead there for a moment. Before catching the second mug of coffee on the table.
“You waited for me to come back,” he said softly.
“Always.”
He didn’t respond.
But he kissed you like it meant something. Like maybe he believed it now.
The sky is dark outside.
You haven’t lit a lamp.
There’s a photo of the two of you tucked in the drawer by the bedside. Joel hated it. Said he looked tired, grumpy, but you loved it anyway.
You pull it out.
Run your fingers over the lines of his face.
Your throat tightens.
You under your shirt. Resting on your heart.
You can’t bring yourself to put it back.
It was the quietest night of the year.
A blizzard had rolled in, cancelling patrols. Most of the town stayed tucked in, fires burning high, food rationed and shared. You and Joel were curled up under three layers of blankets, sharing canned peaches and whiskey you’d swiped weeks ago.
He let you touch him, slow and careful.
Every scar.
Every inch of skin.
There was no rush. No rough hands. Just the warmth of your mouth on his collarbone, his hands in your hair, the sound of your breath syncing up with his in the dark.
You were tracing the curve of his ribs when he spoke.
“Y’know I never wanted this.”
You stilled. “What do you mean?”
Joel stared at the ceiling. “Any of this. This town, trying act like we can move on, rebuild. Tryin’ to make somethin’ good outta ashes.”
You stayed quiet.
“But you...”
His eyes flicked down to you, wide and soft in the firelight.
“You made it mean somethin’ again.”
Your throat tightened. “Joel-”
“I love you.”
He said it like it was carved from stone. Like he’d been holding it for years and only just found the words.
Your heart cracked open.
“I love you too.”
Now, you lie curled on your side in the bed that still holds the shape of him.
His shirt clings to your skin, stretched and soft from wear, steeped in memories and a scent that’s fading too fast.
Outside, the wind beats against the windowpane like a mourning cry.
You press your face into the pillow that once cradled his head, inhaling deeply until your lungs ache, lips barely touching the threadbare cotton.
“I love you,” you whisper, voice trembling.
And in the hush that follows, it almost feels like the air stirs with his breath, like if you were quiet enough, he might say it back.
💭“You feel that?” he whispered. “Ain’t nothing fake about this. I don’t give a damn, you’re mine. You belong with me.”
summary: you finally say what’s been sitting heavy on your chest—and joel finally admits what he’s been too afraid to say out loud.
warnings: some angst, smut.
part one joel masterlist main masterlist
The night is quiet when you sit on the edge of the bed, your hands twisted in the blankets as you stare down at your lap. It’s been a while since you let your mind wander to the things that people say about you, but tonight it’s harder to push it away.
You think about the whispers. About how they say you're too young, too soft, too dumb for Joel. And worse, how they say that maybe Joel’s only keeping you around for the company, or…. something less savoury.
You’ve never heard the words from him, but they make their way into your head, crashing in on your peace like a storm you can’t outrun.
Joel hasn’t said anything about it. He hasn’t said anything about anything, just the usual gruff warnings to others and a grounding hand on your back, but you can feel the silence growing between you. You can feel his eyes on you sometimes, and you wonder if they’re filled with pity.
The soft sound of boots hitting the floor behind you makes you tense, and before you can stop yourself, the words come out.
“I don’t know how much longer I can take it.” You’re not looking at him. Your voice feels small. “The way they talk about me. The way they talk about us. Don’t you… don’t you care what they say?”
You feel the bed dip behind you. Joel’s hand brushes across your shoulders, soft but firm, and your breath catches at the touch.
“Sweetheart, I ain’t concerned with what they think,” Joel says quietly, his voice rougher than usual, like there’s something heavy behind it. He moves closer, his warm breath making the hairs on your neck stand up. “You think I don’t see what people are sayin’? You think I don’t hear the rumors?”
Your heart races. You want to say something else, but all you can do is nod as his hands move to your shoulders, rubbing in slow, soothing circles.
“But I don’t care about them,” he says, his voice a low growl now, fingers tightening slightly on your skin. “I care about you. I care about what we have. And if you’re worried about their opinions, baby, you’re lettin’ them get to you more than they should.”
You turn to face him, eyes wide, vulnerable in a way you haven’t been before. “But… but what if you get tired of me? What if you realise that I am too-” You cut yourself off, turning your face away as it crumbles.
“You never say anything,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sharp. “They talk, they look at me like I’m a fool, like I’m just some stupid girl wrapped around your finger. And you let them.”
Joel’s eyes narrow slightly, jaw tense. He doesn’t interrupt, but his silence only makes it worse.
You push again. “Do you even care what they say about us? About me?”
That’s when his hand catches your wrist, fast and firm. Not harsh, but grounding. He finally looks at you then, eyes darker than usual, something stormy swirling just under the surface.
“Yeah,” he says, low. “Sometimes I do care.”
The words hit like a slap.
You blink at him, mouth parting slightly, your chest tightening. You try to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let you. Not until he’s said the next thing.
“But not for the reason you think,” Joel adds quickly, voice rough and uneven. “It’s not ‘cause I’m ashamed of you. Hell no. Never.”
You swallow, unsure if you believe that. But he’s still speaking, still trying, and that alone is enough to make your heartbeat stumble.
“I hear the shit they say,” he mutters. “I know what they think when they see me with someone like you. And I hate that it gets in my head sometimes.”
You search his face. “Then why don’t you say something?”
Joel huffs, the sound frustrated. “’Cause it’s easier to shut it out when I act like I don’t give a damn.”
He lets out a bitter breath, loosening his grip but keeping you close, the air between you too heavy with unsaid things.
“It ain’t you,” he says, softer now. “It’s me.”
Your whole body stiffens, retreating like his words burned, but he stops you again, hand moving to your waist now, thumb brushing your side gently.
“I don’t mean it like that, baby,” Joel murmurs. “I mean, my god look at look at you. You’ve still got light left in you. You’re soft. Hopeful. You laugh at dumb things. You still look at people like it matters.”
You blink, stunned by the quiet admiration in his voice.
“And me?” Joel shakes his head. “I’m just some tired old bastard with too much blood on his hands and not enough good left in him. Sometimes I look at you and think… Christ, you deserve someone your age. Someone who isn’t dragging around all this shit.”
You hesitate, chest full of ache, fingers curling into his shirt leaning into him. “But I don’t want someone else.”
Joel swallows hard. His hand slides to your cheek, cupping it gently.
“I know,” he whispers. “And that’s what scares me.” His lips press against yours, hard and firm. It’s not a kiss of gentleness but one that carries an unspoken promise, one that says he’s not letting you go. Not now, not ever.
His hand moves from your back to cup the side of your face, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it.
“You’re my girl,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “you hear me?”
His eyes are burning with a kind of intensity that makes you feel small in the best way. Your chest tightens at the emotion behind his words. The passion. The sincerity. He means it.
Before you can respond, Joel’s lips are on yours again, but this time, it’s different. His kiss deepens, more urgent, pulling something raw out of both of you. His hands slide to your hips, tugging you closer until you’re pressed against him.
You let out a soft gasp when you feel the heat of him, his body strong and steady, but also gentle in the way he moves you. His touch is always a balance of control and tenderness, like he knows exactly how far to push, how much to give.
He pulls back again, his breath hot against your skin. “I’m gonna make sure you feel nothin’ but me, baby. No distractions. Just us.”
His words send a shiver down your spine. You bite your lip, a nervous laugh escaping you. “You… you’re really serious, huh?”
Joel’s gaze darkens, his hand sliding down your back and then to the waistband of your shorts, pulling you even closer. His lips ghost over your neck, and the feeling of his breath against your skin makes your head spin.
“Absolutely,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel.
And then, without warning, his lips are on you again, this time with a fierceness that matches the storm raging in your chest. His hands explore your body, each movement deliberate, as if he’s claiming you in the best way possible, slow, deep, and with an intensity that makes everything else fade away.
His lips find your ear, his voice low and teasing. “Don’t you forget it. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
You gasped into it, fingers gripping the front of his shirt as he pushed you gently back onto the mattress. The way he moved over you, like gravity didn’t apply to anything but him. His weight, his heat, the way his thigh slotted between yours and pressed, hard, until your hips rolled up on instinct.
Joel groaned low in his chest.
“That’s it,” he muttered, voice thick. “Ain’t no one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear the sounds you make. Just me.”
His hand slid beneath your shirt, rough fingertips grazing your stomach and higher, up to the soft swell of your chest. He didn’t fumble. He never fumbled. Every touch was deliberate, designed to unravel you.
“You’re mine,” he said again, but this time, it wasn’t a comfort. It was a promise. A possession. His mouth latched onto your neck, sucking a mark there that made your thighs press together helplessly.
"Joel," you whispered, breathless, already dazed from the heat of his body, the weight of his attention.
“Let ’em talk,” he growled, dragging your shirt up and off. “You think I care what they say? You think I’d let anyone else put their hands on you? You’re mine, sweetheart. All mine.”
And you felt it. In the way he handled you, rough but worshipful. The way his fingers teased between your legs through your underwear, smirking against your skin when he felt how soaked you already were.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, dragging the fabric down. “All that worrying got you wound up, huh?”
You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Especially not when his mouth followed the path of his hands, kissing down your stomach, his beard scraping gently against your skin in a way that had you writhing.
“You wanted to forget all that noise, baby?” Joel looked up at you, eyes dark. “Then let me take care of you.”
You nodded frantically, and that was all he needed.
He took his time, but not too much. Not tonight. He needed you needy. Needed you messy. Needed you to remember that the only truth was what existed between your bodies, tangled in the sheets, louder than the whispers outside.
When he finally slid into you, thick and deep and grounding, you gasped like you were coming up for air.
Joel kissed your temple, your cheek, your mouth, hard.
“You feel that?” he whispered. “Ain’t nothing fake about this. I don’t give a damn, you’re mine. You belong with me.”
Your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him deeper.
And as he rocked into you, his pace brutal and unrelenting, one hand gripping your thigh while the other cradled the back of your head, you stopped thinking about the rumors, about Ellie’s comments, about the looks people gave.
⤷ rafe cameron x kookfem!reader (kinda spoilt/ditzy) 💗
💭 “and that every guy in that restaurant wanted you. That you were sitting there looking like a fucking dessert and acting like you didn’t notice.”
warnings(?) : light smut (i'd say), car sex
rafe masterlist main masterlist
a/n this reader is ditzy and kinda bimbo, ngl this is fun to write for.
The heat hung heavy in the air as you and Rafe pulled into the driveway, the blue of his truck glinting under the sun. Your gloss was still fresh, your hair perfectly waved, and your tiny two-piece set clung like a second skin , a cropped halter and a matching mini skirt that rode scandalously high with every step.
Lunch had been cute. You’d ordered your usual and tattled away with not a care in the world. But Rafe had watched you like a man starved.
Now, you were shifting your legs over his lap in the driver’s seat like you didn’t even realize he was seconds away from snapping.
“Okay, so I was thinking,” you began, all breathy and clueless as you settled your thighs across him, “after Pilates, I could swing by the mall and maybe stop at that new boutique, you know the one with the little rhinestone bikinis? Ugh, I need one.”
Rafe didn’t respond. His hand found the hem of your skirt.
You didn’t even flinch. “They’re, like, dumb expensive but sooo cute. I told Margot she should get one too, but she said she’s trying to save money. Like, for what? She lives at home.”
His fingers slid higher.
Still nothing from you.
You were too busy checking your reflection in the rearview mirror, reapplying your strawberry gloss.
“I might skip the dinner party Friday though,” you hummed, lips pursed. “Unless Topper’s cook makes oysters again. They’re gross but, like, cute for stories, you know?”
Rafe’s hand curled tight on your thigh.
“Mm,” he muttered.
You finally glanced down. “Are you even listening?”
“I’m listening,” Rafe said, voice tight.
You tilted your head, blinking big and pretty.
“To you talk about pilates and bikinis while you’re sitting on my lap like this.” His hand slipped fully beneath your skirt, warm fingers splaying possessively. “In that little outfit.”
You gave a soft giggle, brushing hair from your shoulder. “You like it though.”
His eyes darkened. “Yeah, I like it. But you haven’t even looked at me since we got in the truck, babe.”
“I’m looking now,” you said sweetly, turning fully toward him. “Hi.”
He just stared.
“So then I told her I couldn’t do brunch and yoga, like, what does she think I am? A machine?” you laughed, tilting your head toward Rafe. “Anyway, pilates at three, mani at six—”
“Cancel it,” he said flatly, eyes on the road.
You blinked. “Cancel what?”
“All of it.”
You scoffed, pouting. “Rafe, I already rescheduled from yesterday. I can’t just bail—”
“Get in the back.”
“What? Why?”
“Now.”
You raised a perfectly arched brow, all faux confusion, even as your heart fluttered. “Rafe…”
He didn’t answer. Just got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.
You rolled your eyes with a little huff, unbuckled your seatbelt, and climbed into the backseat. By the time he opened the door, you were sitting cross-legged in your tight little skirt.
“You’re being weird,” you said, playing with your hands.
He climbs in, pulling you onto his lap, completing what you had done earlier.
“Maybe ‘cuz I've been staring at you all day,” he muttered, mouth skimming your jaw. “and that every guy in that restaurant wanted you. That you were sitting there looking like a fucking dessert and acting like you didn’t notice.”
“I didn’t,” you said, breath catching.
He laughed, low and dangerous. “Liar.”
You giggled, about to say something cheeky, but his mouth was already on yours, possessive and heated. You melted fast, arms winding around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His hands found your thighs and lifted you back before you could squeak out a response. Your phone slipped from your hands and tumbled onto the seat as he crawled on top of you, pushing your back flat against the seats.
“Rafe!”
“I told you to quit playing games.” His mouth was on your neck, breath hot, grip rough as he shoved your skirt up.
“I wasn’t-” you gasped when his fingers hooked under your panties. “I was just talking!”
“You do that a lot,” he muttered. “Talk.”
His fingers slid through your slick, teasing. He grinned when you arched up toward him.
“You’re so full of shit,” he said lowly, sitting up slightly to unbuckle his belt. “Actin’ like you didn’t want this.”
“Shut up,” you whispered, nails scratching down his back. “You always get mad when I give you attention and then mad when I don’t.”
“I get mad when other people look at you.” His trouser fully down now, lifting himself out of his underwear
You laughed, breathless, your eyes not leaving what he revealed. “That’s not my fault.”
“It’s your tits’ fault,” he growled, pressing his hips into yours. “Your stupid little voice. That dumb smile. All of it.”
You moaned when he pushed into you, breath catching. “Fuck…”
His hand curled around your jaw. “Can that pogue fuckin’ waiter do this?”
You shook your head, eyes glassy.
“Can he fuck you like this, princess?”
“No,” you breathed.
“Didn’t think so.”
Your legs wrapped around his waist, movements slow and filthy, your moans building louder with each thrust.
That’s when your phone buzzed.
Neither of you moved for a second—, hen you giggled, biting your lip.
“Could be Liv,” you whispered, stretching back to grab it. “She’s probably waiting for me.”
Rafe glared. “You’re not seriously-”
You answered it.
“Hey babe,” you panted, trying to steady your voice. “I’m-uh-still at Rafe’s.”
Rafe bit your shoulder and kept going, unrelenting.
Your free hand clawed at his shirt as you spoke, breath hitching between words. “No, yeah, I’ll be there soon. Just… just got held up at lunch.”
Rafe grabbed your jaw and tilted your face back toward him, his eyes dark with lust and something more. You tried to focus on the call, lips wobbling.
“Mm-hm,” you hummed, “I’ll be there soon, okay?”
You ended the call just as Rafe picked up his pace.
“Really?” he grunted. “You answered the phone?”
You giggled, arching up to kiss him. “You liked it.”
He kissed you hard, greedy and biting.
And when it was over, when you were collapsed on his chest with his hand tangled in your hair, you turned your face up to him, eyes wide.
“I’m so late,” you whispered. “I have to shower.” “Oh baby,” he smirked, kissing your jaw. “you're not goin’ anywhere.”
💭“Don’t listen to them. You’re the only good thing I got left.”
you didn’t know joel felt anything until the night he kissed you. Now you’re tangled in something real and raw, and the world around you doesn’t understand. joel doesn’t care. not when you’re already his.
part 2 joel masterlist main masterlist
a/n i put ditzy cuz it's not what i would see as a bimbo but my friend said that's what this is, so you'll have to make up your own mind
At first, you thought Joel Miller didn’t like you at all.
He was gruff. Distant. Always watching you with that look, half irritation, half exhaustion, as if your presence made his day harder. He never laughed at your, admittedly shitty, jokes. Barely responded when you smiled. Whenever you spoke, he’d cut you off with some muttered “You done?” or “Ain’t got time for this.”
And yet…
He always knew where you were.
Always checked that you had food in your bag, that your boots were laced properly, that you weren’t sneaking off somewhere dangerous.
“You ain’t stupid, so stop acting like it,” he’d mutter when you wandered too far from the group.
When you tripped on ice outside the Jackson fence line and scraped your knee, he didn’t say a word- just picked you up and carried you like it didn’t mean anything.
You didn’t think much of it. You thought maybe he looked out for you because no one else did.
People saw you as sweet, but silly. Naïve, they called it. Ditzy. You liked soft things and old songs and took too long at the market because you couldn’t decide between canned peaches or soup.
They’d smile at you like you were a child. Not malicious, just dismissive.
So when Joel started paying attention, you assumed he was just another person who thought you couldn’t take care of yourself.
You didn’t know he watched you for another reason.
You didn’t know he noticed how when it came to what you loved you spoke so eloquently. How when you came across injured animals you took time to calm it. And how other saw that and still treated you like you weren’t worth the air you breathed.
You didn’t know until he kissed you.
You’d just returned from a run, cold, tired, and frustrated. Someone had mocked you the whole way there and back, calling you “Joel’s little charity case.” Saying you probably got him to protect you by batting your eyelashes and letting him touch you.
You told Joel about it. Not expecting comfort, just needing to say it out loud.
He didn’t speak for a long time. Just stood in the doorway of the small house you'd been using, arms crossed, jaw tight. You could barely look at him, your throat hot with embarrassment.
“I ain’t protectin’ you 'cause I think you're weak,” he said finally, voice low. “I do it ‘cause I can’t stand the thought of somethin’ happening to you.”
You blinked up at him. “Joel...?”
He looked at you like he’d already said too much. Like he regretted it instantly.
But then he stepped closer.
And kissed you.
Hard and quiet and full of all the things he never knew how to say.
You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.
You lay curled into his chest, warm beneath borrowed blankets, while your brain replayed everything over and over again.
People didn’t like it.
They already judged you for being young and soft in a place that demanded hard edges. But now they looked at Joel like he was the problem.
Like he’d taken something that didn’t belong to him.
They whispered louder now. Stared longer. Made comments when they thought you weren’t listening.
“Midlife crisis?”
“Guess he he is just that kinda man.”
“Wonder what she’s getting out of it.”
And Joel, he took it. Said nothing. Shoulders square, jaw locked, like he could carry it for both of you.
But the one that hurt worst was Ellie.
She was already angry with him, for what you not quite , and your presence only made it worse.
She’d look at you and smile thinly. Say things like:
“Wow, Joel. Bet she reminds you of better days, huh?”
Or to you: “He got you on a leash, or do you just follow him around ‘cause you don’t know better?”
She tried to play it off as teasing, but the hurt behind her words was too sharp to ignore.
And Joel… Joel didn’t know how to fix any of it.
Sometimes you’d watch him watch her and you’d wonder if you made it worse.
If being close to him meant everyone else had to fall away.
Still, Joel never left.
He kept showing up, kept holding you like you were something precious in a world full of rot.
He’d tuck your scarf tighter around your throat when it snowed. Rub your hands between his when they got too cold. Sit behind you in bed with his legs bracketing yours and grumble about your bad posture while brushing your hair.
He called you things he’d never say in front of others.
“Sweetheart.”“My girl.”“Jesus, look at you.”
And sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, you’d feel his breath against your shoulder and hear him whisper:
“Don’t listen to them. You’re the only good thing I got left.”
You still get looks. Still hear the whispers.
But every time Joel chooses you, soft, messy, too young you, it makes something bloom in your chest. Something fierce. Something real.
You might be ditzy. You might be too kind, too trusting, too whatever.
But Joel sees you.
And even if the world never understands what you are to each other…
You do.
⤷ joel miller x youngerfem!reader | angst | pre-s1
💭 “You know what we have,” he murmured against your hair. “so I don’t need to tell you that I don’t have anything else.”
summary: she was his secret in the shadows of the QZ, young, hidden, and never quite enough
warnings: implied age gap, angst, fluff if you squint?, he's pre character development so kinda a dick.
joel masterlist main masterlist
It started with Joel slipping you a ration card.
No words. Just a brush of fingers in a shadowed hallway, the same way he might pass off contraband. You didn’t even ask. Just nodded, eyes cast low and tucked it into your pocket before anyone could see.
That was the unspoken rule.
No one could see.
Not the guards. Not the handful of people Joel dealt with in the underworld of the QZ. And especially not the ones who already looked at you waiting for a reason.
You didn't mind at first.
You weren’t useful the way others were. You didn’t smuggle. Didn’t trade weapons or scheme. You worked odd jobs, cleaning, running pills between buildings for extra cards, but it was never enough to get ahead. Not in Boston.
Joel made sure you didn’t starve. That your boots weren’t falling apart. That you had a roof over your head, even if it was a half-collapsed unit in a crumbling building on the edge of the zone.
Though you couldn’t fool yourself into thinking it was free.
He came to you in the dark. Rough hands. Quiet words. The smell of sweat, smoke, and concrete dust clinging to him like armour. Then clinging to you as he thrust himself inside.
It wasn’t romantic. Not really.
But sometimes, when he let his forehead rest against yours after, breathing you in like he hated himself for it, you let yourself pretend it was more than just a secret he kept locked between his ribs.
You found out about Tess on a Thursday.
Saw them together, close. Talking low.
Joel leaning in while Tess laughed, her hand brushing his arm like it belonged there.
It hit you in the chest like a punch.
That night, when Joel showed up at your door, you didn’t let him in right away.
“Is she yours?” you asked, voice small but sharp.
He blinked, tense in the doorway. “What?”
“That woman. You act like I’m some dirty secret, but is she, what, your partner? Your wife?”
His jaw worked. “That ain’t your business.”
“Really?” you snapped, stepping back. “You sneak in here like some ghost in the night, give me just enough to survive, and then walk around the QZ like I don’t even exist-”
“You think I got a choice?” he barked, suddenly sharp. “You wanna end up with a knife in your gut? You know how this place works. You get seen with someone like me, people talk. People come after you.”
Your voice cracked. “So what am I, then? Your charity case? A warm body you visit when no one’s looking?”
“Better me than stranger men.”
Then silence.
And that silence said more than anything else.
You turned away, arms wrapped tight around yourself. “You said you cared.”
“I do,” Joel said roughly, stepping closer. “Don’t twist this. You think this is easy for me?”
You didn’t respond. Not really. Your throat burned. Chest tight with something sharp and ugly and ashamed.
And Joel - he softened.
He always did when you looked like this. Vulnerable. Fragile in a way he knew you hated.
He touched your shoulder, coaxed you to sit. Pulled you close.
His arms wrapped around you like a shield you didn’t ask for, didn’t know how to refuse.
“You know what we have,” he murmured against your hair. “so I don’t need to tell you that I don’t have anything else.”
And you let him hold you.
Let your face press against his chest and inhaled the warmth of him like it was comfort and not a cage.
But even as his hands rubbed gentle circles down your spine, even as he kissed the side of your head like a man who thought this counted as love, your mind was somewhere else.
Heavy.
He turns you around.
Distant.
And kisses you deeply, pulling your shirt of your shoulders.
Wondering if maybe being someone’s secret felt worse than being no one at all.
-
The room is cold when you wake up.
Not from the air, because there's barely any breeze behind boarded windows, but from the absence of him.
The kind of cold that comes from an empty space beside you, still warm in the sheets, still shaped like his body, but vacant all the same.
Your eyes open slow. Heavy.
You already know before you roll over. Already feel it in your chest, that sinking thing. That hollowness that follows him every time he slips away before sunrise.
He never stays.
Not when the world’s waking up. Not when there’s a chance someone might see.
You shift, the old mattress groaning beneath your naked body, and glance toward the door. Closed. Locked. Just like always.
Joel’s final little kindness, making sure you’re locked in safe before he disappears into the morning fog like none of it ever happened.
You press your palms over your face. Exhale slow.
It shouldn’t hurt anymore.
But it does.
You sit up. Bare legs swing over the side of the bed, the floor biting cold. On the bedside table a small pile of ration cards sits like some twisted apology.
You stare at them for a long moment.
Your stomach growls, and your heart twists, and for a second you wonder what it would feel like to burn them.
Just set a match and watch it all go up.
This arrangement.
This almost-love.
This secret that never gets to breathe in the daylight.
But then what?
He was right, there were much worse people who could’ve found you. And what could you do without him?
Because as much as its hurts with him, there has never been a sweeter pain.
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