Joel-whipped @brighttears - Tumblr Blog

Baby Blue

Joel Miller x F!reader au

Summary: (90’s au) Joel Miller is hardened and scarred, but the sweet waitress at the diner has somehow and unknowingly fastened a leash around his neck. You’re soft, he’s not. He wishes he had more self control.

Word Count: ~4.4k

Warnings: Light violence, sexual harassment against reader (not from Joel), protective!Joel, Joel is horny at times, Joel dogs on himself, petname (sweetheart)

A/n: Hello again <3 Super cool fun dope and sexy idea from @angelnincowboyboots on c.ai but the rest is all me baby (want to make it clear real quick that I play around on c.ai when im feeling low but i would !!never!! use it for my work!! Just the idea!!) Also much like with stranger I have a whole playlist for writing this, Angel by Massive Attack was the number one hitter lol. Anyway, hope you like, sooo much fun to write again after being out for a while :) updates will likely be slow and inconsistent tho cause i still dont have a lot of time to write and i edit so fucking much <3 lmk what you think!! :3 Also it appears I have become uninterested in anything less than a multiparter lol

—

Low buzzing hum of fluorescents, blue and red lights clashing against a pale night sky and reflecting in shallow puddles left by afternoon rain. Nearby, the highway is mostly quiet, and the night is otherwise dark, moon and stars peaking through wispy clouds, anything like a light polluting city far off. Decrepit warehouses, abandoned duplexes, gas stations, and barred up liquor stores are the only things within a couple miles, and then it's duplexes and apartment buildings with mold problems; dive bars, a motel.

The only cars in the parking lot are the closing cook’s and Joel’s own—he’s been to this diner enough times to recognize them. The food is pretty shit, and so’s the coffee. It’s one of those joints for passer throughs; truckers in the early mornings and road tripping families in the afternoons. Sad, tired, lonely fucks, probably some escaped inmates here and there, some broke townie’s first date.

Joel hates this part of town. He only finds himself here when he's looking for trouble, or for you.

You’re not trouble. You’re something good, something soft and sweet. Something he shouldn’t be fooling around with, but he can’t seem to shake you. This little thing he has going on with you, it’s good. It’s nice. Being with you, whether it be with him sat on a stool and you pouring him coffee, or with his mouth on your neck and your hips pinned under his, it's a break from the dirt and grime that is his life, has always been his life; you're a parting in the clouds. What, he’s not allowed to soak that up?

It’s a frequent tussle he has with himself, a fight club named after you. It’s selfish, it's insane, it's wrong, but no harm has been done, you smile when you see him, you look at him like he’s… something he’s not. Something good. You shouldn’t. He should stop coming by, cut it off before you get too close, because if you get a glimpse of all those dirty parts of him, he doesn’t want to watch your warmth morph into disgust, horror, fear, hatred. He doesn’t want to lose you, and he doesn't want to taint you, either.

Your thing has been going on for a couple months now, and, so far, none of that’s been of issue. It can just be something nice, something simple, soft. He’ll come in on Saturday nights while you’re closing up, drive you home, fuck you, hold you, soak it up, and leave before the sun comes up. Rinse, repeat.

Simple.

The little bell on the door dings, and you barely have to glance up to know it's him. He takes the same seat he always does by the cash register, slides a five onto the counter as you pour him a cup of coffee that he never finishes and only costs a dollar.

“What’s the news, baby blue?” Joel gruffs, a little curl at the ends of his lips.

You chuckle, smile, and the clouds have parted.

“I always feel like such a dork in this thing.” You reply, a little smile still sticking to your lips as you give the end of your blue uniform’s skirt a little tug. Joel scoffs, “You’re not a dork.” He eyes you, a mix of sweet and dirty words at the tip of his tongue, but he leaves them there, asking instead as he takes a sip of his coffee, “Slow day?”

“Mhm,” you nod, now looking down at the gathered sugar caddies you’re currently refilling behind the counter, “Cause of the rain, I guess. It’s been a ghost town for about an hour, not much left to do here, I should be ready to go by 12:15.”

“Sure, take your time.” Joel replies with a nod. Having you to himself is how he likes it best, but watching you work is its own little pleasure. Your hands are quick, smooth, practiced, precise, dropping each sugar packet into its place, flicking through to organize by type and make sure they’re all facing the same way.

For a better look, he leans his arms over the bar, thick leather jacket bunching at his shoulders. He's sure he could watch you for hours, drink in every little motion, but he won’t tell you that. He clears his throat instead. When he does, you glance up, and quietly slide your work to the spot in front of his seat.

“How was your day?” You ask, voice signature soft, glancing at him again as your fingers move deftly through the packets.

Joel shifts again, crossing his arms over the counter, taking a sip of coffee and considering the question for a moment, eyes flicking over you, deciding how much to say. “It was fine.” He finally answers, low and gruff. “Quiet.”

“Quiet’s good.” You reply with a nod, chorussed by the quiet shuffle of the sugar packets. He lets out a quick hum of agreement.

The sharp, bitter taste of the coffee fades with his next sip as he follows the movements of your fingers. It’s a little thing, but he can’t help but be into every little thing you do. Your soft words, graceful ease, the way your eyes never quite leave the task at hand.

“You’re good at that.” He comments with a little nod to the caddies.

It gets a small chuckle out of you, and another glance gets him a peek of that sweet little smile. “Practice,” you reply, “not that it's difficult anyway.” Joel lets out a little huff, head tilting a little as he watches your face. “Not saying it's difficult.” He says, “But you’ve got a certain… rhythm. To everything you do.”

“I’ve been doing it a long time, I guess.” You tell him, finishing with the caddies and turning to flit around behind the counter to grab napkins for the dispensers already gathered up to be refilled. “It becomes almost like a dance, I guess.”

Joel hums, in complete agreement as he watches you step and turn and reach, and return to your spot in front of him. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “like… ballet, or somethin’.”

You offer him another one of those smiles, murmuring back, “Ballet. I like that.”

Another small silence falls, and Joel lets himself be lulled by the rhythm of your fingers working with the same practiced ease before you break it again to ask, “How was work?”

“Fine.” He replies automatically, glancing up to your face again. “Just the usual, y’know.” He expands, flicked with guilt for such a flippant reply, knowing that it’s not just small talk, you do give a shit. He’s bad with words, worse with actually saying them, but he feels compelled to give you something. Taking a breath, his eyes fall back down and he murmurs, “Thought about you today.”

For half a second, your fingers pause. He looks up to catch another little smile, your eyes flicking between him and the napkins. “Yeah?”

Fuck, you sound so sweet when you say it, and you looks so touched, and there’s a dog pile starting in Joel’s brain. That was so fucking sappy. You shouldn’t be so touched by that because you shouldn't care that much if he thought about you, and if you were to be touched by something he’s said, it's gotta be better than that. Fuck.

Shifting in his seat, Joel’s fingers drum on the counter as he attempts to gather his thoughts. He clears his throat. “Yeah, jus’... was… thinking about you.”

“What reminded you of me?” You ask, and something makes him huff a soft chuckle, cracking a smile as he absently scratches at the bridge of his nose, noting the flushing of your cheeks, the fold of your smile lines, the way your movements have slowed just a bit, now apparently more focused on him.

“I dunno,” he answers, quieter, “just… things, I guess. It was kinda slow, didn’t have a ton to do, so my thoughts kept wanderin’. Landed on you a couple times.”

Yeah, wow, fantastic work, Miller. You’re a regular fuckin’ casanova. That’s all you got? Really? Jesus, look at her—she deserves poems and shit, not some lame ass bull like that. Tell her you wondered what she was doing, hoped she’d gotten enough sleep the night before, tell her you were looking forward to seeing her tonight. Tell her you want to fuck her over your work bench, tell her you imagined seeing her in a fucking tank top, cause you’re so fuckin’ into her that you think about how bad you wanna see her in a fuckin’ tank top. You goddamn idiot, tell her you saw some lady peeking into the garage while he was shirtless covered in sweat and motor oil and you wanted it to be her looking at him like that. Tell her that you want to see her more than just on Saturday nights. Tell her you want to teach her how to fix cars, but that you thank a God you don’t believe in that her car was in the shop that night you drove her home because otherwise you might not have ever gotten a taste of her. Jesus you fucking pussy ass mother fucker stop looking like an idiot and say something smooth.

Before he can try, though, the bell above the door dings, and Joel’s head swings to a group of unexpected visitors. A group of three—frat boys, new to the town college. Young, smug, obnoxious, and drunk.

Joel watches your eyes follow them, dread and trepidation noticed in your practiced facade before you turn for cups and menus, balanced easily in your hands as they take their seats at the counter, a few away from Joel’s. He can smell the trouble on them, watches the way they eye you like hungry dogs,

“We close in twenty minutes, just so you know,” you inform them, ever soft but with an edge that he catches while you fill the cups with water with old ice, “is anyone ordering food?”

The smell of alcohol and entitlement is all Joel can smell, and any trace of ease has left him. His eyes are locked on you, your tension, and his stomach locks. Taking a slow and calculated sip of coffee, he moves his view, slow and inconspicuous, to eye the group up.

Shamelessly, they’re checking you out. Your eyes stay averted.

“Just coffee for us, don’t worry.” The one in the middle speaks up, slicked back blonde and blue eyed. “We’ll take some uh, cream and sugar, though.” They snicker, and Joel finds a tight grip around his mug while you deliver one of the freshly refilled sugar caddies and a bowl stacked with creamers. They dig around in them, ruining prior perfection, spill sugar and creamer on the table, piling up trash on the counter.

While you busy yourself with whatever closing work you can manage, Joel keeps a close, peripheral eye on the debauched douchebags, all but drooling at your turned back wiping down coffee pots. Their gazes are hungry, predatory grins, butts shifting on their seats for a better look at yours.

Then, blonde hair blue eyes speaks up.

“Hey, sweetheart, how much for a night?”

Your head whips, but Joel’s out of his seat before you can react past that. A shadow suddenly rigid and imposing, he clears the distance with a quiet intensity, voice low and dangerous when he speaks, “The fuck did you just say to her?”

For a moment, fear flashes in the kid’s eyes, but he’s quick to cover it with bravado, a cocky smirk smearing his face. “What, I just wanna know.” He scoffs, “C’mon, man, you can’t blame me, you’ve been staring that ass–” Before anyone can think, Joel’s hand is gripping his collar, nearly yanking him off of his stool. “Watch it.” He seethes through his teeth.

Blonde meets his eyes with another blue flash of fear, but is stupid enough to attempt to save face in front of his equally foolish peers, countering with unknowing confidence, “Cool it, man,” a veiled nervous snigger, “Hey, it’s a compliment! Alright, here: she looks expensive.”

Now, he’s off his stool, Joel’s blood boiling and knuckles nearly white, blinders lock him onto the kid’s thin, entitled, stupid fucking face. “You better shut your fuckin’ trap right now, you little pissant, or this is gonna get nasty.” He spits. Joel doesn’t notice you backing up against the coffee pots behind the counter, but he observes the covert nervousness of the teammates.

Prideful, drunk, and utterly witless, blonde and blue decides to retaliate.

“Damn,” he chuckles, “wouldn’t let you get some, huh? Don’t be jealous.” A sneer and change in tone, “Plenty enough to go around if you chip in. Lots of dark alleys around here, and she’ll be off soon, right?”

At those last words, Joel’s self control is rightfully snapped in half, and the next thing anyone knows, his fist connects with the fuck’s jaw in a brutal blow, and if he wasn’t locked in Joel’s expert grip, the kid would be sent spinning back with the blood pouring from his mouth. Joel’s fists keep flying, relentlessly slamming flesh again and again, sickening wet thud after wet thud against the quiet of the previously peaceful air. The kid tries to fight back, throwing a few wild punches and landing a couple lucky hits, but is no match against an outclassed and wrathful Joel.

By now, the kitchen crew is flying out at the commotion, attempting to pull him off, but he’s under the spell. Calling out his name, you rush behind a Joel dangerously close to reducing blonde and blue’s face to a simple pile of meat and bone. His mind is clouded by rage, the words of disrespect pounding in his head with every punch. Finally, your voice and a grab at his arm pulls him back to the edge, and he hesitates just long enough to be hauled off by one of the cooks, one he never bothered to learn the name of but is apparently strong enough to rip his grasp from blonde red and blue. The battered foe stumbles into one of the tables, eyes wide, his friends hauling him back to assisted footing.

As the kitchen crew yank him back, Joel’s breath is ragged, bloodied hand of no concern, still choked full of adrenaline and ready to throw another punch. When he hears your voice again though, something snaps back into place, and his head swings to you at his side, a more gentle hand on his forearm. Chest still heavily rising and falling, he goes obediently quiet.

“Joel,” you’d uttered simply, shaky and wide eyed, helping to tug him back.

Other voices crowd the floor, ‘are you okay,’s, ‘holy shit’s and ‘yeah, okay, we’re going!’ fill the air along with the squeals of heels as the whole group is ushered unceremoniously through the front door, the two closing cooks shouting at them to never come the fuck back.

Joel’s attention is locked on your flicking eyes and anxious mannerism though as you pull him along to the back of the restaurant. Now at a ‘hand wash only’ sink out of view of the front door, his gaze follows yours to his bloodied hand.

“Shit,” You murmur, nearly shaking, hand under his palm urging him to flex his fingers as you turn on the tap.

“It’s nothin’.” He murmurs back, hiding a wince.

Guiding his hand under the running water and gently wiping the blood away to reveal a split knuckle next to otherwise raw ones, you ask, “Do you think anything’s broken?”

“No.” Joel replies, clenching his jaw at the water spitting on sensitive nerves, “just scraped up. I’ve broken bones before. This isn’t it.”

After a beat, you murmur quietly back, “Okay. Keep it under the water.” Joel does what he’s told, letting the cool water prick his skin, running a heady pink down the drain as you reach for a first aid kit on the shelf beside the sink.

If it was anyone else, he’d grumble and refuse, but when you tear off a paper towel, he holds out his hand, allowing you to wipe and dab it dry before smearing on some neosporin, pressing on a gauze pad, and beginning to wrap a bandage around it. Eyeroll, scolding, he keeps it all to himself.

It feels good, actually.

“Too tight?” You murmur, and a glance at your face shows a signature mark of concentration. “No.” Joel shakes his head, voice low and quiet, “not too tight.” He watches you, gaze heavy.

The adrenaline has worn off now, leaving behind a familiar kind of hollowness in the pit of his stomach. He never wanted you to see that side of him. God, he must have scared the shit out of you. Not that it could have gone any other way, no way in hell would he ever let someone disrespect you, even having their eyes on you like that would have been enough to have all their faces smashed into the counter if he was the same guy he was just a few years ago. Still, he just… couldn’t keep himself under control.

And here you are, dressing his wounds, so close to him, your steady touch under his palm as you secure the bandage. He lets you work. Lets you take care of him. It’s wrong, and he shouldn’t. Fuck, he should have left immediately, chased those fucks out and gotten in his car and followed them or just gone the fuck home and not come back to this diner because he should not be messing around with someone like you and you should not be messing around with someone like him and being so fucking kind and handling him so gently when he is anything but.

But then you look up at him to evaluate a crescent shaped split along his eye socket, and your eyes send a little shock that knocks him off course in his spiral.

Fuck. What are you , some kind of witch? How do you have him so wrapped around your fucking finger? Maybe he’s just that weak, such a sucker.

You rip open an alcohol pad from the kit, offering a quiet apology that he shakes his head to. The sting is nothing, it’s the gentle swipe of your fingers and having you looking up at him like that that has his attention, and now there’s a little flutter in his chest to warm up that dread in his stomach. Fuck it’s so nice, to see the care in your expression, god, it’s ridiculous how nice it feels.

This was about protecting you though, not the thrill of your care. You are the only thing that matters right now, he reminds and scolds himself while he revels in the warmth of your touch. Just for a moment, though, before he takes your wrist and pulls it away, asking with a scrutinous gaze and a gruff, quiet voice, “You alright?”

“Yeah.” You nod, still focused on the red crescent punched into the skin around his eye. “Real doozy.” You murmur, splitting open an unnecessary bandaid to smooth over objecting pink skin.

“Had worse.” He gruffly murmurs back, gaze never leaving you.

“Doesn’t make it better.”

“I’m fine, Yn.” He murmurs. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“I just don’t want this to get infected or anything.” You murmur back, packing up and returning the kit before betraying an anxious tic. After a sigh, you lean to take a peek into the front of the diner—overturned stools, a spatter of blood on the leather of a booth and laminate of its table. Joel cringes.

From the front, the cooks are returning. “Don’t worry about this, Y/n.” The burly one waves his hand and shakes his head as they walk in, “We’ll take care of it, just have Joel take you home.”

“No, Ty, let me—” you object, but the skinny one, already picking up a laying stool, interrupts. “Nah, nah, for real, don’t worry about it, we got this. Go on home.” He gives you a toothy smile and Joel a respecting nod. Joel offers a small one back, already gently trying to guide you out as you pour thank you’s and apologies that seem to almost just amuse the cooks.

Finally, your coat is on, and he’s following you out. Stuck to his side, your anxious glances around the parking lot don’t go unnoticed by him, and, already oon high alert, he wraps an arm around your shoulders, tucking you under his arm and signaling to his car with a quick jut of his chin. He follows you around to the passenger side, opening the door and murmuring “Let’s get you home.”

You nod, and he's quick to get in and start the car up. The truck rumbles to life, headlights cutting through the night as you pull out of the lot and onto the unevenly paved and pot hole ridden street, quiet as ever this late at night.

When you steal a glance at his bandaged hand sat at twelve o'clock on the wheel, Joel’s jaw clenches, and he tightens his grasp, ignoring the dull throb. He just wants to protect you. He doesn’t want you to worry. About him, about anything. If only he was really fit for the job. But no, he’s got too much of a temper, he’s not gentle enough, not smart enough. Too much anger in his heart. Inwardly, he sneers at himself, and tightens his hand on the wheel enough for a good snap of pain. Fuck. Fuck you, Miller, you fuckin’ brute. Like she’s ever gonna look at you the same again. Could you just let her go, you selfish fuck, like you’ve done with everyone else? Fuck.

Softly, you pipe up, “Are you sure your hand’s okay? I mean, maybe we should go to the ER, make sure it’s not broken.” Joel’s jaw clenches, but his voice and nod are as soft as he can make them.

“No, no need for the ER. Trust me, it’s not broken.”

“Okay.” You reply in almost a whisper, eyes glued to his hand before reaching to sneak your fingers under his palm, taking his hand in yours and urging quietly, “Just don’t hold the wheel so tight.”

Joel shifts awkwardly in his seat, stealing a quick glance, but lets you hold his hand, disturbing by his own leniency.

With a sigh, he murmurs, “Sweetheart, you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m fine.”

For a few beats, it's silent, and you’ve shifted your gaze to out the window, though your thumb runs slowly back and forth over his hand. Finally, your voice again, even softer, “I’ve never seen you like that.”

His heart drops, jaw clenching again. Yeah.

Fuck.

He was like an animal, or a machine, something unknowing and uncaring. Violent. Aggressive. Something you shouldn’t even be exposed to. So what fucking sense does it make that you’re holding the same hand he beat that guy’s face in with while he drives you fucking home? Like you’re not even scared? What fucking sense does that make?

“I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, alright?” He manages around the frog in his throat, giving your hand a little squeeze for emphasis, because he really does mean it. With everything he is, he means it.

“I know.” You murmur back, and save for the hum of the engine, it’s quiet again. There’s so much to say, but no words for him to utter. At least you know that. I mean, fuck, he hopes you do by now. Regardless, any decent man would have shut that prick down for what he said—he threatened to fucking rape you, for god’s sake, he should have bashed his knees in, cut him up, and he would have if you didn’t want him to stop. But you’re not that kind of person. You’re kind. Too kind for your own good. He doesn’t want you to see the underbelly of the world that would scrape that kind of kindness right off of you.

So, what’s the right choice? Is there any right choice? He can’t be your around the clock body guard, and if he leaves, what happens if some freak like that comes around again? Okay, fine—he can’t just split. But he doesn’t want you to see just how deeply that violence runs through him, either.

“I need to teach you how to defend yourself.” He abruptly cuts the quiet.

Your gaze flips to him, pausing momentarily before assuring him, “That was rare—I’ve never had a customer say something like that to me before. I mean I’m really glad you were there but—”

“You punch like you’re punching through someone, okay?” He interrupts, eyes locked on yours as he drives. “Take advantage of weak spots. Throat. Dick. I’ll show you how to punch, how to kick, but you fight dirty, you hear me? Use your nails, bite like you’re biting a carrot. You mark, you shock, you debilitate, and then you run as fast as you can and you make noise. You run, okay Y/n?”

“Okay.” You mumble, looking at him with those eyes that make him melt, but this is important.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” Still soft, you reply, and it goes quiet again.

Eventually, he pulls into your driveway, cutting off the lights, but not the engine. The choice of driving off and never returning or asking to come in tears at him, but before he can say anything, you do.

“Want a beer?”

He sits with it for a moment, the hum of the engine louder in his ears.

“Sure.” A beer. Yeah. Sure. He needs a beer anyway. Yeah, sure, it’ll only be a fuckin’ beer. Shut up.

Like a fish on a lure, Joel turns off the engine and follows you to your doorstep, catching each of your glances with a mixture of shame, defeat, affection, and desire in his chest. Fuck.

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