liv love laugh

|Joel Miller x f!reader| |18+ MINORS DNI| {TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!}

Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️

Joel Miller, single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!

Throw in a little bit of smut 🔥 a sprinkle of the dbf! energy we know and love, and you have this sweet, feel good—fluffy fic!

U ever just publish the rough draft instead of the edited version of a fic because I just did and didn’t notice for an hour (:

Shear Luck | joel miller x f!reader | {18+ minors DNI} [masterlist]

{TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!}

|part 5| You Better Shape Up | 3.4k words|

Joel Miller, a single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!

Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️

sprinkle in a little bit of smut 🔥 and dbf!joel energy and BOOM. You got this sweet-feel good fic.

Warnings: more at the end of the fic. SMUT, explicit language, alcohol use, flirting, fluff, puns, age gap (Joel's 38, reader's 23). the knee thing, alcohol use, YEARNING, unprotected sex, spanking.

Whiskey and Want |dbf!Joel x f!reader|

| 18+ MINORS DNI | {series masterlist} {last chapter}

Chapter 8: Tomorrows Problem | wordcount |3.8k| {TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!}

Warnings/tags: 18+ only, minors DNI, SMUT, fighting, slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, yearning, intoxication, strong language, emotional vulnerability, age gap dynamics, possessive sex, guilt, mentions of grief, cum play, spit, grinding. series warnings after the fic. reader uses she/her pronouns and has hair. no major physical descriptions of the reader. no use of y/n but has the nickname Bird, Birdie, etc. reader has a backstory

Shear Luck | joel miller x f!reader | {18+ minors DNI} [masterlist]

{TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!} |part 4| Wildflowers and Wine | 2.3k words|

Joel Miller, a single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!

Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️

sprinkle in a little bit of smut 🔥 and dbf!joel energy and BOOM. You got this sweet-feel good fic.

Warnings: Mild language, alcohol use, flirting, fluff, puns, age gap (Joel's 38, reader's 23). eventual smut, alcohol use, YEARNING.

An alarm blares on your phone, and you groan yourself awake. You tap the screen and hit snooze. It’s been two days since the party, and the hangover is still lingering, fogging your head. You’re dehydrated, out of it, exhausted. You just lie there with your eyes clamped shut, willing yourself back to sleep. It’s no use. You spend the next fifteen minutes staring up at the ceiling fan, telling yourself you need to wait. You’ve spent the last 48 hours of your life checking your phone every fifteen minutes for something, anything, but—

bzz.

Your heart jumps, and you rip the phone out from under your pillow, tapping in your passcode with frantic fingers.

(8:07 PM) Kim: idk abt cam, hes cool but also lowkey clingy. hows old dude?

Disappointment floods into your chest, hollowing you out. You sigh, and it comes out half-strangled, throat tight with something—anger? Embarrassment? Shame, maybe? You roll yourself out of bed, bare feet hitting the hardwood, dragging yourself to the shower. You crank the handle to the left, letting the water rain over you, practically scalding. It soothes your muscles, but it doesn’t calm the ache.

//

The salon is humming with the sound of your hairdryer, clippers, and quiet conversation. The afternoon sun is shining through the blinds, hitting just low enough in the sky now that it’s blinding your left eye—sending a pang of pain through your skull, still recovering from the long weekend. You’re standing behind your client, Erin, applying her root color. She’s droning on about her daughter’s wrestling match out of town and her overnight shift in the ER clashing. She’s a single mom, three teenage daughters, working doubles just to make ends meet. You’re barely paying attention to what she’s saying, your mind entirely elsewhere, total dissociation. You hum and work, throwing out a “That’s crazy!” every once in a while for good measure.

The front door chimes open, and you hear heavy footsteps come in. You don’t turn, almost afraid to look. You stare forward and slow your hands, waiting for a natural break in conversation, trying not to be rude. The person at the front desk clears their throat. “Excuse me, Miss. I got a delivery for—” Your head whips toward the desk. You don’t remember ordering anything—probably a mistake, wrong address. There’s a man standing at the desk in a brown button-down shirt, “Freytag Floral” embroidered on the chest. He’s holding a bouquet wrapped up in brown kraft paper, a dark green ribbon tied around the stems.

“Uh, for who?” you call out, voice high enough to carry over David’s blowdryer, but it cracks. You slap what’s left of the color on your tint brush to Erin’s head and pause, placing the brush down in the bowl. “One minute, darlin’. Be right back.”

You walk over to the desk, watching the guy fumble with the flowers. He pulls out a little green card and squints as he reads it. “Looks like—you, if I had to guess. You’re the hairdresser?” He looks around the room like he’s deciding if it’s a safe bet to assume or not. He’s right. It’s just you and David today—unless his husband sent them. “Card says ‘Trouble.’ You Trouble?” He raises his eyebrows at you from behind the cardstock. David shuts his dryer off and shoots a smirk your way before going back to styling.

Yup, that would be me.

Nobody has ever sent you flowers before. You’re stuck standing there, wide-eyed and nervous, picking at the skin around your thumbnail and chewing your lower lip. “Oh—okay, do I have to pay—or sign? Anything?” you mumble to him, eyes on your feet.

The delivery guy just smiles and shakes his head at you, placing them down gently on the desk. “Nope, have a good day, Miss. Here ya go.” He turns and leaves the shop—thank God, because that was really fuckin’ awkward.

Erin’s already swung her chair to face you, grinning. “Who’s the admirer—secret or what? Go on, kid, read it!”

You slip off the dye-covered nitrile gloves you’re wearing, throwing them in the trash under the desk, before picking up the arrangement. It’s stunning—wildflowers, daisies, sunflowers, and lavender filling the spaces between. A single red rose sits in the middle; it’s messy and perfect and absolutely you. You stop for a second and wonder if it was Kim who sent them—she knows you well enough to pick out your dream bouquet like that. Maybe an apology for the “use protection” jab or something? You grab the card, fingers brushing against the rough paper, opening it, your heart hammering in your chest.

The envelope does indeed say “Trouble,” handwritten in sloppy, boyish cursive. The inside of the card says, “dinner, my place, tonight, 7. No complainin’, bring the bratty attitude with you.”

Yup—Joel for sure. What a dick. Two days of radio silence and then this stunt?

You bite back a laugh, heat flooding your face. You stand by the front for a minute, feeling a little dumb for moping around all morning thinking he didn’t really give a shit. You should’ve given him more credit—what a softie.

You slot the card back into the flowers and shove them under the desk. You take a deep breath, trying to play it cool, but Erin’s craning her neck, staring like she could read through the envelope with X-ray vision or something. You smile at her and walk back over.

“So, who was it? Spill it.” You can’t hide the smirk curling at your lips. “Just a friend, no big deal.”

She scoffs. “You’re so full of shit! He cute at least?”

Disgustingly, and so is his daughter.

“He’s alright, little rough ’round the edges.” You pick up the color brush and finish applying, glancing at the clock. It’s already 4:30—Erin’s gonna have to sit for half an hour, then another to rinse and finish. You’ll be out by 5:45 after cleanup. You look in the mirror and cringe—it wasn’t hair-wash day, and you’re wearing fucking cargo pants.

You text Kim and pace in the back room while Erin processes.

(3:42 PM) You: Joel sent flowers, dinner tonight at his place. I look like i crawled out of a dumpster. 👍

(3:45 PM) Kim: oh shit, you shave today? or is it like… the amazon rn. 😂

You did not.

You map out your plan of attack as you rush to finish Erin’s hair. You convince her to skip her haircut today, knocking off a good fifteen minutes or so. She heads out the door, but not before giving you a cheeky smirk, saying, “Have fun, be safe!”

You decide to do your hair at work, curling it into soft waves, nearly burning your forehead when your hands start shaking. You grab your purse and a plastic shower cap, practically running out of the shop to your car, flowers tucked under your arm. You’re nervously sweating the entire ride home, checking the clock every few seconds like time’s going to bend and disappear on you.

You rush into the shower, listening to the water hit the plastic on your head,distracting you. You move onto taming the beast, shaving every inch of your body until it’s slick like a hairless cat or something. When you get out, you lather yourself up in a lotion you bought a few weeks ago from the farmers market—it smells like patchouli and rosemary, real hippie shit. You bet yourself five bucks Joel will make some stupid comment about you smelling like a Portland bookstore or someone fresh from Burning Man.

You throw on some mascara and a bit of lip gloss and head to your closet, picking out something comfortable but cute, a black sundress that sits low across your shoulders and hugs you in all the right places. You’re about three minutes from leaving the house when it hits you—fuck, you don’t even know where this guy lives.

(6:45 PM) You: Hey, i tried texting the other guy, he said it wasn’t him who sent the flowers so ur my last guess.

(6:46 PM)  Joel: ha ha ha, very funny. Brat.

(6:46 PM) You: I dont have ur address, cuz im not a stalker like u are. plz send it.

He turns on his location and sends it to you.

Okay—domestic! Weird, but I like it.

(6:48 PM) Joel: there, now cool it with the attitude before i do something ’bout it. Don’t be late.

(6:50 PM) You: shaking in my boots rn. See you in 10 🤠

You do not see him in ten—it’s more like twenty, no surprise at all.

You pull up to his house, parking in the driveway next to his truck. It’s a cute craftsman rancher with a rocking chair on the front porch—very Joel. It’s only a few blocks from your house, the yard overgrown with shrubs. You laugh to yourself, thinking contractor, not a landscaper. You do one more mirror check, then stare down at the flowers in the passenger seat, picking them up as you push open the door. You give yourself a mental pep talk, psyching yourself up to walk to the house. You’ve got fuckin’ butterflies in your stomach like you’re a teenager again.

You knock twice, and he swings the door open like he was standing there already. He’s wearing dark-wash jeans low on his hips, a plain black t-shirt stretched across his chest with a—say it with me—flannel over the top, sleeves rolled up tonight to show off his forearms. The sight alone makes you salivate. His hair’s still damp from the shower, slicked back and off to the side just like you’d do it for him. He smells good too—cologne, no cedar today. He’s smiling at you, dimple flashing like he knows you’re already a goner.

What a slut.

“Well, well, well, look who showed up,” he drawls, leaning against the frame. “Thought you might’ve changed your mind—or chickened out, at least.”

“Me? Chicken out?” You scoff. “You’re the one who ghosted me for two days, remember that?” You grin, shoving the flowers into his chest. “Now you pull this corny bullshit? What’s wrong with you, Miller? What’s your game?”

He takes the bouquet from you, smirking as he steps aside to let you in. “No game. Figured you’d be less of a brat with some food in you, though. C’mon, dinner’s gettin’ cold.”

His house is decorated exactly how you’d imagined it—with mismatched furniture and paintings of woodland creatures here and there. Sarah’s drawings are Scotch-taped to the walls; it’s a little cluttered but in a homey way. You follow him toward the kitchen. It smells like rosemary and something roasted, vegetables, chicken maybe? Joel’s kitchen is airier than the living room, with big windows facing the backyard and an open layout. He grabs a mason jar and uses it as a makeshift vase for the flowers, setting them on the dining table. It’s set already, real proper-like—how fancy.

“Sit. You’re gettin’ the full Miller treatment tonight.”

You plop down, eyeing the spread in front of you—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, a salad, all simple, but it looks pretty damn good.

“This your apology for kissin’ me then actin’ like you fell off the side of the earth?” you ask, grabbing a fork.

“Maybe… drink?” He sits across from you, cracking open a bottle of white wine you can’t pronounce the name of—you’d bet money he can’t either. You don’t respond, but he pours you a glass anyway before going on. “Figured maybe you were busy with that other poor son of a bitch.” He’s trying to keep a straight face but failing. “Or maybe I just wanted to keep you on your toes.”

“You’re an asshole, know that?” you mutter, taking a sip of the wine. It’s cold, cutting through the end of your three-day hangover fog. Dinner is quiet at first—he’s got the radio on low in the kitchen; it’s all forks clinking and birds chirping outside. Then he starts talking, dumb stuff: Sarah’s school projects, work ordeals, a leaky pipe he fixed—and you’re trading jabs, laughing over nothing and everything. It’s domestic, easy…too easy, and you feel that ache from this morning start to fade away.

When your bellies are full and the dishes are cleared, Joel sits back down, folding his arms. “So, still thinkin’ about that other guy?”

You snort, shaking your head at him. “Nah, he didn’t even send me flowers. Think I’ll kick him to the curb.”

“Okay, good. Now c’mon, I got one more thing for ya—surprise.” He stands, grabbing your hand and the bottle of wine, leading you toward the back door. The yard is small and more manicured than the front, with a swing set, patio furniture, a big glass-top table, and green chairs—you know the type. There’s a propane firepit going already, crackling low.

“S’mores round two?” you tease, sitting down in one of the chairs next to the fire.

“Not quite…somethin’ better, I think.” He pulls his guitar out from beside the table, slinging it over his knee, grinning. “You wanted to hear Wonderwall, right?” He starts plucking the strings.

You laugh, real and loud. “Oh my God, no—please tell me you didn’t.”

He’s strumming a few chords now, laughing with you. “Nah, ain’t gonna subject you to that. But I figured you’d like somethin’ anyway.” He starts playing something you don’t recognize, soft and dreamy. His voice rumbles in, gravelly and warm. You lean forward, just watching, smiling like an idiot, hypnotized. You wish you could bottle up this feeling, film this memory, and watch it over and over again. That feeling from the other night comes back into your chest, but it’s lighter now, less “fucked,” less terrified.

He keeps playing for a while, the crickets coming out in full force as darkness settles in. The sky is open wide, the stars so bright, moon so close—like you could pluck her out if you reached up.

I could get used to this.

📸 Sinna Nasseri

This is insane

Whiskey and Want |dbf!Joel x f!reader|

| 18+ MINORS DNI | {series masterlist} {last chapter}

Chapter 7: Welcome to the Shitshow | wordcount | 3.3k {TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!}

Warnings/tags: 18+ only, minors DNI, SMUT, fighting, slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, yearning, Alcohol aftermath, intoxication, sexual tension, strong language, emotional vulnerability, age gap dynamics, smoking references, dbf undertones, possessive sex, guilt, mentions of grief. series warnings after the fic. reader uses she/her pronouns and has hair. no major physical descriptions of the reader. no use of y/n but has the nickname Bird, Birdie, etc. reader has a backstory

The search is too real I fear

I started writing another hairdresser fic, different mc than Shear Luck obviously, but it’s going to be post outbreak Jackson!Joel. Set around when Ellie and Joel return to Jackson from the hospital. When I tell you this fic has already made me and my partner sob out eyes out ???????

“Time went on, and years passed like this, scavenging, getting comfortable and then being run out of your camp. Sometimes you’d stumble across other survivors, and if they were friendly enough, you’d offer to trim their hair. It wasn’t much, but it was something you could give—a little piece of normal in a world gone mad. People would sit still for you, tell you stories while you snipped away, and for a few minutes, it felt like you were back in your aunt’s salon. Over the years you had heard about different safe places, whispers of communities that might take you in. Quarantine zones—places with walls, food, and order. Atlanta was the closest name that stuck. You made a unanimous decision and headed south”