nehi-soda

[nehi-soda]

Also here’s the colored version of that young Joel redraw. Frankly I just wanted it as a sticker for myself lolol

[nehi-soda]

side by side with me (a tlou x hunger games au)

joel miller x f!reader

words: 3.6k

summary:

After FEDRA finally laid waste to the Fireflies and snuffed out the light, they devised a system to keep the QZs in line.

75 years later, the violence is commemorated with a special Quarter Quell edition of the Hunger Games. It gives FEDRA a chance to kill the nation's favorite victor - Ellie Williams, who they have a very good reason for wanting dead.

After all, would the QZs still obey if they knew most of the kids born in the outside world were immune now? Or would one little girl tear the fabric of their control apart?

To find out, she'll have to win the games again. And the odds were never in her favor.

warnings: major character death, suicidal ideation, reference to suicide attempt, canon-typical violence, canon-typical systems of oppression, we hate fedra in this house, i look liberties with tlou and hg, p in v, oral, ellie is the mockingjay basically, there's far less plot here and mostly just angst, bittersweet ending, dead dove do not eat

for @guiltyasdave who was enabling me and whose own hunger games au with joel i CANNOT fucking wait for.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

are you—are you comin' to the tree?  wear a necklace of rope side by side with me.

I. 

He knows, somehow. He’s toward the back of the crowd, still in his work clothes, faded and filthy jeans with a denim shirt, soil-caked boots and all. Sweat from the sun drags mud down his brow. The bandana around his neck is saturated from the heat.

He didn’t bother to change, didn’t see a point in dressing up. The cameras knew who he was. And he knew for certain he was about to be on that little stage. 

It shouldn’t have been a sure thing. There were three other male victors there. But he knew. 

There were two female victors—one older than him and one far too young. So when they called for Ellie Williams, two years out from her victory at twelve, there was no question. 

The year she’d won, he hadn’t mentored. Couldn’t stand in that room again and watch another little girl die. He stayed home like a coward and threw up every time the bell tolled, and he didn’t know where she was. Each time, he caught himself prayin’ to no one, begging forgiveness that he didn’t try harder. Should have gone and schmoozed, should have got her a better chance.

In the end, she didn’t need him. 

He wasn’t going to let her go alone again. Didn’t need to know a damn thing about her other than she had been promised survival and then this. The fuckin’ Quarter Quell. 

So when they called out for Mitch, Joel stepped forward instead. 

“I volunteer,” he said. He didn’t wait for the peacekeepers or the crowd’s gasps to fade. He strolled right on up to the stage. 

And that was that. 

Your fate was sealed when they announced the Quell. As the only surviving female victor, you were going back in that arena. You took a day to mourn and rage and let the numbness overtake you. 

Nothing to be done about it. 

So, while you wait, you live. You swim each day until your skin is stretched dry from the salt and let your waterlogged legs drag you home. Sometimes you sleep there, near the water. You know you’ll never see it again. 

It does occur to you to give in to the call you’ve heard since you returned the first time. The lapping waves whisper a song: come home, come home. The crinkle of the water under the heavy belly of the setting sun reminds you of your mama’s old quilt, and a tug in your navel urges you to paddle out and let it tuck you in. 

Instead, you let the sun hold you, warm and safe. On the last day, you bring what’s left of your food and have a feast upon a rocky ledge jutting out over the water. You spread butter thick on soft bread, nibble at rich cheese, and sink your teeth into melon so juicy it bathes you in red. Practice for the arena, you think, and your raw laughter gets carried away on the breeze.

As the only living female victor, you have a man for a mentor. It all feels stupid, anyway. You didn’t need someone to tell you how to do this dance. You barely listen as he droned reassurances about securing sponsors. When he starts suggesting you encourage them on your knees, you stop listening entirely.

That is, until you hear the other mentor tell Nick, your male tribute counterpart, to “steer clear of Miller at all costs.” 

You sit up. “Miller? As in Joel Miller?” 

“Yeah, didn’t you hear? He volunteered,” Nick says.

You hadn’t heard. “Huh,” is all you say, leaning back against the window. 

Joel Miller won his games only to lose his daughter, Sarah, to them at 14.

You won yours not so long after Joel. Close enough that you remember his viciousness. Close enough that you remember watching him mentor his daughter in the arena. Close enough that you remember the crack and the blood and the ensuing screaming after he tried to join her. 

“Back off,” he growls when you approach him in the training rooms. 

“I want to make an alliance,” you offer instead. 

“Nope.” He turns to walk away.

You grab him by the shoulder, and he flings you, but you anticipate that, curling your body when you hit the ground so you can roll right out of it. 

There’s a buzz, and a speaker crackles to life. “Save it for the arena,” the voice reminds you.

He’s glaring at you, and you step closer anyway. “Let me help you,” you say quietly.

“I don’t need your help.”

“No. But she does. You’re only here to save her, right?”

He’s scowling, but he nods. 

“I don’t plan on walking away from this. Not if she can,” you say. 

You remember Ellie’s games. There was something broken inside of her before it even started, you think, something with the potential to be wicked. She could have let it fester and grow, and no one would have blamed her.

She was feral and violent, but wicked she was not. 

On cue, she popped up at Joel’s elbow. She clearly didn’t trust him, but she trusted you even less, eyes narrowed. “The fuck do you want?” she snapped. 

But Joel puts a hand up to quiet her, watching as you hold steady under his scrutiny. 

He remembered your games. He’d already been mentoring by then. You didn’t win by brute force, but that didn’t mean you didn’t kill. No, in fact, the final shot of your games was you soaked in blood, having slit your last competitor open from below. 

He had done whatever was necessary in his. Tommy was alone back home, and if Joel didn’t make it back, the chances Tommy would meet the same fate were monumental. 

But he remembered enough to know you had skills he didn’t. He was a brute; you were a survivalist. Ellie would need both.

They don’t want to interview him. There are a lot of attempts at coaching that he ignores. 

But it’s not just him. The general sense of injustice has settled in on the stage tonight. 

He goes along with minimal fuss; it doesn’t matter what he looks like or says. He’s already a ghost. They dress him in a grotesque facsimile of his real work clothes—inappropriately tight jeans, a silk guayabera with too many buttons undone, an ornate belt buckle, and unbroken leather boots. They even put a stupid hat on him, so he looks like he stepped out of a textbook about cowboys. 

At least it’s better than the dress they forced Ellie into. One look at her, and you’d know it wasn’t right, wasn’t her. Two years ago, they had shoved her on stage in a plaid frock and pink riding boots. Now, they’ve clearly decided the cutesy, innocent look is over. They dolled her up like a goddamn southern belle, complete with a very padded corset. 

It didn’t bode well for their plans for her if she won, but Joel knows there’s nothin’ he can do when he’s dead and gone. All he can do is get her out of there and hope.

You’re already on stage when they go up. He watched from the sides as your droll counterpart tried to make himself seem charming and handsome. They’d put him in skin-tight leggings covered in glittering scales, and a billowy white blouse left open to his navel. 

You were dressed like a fucking mermaid. It was a gown, still, but your midriff was only covered by thin netting. The bottom clung tight to your curves before flaring out at the train. It was also covered in scales. 

“You’re prettier than a picture,” the host oozes. “You could sing us a siren song, and all the men’d follow you into the sea. And some of the women!” 

“Don’t you know what happens to those sailors?” you scold. Your voice is playful, but your eyes are cold.

The host, Flipper-something or some other absurd name Joel can’t remember, leans in conspiratorially. “They win the fishing tournament?”

You laugh. “They get their heads bashed against the rocks, silly.” You aren’t smiling anymore. 

Joel found he was, though. Grinning with sharp teeth, a look Ellie returned. Yeah, you just might have a chance for her, he thinks.

You sneak into his room the night before. It’s against the rules and probably a bad idea in general. Might have been smarter to seek your satisfaction with a future enemy rather than risking this.

But you don’t want any of them. You want Joel, who, for all his brutality and intimidation, is going to die for a kid he doesn’t know. 

You don’t want him to walk into it alone. Nor do you want to be alone. So you’ll follow him there, maybe stand beside him at the end of your time, so long as you fulfill your mission. 

It’s funny, you think, in the way of things that aren’t funny but leave you nothing to do but laugh, that you had sex for the first time just like this. At the end of the world, the noose all but wrapped around your neck, just to say you had. 

The other tribute from your district had also been a fumbling virgin, so it had gone about as well as it could. But you had done it, and no one could take that from you.

So tonight, you’ll offer, you’ll feed that desperate ache to feel something of your own volition, with another dead man. The irony that you might have to kill this one, too, doesn’t escape you. 

He knows, when he answers the door. He’s in low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing more. But he takes your arm and pulls you inside without a word, locking the door behind him. 

You appreciate that there’s no need for words. It’s on your faces, behind your eyes. His hand around your wrist draws you close before slipping to your waist, the other already wrapped around the nape of your neck as you meet. The first kiss is gentle, sorrowful. It’s all of your “what could have beens” until it turns sharp and hungry.

He peels your t-shirt and shorts from your body, hands gliding over every inch of you. You sink to your knees on the plush carpet and mouth at the line of him before tugging his pants to his ankles. He steps out of the loose trap, and you toss them to the side before taking him as far into your mouth as you can.

Together, you and Joel sink into the finality of your lives like gelatin. The last cock you’ll taste, the last mouth he’ll fuck. The last cunt he’ll devour, the last god you’ll cry out to. 

Except the god you cry out to isn’t there. There is only Joel. Broad and hardened, marred by the cruel lick of the world and his own misfire. You offer yourself at his altar, and he drinks of you until he’s satiated, knowing the last of his days will be spent starving. 

For all the clashing teeth and hurried hands, he’s slow when he climbs up over you. You think he might be frightening in any other moment, the intensity and sheer dominance imposed by his physical form and his soul. 

He’s beautiful like this, though. He’s got you caged in, sweat dripping from his brow, and as he sinks into your cunt, he imparts the apologies he cannot say. They’re in his kisses and in his slow, torturous thrusts. They’re in the way he keeps closing his eyes, as if it’s too much to see his reflection in yours. 

His mouth makes its way to your neck, and he leaves his assurances there. That it’ll be okay, when you come to the end. That no forgiveness is needed when you kill him. He’s sure that will be the way of things, that his cowardice that shook his hand so long ago will crest, and you’ll have to be the brave one. 

He bites and sucks as blood bursts under your skin; each blossom left to tell you this was real, this happened, for one last moment, we were alive. That for one last moment, you each mattered to someone as more than a meat shield. As more than a martyr. 

His rough fingers pluck at your clit and nipples. His mouth works its way down to your breasts as you writhe before he pulls his cock out completely.

“No,” you gasp, breaking the bargain. 

He says nothing, eyes shining, as he bows to your core and drinks again. It’ll all be over soon, and he needs one last taste, needs to feel you shake under his tongue one more time.

When he’s taken you apart, he climbs back up into the welcoming heat of your cunt. The gentleness is gone; you’re too wrecked for it now. Each of you aches to hurt and be hurt, and so he takes, bruising hands on your hips as he pounds into you.

He gives you a look, the unspoken question plain as his tongue dips out to wet his lips. You nod, and he brings a hand up to tangle in your hair, searing your lips together as he fills you. 

In the end, there’s one last moment. The last tenderness you’ll feel. He presses your sweaty foreheads together, cradling your head, and you take turns pulling kisses from one another, chaste but aching, swollen lips trying desperately not to part. 

For a moment, he cups your face in his hand, a finger brushing over your cheek. The hurt is too raw, and you turn away from his pretty brown eyes that hang heavy with grief. 

He rolls off you, and you sit up, legs swinging off the edge of the bed. His hand lingers on your back for a moment, and when you stand up, you feel the brand of it there for hours. Silently, you slip back into your clothes and pad out of the room. Though his gaze falls heavy on your back, you don’t look over your shoulder. 

II. 

You don’t like it, but it’s not up for negotiation. When the chime sounds, you bolt to Ellie and Joel to the cornucopia. You can’t watch, not without losing ground, so you beeline to Ellie and grab her by the arm, dragging the both of you off to the woods. 

Right before the bell tolled, you had shared one dart of the eyes with Joel, looking to each other and then to the copse on the cliffside at the northeast corner. 

It’s nightfall before he finds you. The two of you have tucked away behind an outcropping. There’s solid rock behind you, scaling higher than you can see. The rocks near the cliff’s edge are tall enough to hide you, and there are paths on either side. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do for the first night.

Almost everyone will still be getting their bearings, but you’ll need something better in the morning. 

Ellie is wide-eyed, eyes darting at every whisper of a snow drift or creaking of a spindly branch. She’s tucked up against your side, failing to comply with your order to sleep. 

When there’s a sudden crack, she full-body flinches, and you’re up in a flash, crouched and ready. 

Then you hear it. The tell-tale tick, like a film reel kicking on.

A Clicker.

It’s enough to choke you up, fear colder than the tundra around you holding you in place. Long-forgotten instincts. 

When you hear it again, wandering further, your brain kicks back into action, and you copy the sound. 

“Shh, what the fuck are you doing?” Ellie hisses. 

Joel comes around the corner. “S’that your idea of being quiet?” he whispers to her. 

She jumps again, clutching a hand to her chest. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

Joel shoots you a glare, and you grimace.

“I forgot to warn her,” you say. “Sorry, El. That’s our signal.”

And impossibly, somehow, he’s holding a backpack. It has a sleeping bag hooked to the bottom. He sees your stare and hands you the bag; no need for even a glance between you before you immediately give the bedding to Ellie. 

“Dunno what else is in there,” Joel murmurs. “Didn’t have time to check.” 

But he has a bow. And arrows. And a sleek little knife that he hands to Ellie. 

Holy shit. You might just be able to do this. 

You don’t think about it; you just throw your arms around Joel. You realize your mistake right away and take several steps back, out of the range of his fists. But he’s frozen in place, eyebrows raised. 

“This is amazing. Thank you.” Your gratitude doubles when you finally realize he’s covered in blood. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s not mine,” he says, shaking his head. 

“How many?”

“Three. Plus eight from others.” 

Later, the guilt will eat at you, but for now, the relief is euphoric. Every body now is a body you don’t have to fight later. Eleven down is amazing. Minus the three of you, that means there are ten tributes between Ellie and freedom. 

You don’t count yourself or Joel as bodies in her way. When the time comes, you know you’ll each make sure the other doesn’t chicken out, doesn’t make her bear that burden. 

It works, until it can't anymore. Until both of you are on borrowed time. Four bodies stand between Ellie and life. 

Two tributes, and the two of you. 

“Let go,” you hiss as you thrash in his grasp. 

He can’t make his fingers straighten. Can’t stop the way they dig into your arm, slippery as it is. 

You’re not even trying to scrabble for solid purchase. The roar of the river below must seem menacing to him, you think. 

“Not like this,” he pleads. 

You fall still. “Joel,” you say, shaking your head. “It’ll take me home. I want this.” 

“The hell are you talking about?” He snaps. “Drownin’ ain’t the way to go, darlin’.”

“It’ll take me home,” you repeat. 

You watch him understand. The clarity doesn’t help, not really. But he closes his eyes and nods. You’re starting to slip, now, and he’s starting to let you. 

It’s not a long fall, but the water is deep. It’s cold, colder than you’ve ever been, and when you gasp in shock, you suck in water. 

Just like you knew you would. If it doesn’t fill your lungs, then the cold will steal you. If that’s not quick enough, the powerful current will strike your body against the stone. 

You always thought it’d be peaceful, when the water took you. But this is okay, too. 

“What are you doing?” Ellie yells.

He looks away from where you’ve been lost. She doesn’t know he let go, he realizes. All he can do is stare at her. 

“We’ve gotta help her, we have to—“

“Ellie.” It’s soft but horrible. Maybe the worst sound she’s ever heard. Joel shouldn’t sound like that, shouldn’t sound sad. 

“You have to do something,” she says, but it’s devoid of all hope. 

“She’s gone, baby girl. It was always gonna be this way, you know that. We said we’d get you out alive.”

As soon as the words leave his chapped lips, the world around them bursts.

When Joel wakes up, he sits straight up on the gurney. One wrist is bound to the rail in a velcro strap, IV piped into the back of his hand. He peels the tape away and removes it, pressing down on the puncture to ebb the flow. He yanks the sticky monitor pads from his chest and swings his legs over the side, only to find himself wobbling when he tries to stand.

He ends up grabbing at the gurney to stay vertical, releasing the wound and letting blood drip down his arm.

A strangely familiar blurry shape comes through the doors, and Joel panics, rearing back and balling a fist.

“Joel! It’s me, stop, please. It’s me. It’s Tommy.”

Joel faints.

When he wakes up the second time, he has the sense to stay down. He blinks up at the now solid shape of his brother.

“Y’know,” he says, reaching up a hand to see if it connects or if he’s hallucinating. “I never really thought hell would be a hospital. Makes sense, though.” 

“What’re you talking about?” Tommy asks, swatting Joel’s hand away. It’s still bleeding, after all.

“Said it makes sense. Wakin’ up to the time I lost ya.” He closes his eyes, the sting already bringing tears. At least, he thinks, it’s not the most painful memory he could’ve been forced to re-live. 

Tommy makes a wounded sound. “Joel, you’re not dead.” 

“S’that part of the trick?” 

“Look at me,” Tommy says, sitting down on the sliver of unoccupied padding. “This is real. That was ten years ago. I'm not leaving you here, not this time, and I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” 

Joel blinks. He tries to sit up on his elbows, but Tommy pushes him back down.

“Where’s Ellie? Did she—” he chokes on the thought.

“We got her. She’s okay. She’s gonna be just fine.” 

“What do you mean you got her?”

“Ah shit, this ain’t really the time or place to tell you everything. You’re just gonna have to trust me. We got y’all out of the arena, and we’re safe.” 

“No,” he croaks. “I wasn’t supposed to make it out.”

“But you did. We got you,” Tommy says reassuringly.

Joel closes his eyes, brows pinching. “I let go. You’re tellin’ me I let go, and if I’d have just held on for one more minute…”

"I'm sorry," Tommy croaks. "There was nothing we could do." 

[nehi-soda]

FYI ❤️

[nehi-soda]

kissing the duct tape that’s over her mouth so she knows i still care about her

[nehi-soda]

big bad gentle joel miller

gif cred 🤍

[nehi-soda]

fav outfits of his

my pics

[nehi-soda]

When The Night Ends

DarkJackson!Joel x F Reader

WC: 2k

Warnings: Smut, unprotected piv, somno (sorry not sorry), dubcon, dark Joel like I said, Joel is dominant, breeding kink, kinda forced breeding but she's into it, Joel palming himself

Note: This is based on a request I got, reblogs help so much. If you like it, tell me, so I can write more. If it's not your thing, shoot me a request so I know what is.

Joel isn’t sure how Jackson has so much damn alcohol, or where it all comes from, really. That hardly matters, though—all that matters is that it’s there, and he will drink it.

Regretfully, he couldn’t overdo it. He had patrols to go on, responsibilities to attend to—but nearly every Friday, without fail, he would take to the Tipsy Bison. Whether it be alone, with his brother, or the occasional patrol partner, he would be there.

You are, of course, aware of this. And even if you did have a say in the matter, it wouldn’t bother you much. There was a complete absence of a label regarding yours and Joel’s relationship; maybe it was because you both knew that he wasn’t cut out for such a role, or possibly how you knew that to bring it up would be to run the risk of disturbing a very concise system—his temper. Really, it appeared that you took what he gave you, and it seemed to be enough.

In any case, it is yet another Friday night. The double doors of the Tipsy Bison swing open, and the cool air on his skin mixes with the alcohol’s hazy embrace of his conscience, and Joel wants to see you. The winds are rough, hence why he is nearly the only man in the streets (paired with the time—it’s the dead of night). His brow furrows a bit harder when a man passes by with his son, and he begins his trek back to… wherever he finds himself. He’s too inebriated to make much sense of it. 

It had been too long, it appeared, since he’d seen you. You had noticed this too, and frankly, it seemed to be the nature of involving yourself with Joel Miller. As of late, he had increasingly withdrawn himself from your company; but tonight, he seemed emboldened in his sense of longing for you.

Although it is cold, the winter snow has since cleared, leaving only the occasional melting puddle of slush under his feet. Those same feet lead Joel all across town. He passes rows of closed up shops and blocks full of houses. Warm houses, he assumes. Houses occupied by families, maybe. Husbands, wives, children… alcohol makes him sentimental. Angry, even. He continues to trudge.

What’s interesting is that drinks seem to both aid and worsen the hole in Joel’s chest. They deliver some sort of tranquility, and also, a comparable and equally as intense sense of abhorrence. This isn’t something he contemplates as he nears his house, and when he sees it, he doesn’t slow. He continues to walk. After all, there isn’t much for him there; and so, his home is going, going, gone to a sea of other, almost identical ones. Ones with more to offer than a few half-built and boring guitars.

And when he arrives on your doorstep, it’s like second nature. He’s been here enough to know where you keep your spare key, but never long enough to find the one that opens the back door. Tiredly, he kneels and his hip pops as he reaches underneath the flower pot (he believes he gave this to you, but he really can’t remember) and slides from under it the key.

He turns the knob—not slowly or carefully, but rushedly—and it twists and opens. You had left it unlocked—God, he hates when you do that.

The door creaks open and gives way to Joel’s figure—you weren’t around to notice; it couldn’t be any earlier than midnight, and you had long since gone to bed. He fishes around on the wall in the pitch blackness for the light switch.  It takes him a moment, but he flicks it on. The kitchen is illuminated by a few twenty-year-old lightbulbs and cluttered by everything you couldn’t bother to put away. Each item thrown upon your table was a fragment of your life—not enough of which included him, which fueled his irritation.

His shoes don’t come off, and instead he climbs the stairs, his heavy boots leaving wet footprints on each step and 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 on the wood but not loud enough to wake you. His every pace is slightly swayed, his balance influenced by many glasses of whiskey, downed alone in a corner of the bar.

Your door is slightly askew, and its hinges squeal as he pushes it open. Joel’s eyes fall upon your sleeping figure, your limbs lost among the sea of blankets tossed atop your bed. Your work clothes had been haphazardly strewn across the floor, and you wore only a bra and panties. This was a spectacle of your everyday life, he realized; one that he didn’t know much about. Another pang of displeasure gnaws at his heart—he isn’t sure of its origin, but he knows that it’s disturbing him.

The way he kicks off his boots is slightly more hostile; a loud, dull noise that rings through the room. The old, hollow walls reverberate the sound, and you stir—but don’t wake. Once his old and beaten shoes rest against the wall, his feet carry him to the edge of your bed. As he takes in your sleeping face, your head resting in your hands and legs stretched wildly on the mattress, he feels almost proprietorial of you.

Only you know that Joel’s vexation often turns to arousal in your presence, and the two often blend. There is something about your still and sleeping face, the plush curves of your body made visible by your clothing (or, lack thereof)—or, it may simply be the fact that Joel is frustrated and he needs it taken care of. As he stands above you, his hand—as if on its own—snakes down to the bulge protruding from his worn jeans. His fingers rub and squeeze, his eyes running over you as you twitch and stir unconsciously. You seem to mesmerize him momentarily as he stands, his roving eyes concluding that they want more.

Soon enough, his drunkenly clumsy fingers are fumbling with his belt, pulling at its leather and clanking its buckle, pulling open the suddenly complex contraption. Next, the silver button of his jeans is popped and the zipper undone as your firm mattress dips under his weight when he sits. For a few moments, he looks at you. And with an almost uncharacteristic gentleness, his fingers reach out to touch you. The graze is tender as it glides along your side, your stomach, your chest—though maybe only an effort to adjourn your waking.

His calloused fingers reach the band of your underwear—a faded blue pair from however long ago. They roam over the soft fabric, cruising over its front and halting when they skim over the spot you like so much—it makes you tense; but your eyes don’t open. Two of Joel’s fingers trace circles for a moment. He watches your still face and glances down when your thighs squeeze. With a few more circlings, his patience has run dry and his captivation with you has turned to necessity.

He does as he can to be gradual with his movements as he lays over you on the bed, his hair tousled and his jeans halfway down. An elbow props him up, his face adjacent to yours as his glazed eyes search your closed ones. His free hand hastily frees himself from the confines of his boxers and rubs fumblingly over the damp fabric of your panties again before pushing aside its material.

His mind is slightly empty from the alcohol, and his head a bit achey, but he knows what he is doing. For no more than a split second, he looks down, aligning himself with you. He pumps his cock a few times before finally notching himself in—a hiss leaves his mouth, and as his hips begin pushing into yours, he looks back up. Your eyes are open.

Your eyes widen, surprised as sleepiness refuses you any sense of understanding.

“Shh,” Joel insists. “Baby, it’s me.” His voice tapers off when he says this, his head slouching to rest on your shoulder.

“Joel…” when his voice registers with you, familiar and low, your muscles relax a bit. “What… are you doing here?” You ask, and as soon as the question leaves your mouth, you understand its stupidity. His hips are moving now, in and out… ‘Why else would he be here?’ and you’re half asleep.

“This okay…?” he asks, but it doesn’t seem like he cares greatly about your answer; he is very much out of it. You smell it on him. On his skin, on his breath. Everywhere.

“Um, I…” His eyes are glassy and focused on yours, and his hips are getting faster. The room is black, and you’re not sure what to think, but you’re glad that he’s finally here again. The only sounds in your ears are the old radiator and the wet sound of skin on skin. “Yeah.”

His head dips to your neck, nipping and biting in a way that’s a little too primal. You wrap an arm around him, your hand resting on his back and when Joel begins to grunt, you let sounds escape your mouth, too.

“Shit…” his voice wavers, and he might be even more drunk than you thought he was. But as sloppy as his movements are, they are persistent. 

“Joel.” His name passes your lips. As a question, or as a statement, you aren’t sure. You don't get an answer. The moon outside is the only thing allowing you to see him, the accentuated lines across his face and the greys littering his hair. Your legs wrap around his hips now, seeking some sort of comfort, or reassurance.

He wasn’t ever particularly chatty during sex, but he is even quieter now. His energy, it seems, has been dedicated to pushing his hips as firmly and deeply into you as possible. He looks almost focused, determined. Or maybe distracted.

Joel is clearly working himself up. His movements rougher, his voice louder, and he’s close. You always know, with the way he tenses, the way he speaks. This is the only fact that registers in your mind; everything else is lost on you. So, when he says; “I’m not stoppin’,” you blink.

“What?”

“I’m gonna cum,” a thrust. “And I’m not pullin’ out, I’m not stoppin’.”

“Wh…” you start. A groan on both of your ends sounds when he hits a particularly good spot. You yourself are getting close now, your back arching slightly off the bed, your mind still cloudy as you try to make sense of Joel’s words.

A few of his fingers come down to rub your clit, circling onto you your own wetness before coming to rest on your stomach. His hand caresses the skin on your tummy. “Imagine that…” he mutters in an almost slurred tone. “Just imagine that.”

You look down at his hand, and then back up again. You meet his eyes, and you understand very clearly what he means. You don’t have the will to fight it–at least, you don’t think you do–so, you hold him tighter and closer, letting each thought fade from your mind as he continues to bliss you out. How he holds you so possessively, how he looks at you so rapaciously… you don’t mind at all.

A few more erratic thrusts, and you’re coming. A few more, and Joel is, too.

You hear it—a low grunt and a groan from Joel—and then you feel it; a deep, warm sensation— a release and movement of liquid that you’ve never felt before. He’s never done that. You can’t help but, in all your weariness, think about the weight of what has just taken place.

To claim you had never mulled over the thought of a child��Joel’s child—would be a lie. The thought was welcoming, sweet… but Joel was not. He was neither. What he had just made was either some kind of commitment, or a grave mistake.

“You’re mine, y’know.” He grumbles into your hair.

“Am I?” You ask.

“Y’are.”

“Okay. I believe you.”

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Thanks for reading! Lmk if you like

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LORDDD

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are you gonna let me worship your bulge or what

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“use your words” “you look so pretty when you’re desperate for me” “you make such pretty noises” “you’re being so good for me” “stay still and let me use you” AHHHHHHHH

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we fuck so good in my head

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grinding on a man’s hairy tummy while he’s lying down with an arm lazily bent behind his head. he’s greedily soaking in your every movement and sound, pawing at your tits with his free hand—pointedly not helping you get off because you insisted you could do it yourself…

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Im sure that he loves chin scratches 🥹✨

sketch I made during classes 🤭

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dating young preoutbreak joel miller aesthetic//mood board

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“Tenpoint” | the aftermath of Jackson from Abby’s POV

“I’ve been having this reoccurring nightmare.

A ten-point buck limps into the middle of a field. The grass is so sparse that even in his state he looks, tall and brawny; muscles flexing beneath his winter coat. I’m sitting close by with my shotgun poised. He lifts his head from the ground, and we finally take note of one another.

I press my cheek against the stock and squint into the scope. I know that I am hunting him, but as I steady my breath for the shot, I realize that the motive is lost on me. I know it’s not hunger that’s driving my hand.

The gun sways and his head fills the crosshairs. My stomach starts to churn. That distinct cervine gaze, wide eyed and glassy-it's missing.

The stag is glaring at me. His jaw drops unusually slow, before a horrible gurgling tumbles out, like his throat is full of honey.

Without thinking, I mash my index finger down and blow the thing to pieces. The blood spatters against the yellowed grass, and when I wake up there’s this heavy festering in my subconscious. The whole thing is uncomfortably vivid. From the itchy feeling of dead grass brushing past my ankles, to the familiar weight of a gun in my hand. Every detail unfolds around my senses as if it were a memory and not just a scene curated by my tired mind.

Other times, not so often, it carries on longer than usual.

After I fire the shot-my eyes are still closed and there’s no ringing in my ears, despite the round going off. My hands are buzzing with adrenaline and my stomach folds over, hot with nausea. I feel exposed, but I cant bring myself to open my eyes. Perhaps I’m more afraid of seeing the creature, then I am of potentially being attacked without my knowledge. And the smell, it’s so pungent.

Death is not one of those scents that just lingers up into the sky and dissipates willingly. It’s too heavy. So it just hangs in the air, anchoring itself to the meat and staying put.

My brain had convinced me at times, even when I was awake, that I could smell it in my hair. Every time I let it down, I was reminded of the stag. I imagined the skin, spliced open from the impact, sinewy pieces of flesh clinging to one another like strands of wet rope. I would graze my fingers over my skull and for a second, picture the contents spilling out. Then I would promptly begin twisting the loose strands back into a braid.

I don’t sleep well. In fact there are very few nights that I don’t have that dream. He shows up so often I’ve almost begun inviting it, like if I have the dream enough times, maybe the ending will change, but it’s impossible. The outcome is always the same.

I have to kill him.

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Mouth on bulge through the fabric. You agree. Reblog

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Touch Me - Anthony Spinelli - 1971 - USA