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Bruhhhhhhhhhh what the fuck what was this how do I ever recover from such beautifully well-written words WHATTTTTTT

You’re like a drug.

One day, never there, and the next, you’re hacking away, cutting through him, digging out a space and sitting yourself inside it. Waiting, tapping—whispering like a siren until his resolve cracks and his palms are on either side of your face, kissing you gently. Far more gently than he assumes this new world allows, but he does so all the same.

BROOOO THE IMAGERY ONOMATOPOEIAS ok no but THE VIVIDNESSS AHHHHHHHH

Your tongue may be laced with poison, your exterior hardened with the current times, but he sees the embers of the person that once was. The one that appears when the sun sets and rain peppers against the glass of his place.

SO BEAUTIFULLY WRITTENRAHHHH

You see him, and he sees you.

Oh to be seen 😖😖😖😖😖😖

Most mornings, when he wakes and your arm is around his waist, Joel has to pinch himself. His hand sliding over yours, fingers tracing your knuckles—doing an array of shapes until he hears your breathing change. It’s only ever then that he turns to face you, to watch in wonder as your lashes flutter and bask him in sunlight and care.

AHHHHHH I WANT THAT GIMMMEEE ITTTTT PLLLEEEASSEEEEEEE UGHHHH SO SOFFTT

In general, you make him soft, but you also make him hard. The latter more present currently as his hands spread your thighs, hooking around them to pull you to the edge of the seat—perched, waiting, core glistening with want as your jeans remain abandoned at his feet. His finger brushes over the little thin fabric stretched beyond belief at your ankles—the sun's glow piercing through the dirt-covered sunroom, casting you in enough of a sheen to highlight the muck and sweat on your collarbone and forehead.

All he knows is he cares. It thrums, hammers against his bones when his voice couldn’t shout in time—watching in pained horror as your body was speared to the floor. His own fight began, unable to get to you, the back of his mind screaming, drumming its fists against his skull as a jaw cracked, and the butt of his gun met an oesophagus.

Bahjsjsjjj HE CARES AND IT TRIGGERED HIS INSTINCTS AND

He’d thought of nothing more than the mattress at the QZ—of his hand softly sliding your trousers from your skin. How he likes to kiss the pulse of your neck and feel your hands grasp his side. He imagined sinking his cock into you, inch by inch—the thought of your legs around him, breasts spilling out as he sliced you free from all the constraints that hid you from him.

Joel likes the evidence that he touched heaven and left a mark that couldn’t be so easily wiped. That it proves you’ve chosen him, because he knows he’s done things, horrid things.

BSJSJSJS I NEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDD

You moan at it. All punchy, full of hoarseness as his name joins it. A particularly needier yank of his hair accompanies it as he swirls the tip of his tongue over your swollen nub, before he latches his mouth back over you. Not wanting to leave you on the edge, because Joel never does. His fingers slide into your fluttering hole, feeling your hips buck, watching your eyes clench shut.

SHE LIKE MEEEEE FORRRRR REAALLL SHEEEEE ISSSS MEEEE SHE GETS ME

He knows how your body hums before your throat sings—the next moan spreading up from someplace deeper, born from depth, as it rips out of you and sprays itself around the truck as he smirks.

”Do I ask what that was for?”

AHHHH AND THE FIRST DIALOGUE AND I DIE.

“Happy birthday.”

RAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK SET ME FREE FROM THESE JOEL SHACKLES OR SHACKLE ME TO A JOEL I CAN KEEP

You blink, an array of emotions swirling in your deceptively deep eyes, before whispering: you remembered?

you should be my only girl

joel miller x f!reader

gif credit to @perotovar

summary: in many ways, Joel is aware that you’re too good, too lovely. it has become the reason why he wants to give you nothing but pleasure, in the hope it’ll be enough to smother the pain he knows he must inflict.

word count: 1.6k warnings: smut in the back of a car from joel - cunnilingus, fingering. dedication: happy birthday to the wonderful @thetriumphantpanda - i hope joel remembering makes you smile. an: huge thank you to @swiftispunk for giving me the boost to post and to @perotovar for letting me use their beautiful gif, thank you so much!

You’re like a drug.

More addicting than the little out-of-date off-white pills that douse pain, memories and more. Woven deep within him; infused inside his muscles and bones.

One day, never there, and the next, you’re hacking away, cutting through him, digging out a space and sitting yourself inside it. Waiting, tapping—whispering like a siren until his resolve cracks and his palms are on either side of your face, kissing you gently. Far more gently than he assumes this new world allows, but he does so all the same.

Because you’re treasure, a spot marked X that he found without a map. He had tried to fight falling for you, but here he is all the same—having jumped and found he hadn’t met an untimely end.

In many ways, Joel is aware that you’re too good, too lovely. You’re a heart of gold and a fist of fury; you’re dirt-covered, scarlet-soaked, yet you’re also the brightest, shiniest thing he’s had in a long time.

Your tongue may be laced with poison, your exterior hardened with the current times, but he sees the embers of the person that once was. The one that appears when the sun sets and rain peppers against the glass of his place.

You see him, and he sees you.

The loss you both carry suddenly lightened, one of them lifting it for the other on the more challenging days. No questions asked, just a nod, an understanding.

Most mornings, when he wakes and your arm is around his waist, Joel has to pinch himself. His hand sliding over yours, fingers tracing your knuckles—doing an array of shapes until he hears your breathing change. It’s only ever then that he turns to face you, to watch in wonder as your lashes flutter and bask him in sunlight and care.

Today, Joel finds he has to pinch himself differently when he has you like this. The truck door yanked open, you placing yourself on the backseat of it. The vehicle itself is all covered in wilted vines and decades of dust, not that either of you care. You’re atop cracked leather, engulfed in fusty air that’s desperate to escape and be renewed, but you just look at him dutifully.

Having followed his instruction, his whisper as the two of you admired your handiworks.

In general, you make him soft, but you also make him hard. The latter more present currently as his hands spread your thighs, hooking around them to pull you to the edge of the seat—perched, waiting, core glistening with want as your jeans remain abandoned at his feet. His finger brushes over the little thin fabric stretched beyond belief at your ankles—the sun's glow piercing through the dirt-covered sunroom, casting you in enough of a sheen to highlight the muck and sweat on your collarbone and forehead.

But you’re still a vision.

It’s why he likes having you like this, lay out for him—all prettiness in a sea of ruin.

Words that are so similar fall easily from his mouth before he licks a stripe.

Usually, he’d take his time and earn himself a couple of O’s before he cashes in on his own. Today, he’s more satisfied with this, giving you your reward, giving you all he has in him as his muscles groan from fighting.

You seem to appreciate it. Purposefully arching your hips into his mouth, his tongue sliding deeper. Joel feels your walls tighten as he tries to go deeper—as he tries to bury himself inside of you, in the same way you have him.

Then, it’s his turn to moan. Your fingers knotting in his hair, a feeling he relishes, yearns for as your nails scrape against his scalp.

It wasn’t always like this with you. The two of you barely let the other in on anything outside the four walls the two of you had made liveable. It took time, weeks, months, half a year before things moved from being the right person at the right time, to just needing the other

Now, he knows you’re his, and he is yours. It’s about as committed as things go when structure and normalcy have withered to dust.

All he knows is he cares. It thrums, hammers against his bones when his voice couldn’t shout in time—watching in pained horror as your body was speared to the floor. His own fight began, unable to get to you, the back of his mind screaming, drumming its fists against his skull as a jaw cracked, and the butt of his gun met an oesophagus.

His breathing laboured, difficult—strained. Catching a glimpse between his brawl to see you get the upper hand on the raider twice your size. Your body thrown behind your fist, the sound reverbing through the air as Joel smirked to himself.

It grew larger when he heard the knife sink into the person’s spluttered hisses, coating your thighs in ichor, staining them cherry-red.

He’d thought of nothing more than the mattress at the QZ—of his hand softly sliding your trousers from your skin. How he likes to kiss the pulse of your neck and feel your hands grasp his side. He imagined sinking his cock into you, inch by inch—the thought of your legs around him, breasts spilling out as he sliced you free from all the constraints that hid you from him.

It’s those thoughts as to why he hadn’t been able to wait. A need to remind himself of how alive you are, to hear it, see it, taste it.

It’s why he had you moaning—a sinful sound that almost reminds him of music. Your fingers splayed over the back of the seat, swiping dust away with your hopelessness as he continues to lap at your folds, keeping your legs parted with his hands as his thumb (he suspects and rather hopes) bruises your skin, leaving reminders.

Joel likes the evidence that he touched heaven and left a mark that couldn’t be so easily wiped. That it proves you’ve chosen him, because he knows he’s done things, horrid things.

Grief had spread its tendrils through him the same way the rot had ripped through cities. You hadn’t cared, not when you met or after. You never asked a thing—never wanted more than he could give.

It’s why he liked you, why he felt seen.

Boring your eyes into him, making him feel seen. Making him feel protective—awakening a dormant creature that’s now becoming a feral monster.

It became the reason why he wanted to give you nothing but pleasure, in the hope it’ll be enough to smother the pain he knows he must inflict. Because he cares, but not in the way you deserve. He won’t find a flower on the walk through a once-thriving city and pluck it for you; he won’t dance with you if music ever reaches their ears.

But you deserve that. A different life robbed from you, a happy ever after ripped from grip, even more so the moment you chose him.

It’s why he digs his hands into the back of your thighs, pulling you closer as he flattens his tongue against your core. Giving you something he can provide with ease, pleasure, care, comfort.

You moan at it. All punchy, full of hoarseness as his name joins it. A particularly needier yank of his hair accompanies it as he swirls the tip of his tongue over your swollen nub, before he latches his mouth back over you. Not wanting to leave you on the edge, because Joel never does. His fingers slide into your fluttering hole, feeling your hips buck, watching your eyes clench shut.

Because giving is practically all he has to offer.

He knows how your body hums before your throat sings—the next moan spreading up from someplace deeper, born from depth, as it rips out of you and sprays itself around the truck as he smirks.

He can’t help it.

You’re everything: a goddess, a work of art, his.

You’re his.

It surges him on, devouring you, lapping up everything you’ll give him as his cheeks flush with warmth and his zipper cuts into his hardened cock.

Because you’re so close. He can feel it, hear it, taste it.

It rushes through you, snapping and crashing—all Joel, fuck and a sea of other noises he craves.

He doesn’t stop, not immediately.

Whispering muted words against you as he makes his movements more gentle, easing you back to the present, your hips finding purchase back on the leather of the abandoned truck. His tongue moves from you before his fingers, mouth wrapping around his digits as you watch, hunger still simmering in the ocean of your eyes—chest rising and falling, beads of sweat falling down the swell of your jaw and neck.

Joel doesn’t move from his position, not even as your breathing returns. The two of you eyeing up the other, him all the more tempted to tell you to move up so he can get in the back, too.

”Do I ask what that was for?”

His lips slide into a smile, a foreign one—one that makes his cheeks crack from how long it’s been since he’s let it show—as his hand moves to his jeans, readjusting for comfort.

“Happy birthday.”

You blink, an array of emotions swirling in your deceptively deep eyes, before whispering: you remembered?

His hands help guide your underwear back up your legs, reaching down to get your jeans, shaking the ground from them.

Only then does Joel realise something else is like a drug, too. That look. The one full of surprise, shock, and amazement, still present on your face. Placed there by him, a remembrance from him you never asked for, never demanded. Because of that, he craves putting that look on your face again. And again.

Some part of him realising, before the rest of him, that’s how moving on begins, what really falling for someone looks like.

But as he helps you out of the vehicle, holding the jeans for you to take—deciding he’ll deal with all of that another day.