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brighttears · 2 months ago

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Stranger Chapter 7

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description

Summary: At the end of the day, you show up nervous at Joel’s door, and he welcomes you with open arms, then holds you in them. Sleeping with you in his bed is beautiful, and it's innocent, until it’s not. Things between you shift, and he finds a new title for you—his lover.

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: About half of this is smut, size kink, a tiny bit of thigh riding, praise, a little rough, creampie, light christian themes here and there (fucking you is heavenly), pet names (honey, baby, sweet girl, darling)

A/n: the smut has commenced!!!! unavoidably more to come <3 sorry it took so long to post, i had a bunch already written when i started releasing this but no more is prewritten. i literally have like one day a week that i can actually just write and really have to squeeze it in otherwise, might start to get busier unfortunately :( but I don't want to let this thing die with a whimper and am starting on the next chapter now! much love to u all 🫶

series masterlist

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Sharing a table over grilled cheese and tomato soup, your discomfort seems to wane a bit, and soon enough the air is almost light—just three old friends kicking it again, and Joel begins to hope that Jackson lasts a lot longer than the time limit he had initially come up with.

After the meal, you part ways, having your own responsibilities around Jackson, and Joel goes on a tour of the commune followed by a shopping spree conducted by his brother. In the late afternoon, he’s left to his own devices, and basks in a burning hot shower, fresh clothes, and doing what he can to fix that nail hole in his wall, before the three of you join back for dinner. Tonight is your shift on patrol, so the brothers share a short drink alone at the bar, opting to keep the conversation relatively easy, before Joel retires back at his house. Though he’s tired from the full, yet comparably uneventful day, Joel still finds himself restless in the big, empty house.

By the time the stars have shown, he’s still wide awake in bed, when his ears perk at slow, crunching footsteps outside, and gets up to peer out of his window. Below, he spots you, looking weary as you trail your way up to your house. Despite your clear exhaustion, seeing you coming back unharmed from patrol pulls a relieved sigh out of him.

He considers heading outside, checking in, seeing if you need anything… he can’t help but be worried, even if there isn't a trail of blood behind you. Maybe a bit lonely, too. The last time the two of you were in the same vicinity, you were basically tired at the hip, so it feels almost unnatural to not be now that you have the option. And, the feeling of having you curled against his side won’t let go of him. But, he can’t screw this up. He doesn’t want to smother you, make you feel like he’s trying to coddle you, like he thinks you can’t handle patrol when he knows you can, that you have been. So, he keeps his head, fingers twitching and tapping on the window frame as he watches you step up to your door and unlock it with a faint jangling of keys.

As you cross the threshold and disappear into your house, he sighs, staring for only a moment longer before giving up, shuffling back to bed and flopping down onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Still, he can’t help but keep himself awake, just in case…

Within about twenty minutes, he hears a knock at the door, and his heart rate spikes. It’s gotta be you. Anxiety starts to rise in his chest, and he sits up quickly, hurrying downstairs. Pulling the door open, he’s met with you, relief blooming in his chest, though still thorned with worry as his eyes instinctually search for any sign of injury, and immediately notice your tense demeanor.

“Hey, Joel,” you greet him, breaths puff of white air in the biting air, shifting on your feet, and crossing your arms, eyes darting between him and the snow dusted wood at your feet. “Hey.” He replies, brow pinching as he regards your state.

“Um,” you start with a nervous sigh, eyes now glued to your shoes. “I, um, I was just—I wanted to, to see if, um well, if—if—” Bashfully, you glance at him again, and he can see your lips struggle as you try to find your words, and his heart aches at it. A wave of concern, along with personal anxieties, washes through him, already starting to become overrun with a thousand potential reasons you could be acting like this, fears and doubts of all kinds, and he wants to push, ask what’s going on, tell you to stop being so nervous around him, but then Tommy’s words ring in his head: ‘be patient… wait for her to come to you…’ So, he waits, keeping his expression mild.

“Um,” you try again, scratching your head, trying to force eye contact, “well it’s just that it felt, weird, with you here—I mean, no, I was just—well, patrol was—I just—I was wondering, i-if I could, um, if you just, maybe, I mean,” you let out a huff in clear frustration at your own floundering, before finally spitting it out. “I just wanted to see if I could, stay with you, tonight, I just…”

Joel’s heart leaps and flutters, shifting in the doorframe.

“Yeah, of course.” He answers quickly, because, of course, because there’s nothing more he wants.

Finally, you meet his gaze, letting out a heavy, relieved sigh.

Though he wishes you would have just waltzed right in, not even having to question if he’d allow it, want it, his heart feels lighter at your exhale, and he gives you a small nod, stepping aside to open the door. “C’mon.” He mumbles, “Get outta the cold.”

You duck your head as you come inside, shoulders still slightly hunched in remaining nerves he’d like to reach out and skim off of you as you unzip your coat. Joel wants to just wrap you up in his arms, soothe you, keep you warm, melt that unease, like he’s supposed to.

“You alright?” He asks automatically, eyes flicking over you. He can’t help but wonder about what’s left unspoken, you wanting to stay with him tonight, sleep next to him in his bed, be close to him in such a vulnerable way again.

“Mhm.” You reply, nodding as you shrug off your coat, and he watches as you turn to hang it up on the peg, right next to his. “I just um,” you begin to explain, sounding almost small again. “I guess… I’m just, used to sleeping in the same room as you, when you're around, you know? And I… you know, it just felt weird, and I guess I just… missed you…”

“Yeah.” Joel nods, voice soft and quiet. “Yeah, I get it.” It’s touching, knowing you want him, want to be near him, with him, and because you missed him, too. You’re still connected. He’d been laying awake, because he knew you were going to knock on his door. Because you still don’t know how to be apart from each other. Because there’s still some magnet, you could never let go of each other, you still can’t. A house away is too far.

You nod back, still visibly relieved, before bending to untie your boots. You look so exposed, small and precious, and he wants you tucked under his blankets, wants to watch you fall asleep, hear your breaths slow and even, see how your lashes rest over your cheeks again. Wants to see you relaxed like that again. He wants to fall asleep next to you, and not worry about it. Know that he’ll wake up and everything will be okay, you’ll be there, still tucked in, warm, and safe, and with him.

“I—Did I wake you up?” You ask softly as you toe off your shoes and push them next to his. “No.” He shakes his head, “Couldn’t get any sleep yet.”

“Oh.” You nod, turning to him. “Good. I mean, not that you couldn’t sleep, just—”

Joel can’t help a soft chuckle, shifting forward a step to gently touch your arm. “It’s okay, Y/n.” He assures you in a gentle murmur. Glancing up at him, you nod, letting out a breath, and he watches you, eyes flicking to every subtle shift and twitch of your gaze. You’re still guarded, but he knows you want it off, so, after a silent beat, he offers a hand out to you, cocking his head towards the stairs with a quiet, “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.” As he turns and starts for them, he feels your hand slip loosely into his, and he holds onto your fingers to lead you behind him.

It’s strange, a mix between deep recognition and something novel—your nervousness, being in pajamas, the clean and numbered blankets awaiting you; while this is just another added to thousands of nights he’s shared with you, every other has been not much more than a shuffle into a prayed for break from exhaustion, and this feels like some sort of event.

Despite how sharp you’ve made yourself out to be, despite how sharp you believe you are these days, your hand has never felt this fragile in his. And last time he held it, it was connected to the arm you’d lost a bucket full of blood from. But, last time, your hand felt assured in his, you had gripped his back; now, it’s timorous. He pulls a slow breath into his lungs, urging himself to be softer with you now than he’s ever been, and to not think about the last time, not overdose on guilt, because this isn’t fucking about him. You’re nervous, you’re vulnerable, and you came to him for comfort and for warmth, and it’s late, you’re tired, and he's the one you’re looking to. So he's going to take care of you. He’s going to give you what you need, and it’s not his guilt, it’s not his sorry, you don’t want it, and the words mean nothing. You need kindness, and warmth, you need your rock. You need the comfort you’ve only ever found in him. He can do that. He is that.

In his bedroom, Joel pulls back the covers on, murmuring gently, “Crawl in,” as he slips under them himself. As the bed shifts, the only sound the soft shuffle of blankets, Joel’s heart flutters again, perking with happiness, to have you here, with him, in the safety of night, where silences don’t fall and stretch but pool and settle, and there’s no rifle to be had ready in his hands, no dark woods to watch or pulls of exhaustion to will himself away from, and there’s no crucial conversation to be had, nothing to think to say—he can just lay here, with you curled up next to him, and look at you, looking at him, with your nose tucked under the blankets.

“Feel better now?” He whispers, gentle and affectionate. You nod. The silence stays for a moment, before you whisper, “Do you remember that night, Ohio, in the winter?”

He hums. “Yeah. Can’t forget it.”

2015, the first coldsnap of the year—ruthless, the kind of air that hurts, wind so hard in your face it’s hard to breath, and the snowflakes were fat and just wouldn’t stop fucking falling. It was the dead of night when you finally stumbled on the farm, the only structure within miles; you’d had to just keep walking until you found something, you’d die if you didn’t, but even under the layers of hay that you’d buried yourselves in, exposure was a looming threat in the derelict barn.

You were shaking like a leaf. He’d never held you before, but that night, he did, because he was so scared. And it was that night that started to realize how much you were starting to mean to him, how precious you were, how special his heart had come to hold you. He needed you to live. He needed you to be okay. There wasn’t another option.

“I don’t know how we survived that night.” You whisper. “It was so cold.”

“I know.” He whispers back. He remembers how you shook, how his muscles strained against the cold shuddering his own bones as he pulled you closer. He remembers how the fear kept him up all night. “I thought you were gonna freeze to death.”

“Me too. Or that I’d have to crack your arms off from around me in the morning.”

Your quiet words make his heart ache, imagining the horror of waking up to the embrace of a corpse. He blinks, sighing to brush the thoughts away, because you’re here now. “Well… we both survived. We always do.” He murmurs, and you nod.

Though tonight, it’s warm in this house, and you’re safe in Jackson, you look just as vulnerable, as raw now as you did then, and he feels a familiar tug to pull you closer.

He shifts, tugged further, needing to feel your breathing again, feel your skin be warm, and extends his arm, gently placing it over your waist. You shift into him, nestling in against his chest, and he lets out a long sigh as he gathers you into his arms. It feels natural, the reciprocated maneuver to fit against each other, to feel you close, to keep you close. A wave of deep comfort washes over him followed by a bloom of contentment as you wrap your arms around him.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, nothing else. Your warmth, the feel of your form under his fingers, brushing them idly up and down your spine with the other cradling your waist, the tickle of your hair on his chin, quiet breath skimming over the skin of his neck. The air is your smell. Filled with your presence, he closes his eyes.

After a moment, you pull him in a little closer, and he wraps his arms further around you, pulling you in until there's barely a bit of space between you at all, and in that moment, he feels you relax, warm and solidly pressed, a soft sigh leaving your lips.

Safe. Soothed. Protected.

“You warm?” He whispers after a moment.

“Yeah.” You mumble back, and he can feel the smile pulling your cheek against his chest. “Are you?”

He hums, mumbling into your hair, “I dunno, I think I could use a blanket.”

Your chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Want me to go get you one?”

He huffs, smiling wide and whispering back, “No, I think you’ll do.” You chuckle again, and warmth spreads through every part of him. “Stay.” He whispers, muffled in your hair, “stay right here.”

“Okay.” You whisper back.

Okay. That quiet sound.

You sound happy.

Okay.

The sound of the smile in that word waltzes through his brain, slow, cast in faint moonlight, lulling his breaths to slow, the gentle rhythm of your breaths, chest gently expanding and relaxing under his arms relaxing his weight, the faint beat of your heart against his chest like a soundless lullaby, easing him into a dreamless sleep.

He doesn't wake, doesn’t stir once, and in the morning, when the light streaming in from the windows makes its way past his eyelids, he finds that you haven’t moved at all, all night. Your arm is still draped over his side, the other still fitted between your chests, hand curled around the curve of his neck to rest in the hair on the nape of it. You’re the perfect mold against his body, under his arms, his hands.

Warm. Safe. Protected. Sound in your sleep. Everything is okay.

It’s perfect. Every bit of it.

You asked for this, requested to sleep in his bed with him, wanted for his closeness and went to him, to feel him in the night. You remembered that first time he held you, when you needed it most. He hadn’t thought about it that way—that maybe you needed him last night. And he was there.

And he was there.

As the thought hits him, he feels his heart flutter and skip, and he lets out an inadvertent, deep sigh. At that slight movement, he notices your eyes shift under the lids before they flutter, stirring from sleep. Watching the moment, Joel tries desperately to commit it to memory, the way you look tucked so tightly in his arms, etch the feeling of your unconscious clinging into his mind, the way your face is still so relaxed, so utterly at peace in his embrace. And in that moment, he feels himself fall just a little bit harder for you.

Your eyes crack open, just barely, and he watches you register the sight of him, a lazy hand brushing up his back. It’s a sight for sore eyes, you in the morning. The sun filtering through the curtains brings out the color of your eyes, strings of hair highlighted in its light. He could count your eyelashes this close. He soaks it up, with your fingers brushing over the curve of his spine, the faint shuffle of blankets the only sound in the room. It’s so peaceful, so simple, so domestic. A small, gentle smile brings itself to his lips, and he watches you watch it, eyes still sleepy, only half open, and then you bring your hand out from between your chests to trace a lazy finger over the corner of it. He melts, physically feels his insides turn to mush, smile pulling further.

This is the first glimpse he’s gotten to that gentle side of you you used to wear on your sleeve around him. It feels like pulling the curtain back, like there’s not a wall left between you, and it's so soft, and god he loves you, god, he adores you, and god does he want to kiss the fingertips dancing right in the corner of his lips, god does he want to kiss you, after all this time, all the times, he wants to know, wants to know how it would feel.

For a moment, your eyes trail up to his, before they return to his lips, tapping them lightly, almost absently.

He’s a mess. You were always so soft when you were sleepy, and it always made him weak. Right now, he’s completely lost in it, spellbound, and the whispered words slip right now.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Your eyes move to his again, and he can almost see them register, and as they do, your fingers leave his lips to instead slip over his jaw, but before he can think about it, your eyes are fluttering shut and your leaning in, and then he can’t breathe, because you kiss him.

He lets out a nearly stuttered sigh, body reacting immediately, hand splaying over your back, leaning his lips back against yours as his brain explodes into a kaleidoscope of butterflies. It’s soft, and gentle, he can feel the slight chap of your lips, and he’s never had that feeling he’s heard of in movies and from luckier friends back in the day, about how it just feels right, how it’s natural, effortless, like a gentle current, but at the same time, he’s lightheaded and the swarm is only growing bigger. He could drown in it, the sensation of you so close, the sound of the breathes leaving your nose and a quiet smack as your lips dance, and he can’t stand the thought of it ending, not yet, not yet, so he slowly, tenderly, tilts his head to press a little closer, sliding his hand to cradle your jaw, trading the other to hold your back, keeping you close. Just a little while longer, and a little while longer, to soak up the gentle embrace, he can’t stand to part, but then he gets a real taste of your spit, and he knows he needs to pull back, just for a moment, because he feels a switch flip in his brain at it.

He parts only a couple inches, letting out a quiet breath as his eyes flutter open again.

Very quietly, you whisper, “Was that okay?” You sound so small, and there's another beating of velveteen wings, and he replies, low and gentle, sweeping his thumb over your cheek, “Yeah, honey. You can kiss me whenever you want, darlin’. I’m not gonna complain.”

He’s used terms like that very sparingly—it always felt wrong, either condescending or just too far over the made up line, too close for comfort, but he feels out of his wits in a way, floundering under these new circumstances. He doesn't know where the ground is, but apparently neither do you, and after only a beat, you kiss him again, and he feels his brow pinch, and he wants it and he has it, and it’s so warm, and when he pulls you in you shift right into his arms, as if you’d done this a thousand and one times, and he wants it again and again and again. He drinks it in, the warmth, the softness, the feeling of your torso in his hands. He’s selfish, he’s greedy, he’s needy. With each small break before going right back in for another, he thinks, wait, because he wasn’t done, he needs more, more to hold onto, as if every slight repositioning of lips is a chance for you to slip away into dream world and he’ll wake up and see you again, and wonder all over again what your lips feel like.

As the moment goes on, his heart only beats faster, need slowly overcoming him, his hands moving over more of the expanse of you, your sides, your neck, your jaw, with your touch on his face, in his hair, his shoulders, arms, back, and he wants it, wants to be enveloped in it, he wants you to touch him and kiss him until he can’t think, until he’s incapacitated and all he can sense is you, like this, in this moment, in the morning, where nothing else exists. Not his wrongs, not the pain, not time, not memories, just the feeling of you, the taste of you, the sound of you as a soft breath leaves your lips—a small, quiet moan.

The sound surges him, arm automatically snaking around your waist, his fingers weaving into your hair, holding the world in his hands with your legs tangling themselves with his, hooking your ankle around his calf to pull his thigh between yours—god you’re somehow still being so soft and gentle and it’s starting to feel like his brain is melting, all he is is nerves and the feeling of you. And then you squeeze him, kissing him a little harder, a little messier, and there’s something so vulnerable about it, so needy but loving. God he wants you. He wants you he wants you he wants you. He wants you to have him, just let you have him, do what you please, he wants to please you, feeling the affection and desire wash over him like being pulled under the tide as his hands slide over your body, feeling the way your ribs meet your waist, your jaw to your neck, your shoulder blades, learning these things he’s never quite gotten the chance to before. The taste of your spit. The taste of your skin as he presses his lips along your jaw, slow, tender, making his way down to your neck, and then there’s that sound again, a little more breathless, and he pulls in your scent through his nose, shifting until he’s almost on top of you.

He wants you to know how much he wants you, how his pulse quickens, how his body heats up, how much he loves you, needs you, wants to show you, show you just what you mean to him. He kisses your skin softly, lips lingering as they press over the muscles of your throat. Another soft sound, just a breath of a moan, falls out of you again, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Every press, every movement, he wants you to feel the affection, the care he puts into it, like he could have you absorb all these things he doesn’t have the words for. With his lips on the underside of your jawline, you shift closer, a silent request, the way you pull and push, and he needs to give you the closeness you’re asking for, show you he’ll give you anything—he wants to, he’ll give himself to you willingly. He loves you desperately, wants you to take him, hold his heart in your hands, ride his cock like it’s a fucking toy until you cum, and then cum again, until he’s got nothing left, and then take more. It’s all for you.

He lets his lips part, pressing his tongue right between your ear and the corner of your jaw, just close enough to whisper something, but the words escape him as you let out a near whimper, and he knows the message is received as you move against him, pulling his leg until his thigh is right in between yours, and he feels his jaw go slack for a moment until his teeth reconnect with your skin, and, “Ah,” God. Without a second thought, he slides his thigh against you, fitting it where you need the friction, and you squeeze, and whisper, “Joel,” and his eyes nearly roll back in his head.

He wants to make you cum, to make you tremble, whimper and whine and moan until your throat’s fucking raw, and he’ll lick it like a wound as he fucks you or fingers you or just uses his fucking leg, whatever you want. Whatever you need, whatever you want. He wants you to know how good this is, feel what you’re doing to him, like honey in his veins, swelling his cock, so he moves his hips, the bulge pressing against your stomach, and your breath hitches, and the moan is involuntary, and the rest of the world is lost to him. He hardens more just at that, from a chub to something that tents his sweatpants in about four seconds. Your warm hands slide down his sides, slipping under the hem of his shirt and starting to push it up, touch running over his skin, warm and buzzing. He’s on fire. He wants you all over him. He wants your touch. Needs it.

Hurriedly, he takes his hands off of you just long enough to pull his shirt over his head, discarding it somewhere, and in the time it takes for the fabric to pass over his eyes your shirt is being thrown after it, and his jaw nearly drops.

He can’t help the way his hands press, sliding over your bare skin, he can’t help being so needy, he needs you more every second, feeling the curve of your breast, your nipple hard under his palm, the flesh of your waist under his fingers. Your arms nearly fling around him to pull him back in, meeting in a messy, heated kiss.

Every sense is lit in flames, and he slips his tongue against your lips, and you part them for him and fuck it’s so hot, feeling your tongue press back against his, your leg over his waist pulling him closer and his cock is straining as it presses against you and you moan in unison and fuck he needs to get you naked.

It’s nice to know you’re on the same page, by the way your hands fall down to the buttons of your jeans just as the thought enters his head. He curses under his breath, keeping one arm braced beside your head, struggling with his haste to pull his sweatpants and boxers down. His legs wrestle under the sheets to use his feet to strip them off, and it’s a quick shuffle to ditch the layers before hot skin meets hot skin again, and precum is already beading at his tip by the time his length is pressed at the seam of your stomach.

“Oh my god,” you whisper in a breath, right before smashing your mouth against his, and he moans, low and muffled, every part of him practically singing like a discorded chorus. He loves you. Adores you. Wants you. To love you like this. To dote on you. Worship you To fuck you, feel your sweet slick around his cock, feel your squeeze, make you whimper and moan and cum until you see stars.

And fuck, you move for it first, reaching down to take him in your hand and slip him up and down your cunt until he’s right where he wants to be, but he still doesn’t move, waits for you to bring him inside, relishing in the feeling of your hand around him, the hand he knows so well on a part of him you’ve never touched before. Both of your mouths are dropped open at this point, eyes half lidded, but he takes care to watch your face as his tip finds its way between your folds, taking in the expression, a rough moan falling from his lips because you’re already so wet.

“So wet.” He murmurs, faces so close it’s as if you’re trading breaths. “You want it, baby?” He asks, needing to hear you say it, to know that you do, and to hear how your voice comes out when you have his cock in you. “Yeah,” you reply, like an exhale as you move him deeper inside, and he exhales a moan in response, gripping the sheets in a vice, other hand a little more gentle on your waist. Slowly, so fucking slowly, he presses into you, inch by inch, feeling himself twitch with every one, your warmth pulling him in. As he bottoms out, he lets out a rough moan, and kisses you again, tongue licking into your mouth. Your touch is hard and tight as it travels over his sides, up his back, grasping at him, and he can’t help but bite your lip, more turned on than he was when he was a fucking virgin because god damn it it’s been a fucking while, and he loves you and has been pushing down how fucking horny you can get him for fucking years now, and here you are, naked, underneath him, wrapping your legs around him and moaning into his mouth.

He tenses, crooning with the urge to fuck you like his body is disposed to, deep and hard like a fucking animal, because god damn it has been a while and you’ve gotten him wound up like a fucking toy box, but no, that’s not how he wants this to go. No. Gentle. Slow. Loving. Until you’re begging for it.

The kiss is loud and messy and wet, one rolling into the next, but he moves his hips slowly, filling you up, relieving the pressure, then doing it again, keeping an easy pace. He’s gotta find what you like. What tempo. What pressure. Where all your sweet spots are. If you like it when he kneads your tits, pinches your nipple, presses his hand where he can feel himself through your stomach. But his hands won’t touch your throat. Won’t grab your hair. He won’t bruise you. Not even with his mouth on your neck. He can’t help but lick it though, wanting you to know just how fucking bad he wants you, long and flat, almost panting against the wet line, feeling like a fucking animal but still enough of himself to keep it fucking slow. Angels sing in his ears in your moans, breathy and soft, and yes, you can leave all the marks you want on him, drag your nails, squeeze him until he’s bruised if you’re so inclined. All he wants is you. Whatever you want to do, whatever you do.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, your chin, your jaw, his knees planted in the mattress so that he can slide his hands along your sides, hold your body in his hands, know what the weight of every bit of his desire feels like, know what the clouds in heaven feel like under his fingers. He wants to know what the waters up there feel like up there, so he reaches a hand down, digits swirling your clit, and they’re warm and drooling, and the sound of the pearly gates opening are in the moan that almost trills from your throat. His mouth falls down to your skin again, tasting what the gods eat with his lips on your collarbone. Heaven is filling you up, thumb on his base, feeling every inch sliding in and out with his index and middle playing with you, testing out spots and rhythms to make you sing.

He wants to make you feel good, so fucking good, with his fingers and his mouth and his dick. Wants you to feel loved by him, taken care of by him. Desired and needed, but cherished. Gentle, until you ask for more, if you want it. He can fuck you slow, too, grip the reins to keep himself under control. Still, the sounds that come out of him are desperate hums that are almost groans as your nails scrape down his back, leaving the muscles underneath them humming in their wake. With his lips mouthing along your shoulder, he hears your head hit the pillow, he hears the whimper.

Electrified, he husks, hot against your skin, “That feel good?”

“Yes.” He hums, deep and low, pressing soft kisses up the side of your neck until they reach your ear, “You like how I fill you up?” Though he keeps it measured, he presses a little deeper, almost just to show you what he can do, and it pushes another soft moan out of you. “Yes.”

Perfect, so fucking perfect for him, like a sheath, so slick and easy to fit into. “You like how this dick feels?” Tying your ankles around his back, urging him in deep again, you moan, “Yes,”

“Fuck,” He swears under his breath, sliding his palm back up your side, drinking up the way every touch makes your breath change. He stops at your chest, slowly enclosing your breast with his hand with his fingers still twirling your sensitive bud as he whispers, “You want me to fuck you?” The word leaves you in a whimper, “Please.”

“Fuck, Y/n.” Joel moans, hips pressing you into the mattress, grip back around your waist, fingers denting your flesh as he holds you to take him to the hilt, reveling in your moaned sigh. “Tell me how you want it,” It’s a shameless plea in your ear as he leans over you; he wants you to know he’s for you, all of him, it’s for you, his heart, his soul, his cock, his hands, his lips; his body, mind, and soul, just the way god intended.

“Harder.” You whimper.

“Harder?” He repeats lowly, forehead against your temple to keep his whisper steadily in your ear, feeling his gut burn.

“Yes.”

His hips twitch in a quick jolt before he can start his own rhythm, barely in control of himself when he gets the chance to fuck you how he wants, like its the last thing he’ll ever do on this earth, thwaps of meeting hips filling hitting the walls, each tight thrust pushing a breath out of you like he’s giving you fucking CPR, “You want it like this, baby?”

“Yes, God, ah,” your hands grip his biceps, flexed like every other muscle in his body, every bit of testosterone pumping out in the sweat starting to slick his skin. “That feel good, honey?” He thrust the answer out of you, a breathless, “Yes,” and he feels like a god now. To be able to get these sounds out of you, to get you all breathless and flushed with your legs spread open for him. “You like how my cock feels?” His voice is a deep, low hum, honeyed and hot, met with a lighter, breathless, “Yes, fuck me, fuck,”

That phrase hits a nerve, and he moans like he’s being beaten, but the blood tastes so sweet in his mouth.

The bed is starting to shake a little at the rhythm of his hips, knees dug into the bed, fingers swirling your clit in the way that has you trilling like a hungry cat with his other hand holding your waist to keep you in place as he stays just a step away from pounding the shit out of you. He’s never been the type to pride himself on his length or girth—he’s not in college anymore—but he’s hitting your cervix, loading himself into you, and its just as tight as if it was his hand, but it’s Y/n’s cunt that he’s fucking right now, and the cum is stringing his cock, making a mess where your hips meet when he looks down and does nothing less than gawk, the sight making a moan crawl out of his throat and fuck he feels that hot coil, and flings his hand out to grip the headboard, because not fucking yet god damn it, because you’re begging, voice almost shrill, “Please, don’t stop, just like that, fuck right there, right there,” and he shuts his eyes, caught between memorizing the moment and trying to keep himself from cumming first because he wants to feel you, and pump you through it, and yes he’ll do whatever you want but god how he would love to watch you whimper and squirm as you take him, he wants to have you until you’re spent, he wants to make you cum again and again and again, until the sheet is soaked through and you’ll both just have to sleep the rest of the day again, stay in this bed together, and he’ll fall alseep and wake up again to the smell of you, the taste of you.

“Fuck,” he pants, willing himself to look down at you again, and he can tell before he even asks, almost cooing, “you close, darlin’? Gonna cum soon?”

You nod, face twisted up in sweet pleasure, breaths becoming more stuttered with the force of his hips, “Yeah.” Your hands, before loosely on his hips, slipping in and out of grip as he pressed them down again and again, are now nearly clawing, nails scraping against the muscled bone, mewling, “Yeah,”

With a harsh moan, Joel brings his face right down over yours, panting against your lips, “Yeah? You gonna cum on my cock? That’s how good it is, baby?”

“Yes, fuck,”

“You like how I fill you up to the fuckin’ brim?” He murmurs, “You like feelin’ me in your guts? You have no idea how good it feels, baby. Love feelin’ how your pussy squeezes my cock.” Nearing pussy drunk, he starts to ramble, almost smothered under the sound of the creaking bed and skin slapping skin and the moans that march from your throat, “Takin’ me so fuckin’ well, Jesus Christ, Y/n, you’re sending me to heaven, baby. You sound like the angel’s fuckin’ singin’, Y/n. Make me feel so good. I wanna make you cum, baby. Wanna feel you fuckin’ cum for me. Cum on my cock, cum for me, honey.”

“Oh, fuck, fuck me like that, yes,”

“So fucking pretty like this, baby,” his voice stays a soft murmur, more breathless by the second, “you got no idea. So fucking beatiful. Yes, baby, yes, I know, I know you’re so fucking close, cum on it, baby, lemme fuck you through it.”

“Oh fuck,”

“Yes, yes, yes,” he ruts, thumb twirling around your clit as your thighs clench around his waist, mouth in a perfect O, pouring out moan after shaking moan, brows titled up, lashes fluttering, “keep cumming for me, baby, fuck, fuuuck,” he pants, moaning almost just the same, barely an inch making it out before he plunges back in, fucking you into the bed, and the way you’re hanging onto his hips almost ensures it, “god you’re takin’ me so good, so good, baby,” both hands grasp the headboard now, hanging on by a thread as your pussy grips and quivers around him, so tight in its convulsions he could swear he can feel every ridge of his cock slipping in and out.

“Oh, God, Joel, fuck,” you’re almost incomprehensible, with the way your body is being jolted into the bed and the way every word is jumbled with a moan, “don’t stop, don’t stop, please,”

“So god damn good, baby, yes, keep cumming for me, feels like fuckin’ heaven, Y/n. Gonna make me cum, fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna fill you up with my cum, sweet girl. You want that, baby? Wanna take my cum?” He coos, moaning, dumb on it, “I wanna fuck my cum into you. You gonna take it? Gonna let me? Show you how much I fuckin’ love you? How you fuckin’ get me?”

Sounds loudening, quickening, you brace your hands on the headboard, tits on display as they jump under his force, stomach muscles clenching and tremoring, “Fuck, yes, yes,”

Joel falls back over you, snaking his arms under your back, cradling your waist as he pumps deep inside you, fucking like an animal. “Yes, yes, yes,” he calls, forehead in the pillow, “keep cumming for me, baby, that’s it, keep goin’ for me, feels so fucking—” his words drop off in a deep, desperate moan, movements fast and harsh, stuffing you up, wet squelching in a mix of cum. “Oh, fuck, I love you,” he lilts, seeing white as he pumps his cum into you, hips jolting hard, holding you tight against him with his arms encircling your waist. Your nails are in his back, heels at the base of his spine, locking him in, taking it, trilling, “Yes, yes, yes,”

Joel’s moans are harsh breaths breaking out from his throat, eyes screwed shut as the primal sensation washes through him, a deep seated desire to profess his need, his love, his devotion as his hips stutter, fucking his seed as deep as he can into you. The aftershocks feel like the moment you see that white tunnel, and he’s reduced into a state of stupid pleasure, lazy sounds falling from his lips as you milk his cock, each ridden out twitch causing his hips to swing again, until he finally stills.

Joel stays like that, locked deep inside of you, panting against your neck. You’re both sweating, and his animal brain brings his tongue to your skin, lapping up the salty taste. One last breathy moan falls from your lips, and he sighs, long and shaky.

Finally, he floats back down to earth, sighing, “Shit.” You hum in response, a breathy, almost sleepy sound, and he slowly releases you from his near primitively possessive embrace, your body slumping back down on the bed. Taking in the sight below him, he supports himself over you with a hand planted on the bed, slipping out of you, leaking over the sheets. Your skin is glistening, chest rising and falling gloriously with your breaths.

He’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life, beauty that stuns him, stupefies him, locks time, eyes traveling over every inch of your skin. Your thighs still rest on either side of his waist, the curly mess between your legs drooling and beaded in cum, a trail of his oozing out to drip onto the white sheets. A strip of sunlight casts a line over your chest, like a blessed spotlight to highlight the curve of your waist, the way your breasts lay, the bend of your neck from your collar. Your face is still flushed, lips parted, eyes half lidded, but he can see something in them, something else.

This changes things.

He feels tethered to you now, tied, his beautiful girl, his woman. His right hand, his best friend—his lover.

The term sounds right. You're the one he loves, in every way he can, now, like this. Giving you pleasure like that, seeing you, hearing you, raw, making your nerves scream in rapture. From him. Another thing he can give to you.

His lover.

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wordywarriorwrites · 10 months ago

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Calendar Girl: November

Series Masterlist: Calendar Girl Joel Miller Masterlist Author: @wordywarriorwrites Summary: The story of how Joel Miller falls in love again, told over a series of months. Series Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Language. Violence. Discussions of rape and consent. Alcohol consumption. Age-gap.

Shorter days sometimes began with frost-covered windows and transitioned to noisy nights filled with the hungry calls of migrating birds. Eventually, the leaves on the trees had been shaken loose by stronger winds and rainstorms, leaving behind the scent of damp earth and pine-fresh evergreens.

Fall had begrudgingly given way to winter, prompting the townspeople to reap and prepare. Baking and canning marathons. Meat preservation. Sorting livestock and building shelters. Getting out seasonal clothes. Sealing leaky windows, cleaning out gutters, and ensuring fireplaces were operational.

Getting his home prepared had been a chore, and yours hadn’t been a walk in the park, either, but he’d done it. Joel had patched up the roof, checked the pipes, and ensured there was enough wood out back to last you through this winter and into the next, not because it was his job, but because he wanted to. Because he’s only ever known winter to be a dark time, a harsh time; a time when people were meaner and hungrier, and he’d be damned if you weren’t as safe and comfortable as he could make you…

“Joel, please – just – I really don’t need another quilt,” you sighed.

He grunted and spread it out over the bed, “It gets cold in here at night.”

“Really?” you arched a brow, cheeks rounding with a broad, toothy grin. “Guess we should stop sleeping naked then, huh?”

Joel smirked. Placed his hands on his hips. With your point made, you rounded what had become his side of the bed, donning one of his flannels, feet tucked into wool socks he’d nearly pummeled a grown man for three days ago. Arms around his middle, ear pressed to his chest, head tucked beneath his chin – these actions steadied him, centered him, and made him let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Before we go to bed, I wanted to talk to you about something,” you murmured, voice muffled against his shirt.

“Is it about sleepin’ naked?” he wondered. “Because if it is, we can talk about that all you like, sweetheart.”

You laughed. Issued a teasing pinch to his waist. Joel held you tighter, and you turned your face up, all silent askance, and he obliged, more than happy – eager, even – to drop a series of gentle kisses on your soft, sunny mouth. Your contented hum is one he echoed, and he’d gotten half the buttons of the flannel undone and was guiding you toward the bed when you placed a halting hand on his chest and slowly eased away.

“Talk first,” you repeated. “Then, you can kiss me all you like.”

A promise sealed with another kiss – one that lingered. All slow and tender to the point of aching, and you didn’t even realize that you’d made it that much harder to pull away, but he did it. He pulled away because you asked him to listen, and he watched you take a deep, fortifying breath before launching into an explanation about town growth and a burgeoning housing crisis.

Apparently, expanding families had become cramped in their own homes, which prompted a need for placements to be re-evaluated. In the interim, the council asked for volunteers from within their own ranks; anyone willing to share housing had been encouraged to do so, and you’d not only agreed to move, (thus giving up your home to the Hardens, who had a baby on the way) you’d also agreed to bunk with Connie and Helen.

“Wait,” Joel interjected. “Connie and Helen? Those two busy bodies?”

You shrugged, “Just think of how fun the sleepovers will be.”

“It’s good of you, to be so kind to the Hardens,” he supplied, rubbing his thumb over his chin. “But wouldn’t you rather… I mean, you could come live with Ellie and me, right?”

Eyes flared and lips parted. He’d surprised you, but the slight tilt of your head – one of your many tells that had revealed themselves over time – indicated you were mulling. Joel, on the other hand, had been picturing it for some time now; living life together, instead of in tandem. In his mind, you, he, and Ellie had already become a family. A year ago, he wouldn’t have believed it possible, but he does now.

He wants a life – whatever that means, whatever it looks like – and he wants it with you.

“Just think about it,” he suggested, smoothing a wrinkle from the bedspread. “And whatever you decide is just fine with me.”

You cleared your throat, “What about Ellie?”

Joel exhaled a low laugh, “She’s actually been pushing me to ask you. Apparently, she's tired of all the back and forth for dinner. I guess it cuts into her time with her girlfriend, so…”

An amused eye roll and a wave of your hand, followed by a creak as your heel hit the squeaky floorboard at the foot of the bed. The frame groaned as you sat, hands settled on your knees, eyes surveying the small space around you. You remained silent for so long that Joel eventually sat beside you, and the mattress dipped with his added weight, causing you to lean into him, your body pressed comfortingly against him from shoulder to thigh.

“I’ll move in with you and Ellie,” you finally declared. “But I have two conditions.”

Joel glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and dipped his chin, “Alright, name them.”

“First, I get to bring my sheets. Yours are terrible.”

“Fair. What’s the second condition?”

Finger crooked beneath his chin. Gazes met. You graced him with that smile, the smile that’s just for him, and his heart galloped. Slowly, steadily, you used his shoulders for balance and positioned yourself until you were straddled over him.

“Build us a porch swing,” you said softly, hands now cupped around his face. “One that’s just ours. Where we can sit together, and you can play, and I’ll listen and pretend not to cry…”

Unable to speak around the tightness of his throat, Joel simply nodded, and when you kissed him, it was sweet – sweeter than even that first time beneath the mistletoe. Sweeter than he deserved. Sweeter because he loved you and would’ve given in to whatever demands or requests you made, no matter how big or small.

Thoughts of winter preparations, of asking if you’re sure, of wondering aloud if you’re ready for what living together means – they all get swept away by your warmth and the sheer strength of your embrace.

Drugging, languid kisses ended the conversation and prompted him to seek you out, to find you bare beneath the flannel, to peel your arms from the sleeves. Tongues meshed, Joel’s hands and body grew eager and greedier with each moment that passed. Fingertips mapped the velvet-soft skin at the base of your spine, the gentle swell of your breasts, and the firmness of your calves. Mouth explored the column of your throat and the pulse that thrummed at the base of it. Teeth nibbled and nipped at the lobes of your ears and the hinge of your jaw.

“I want every night to be like this,” you confessed, voice hushed, as if this admittance were a secret only he could be trusted with.

“Whatever you want,” he insisted, agreed, promised. “Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

Enveloped by you – your arms twined around his shoulders; thighs pressed tight against his waist. Guided by you – encased deep in your warmth; an incredible sensation he suspects he’ll never, ever get used to. The ragged intake of your breath. The flutter of your eyelashes. The steady rock of your hips. The mere undertone of your pleasure, clearly heard above the rhythmic squeak of the bedframe.

Rapt by the way you take him, uninhibited, unabashed, and Joel knows he’s been possessed by you. It’s as irrefutable as the sun rising in the east and the fixed position of the North Star; it’s as real as the danger outside the walls and the ever-looming precipice of disaster; it’s as fierce as the greatest love of a daughter he never got to see grow and the hell he’d raise if anything ever happened to you…

His name – the way you exhaled it, how it morphed from desperate to encouraging, how it eventually bloomed into something reverent, almost worshipful. You kissed him. Smiled at him again. And the words he’d kept to himself for far too long just tumbled out.

An echo of what you’d said to him all those moons ago: love, love, love, mine, mine, mine. Frantic. Guttural. They spilled into the air as he spilled into you, a powerful release brought on by the hot clutch of you coming around him.

Slumped boneless in his embrace, cheek mashed against his shoulder, slow breaths exhaled into the crook of his neck. Comfortable, contented silence, interspersed with unhurried kisses and gentle touches; two, sated bodies moved, slow as syrup, to lie side-by-side.

“Say it again,” you sighed, woolen-covered foot brushing along his calve.

“I love you.”

“And?”

Joel cupped your jaw in his hands and pressed his mouth to yours, “And you’re mine.”

Last Chapter: December (Again)

#joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #tlou fan fiction #tlou fanfic #calendar girl

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toointojoelmiller · 1 year ago

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Have you ever consumed so many devastating TLOU fics that you your heart was at risk of being permanently broken? Does the thought of Part 2 being filmed right now and our collective timeline inching closer to *that scene* airing on HBO with Pedro and Bella make your palms sweat? Same!

My prescription for you is to read today's spotlight stories and remember that, actually, we can stop torturing these two at any time we'd like. (Personally, I won't, but reading Joel and Ellie father-daughter fluff once in a while is good for general mental health.) I'm always reading and writing angst and @becomethesun's fics always feel like a breath of fresh air - and, of course, makes me even more heartbroken at all of the what-could-and-should-have-beens that TLOU I promised and TLOU II used to torment us. She is currently writing a Sam and Henry live AU (Collaborators) that is an answer to my prayers. The two stories linked here are favourites of mine:

true blue by @becomethesun 18,505 words || 5 chapters featuring: family fluff, Ellie adapting to life in jackson, good dad Joel Miller, Ellie gets to be a kid

me and my dog (and an impossible view) by @becomethesun 6055 words || one shot featuring: family fluff, good dad Joel Miller, Ellie gets a dog

from @march-flowerr: "If I had to pick one fic only to re read for the

rest of my life, becomethesun’s “true blue is (it feels good to be known so well)” would probably be it. I’m hard pressed to think of a story that I hold dearer than this - five chapters, short but flush with all the small details and nuances of life in Jackson that we don’t get to see in the game. “True Blue” offers such a sweet catharsis while still holding to canon. Becomethesun gives us these compact, bright glimpses into Ellie’s daily life in Jackson: we get to see her goofing off with Dina and Cat, learning to relax into her relationship with Joel, finding her footing in her new family and community. It paints such a tender and clear picture of Ellie as a girl - not Ellie, the ex Fedra cadet, or Ellie the cure - but Ellie as a kid, with friends and questions and ambition and insecurities and a love for her little world so big that it is breathtaking.

In “me and my dog (and an impossible view)”, we’re introduced to Strelka, Ellie’s dog. She finds her as a puppy in an abandoned book store and brings her home to Jackson. Strelka sees her through her through her first rough days of school, sick days and snow days. I don’t really think much more needs to be said about this fic to illustrate just why it’s so good - Ellie gets a cute little dog that makes her happy. What more do you want, people??"

Re-reading these fics feel like coming home. There’s a lyrical cadence to becomethesun's words that I am drawn continuously to. I love the feel of her fics: the syrupy sweet way the story wends itself through from beginning to end, the way that all these intense emotions and elements are whittled down into simple, intimate moments, like making paper crowns with a friend or curling up with your dog after a long day. The real beauty of these fics is the way that becomethesun has chosen to take the small things - the mundane, the day by day - and has chosen to let them shine. To remind us that amidst real horrors - and let’s be real, TLOU has a lot of those - there is still good to be had, that the little things that make up a life well lived - the things we take for granted - are the most important things. That even when it feels like your world is ending, you can still sit on a porch with your family and feel safe. That at the end of the hardest days, you can always come home."

If you read and love this, please please show the author some love and leave a kudos / comment!! Happy fandoming y'all.

Joel Miller isn't dead if we keep him alive y'all.

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jacksonscouts · 7 months ago

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I'd like to give a HUGE congratulations to @auburnstargazer for sharing her first TLOU fic with us!! 🎉 You worked on this story for over a year. That's fucking awesome.

Check out Not Strong Enough on Ao3. If you enjoy, consider leaving a comment!

Ellie is seriously going through it! The setting you picked to start the story is so cool and your descriptions of the city immersed me right into the scenes. I like that Ellie starts as this lone-wolf, hard-edged survivor like she was in the Santa Barbara parts of TLOU2, but then she has an opportunity to help people and can’t stop herself from trying. It’s a great way to portray her true nature.

I could picture every detail during the action scene and my mouth fell open at the end of that scene. Big oof. Also, please let Ellie have that dog, I’m on my knees begging you. Let. Her. Have. The. Dog. (I’m guessing this is happening based on the tags, but if not, it’s no big deal!)

Ellie’s guilt is threaded throughout this chapter almost in a dejected manner, like it’s a grave she’s decided to lay in. I can’t wait to see how her perception of herself transforms once she goes back to Jackson. Also, Maria staying in contact with Ellie is so sweet. I know it’ll be even sweeter when all the characters reunite with each other.

Phrases I loved:

Ellie felt the vice around her heart loosen for a moment.

The park was a lush bouquet of umber, rust and sage amongst the decaying infrastructure.

The incessant dog barks, the screaming child and the Infected screeches created a cacophony inside Ellie’s head.

Yet another reminder that she should be dead. (This was such a punch-to-the-gut line!)

The familiar sensation of panic crawled across her skin.

Joel swam to the forefront of her mind, fingers poised to strum a guitar, turning to look at Ellie one more time. (WHAT IF I CRIED?? WHAT THEN?)

Thank you so much for sharing your debut TLOU fic. I hope you're proud of how much work you put into this!

#jacksonscouts #fic recs #tlou fanfiction #ellie williams #the last of us #tlou fan fiction

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two-birds-alone-together · 3 months ago

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Got my second (!) card for Bad Things Happen Bingo! Please feel free to submit a request/idea for any of the prompts. (If you have a burning need to submit for a prompt that's already been requested, feel free.)

Please send your idea/request in an ask!

I will do my best to use them, but also... I can't do a story justice if the idea doesn't spark joy.

I write for The Last of Us / The Last of Us Part II, in case you were unaware

#bad things happen bingo #bthb #tlou #the last of us #tlou fan fiction #the last of us fan fiction #fan fiction #please send ideas and requests <3

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thelastofusff · 2 years ago

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HELP ME PIC A TLOU FIC TO WRITE!

I'm planning my first TLOU fic. Joel centric. But, which idea do you wanna see first...? Option 1: We're in the Jackson era of the TLOU storyline... Reader was only young during the outbreak, now in late twenties. Reader has been put on a patrol schedule with Joel and they become good friends. They get chatting, the topic being 'what he misses' about the world before the outbreak. Joel jokes he misses sex, and reader confesses she has only ever had inexperienced lovers and doesn’t get the “hype” around sex since she has only had it a few times and it was mediocre and never orgasmed. Joel seeks to change that... [Most likely a one-shot. Two parts at most] Option 2: No outbreak, instead a complete AU. Reader is a stripper in a club that does dodgy dealings with a mafia group. Reader knows there's a man who comes in, never stays for a lap dance or to watch the girls. He sits at the bar in his suit, hands a package to the barman, drinks his whiskey and leaves again. One evening, a patron is getting too handsy, and the man in the suit steps in.

The man, of course, is Joel. And he's mysterious, sexy, and completely aloof. [Story will develop, most likely a multi chapter] BOTH contain smut. Both contain some violence.

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meganegatari · 4 months ago

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calling all mythology nerds!! looks around oh its just me. okay. yall i really wanna nerd tf out again and rewrite another myth as a fic..have yall got any ideas of stories you want me to do? this one of the myth of pyramus and thisbe was some of the most fun ive ever had writing something (as depressing as it is LOL), and i wanna make something like that again. maybe with abby this time? ill do my research and see what's most fitting, but any suggestions are welcome as well ♡ i can even try some norse or roman mythology, even ancient egyptian mayhaps. im so normal about myths....BUT YEAH. PLEASE LEMME KNOW

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adhdprincess · 4 months ago

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AU where Ellie and Tommy don't go after Abby

**TLOU2 SPOLIERS**

Ellie takes it the hardest. On good days, she says a few sentences and eats a half a plate of food. On bad days, you're lucky if she comes from under her covers.

Tommy overworks himself to avoid his grief, but it finds him whenever he takes a second to breathe.

Dina moves into the shed with Ellie, taking care of her every need, but exhaustion and morning sickness are taking a toll. With growing dread, Dina suspects she might be pregnant.

Every day after patrols, Tommy sits at Ellie's bedside to give Dina a break. No one says it out loud, but they're all worried about what Ellie would do if left alone for too long.

A blizzard comes one week. Ellie stops speaking and won't eat more than a forkful at a time. Dina's at a loss, fearing that Ellie's wasting away. Tommy tries to get her to come back, but his efforts do little more than Dina's.

One day, after an hour at Ellie's bedside, he picks up her guitar. He's out of practice, but he falls into old strumming patterns soon enough.

Ellie doesn't stir and Tommy remembers the times he and Joel would play guitar as kids. The grief overwhelms him and he stops playing, giving into the sobs.

Most days, Tommy plays guitar and sings quietly. When he plays, it's like he's bringing Joel back to life.

Ellie rolls over, facing him, the most movement she's made in hours. Blinking, she extends a hand and they sit there crying. The pain is heavy, but carrying it together helps the both of them.

One day, when the grief lets up just a bit, Ellie sits up and sings with him:

Skip to middle- the singer sounds like game Ellie/Ashley Johnson 🥹

You go on, on, on...

Just like a river, you'll go on...

#song cred: Like a River by Ocie Elliot #singer sounds just like Ashley Johnson!#the last of us #the tipsy bison #ellie williams #joel miller #tlou ellie #tlou fanfic #tlou joel #tlou headcanons #tommy miller #tlou fan fiction #my writing #tlou2 spoilers #tlou2 ellie #tlou dina #ellie x dina #dellie

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luxetrobur · 1 year ago

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✨My Fic ✨

Series: On top of the world, looking over the edge. The Last of Us, continuing to update.

You’re making rain and you’re just in reach : 129, 701 words

2. Waiting for the world to come along: 3,276 words

3. See all the colors in disguise: 5,874 words

4. Lay my face to the soil: 7,635 words

5. All these waves: 16,773 words

6. Set the fire to the third bar: 7,433 words

7. A smile from a veil

#the last of us #tlou #hbo tlou #the last of us hbo #tlou fan fiction #the last of us fanfiction #Joel and Ellie

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wordywarriorwrites · 2 years ago

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Calendar Girl: December

December

Joel was three servings deep on a surprisingly decent single malt when he realized the two of you were seated directly beneath the mistletoe.

You’d made an effort to be festive - donned a dark green sweater and a red knitted cap. Joel hadn’t even tried - just rolled up to the Christmas Eve gathering in his usual flannel and jeans. Every few minutes, his eyes swept over the crowd with a cold indifference most of the townsfolk still hadn’t gotten used to, whereas you waved at nearly everyone who passed by, and they greeted you warmly in return.

He recalled how you’d smiled up at him the very first time all those sunrises and sunsets ago. Your kind, welcoming eyes had been nonjudgmental, open, and endearingly curious. In fact, you’d made his world go topsy-turvy that day, and things hadn’t been quite the same since.

Something about you had revived and coaxed out parts of him he’d thought dead and buried long ago. But he played it very close to the vest - not only because you’re half his age and completely out of his league, but also because you deserved more than his old bones and bloodied hands could ever give you.

You deserved better. You deserved the fucking best.

Everyone in Jackson adored you, and they were right to do so. Even after all you’d been through, all the pain and loss you’d endured, you were still so good. Joel, on the other hand, had always been a blunt instrument - contractor, smuggler, killer, guardian. And sure, he may have been permitted to be a member of the town, but he’d never been widely well-liked or fully embraced - not in the way you and Ellie had been.

For the longest time, the need to protect Ellie and keep her safe had outweighed everything, including any misgivings he’d had about a prolonged stay in Jackson. But after a year in your continued presence, he realized he stayed because you’d made him remember what it felt like to actually want something - to want someone - for himself.

And the longer he remained, the more invested he became.

Rushed meetings, focused on getting assigned a house, learning the town rules, and being added to the job rotations. Then, more prolonged conversations over meals in the mess hall. In the past few months, there’d been walks and rides and movies and books. Ellie liked you, trusted you, and seemed to enjoy your company as well. The more time Joel spent with you, the more he realized he wasn’t just attracted to you; he’d started to feel comfortable - maybe even safe - with you, and that complicated things.

It wasn’t until you polished off your drink, and the tip of your tongue darted out to catch a wayward drop, that Joel started to think about your mouth and all the ways he’d enjoy it if you ever became his. And as his thoughts continued to mosey on down that unlikely, dangerous path for what seemed like the trillionth time, he realized your tongue would taste especially good coated in whisky - all warm, smoky, and sweet.

“Any plans for tomorrow?” you asked in a conversational tone.

Joel shrugged away his treacherous thoughts and raised his hand for a refill, “Might visit Tommy and his family. Hang out with Ellie. You know, the usual.”

You nodded. Offered up your plate for sharing. Joel accepted your ready-made concoction of bread, cheese, and jam; a surprisingly good combination, but then again, you’d never steered him wrong.

“What about you?” Joel wondered as he wiped crumbs from his shirt. “Spending time with Carl?”

You gestured for your own refill and waited for it to be delivered before you spoke again.

“We decided to go our separate ways,” you announced tersely.

Joel paused with his glass halfway to his mouth, “When did that happen?”

“This morning.”

You tilted your head back, and he watched as the amber liquid disappeared down your throat in one swallow. You maintained an even temperament and possessed an impressively good poker face. Even when Carl sidled up to the opposite end of the bar - bold as brass, with his arm wrapped very familiarly around another woman’s waist - you didn’t react.

The reason for the split became all too clear, and just like that, your ex went to the top of Joel’s own special kind of Naughty List.

“You can’t kill him,” you insisted.

He rolled his jaw, “Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t his fault.”

“He’s the one who cheated. Not you.”

You let out a self-deprecating laugh, “There are different kinds of cheating.”

Joel wanted to know what you’d meant by that, but you steered the conversation out of those muddied waters, and asked about Ellie and how she was doing in school. That safe topic saw you both through another round, and while you shared another plate of food, you talked shop and swapped stories about past Christmas celebrations.

“I mean, I was eighteen when it happened,” you explained. “But I remember Christmas at my house was always a bit stuffy. Not like this, you know?”

“You mean you weren’t hanging out in a bar, doin’ shots of whisky with an old man?”

“Shut up.”

Joel smirked, “You sure you shouldn’t be at home, dreaming of sugar plums like the rest of the little children?”

You pursed your lips and smacked his shoulder, “Har-fuckin’-har.”

While everyone in town would attend a big Christmas Day dinner, the Christmas Eve party was an adults-only affair. With the kids safely tucked into their beds, the grownups had gone out to play, and as people started to blow off steam, the party became both raucous and crowded.

Someone attempted a rendition of Elvis’ Blue Christmas and failed spectacularly. Then, the jukebox was turned on, and people danced like fools. The delicateness of pine, mixed with the headiness of firewood. Laughter and mindless chatter and a bit too much Jingle Bells.

Joel sipped and chewed, and as he pondered your new relationship status, you ordered yourself another. As the night’s bartender hustled over, she jerked her thumb toward the ceiling, and he watched as you caught sight of the mistletoe. Something he’d hoped and feared you’d notice had been blatantly pointed out, and Joel tried not to cringe as the bartender poured and explained that it was tradition to kiss beneath it and not doing so would bring bad luck.

You waited for her to walk away before you looked at him, brow arched, “That true?”

Joel shrugged and scratched his chin, “It’s an old wives’ tale, but yeah.”

You nudged him. He nudged you back. A shared laugh, and then, a moment of hesitation. A flash of unspoken, are we really going to do this? You nodded - said it would be better not to tempt fate. Joel agreed - said he’d had enough bad luck to last a lifetime.

Like all fires, it started with a spark; the anticipation of first contact as you both leaned toward each other on rickety, unbalanced stools. A rush of flames soon followed; your lips fitted sweetly against his, stoking the need, causing it to flare brighter.

Without any conscious thought whatsoever, Joel gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger and swept his tongue into your mouth. From there, it turned into an inferno. Your nails dragged along the skin at the tape of his neck, and he introduced his teeth to your bottom lip in response. When he cupped your face in his palms and caressed the apples of your cheeks with his thumbs, you wrapped your hands around his wrists and squeezed. Joel felt the vibration of the pleased sound you let out, and as goosebumps erupted along his body, he slanted his mouth more firmly over yours, and let himself get lost in the warmth of your kiss.

A couple of very inebriated, gray-haired women singing Santa Baby at the top of their lungs bumped into you and effectively burst the bubble. They apologized profusely. You graciously waved it off. Then, you looked at him - lashes aflutter, pupils blown, and mouth all shiny and kiss-swollen; you’d never been more beautiful, and Joel would’ve happily picked up where you’d left off had you not suddenly jerked away from him and rushed to your feet.

“I have to go,” you announced abruptly.

Joel cleared his throat and swallowed hard, “Alright. You want me to walk you?”

You shook your head. Pulled on your coat. Mumbled Merry Christmas and hurried out the door.

Just his luck.

Next Chapter: January

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