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ishestillapunk · 2 days ago

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Everybody Wants A Piece Of Pedro Pascal

tags: grief, death.

a/n: it was so hard to write all this and not kick my sheets because of the whole photoshoot. he's beautiful.

I don't usually do this, well, I never done this, but today and after waking up to such a brilliant, raw and profound interview I see myself in the need of disecting piece by piece of this interview and the parts that touched a deep fiber in me.

You, of course, don't have to read this. I mean, not if you don't want to. I would say this is more mine than other thing, like, a precious stone I want to keep memory of how I felt when this article came out.

Don't you ever get that feeling that something is yours? like, not in a delulu and possesive way, but in a sort of thank you-way.

This interview—article, post. Damn, I don't know how to call it, forgive my scarce vocabulary in English—appeared like water in the desert for me. I had a long night of insomnia, very long, used to deal with it, and also with it came the lovely question that every 20 yo makes themselves at one point.

What the fuck am I doing with my damn life.

My phone buzzes when I finally decide to let go of it so I grab it again, and there it is. Our beloved pascalispunk. Oh, he looks hella good. I say looking at the pictures. Oh, it's Vanity Fair. I say and then, I think: Of course there is an interview. So I look up for it.

I read and then the first thing that moves my chest is:

Over lunch in London, Pascal is a grand raconteur who tells stories with his hands and uses funny voices and loves to swear and drink cocktails and murder a cheese plate. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. At the same time, he’ll press right up against the sad and raw and confusing parts of being alive. His insides are on his outsides. He cries easily. He laughs loudly.

Maybe it's the writing, maybe it's me that lately I've been overly sensitive. It must've been the wind. I joke in my head when I feel like I want to cry. Something I love deeply about this man that is Pedro, is that he never stops being human. You get me, right? Like, with some celebrities I get the kinda... fake feeling. Don't wanna sound rude towards others at all, but, he just gives me that genuine and true feeling. That's what I mean by human.

Personally, I never been a fan of an actor before. A celebrity, in general. It just used to ick me, like, why would I do that? I had nothing against it, it just wasn't part of my persona. But then, I remember the first time coming across a video of him. I guess, yeah. Maybe we all want a piece of Pedro.

Pascal tells me about his “give up” years, when he was a struggling actor in New York decimated by the sudden death of his beloved mother, Verónica.

I felt connected truly with Pedro when I learnt about his life. The struggle and loss. That feeling that nothing is going anywhere, you know? Like. Damn, what is it all this for? I kinda feel like humans (or some of us, dk, mind you) have to search comparisions to other people to feel okay on where they are at the moment and its something that lately has been happening to me. My search is literally:

'Directors that got succesful at an old age'

'How to publish my first book while being fucking poor'

'How do I live'

Is this non-stopping loop where everything mixes with everything and I feel too exhausted to leave my bed. Ends won't meet. Food lacks in the fridge. Mama is sad. But he has been in the same spot, and he's here to tell it.

Life hurts a bit less.

“In my 30s I was supposed to have a career,” he says. “Past 29 without a career meant that it was over, definitely.” Feeling hopeless, Pascal started researching other professions. But whenever he came close to bailing on his dream, friends and family would step in. “When Pedro would say, ‘I’m going to nursing school’ or ‘I’m going to be a theater teacher,’ it was just like ‘No, no, no, no! You’re too good!’” says his older sister, Javiera Balmaceda, now a producer at Amazon Studios. “He’s wanted to be an actor since he was four years old. The one thing we’d never allow Pedro to do was give up.”

And here it is. The first tears I shed.

I dropped out of college after a month in a course of studies that I thought it was perfect for me. Turns out, I felt like I was dying because there was no art in it and I was fucking dying. It was driving me apart of my soul, I would cry on my way to class, I would have no very very happy thoughts about life. Then, a crisis. Me hugging my mom's knees and telling her "Mama, I need art" and she sees me, the girl who only went to arts school for her whole teen years and grew up attached to her desk computer, pirated movies in the night and writing down stories that keep her awake.

And she told me. "It's okay. We'll figure it out"

I was embarrased to tell my friends what I did after that crisis. God, you went through a freaking exam, burnt your lashes studying, passed it and now you're saying you want to do cinema?

Well. Nobody said that.

What I mostly received was.

"That's awesome. You were about to waste your potential"

And something that sticks with me that a friend said.

"The world deserves to see something created by you".

If you're reading this, I want you and oblige you to take it as a signal.

A New Yorker cartoon featured a therapist reassuring his client, “It’s not strange at all—lately, a lot of people are reporting that their faith in humanity is riding entirely on whether or not Pedro Pascal is as nice as he seems.” “Well, then,” Ramsey tells me, “I’m relieved for humanity.”

Bella. I love you, Bella.

On days when she (Veronica) didn’t have a babysitter, she’d drop him off at the movie theater. He remembers being seven and in heaven, able to squeeze in two and a half showings of Poltergeist before his mom returned for him. At home he’d reenact scenes of being sucked into the closet or slide across the kitchen floor. Balmaceda tells me, “When our parents got cable, the HBO song would come on and Pedro would run around the house yelling, ‘A movie is coming! A movie is coming!’” [...]He sat at a distance from his family as usual, preferring to be close to the screen. But then he started crying so loudly when Whoopi Goldberg’s Celie was being separated from her sister that his mother had to collect him and help him catch his breath outside.

When he talks about his childhood memories, I become honey. It gives me the assertive feeling that he is the kind of person that talks and talks and talks, and tells and tells stories and never run off them, and never gets boring, and they are always sweet (or bittersweet but sweet in the end)

He makes me think about my childhood with another lens to look through. Less remorse. More a kind of let-go-of-it.

Drugs were everywhere. Pascal remembers being 16 and taking acid and calling his mother to check in and let her know he was going to spend the night out. “And she sighs and goes, ‘Oh.’ And that was not normal. And I was like ‘Wh-why?’ and she said, ‘Oh, no, I was just hoping that we would all go to a movie.’ I was just so drawn to that kind of maternal attention, so I said, ‘I’m coming!’” He rushed home and sat mute and paralyzed, tripping in the back seat as they drove to see John Sayles’s City of Hope.

yes, more tears over here.

“I was having a really hard time when I was 18, 19, 20,” Pascal tells me. “I was struggling really badly with insomnia. I was reading James Baldwin and watching movies like Once Were Warriors and Muriel’s Wedding. I just was like an open wound to the reality of life.” He pauses to smack the table with his hand, groaning and laughing at himself. “It sounds so fucking pretentious, but I felt at this crossroads of coming into an understanding of what an unjust world we live in. This world, and its lack of equanimity, is just too painful to bear. How do you live in it?”

This is the moment where I had to stop reading. I was literally a cascade at this point. I felt like that song Killing me softly with his song by The Fugees and the part that goes:

I felt he found my letters

Then read each one out loud

I prayed that he would finish

But he just kept right on

I felt like he just grabbed all my diaries, my letters, my notes on my laptop. Everything. And just read them out loud.

And I felt less lonely for a moment, less detached from reality. More grounded to this moment that is, maybe, a wake up call.

That there is still time.

His grief had no place in Los Angeles, with its isolating highways and traffic and sprawl. So he went home to New York City, where he’d made some headway as an actor after college, only to find that his early luck had run out. He lived in a seventh-floor apartment of an East Village walk-up. Every night he’d have a cigarette on his fire escape and watch the moon rise between the Twin Towers.

Suicide grief is something I've never had the opportunity—well, more like favour of spilling my guts out for once—to talk with anyone. I went through it alone, mostly. I always think that there is no place as lonely as oneselves head (is oneselve's a word? am I dealing already with the precious side effects of twenty years of insomnia?). Reading Pedro talking about grief is ligthening.

I use to make myself a question, every now and then:

'When does it stop?'

Maybe never. And it's okay.

"Listen, I want to protect the people I love. But it goes beyond that. Bullies make me fucking sick.”

Just wanted to highlight this. Everyone should have this kind of values.

In the car, Pascal gasps and points out the window. “Look at that cemetery, isn’t it gorgeous?” he says. He doesn’t want to be buried—just throw him in the ocean. “Fish food, fish food, fish food,” he says. “And yet, I find sometimes cemeteries are so beautiful.” So, yes, now we’re back to talking about death.

In the car to Downey’s house, Pascal points at the word “FAITH,” which someone has spray-painted on a wall. He scrunches up his face in mock disgust. He’s agnostic, practically an atheist—and yet. “I still feel like I’m being mothered sometimes. I feel her witness all around me. I don’t feel like any of this right now would be happening if it weren’t for her.” There was something magical about María Verónica Pascal Ureta. Her firstborn son misses everything about her. Her beauty. Her smell. How funny she was, and how funny she found farts. “She couldn’t get past a fart of any kind without it absolutely destabilizing her into hysterics,” says Pascal. “She thought they were the most brilliant, hilarious, wonderful thing in the world.” She was also “very deep-feeling, very complex, very, very out of reach in a way,” he adds.

I tell you that I did nothing more than laugh and cry with all this part. Is that kind of make peace with death vibe that he sometimes gives me and I just take as a life advice.

I can't get mad at something that is long gone.

That I don't know the answers to.

That is as invisible as the air, and painful as a healed fracture.

And that I have to live, for those who aren't here anymore.

So... I will finish with this:

Of all the performances in Pascal’s now formidable career, Balmaceda singles out the monologue she saw him deliver as a sophomore in high school. It was a piece Pascal had written about a bike path near their house in Corona del Mar, a neighborhood he couldn’t wait to escape. Onstage, he described how, at first, he’d cross this narrow path that went over a bridge on foot, then progressed to riding over it gingerly on his bike, then with just one hand on his handlebars, and then, finally, being able to cross over with his hands in the air.

I can't wait to escape this place. A home that keeps me warm but silences me. Hugs that don't feel comfortable or familiar anymore. A room that is too little for the dreams that move this soul. A roof that isn't strong enough to hold me from touching what it's-maybe-waiting for me.

Somewhere.

Kudos to Karen Valby for such a great article.

if someone read this whole thing, uhm, thank you!

keep loving Peps. 💜

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ishestillapunk · 2 days ago

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tell me you see the fucking vision, this is joel miller. I'm gonna bite a bullet

#joel miller #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #fanfic writing #jackson!joel #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel the last of us #joel tlou

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ishestillapunk · 2 days ago

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Still smells like you (pt.2)

pairing: jackson!joel x f!reader

summary: after a vulnerable night on patrol with Joel, you both try to pretend nothing happened, but silence is unbearable.

tags: age gap (30's-50's), slow burn, smut lol, virginity loss, emotional sex, grief, messy communication, oral sex (f! receiving), unprotected p in v (omg who said that), fingering, first time, lightly size kink, self worth issues, unresolved trauma

w/c: 2.4k

notes: you can find the first part to this short story here!

He won’t shake that feeling off anytime soon.

Joel’s stuck with that kind of sick ache that comes after spilling your guts. Like he left a piece of himself behind with you, and now he’s scared you’ll hand it out to anyone who asks what went down on patrol.

Maybe he’s being dramatic. But it wasn’t just anything. Hell, he cried like a damn baby. Broke down like a damn kid because your words knocked the wind out of him.

“It’d just mean I got somethin’ good to tell those eyes when I see ’em again”

It wrecked him. Even back home, alone in his bed, curled around that old Polaroid of Sarah under his pillow, crying into the mattress like a fool.

Grief’s a weird thing. Real weird.

He even let himself cry about Ellie, who haven’t spoken to him in months. It’s like the world won’t quit reminding him—nothing is his to keep.

He sits on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face with work-worn hands. Sleep hasn’t come easy. Hasn’t come at all, truth be told. Every time he closes his eyes, it’s you… walking past on the street, nodding like you’re no more than a neighbor.

But you’re not.

Sometimes, his chest tightens at the memory. His hands on your hips, boosting you onto that horse. The way your body felt under his fingers. That feeling hasn’t left.

Makes him feel like a fucking creep.

Joel squeezes his eyes shut to erase the feeling. It ain’t just shame. It’s softness, and softness only leads to hurt.

He exhales long, starts moving again, trying to start another day. The coffee pot’s set from last night. Old habit. One of those things he does hoping to make the mornings feel less empty. Coffee’s rare these days. Precious. But today, he needs it.

Out the window, Jackson’s still the same. Frost, snow shoveled by the night patrols, silence hanging heavy. He shuts his eyes again and sees you. Sitting on that cot, knees hugged to your chest. Saying things that make him feel too seen.

“I think if somethin’ happened to me after this, I wouldn’t mind much."

The way you looked at him after he raised his voice. Like you’d already punished yourself a hundred times over. Like the words weren’t even yours to say.

He rubs his face again.

"It was just a patrol," he mutters, gravel in his voice. "Got stranded for a coupla nights. That’s all."

But his mind won’t let it be. Not when he still feels your arms around him, your fingers in his hair, your scent in his neck. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask questions. You held him.

And on your end, that night hasn’t left you either.

You haven’t taken another patrol since. María never brought it up again, seemed to get the message. Maybe she saw it as a test you failed. You didn’t mind. Your comfort lives inside: The infirmary, the clean routine, the things that are yours.

You saw Joel sometimes. With Tommy. Working construction on the new expansion. Turns out the Miller boys used to be contractors or something like that is what you heard María say. Explains a lot.

Some weekends, you’d spot him at Tipsy Bison bar. Sitting with Tommy and María, nursing whiskey or beer. He’d barely say a word. Just a nod across the room. Sometimes he nodded back. Sometimes that little gesture fucked up your whole night. Keeping you waiting for him to approach or do something.

Something that never happens.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. What happened, what he tried to pretend didn’t. You remembered it with shame—not because of the moment itself, but because of how it still makes your stomach twist.

How he held you. Sought shelter in you.

You don’t get undone that easy. And no one ever looks at you that way. No one wants what you are. That’s just not your place. You’ve made peace with it. But Joel cracked something in you. Without meaning to.

You told yourself it was circumstance. One night. Cold, fear, death talk—shit like that happens to anyone. But your body remembers. It remembers his touch. His weight. His breath. And before you even realize it, your hands are under the sheets, your hips rolling slow, chasing your own fingers. Chasing a ghost.

You imagine him. What’s he like? Big? Long? Thick? Does he know what he’s doin’? Could he ever… make love? And then the guilt. Hot and fast.

He ain’t thinkin’ of you. He saw you ‘cause he knows you.

Because of a weird night on patrol.

Because he cried.

That’s it.

He don’t want you. You’re thirty-three. He’s pushing what—fifty-six?

You barely know each other.

He can’t want you. He can’t want you.

He doesn't know if you snore, or if you drink coffee. If you dream. If you ever loved anyone.

But he wants to. And that pisses him off.

Some nights, after enough rum, Joel lies there in the dark, hands flat by his sides. Like if he moves, it’ll all come crashing down.

"You alright, man?" Tommy claps a hand on Joel’s shoulder, leaving a beer on the long table. Tipsy Bison’s done up for Christmas, the tables pushed together, kids running around, country music drifting from the speakers.

Joel’s eyes are stuck on you. Sitting across the room by the dance floor, drink in hand, not joining the party.

"I’m fine" Joel mutters.

Tommy squints. "Fine’s the name? The new nurse that’s got you actin’ like you seen a ghost?"

Joel downs the whiskey in one go.

"She’s young."

"She ain’t fifteen. Looks thirty to me."

Joel glares.

"Sayin’ it like you broke a law."

Joel looks back at you.

"Ain’t just that."

"Then what?"

"I’m a whole mes–”

"If you start with that whole 'I’m a monster, I hurt everyone I love' speech, I swear—" Tommy leans in. "There’s folks in this town with more blood on their hands than you, and they still found someone to hold ‘em."

Tommy softens.

"I loved again, Joel. Had a kid when I thought I’d never feel nothin’ again. Thought I was done for. But I wasn’t. And you ain’t either."

Joel’s voice drops.

"I ain’t tryin’ to be the guy who lost his daughter, and whose adopted kid don’t speak to him no more." Joel says with his gaze on Tommy’s, eyes getting glassy.

Tommy squeezes his arm.

"That ain’t gonna happen. And I think she’ll understand."

He nods toward the door. You’re slippin’ on your coat, trying to duck out before midnight.

"Go on. Before you lose your Cinderella."

You step into the cold just as folks inside start counting down. The wind bites. You smile faintly. Memories.

"You headin’ home?"

You turn. He’s holdin’ the door open. No jacket. No gloves.

"You’re gonna freeze" you say, answering a question he didn’t ask.

He jogs down the steps, rubbing his hands together. "I’ll walk you."

You don’t say much. Just walk. The silence stretches out, thick.

"Saw you with Tommy’s fam" you finally say.

"I saw you the second you walked in."

You stop. He keeps walkin’ till he realizes you’re not beside him. Turns back.

"I thought you didn’t wanna see me" you say. Voice tight.

"Thought I fucked it all up." He shoves his hands out of his pockets, like honesty needs bare fingers.

"You didn’t say nothing, Joel. I spent day– fuck, weeks—wondering what the hell happened. If it even meant anything."

"I did too." He presses his lips together. "Didn’t know what to say. Felt like a fool."

He steps closer.

"I been thinkin’ ‘bout you every damn day. The way you held me. The way you didn’t ask shit. The way you talk. The way you—" He stops. Swallows. "You think about me?"

You stare at him. Then your door. Then back. You nod toward the house. He follows you inside without a word. You hang your coat. He’s rubbin’ his arms, cold sinkin’ in.

"Shoulda grabbed a coat" you say. Walking to the kitchen.

"Didn’t wanna lose sight of you…" he mutters.

You turn. He’s leanin’ against the island, eyes on the counter, thumb drawing lazy shapes on the surface. Then he looks up. Slow. Over your body, to your face.

"Yeah. I thought about you" you say, answering finally. "I touched myself thinking abbout you ‘cause I’m a fucking idiot who’s never even been touched before. You had me biting my damn pillow ‘cause of one fucking hug."

He closes the distance.

"If you let me, I’ll make sure it ain’t just a pillow next time."

His hands slide up your hips. Rough, steady.

"Joel… I don’t know anything ‘bout this…"

He frowns.

You gesture between you.

"I mean. I’ve never—"

"We ain’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t wanna do" he says gently. One hand cradles your jaw. His thumb brushes your lips.

"But I do. I want to" you whisper, looking away.

Joel studies you. Then leans in. Presses his thumb to your bottom lip as he kisses the corner of your mouth. Your fingers tremble where they rest on his arms. Then he really kisses you. Slow. Solid. He doesn't move until you open your mouth, and then it’s his tongue, his breath, his heat.

He exhales into you.

"Mmh" he murmurs. Voice soft, needy.

He presses you to the island, lips movin’ to your neck. Licks a line up your throat that makes your knees shake. Then, kissing, gasping, tripping, he walks you back to the bedroom.

"The—uh—the hallway’s—"

"Right side. I built this damn row myself" he mutters into your mouth.

Oh.

You’re soaked.

He opens the door. Leads you to the bed. He pulls your sweater over your head slow, taking his time.

When he’s shirtless, you freeze. Your eyes drag over his broad chest, the dusting of gray hair, the hard lines of muscle mixed with softness. Scar beside the navel, bush peeking out his waistband.

A man. An actual man. And you’ve never seen one like this.

Your breath hitches. He kisses your sternum, undoes your jeans, pulls them down with your socks.

"You’ll tell me if somethin’ don’t feel right, yeah?"

You nod. His mouth attaches to your nipples, sucking, then gives soft licks after your body gives a hard jolt. He notices you’re sensitive, and he wants to know more, to discover more of every inch that makes you, you.

"We’re alright" he murmurs. Hands slipping down to your panties. He slides them off.

You press your thighs together. He chuckles soft. He’s feeling it too.

"Open up for me, baby…" He kisses your inner thighs. Runs his nose up the sensitive skin. Hands caress your ass, coaxing you to open yourself to him.

Then, his mouth finds you.

"Fuck, Joel" you cry, fists clenching the sheets.

He licks like he’s starving. Filthy, wet, slow. He draws circles with his tongue on your clit, moaning low like he can’t help it. He feels you push yourself up on your elbows to watch him eat you out. His eyes, dark, filled with hunger, make your stomach melt. His lips wrap around your clit, suckling it, rolling it on his tongue, licking directly on it with the tip of his tongue.

His movements are encouraged by your sounds. Gasps. Breathless. He chuckles a low rumble while he nuzzles his nose against your pussy like he haven’t had anything like this in long.

"That’s it… Let me hear what feels good…" He pulls back. Slips one thick finger inside. Then another. He curls them. Press into that spot that makes your hips jump. His pads massage your walls and make you pinch your brows.

Then he stands. Opens his jeans. Pushes them down.

You look down and freeze.

Oh.

He’s hung.

Not freakishly so. But big. And you’ve never seen one in real life. Just those weird magazines you once found around while exploring before arriving Jackson.

You shift up the bed on instinct.

"Easy" he says. One hand on your thigh. His thumb strokes your clit, gentle. Feels you relax a tad bit.

"It’ll hurt a sec. But I got you."

He covers you with his body. Heavy and warm. You reach for his ribs. Wide and solid. Your eyes want to go again between you but he tilts your chin to kiss you deep again, his large hand holding your jaw and guiding you to open your mouth, letting him roll his tongue against yours. His nose pushes yours a bit, soft smiles escape him when he feels you gasp.

He slicks his cock in your wetness, dragging the head across your clit.

"Gonna go slow" he murmurs.

He pushes in. Inches. Your body tenses. Your hand presses his chest. It’s a whole lot different than your fingers. It stings and feels as if he’s about to tear the tender skin.

“Breathe… That’s it… You’re doin’ good, sweetheart…” He whispers against your mouth gently while his hand cup the back of your head.

"Wait—it—"

"I got you." He freezes. Way before you ask him to. "Wanna stop?"

"No. Don’t you dare. Just… slow."

He nods and moves. Deeper. No pleasure yet—just stretch, burn, pressure. Then he’s all the way in. Still. Breathing hard.

"Ready?"

You nod, barely. His hand slips between you. Circles your clit and it helps with pleasure to blur the pain.

You smile melted, arching slow, closing your eyes. Your hands fall on his gut, legs open on his sides.

"Yeah. Right there."

He starts moving. Slow. Deep. The pain spasms are there every now and then, but you feel it. You understand why there’s people that love this. You understand why there’s people addict to this. You understand why there’s people who can’t live without fucking.

The ache fades, replaced by something new. Something sweet. Your legs wrap around him. He groans, dips and to kiss your throat. His whole body covers you, warm and broad, hunched over like a damn animal.

Each thrust is steady. Focused.

Your lips are swollen. Your nails claw his back. Your thighs shake.

"W-wait—Joel—I’m—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna pee—"

He grins. Keeps going.

"Joel—"

He hits that spot again. And again. His pelvis brushing directly against your clit, his cock filling you completely as if you were made for him, his sounds. It’s like a sudden bomb ticking about to blow, the pot about to whistle, the thunder after the lightning, the wave crashing on the back.

“Ah!”

You come. Hard. Clutching him. Soaking him. He pulls out fast, groaning and jerking his cock until he spills across your belly. Painting your stomach with his art.

Both of you panting, wide-eyed while staring at each other.

Then, laughter.

Yours first. Loose, breathless, relieved.

Then his. Low, real, comfortable.

Because you both know.

You both know that you want each other.

here it is!!! thanks for reading! i really love fools in love, if you liked it, reblog, comment and like!

kisses!

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ishestillapunk · 3 days ago

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48 followers wow!!!!! thank you SO MUCH! 💜💜💜💜 I'm so happy!

#joel miller #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #fanfic writing #jackson!joel #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you

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ishestillapunk · 4 days ago

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HIIII OMG I AM @/POCKYPASCAL THANK UUUU SO MUCH FOR MAKING THE FICC I LOVEITTTTT

omg???? thanks for reading, I'm glad you liked it!!!! 💜💜💜💜 this makes me so happy<3

#joel miller #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #fanfic writing #jackson!joel #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you

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ishestillapunk · 4 days ago

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The right side of my neck

pairing: Joel Miller x F!reader

summary: You never meant to end up alone with the patroller, but two nights, snowed in between silence and shared space, leave you both with a bond too fragile to name and very dangerous to keep.

tags: age gap (30-56), grief, death, mention of suicide, alcohol.

w/c: 3.1k

notes: you'll hate me for this, i know

edit: part 2!

“So, by protocol, we’re gonna start sending a nurse on every patrol” María says from behind her desk, her momma-warm voice filling the silent office… smelling like incense and baby powder for some reason.

“I don’t carry guns.”

Silence. María moves some stuff through the desk, rummage through some papers with names.

“Ain’t necessary you use one” she assures you. “Might wanna keep a knife on you, just in case, but if you don’t wanna use firearms, we won’t force you. You can when you’re ready, but for now it ain’t needed.” She writes your name on the patrol roster, stamps it, and hands you a slip of paper.

“This here’s your assigned partner for tomorrow morning. You’ll find him at the stable” she says as you read: Joel Miller. Rancher St. “Here’s his address if you wanna stop by and meet him beforehand.”

You slip the paper into your scrub pocket and look at her.

“What if someone tries to hurt me out there?” you ask.

“That ain’t gonna happen. Joel’s…” María trails off for a second, thinking through her words. “He’s alert. Real alert. Before anything touches you, it’s gotta get through him first. But you know, if you wanna feel safer you can—”

“I’m not carrying a gun” you cut in.

“Good.” She nods. Not tired, you can feel the understanding in her voice. “Pack yourself a bag with food, warm clothes, a lighter, first-aid kit, water, etc.” She stands and opens the door.

“Good luck tomorrow. Let me know how it goes.”

Walking out of City Hall, you head straight home. Doesn’t strike you to go meet your new partner. Why bother? Just to stare at each other?

The thought of stepping outside again after so long makes every inch of you tremble. Freezes your marrow. Once, you were a wild creature and the outdoors was your playground… but those instincts got lost. Now, you feel like the world outside will eat you alive.

And maybe it will.

The new patrol policy is kinda rough, but it means more supplies and maybe a few privileges.

“Hey, I’m the one keeping your ass safe! Give me that last bag of coffee!” Sounds good.

Your bag’s a bit heavy. Maybe because you rolled around in bed more than you slept. Still, you reach the stable and see him. Joel’s brushing his horse like it’s showtime, whispering to it as he strokes its neck—tender.

“Hey” you say, no frills, standing on the other side of the fence. “You Joel?”

He turns, looks at you for a second, then glances away.

“Roll out in fifteen. Grab a horse and sign in” he says, returning to the horse and stuffing a few things into his bag and adjusting the girth.

His demeanor irks you at first: no hello, no eye contact. You shrug and head to the end of the stable, find the sign-in sheet with a pencil dangling on a string. You jot your name beneath his.

“Which one’re you taking?” Joel asks, leading the horse out by its reins.

“This one’s available…” you read off the board: “Shimmer.”

“No, leave that one in.”

“But I need—”

“You ride mine. Easier that way. If I gotta wait on you, we ain’t gettin’ back.”

A silence settles. You watch him settle the last few things on his horse. The jab stings. He turns his head and meets your eyes.

“Get on the horse.” He gestures you to the animal. You glance at it and then back at him. Joel closes his eyes, massages the bridge of his nose and sighs heavy. “Come ‘ere”

He makes you stand fancing the side of the horse and suddenly you're in the air. A small sound blurt past your lips but you keep it in by clamping your lips shut. Your hands go to the horn of the saddle, his strong and large hand grasp you by the hips over your jeans, when you set your foot inside the stirrup, his hands go unannounced straight to your ass, pushing you up.

Once you're sat, your eyes go briefly to his. Not staring much. You're probably beet red.

The ride’s quiet. Like you’ve both silently agreed you don’t wanna know much about each other. Your arms around his waist over his coat, it’s alright. The landscape stuns you, the sun reflecting off the snow like in a dream. Jackson’s mountains look even more intimidating close-up.

“Ain’t we going too far?” you ask over the wind.

He glances back. Doesn’t answer right away.

“You never been assigned a long route before? You think they’d send a nurse on a thirty-minute patrol? They only send someone if it’s risky.” He speaks as he guides the horse across a little stone bridge over a frozen river.

“I’ve never done a route.”

Silence.

“Well. This will be your first.”

The blizzard bites your skin, snow flicking your cheeks. You close your eyes, lean into his back, taking refuge from the wind’s assault.

A grunt rumbles in his chest.

“We gotta stop. Storm’s comin’ in,” Joel says, voice louder to fight the storm’s howl.

Soon you’re standing in front of a worn sign: “Jackson Hole Golf & Tennis Club.” Following a trail, you find a small cabin. He helps you down with a tug so abrupt it nearly throws you off balance. You give him a sharp look he doesn’t notice as he hands you the bags and gestures toward the door. After a moment, he steps inside after you.

“Where’d you leave it?” you ask as he sets his rifle on a desk and pulls a flashlight from his bag.

“What?” He’s matter-of-fact, not looking your way.

“The horse.”

“He’s got a back room. I’ve spent nights here before in the same kinda mess” he says, handing you the flashlight. Through the windows, nothing but white, daylight storm in full force.

“How long we stay here?” you ask, stammering as you turn toward the window.

“Could be two hours. Could be a day.” He draws the curtains and closes them. “Unpredictable.”

You nod, sinking into one of the chairs in the small living area.

“I brought water, some cans of food, extra matches…” You plop your backpack on your knees and start unpacking.

“Yeah, what everyone should carry when they patrol,” he mutters, pulling a small single-burner stove from his bag and lighting it on the floor. “Next time, bring a lighter, not matches. Snow melts and ruins ‘em.”

You nod again. Accept wisdom from someone who’s been around.

Afternoon rolls in silence. The cabin creaks as wind tosses around it. Joel fiddles with the radio, scanning through static. No signal, storm’s blocked it.

“I’m gonna check the horse” he whispers, getting up with a tired groan. He tries the cabin door. It won’t budge. He peers through the peephole. Only darkness. “Dammit, the snow… Shit.” He clicks his radio on his belt.

“Jackson, do you copy? Amy, do you copy?” he repeats, voice tense all afternoon.

“It’s almost six PM. They can answer, but we ain’t goin’ no place tonight. Rescue teams roll out at six AM.” Joel sets the radio on the desk and sinks into a chair, rubbing his forehead.

“We could cook something” you say, knees brushing the floor as you grab a can of chickpeas in tomato sauce and set it on the burner. “Something hot in the belly, the night’ll pass easy.” He’s staring at the cans now.

“How we divide the night watch?” you ask.

“I got it. You ain’t got a gun, and I’m sure you don’t know how to handle one” he says, lifting the rifle from the wall, then grabs a cloth from his pocket and wipes the barrel.

“Aren’t you gonna sleep?” you ask, arching your brow. “The door’s buried in snow, ain’t nothing getting in.”

He stares for a long beat, raises both eyebrows.

“All right. Fine.” You turn away and focus on the cans. “Just saying, if infected came calling, you ain’t doin’ much.”

“Infected? There’s things out there way worse than a bite. Worse for folk like you.” He studies you, wondering if you’re naive, or stupid. Maybe both. Or maybe you just prefer ignoring danger.

“How long since you haven't been out there?” he asks after a long look. Your hands, your sweater, your tired braid.

“Couple years” you murmur. “Been in Jackson for three years. Since I walked through Jackson’s gate, I never went back outside. I told María I ain’t goin’. I got good at everything inside, became indispensable.”

“You saying patrollers are disposable?” he frowns.

You meet his gaze, steeled a bit.

“No. I mean everyone’s indispensable for somethin’. You’re indispensable on patrols. I’m indispensable at the clinic.”

“Apparently not that indispensable, ‘cause they still sent you out here without a gun.”

Silence.

Your eyes go back to the open cans.

He swallows hard. He knows he stepped on a nerve.

“But they sent you with me. Means they knew you’re safe with me.” he remarks, setting the rifle aside.

You take a can with a rag around it, careful not to burn yourself, and hand it to him. He takes it. Doesn’t say thanks. Just nods.

You eat in silence.

Night comes, and you start nodding off, arms crossed, knees to your chest, coat over your legs. He watches you from his spot, stares at your form that expects nothing. Never does, never asks for anything.

There's a poor drop of sweat falling down your temple. Gladly you got to make some warmth in that little corner, Joel's wonders if you have layers and layers of other clothes beneath the one's he can see. Why is he so cold? Why aren't you?

The idea is erased by the memory of what he did this morning. He meant to push you up by thighs, not by your fucking ass but he slipped. He still has the feeling impregnated in his hands. He swears he felt the warmth of your skin seep through the denim that he squeezed.

Joel closes his eyes taking a slow deep breath.

He saw you before. At the clinic, strolling around, staying beside the ill. Going home, sometimes crying because you've lost somebody, sometimes with a neutral expression.

You're another townfolk. Another someone. Everyone has been for years to him. No one more than his family lights that protective side in his chest.

But you're slowly moving something in him. And he can't let it happen.

Joel rises and gently touches your shoulder.

“Help me move that cot from the bedroom. You’ll be more comfortable” he says softly, not wanting to interrupt your drifting rest by alarming you.

You follow him down the narrow hallway and into a cold, dark room. He takes one end of the cot and you the other, carrying it back into the living room. Then he fetches the mattress.

“I got some blankets. You got more, right?” he grabs two rolled-up blankets from his bag.

“I’m here with mine. Keep yours, you’ll freeze on that chair otherwise.”

Joel watches you crawl into the cot, curling around yourself under both blankets. After a few minutes, he hears your soft breathing, you’re asleep.

Static crackles from the radio and wakes you in the morning. You turn and see him, collapsed on the sofa, forehead against the radio, thumb gripping the volume as he naps. Rifle resting on his lap. He snores softly, almost hidden.

You notice two blankets draped over you. You sigh and rise quietly. That's why you're sweating then, you think. You move over and cover his back and legs with them. After a couple hours, Joel wakes.

“What’re you doin’?” Joel asks, confused, squinting at the clear morning light as you warm a chickpea can on the stove.

“Warming up food” you mumble, tilting your head, unable to hide the soft rhythm in your voice.

“No. Why the hell didn’t you wake me?” he grumbles, pulling the blankets off and suddenly looking at you. “You wanna get us killed?”

“...They didn’t kill us” you chirp, narrowing your eyes a bit, regretting that response.

“I’m aware. But anything could’ve gone down in a millisecond and you wouldn’t’ve woken me. Got that little survival instinct? Did nobody teach you? How’d you survive before Jackson?” he snaps.

Silence.

“I just wanted you to sleep. You looked worn out.”

Joel breathes heavily. Rubs his hands over his face and shakes his head.

“I don’t need sleep. I need us to stay alive.”

“Sorry” you murmur.

Joel blinks, surprised at your words. “Don’t apologize. Just say you get it.”

“Got it. I’ll wake you next time.” You meet his gaze and sound steady, and he notices. A flicker of fear. It makes his stomach turn water.

Afternoon finds the storm raging still. Door won’t budge, radio’s out again. You’re rationing water and gas like it’s the last on Earth. Joel’s in the spare bedroom where you moved the cot, breaking up old furniture into firewood for the chimney you both sort of cleaned in the living room.

While you’re sniffing through drawers in the cabin, you find an old photo album, pictures of a family. You settle at the desk and flip through, imagining the story behind each.

“When Tommy and I found this spot, there was some guy dead in here—gunshot to the head. Lost everything, gave up,” Joel says from behind your chair. “This shit can drive you nuts.”

He tosses the sticks into the chimney.

“I don’t think it drives you nuts” your eyes stay on the photos: a baby on a woman’s lap, a man smiling wide. “One day you got it all, and then... boom, the universe yanks it away. Not everyone can live with that memory flash in their head. Some follow those eyes anywhere they go.”

He’s quiet. Takes a seat across from you, arms crossed, watching the chimney. Reaches for a sip of whisky from his flask, splashes wood with it, lights the fire, closes the cap from the flask.

“I tried following those eyes,” he whispers. “But I couldn’t. She was fourteen that night… she died in my arms.”

Silence.

No “I’m sorry”, you know he’s sick of hearing it.

“It’s a pain that never quits.” You close the album, set it on the desk. “It’s… cruel, right? Something so familiar just disappears.”

Joel watches you.

“You don’t know where to look. You get mad at everything… The sun, the wind, anything. And then you feel a burst of happiness you think means you’ve accepted it. Then you wake up and remember. They’re gone.” You shrug, and meet him. His eyes hold that same familiar, recognized grief.

“It comes in waves” he says.

“Yeah. Never really goes away.”

Silence.

“Who?” he asks. It is understood.

“A lot of people.”

He gets it, even if it’s vague. Feels resentful for asking. Doesn’t want to show his own bottomed-out softness.

The radio clicks.

“Miller, do you copy?” Amy’s voice crackles.

“Miller here. We’re stuck in the cabin at Cottonwood St., the Golf Club” he replies.

“Copy that. Security station north. Rescue crew’ll be sent first thing tomorrow. Hold tight."

With luck, this’ll be the last night.

As the sun sets, the temperature drops lower than the night before. Both of you sit by the fire, on the cot, warming your hands.

“It’s funny,” you murmur, chin resting on your knees, eyes fixed on the fire “how quick a person can get used to comfort after livin’ so long like this, huh?” You glance over at him. His profile, that hawkish nose, his graying hair, eyes reflecting the flames.

“Never got used to it, to be honest. Feels like if I start takin’ it for granted, it’s all gonna fall to shit” he says low, arms crossed, shoulders hunched.

You look at him for another moment, then turn back to the fire.

“I think I spent so long just runnin’ that the only goal I had was makin’ it here. A safe place. The... sort of silence.” You shrug. “I think if somethin’ happened to me after this, I wouldn’t mind much."

He finally looks at you.

“It’d just mean I got somethin’ good to tell those eyes when I see ’em again” you whisper. When you turn your head again, you see it… a flicker in those tired eyes, the shimmer of tears he won’t let fall.

Joel stands and heads into the other room, the same one you both got the cot from. You don’t hear him for a couple of hours. You stop feeding the fire because the wood’s gone.

You crawl under the blankets, arms wrapped around yourself, backpack tucked under your head like a pillow. After a while, you hear him come back.

“Mind if I lie down? I’m real tired. Don’t think I got it in me tonight,” he says and it doesn’t sound like he’s just talking about sleep. Feels like he’s saying he wants to stop everything. The world. Life.

You nod, lift the blanket, and he climbs in beside you. Face to face. He exhales, the cold seeping into him, his hands clenched tight to his chest.

Your hands reach for his, guide them around your body. He doesn’t pull away. His eyes search yours in the low light, barely lit by the dying embers.

“Could we actually freeze to death in here?” you ask softly, like a secret.

“Probably... if we hadn’t gone through the wood like it was endless.”

You let out a quiet laugh, tucking yourself into the crook of his shoulder. A few minutes pass. Then you feel it, the damp of a tear soaking the neck of your shirt, your skin. Then a quiet sniff. His body trembles. His arms tighten around you. He clings to you. Your hands run over his nape, scratching gently, running your fingers through his hair, holding him close.

In the morning, they finally manage to clear the door. Jesse smiles at Joel once he pushes the door open, shovel in hand. Tommy gives Joel that usual brother-hug, then Jesse walks over to you and kindly takes your backpack.

Outside, two more patrollers are tending to the horse they pulled from the garage.

“Shall we? I’ll take you back. Tommy’s stayin’ with the rest, they gotta deal with the horse and a few other things.” Jesse looks at you as he ties your bag to the saddle. Your eyes drift past his shoulder. Joel, talkin’ to Tommy, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You alright?” Jesse asks, frowning a little at how far away your gaze has gone. You snap back to him.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Jesse climbs on his horse, then reaches out to help you up. Once you’re settled, you glance back as Jesse starts the ride toward Jackson.

And Joel doesn’t look back.

hey! so this was inspired in a tweet i saw a while ago:

it's kind of short and i made it my way. it hurt me a bit to write this, idk why, I'm kind of sensitive today. anyway. I have a smut version in drafts soooo if you'd like me to also post that one, leave a comment!

thanks again for every repost, like and comment. it makes a writer really really happy on this side of the screen.

kisses!

#joel miller #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #fanfic writing #jackson!joel #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller fic #situationships #situationship

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ishestillapunk · 5 days ago

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i need this man taking off my pants and eating me out as if he haven't had pussy in five hundred years

#joel miller #fanfic writing #jackson!joel #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller x reader #fanfiction #joel miller x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #make it personal #pls someone sedate me

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ishestillapunk · 6 days ago

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I always admire and want to talk about how, despite the amount of hard stuff and shit he went through, pedro always kept going. It's literally what I think about when I want to give up, when bad stuff pops suddenly in my mind, he's such a good person and oh I'm crying again

#pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedrohub #pedro x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #make it personal

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ishestillapunk · 7 days ago

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Crashing on the rocks

part: 1 | 2

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader (+18)

summary: Raw conversations.

tags: established relationship, age gap (30s-60s), porn and plot, no use of y/n, pretty lewd (yeehaw), kissing, food, mentions of anal, unprotected p in v, nipple play, brief mention of past relationships, reader had sex with a woman, alcohol, NG tube mention, mention of divorce/time apart, after sex guilt, MDNI

w/c: 1,4k

The screech of the knife slicing into meat and the pour of wine filling the glass patch over the silence in their one-word conversation. It's a dense silence, but not an uncomfortable one.

"Tommy told me you traded back stables duty for patrol work" Your hands set the cutlery down on either side of the plate while you chew the steak in silence. Your elbows rest on the edge of the table, fingers laced in front of your chin, eyes fixed on Joel. "What are you, a child that can't go five minutes without mud on him? You said you were done with exterior patrols."

Joel doesn't answer right away. Sometimes it feels like he's ignoring you, but he's not. He just takes time before he speaks. Mostly to avoid screwing things up. Though he still screws it up sometimes.

"They needed people. Two guys ended up in the infirmary last night" He takes a sip of his wine, makes a slight face. He prefers whiskey, but there ain't any left.

“You’re always saving someone else's ass” You murmur, picking something from your teeth. Then you cross your arms. The light bulb in your head clinks. Lean back in the chair and tilt your head a little. You've been drinking since you started cooking earlier, and it's made your tongue a bit looser.

"Let me ask you something" Your eyes stay locked on him while he chews, eyes on his plate. "You ever fucked someone's ass?"

His eyes snap up to your face. Surprise. Irritation. His jaw clenches.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Just answer. Yes or no?" He narrows his gaze. His eyes drift from you to the wine glass, then he shrugs slightly.

"Maybe. Yeah. Once... When we were split"

Your brows lift. Not out of jealousy or anger. Just surprised he actually answered. Most of the time, he lets those questions hang in the air.

Maybe he's a little drunk too.

"You've got that look. Like guys who get all obsessed with ass" You take the wine glass in hand, sip it deep feeling the cabernet bitter taste in the back of your tongue. Your eyes drift to the archway that opens into the living room. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, warming the space. "I don't get why some men are so into it. It doesn't feel like anything. It's like... Like shoving a tube through your nose down into your gut"

He watches you as you talk. This conversation is a current he usually doens't let himself ride, but tonight, he does. His pupils trace your jaw, the line of your neck, the posture you sit with. It stirs something. His eyes return to yours when you glance back at him.

"Who'd you fuck when we were apart?"

"The new doctor. The one who came after Merriane left with that guy to the North."

You tilt your head, lean in slightly, resting your forearms on the table. Speak closer like sharing a secret.

"You always liked blondes. It's like... Something wired in you, huh?" You laugh is dry. He notices.

You don't ask for permission. You dip your fingertip in his wine, then slide it between your lips, eyes on him. Your tongue swirls around the pad of your finger just briefly. His eyes drop. Watches your mouth with a hunger that he keeps buried in his chest, a need that leaks from his pores, an obsession he forces himself to hide every single day.

"Wanna know who I was with?"

He nods. Accepts the pain of picturing you with someone else, even if it makes him a hypocrite.

"A girl. From the bookstore."

Joel raises a brow slightly.

"A... girl?"

"Twenty-three. Tongue soft like silk. She taught me the sweet, simple joy of scissoring."

Joel swallows dryly. That's an image he didn't expect, and the first little throb between his legs makes him hate himself just a bit. A sharp breath escapes through his nose, brushing over the stubble of his upper lip, and it makes you smile.

"Does it turn you on when I tell you stuff like that?" You whisper.

His hands, veins more pronounced now. The tips of his ears flushed red. Pupils blown wide. He shifts in his chair. His cock surely already thickening, aching. It's a sight to see him get worked up.

When you stand, he follows, both of you a bit unsteady.

The kiss is like two strangers who've been eyeing each other across a bar all night. Messy. Desperate. Hot. His tongue searches yours with frantic hunger, groaning low when you suck on it, his hand gripping your ass rough and full.

When you both stumble into the hallway as soon as you both stand, he presses you against the wall, breathing low groans against your mouth. He's aching already. The amount of blood in his cock is making him grimace. The need for you is making him grasp you tightly.

"I hate it when you get like this..." He rasp against your mouth. His hands shrug off your closed cardigan with a yank. Joel loves how your breasts press against the fabric, your soft nipples relaxed below the fabric until he starts riling you up, making them harden slowly. He wants them, now.

His lips trail down your neck to your sternum, then clamp around a nipple, gentle at first, then possesive, nibbling, sucking, coaxing you upright with that smolthering instensity in his eyes. His tongue flicks across your taut bud before plunging back to devour your mouth.

"Give it to me... Right here" You whisper, raw.

He doesn't hesitate. One hand tears down your pants and panties aside. He lifts your leg, hooking it around his waist, opening you up. He takes his cock in hand, guiding himself to your wet heat, rubbing his tip between the seam of your pussy. The electric burst that the feeling of your clit being rubbed by him while holding that intense eye contact makes your brows pinch. He pushes slowly, stretching while you gasp a sweet and sharp moan into his mouth, the tip of your nose pushing his.

"Fuck... You're gonna make me cum like a damn boy" He murmur gruffly looking down between your bodies, his lips part as he gasps heavy and slow puffs through his teeth. "That's right, my girl... Let me have you..."

He traces slow massages against your walls, feeling the indentation of your inner muscles swallow him. Each thrust push deeper, the slickness between your bodies growing, his pubes wet against your clitoris every time he moves into you, pressing his pelvic bone.

"Oh, God... Yes..." You nod intoxicated, a religious relief running through you "Yes, Joel... Fuck" He moves slowly, savouring with his senses the delicious feeling of your insides squeezing him. He smiles arrogantly when he feels your body arching lightly and your eyes briefly rolling.

"More... Harder, you fucking-" You were whispering sharply and then, he suddenly flips you, spinning you to face the wall. His hand hold the back of your knee high against the wall. Joel buries his cock into your heated pussy again, making him close his eyes, bite his lower lip and press his forehead against your nape when you squeeze him even more tightly.

Your laughter, soft and breathless, echoes in the tight space. He lift his eyes, looking over your shoulder at how you moan against the wall, cheek pressing against the brownish wallpaper.

"Yes... Jus' like tha...t.. fuck..." The words fall slurred and drunk. His hips snapping against your ass. His hand curves around your hip, thumb brushing your clit with each stroke, coaxing you into a brain melting orgasm.

He feels you, melting, trembling. Almost immediately, he fills you deep, hands grasping your hips tightly. His short nails leaving marks on your hipbones.

The shared heavy panting fills the hallway. He pulls out softly and tucks himself back into his jeans, still hard and throbbing. You lean, catching your breath against his chest, your body still feeling that sweet spasm.

"I thought you were gonna fuck my ass" You whisper, faded adrenaline making your voice tender.

"Sorry" He rasp a throaty chuckle while pulling up your pants. "You got me so... fucking horny all of'a sudden..."

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, kisses your forehead. The bridge of your nose and finally, your swollen lips. It's soft, way more slow and sweet that the one he gave you a while ago.

It's intimate.

You move your face to the side, lips sliding away from his. Looking away. Joel gives a step back and clears his throat. "Go to bed. I'll do the dishes"

You stumble upstairs, pants sagging, thighs still slick, nape sweaty. The bed receives your trembling body as you feel that sensation that always come after the alcoholic intimacy pass and you finally fall asleep, sulking into the shame that has no name.

hii!! another one, yay! hope you liked it. Please, please, please, reblog and like! (and if you feel like it, leave a comment<3 it helps a looooot)

love ya!

#joel miller #fanfic writing #jackson!joel #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedrohub #pedro x reader #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller fanfic #this is joel miller tf

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ishestillapunk · 8 days ago

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@pscentral event: 39 -> PRIDE

Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe - Canon Queer Characters ♥

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ishestillapunk · 8 days ago

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"Strange dynamic" Joel Miller x f!reader

pairing: jackson!joel x f!reader

rating: explicit (smut) +18

summary: you and Joel have been married for seven years and the seven years have been a constant vicious circle of this strange and intoxicating dynamic between this cold distant patroller and you.

word count: 5,2k

tags: smut with plot lol, age gap (reader is thirty three, Joel is fifty six), able bodied reader, angst, drama i love drama, kind of animalistic Joel (sexooooo)

warnings: unprotected p-in-v (:0), established relationship, kind of cold ??toxic?? relationship (joel is kind of an asshole), communication issues, very small mentions of reader's appearence (weight, skin, hair), dirty talk, cunnilingus, cursing, masturbation (female receiving)

a/n: man i love drama

Sometimes you wondered if he loved you.

“Again with that?” —It was the only thing he answered and then returned to his own thing.

Over the time you stopped asking him.

The ring on your finger was the only thing that reminded you that, ah, yes... you two were together.

The news of your union took everyone somewhat by surprise.

You and Joel.

You and Joel?

No one expected that such an adorable, gentle and loving woman would have been in her right mind when it came to saying “Yes, I do." to a cold, cruel and detached man like Joel.

But it happened, six years ago in the small town of Jackson.

You felt connected to him emotionally and physically. He was what you would look for when your world was falling apart and he didn't hesitate to hold you. The moments where both of your lives faltered were where you two found each other the most, where you remembered why you two were what you were.

But you began to sigh more frequently and the bed felt increasingly cold.

No one is healthy in an apocalypse. No one really has their minds in check in a world as destroyed as this one, so over time… you decided to stop expecting anything from him and his heart. Even the first two years of marriage were questionable.

“Wait, did you say husband?”

It was a frequent question every time you talked about him. Yeah, husband. Nobody believed it even though you would show your ring or even if he was there to confirm them.

You did have every stage to think about if it was really what you wanted for your life. That strange dynamic.

Friends. Friends who fuck. A couple. Concubines. Married.

Divorced?

"No…" you said in a shaky breath, leaving the crochet over your thighs. Just thinking about that word would make your stomach churn.

“No, what?”

He turned when he heard your voice from the kitchen. Your eyes met those of the older man who was watching with a frown while he brew his coffee.

“...I forgot something in the downtown library. That's all” You murmured, returning your eyes to the brown wool.

“Do you want me to go look for that thing you forgot? It's getting too cold and you just recently got over that cold of yours” His deep voice echoed around the kitchen, mixing with the wood that was cracking hot in the hearth of the chimney on the other side of the living room where you were sitting.

“No. Leave it, it's okay.”

“Here. Tea” The oldest handed you the yellow cup with chamomile tea. The aroma of coffee and tea mixed in the air, your essences, your personalities.

“Have you talked to Tommy? About the midnight patrols. Remember?”

Joel shook his head gently as he held his cup in his hands and stood in front of the fireplace facing away from you. Your eyes roamed over his figure. The width of his back, his tired posture, exhausted from years of horror and daily survival.

Your hands shook a little. They trembled to touch him, to hug him and feel his peculiar warmth.

“They need me on that shift. I can't change it, at least not for this winter.”

And you would only limit yourself to squeezing the wool between your hands. You never had the time to have him. Not even at night, with his strong arms around you.

“Have your tea, it’ll get cold”. He murmured before leaving the living room towards the backyard to take care of the laundry. You got up from the couch, hugging the woolen cardigan that you knitted yourself, and walked at a slow pace to the kitchen.

You set the cup in the sink, turning it so the liquid ran down the pipe. Then, went up the stairs to enter the room and at the window, leaned your body on the frame to look out at the backyard.

Joel was taking the clothes with his free hand putting them over his shoulder while the other held his cup of coffee. A sigh escaped your lips. Another tremor came from your hands, a tremor that showed how much your hands begged him to get closer, to you and your skin.

In any marriage you would see on the street, you completely envied it. The jealousy was above a religious pain, which was unspokenly read in your expression every time you saw glances reflecting the love you once experienced in your past with him.

Why had you two lost so much? Where did you two go over time? Where would you two end up if you lose the other?

You spent nights asking that. You were growing apart, falling apart, but none of you were brave enough to say anything about it. Spending the nights back to back, when in a time before, hugging each other, cuddling, breathing in the mutual aroma of their bed that held the perfume of their mixed skins were common as a habit.

“I'm going out.”

You jump in your spot lightly. He was silent as a piece of dust but his eyes were cold as those of a moose. There had been only a few times that you had seen some heat in his orbs and it was a long time ago, your fingers wouldn't be enough to count the months.

Your fingers were never enough.

“You scared me” A breathy murmur escaped your mouth as you sat on the window sill.

Joel just looked at you for a moment, silent. Then he spoke.

“I'll go see Tommy. He needs help with the Harley motorbike he found last week a few miles from here.”

You nodded, adjusting your braid that fell over your right shoulder. They nodded to each other. He turned and left. After a few minutes, the sound of the door confirmed that he was finally gone.

You had been thinking for days about how to explain to Joel what was going on in your head. But even you didn't understand what you wanted to say.

You weren't good at talking. Not even when you were single and at your loosest. The main problem has always been that, you. Your way of speaking and shyness. Like a domestic cat.

What if Joel asked things you didn't know how to answer? You never knew how to respond. Especially to him. His eyes chilled you but not with fear, you didn't even know what those eyes were causing you.

Even you didn’t understand yourself.

The afternoon remained silent as you finished the chores in solitude. Your head didn't stop overthinking for a single moment. You thought of all the ways to let him know you needed him, but none of the options seemed worth to be said out loud.

You decided to go in and take a shower, perhaps a long shower would help to think. The steam surrounded your body as the fabrics of your clothes slid to leave your skin free and exposed. The water slid down your spine, cascading down your legs. The caramel of your skin was damp after a few seconds in the rain.

A long sigh left your lips. You closed your eyes as you massaged your hair and found yourself thinking about your husband again. Wondering what to do with your husband and you.

An idea entered your ears, wrapped in the humidity of the gray curtain, under the water. If you can't tell him, show him. You opened your eyes at that thought but water entered your eyes.

“Ah! Shit… Mmhh” You growled massaging your eye and hissed. The hot water seemed to be boiling your eye like a stew. You got out of the shower while massaging your eye and walked over to the bathroom counter to look for the eye drops.

“Are you okay-”

Between your fingers, the small bottle. The remaining drops of the hot bath slid over your caramelized skin until they reached your breasts, surrounding them and continuing over the soft curves of your abdomen until they slid between your legs, reaching the carpet under your feet. Your hair stuck to your back, still damp.

Your eyes met the hazel one’s of the man that you call your husband. His gaze was difficult to read but you noticed how he remained standing in the door frame, holding the handle and his orbs following every drop that fell on your skin. You felt yourself trembling a bit, your inner thigh starting to throb.

A sigh escaped his lips. It was shaky, like a vampire who sniff blood but holds himself from lunging forward. You could swear you heard him sigh. He cleared his throat and looked into your eyes again.

“...What happened?”

“Why?” You asked, frozen in place. You didn't mind showing yourself naked in front of him, but it had been long since you stopped revealing yourself in front of his witness.

“I… I heard you insult and growl,”He explained. His voice somewhat airy. “Did you… get hurt?” He asked again.

“Only hot water in my eye. I'm fine” You responded almost silently.

Silence.

But their looks said too much. Even his hand on the doorknob, his knuckles white, containing what was beginning to regurgitate inside his chest, like a volcano about to erupt. He closed the door, leaving you there.

—

The crochet clips echoed in the living room. Your eyes fixed on the chimney, hands moving frantically without making a mistake. You had seen it in his eyes, like a spark of what you could ignite if you kept hitting the right stones.

You were getting tired and wanted to start a fire, light him. To cause something to him that would make him look at you again. The idea you had had in the shower kept running through your head, over and over again. Racing.

It was midnight. Continued knitting and from what you knew of your husband, you knew very well that he was in bed reading before going to sleep. Today was his day off.

You left the knitting equipment on the couch. Fuck the silence and its unbearable loneliness. Your subtlety and shyness. Fuck it. Fuck it.

You entered the room. Out of the corner of your eye you observed that he was indeed there, reading a bit before going to sleep, with the blanket over his legs and his back against the headboard. You walked silently to your drawer and rummaged through your old clothes, looking for something in particular, something that you knew would help you get what you needed.

You had found it a few months ago, on an expedition to an abandoned shopping center with Dina and Ellie. They had laughed out loud when the three of you found an old Victoria’s Secret boutique but you had taken a couple of the pieces once the younger ones turned to continue their exploration.

You held the fabric between your fingers, somewhat nervously. The silky feel between your fingertips made you a little excited, imagining what it would look like on you. Joel had never seen you wear it, you had never dared to model it in front of him. You sighed and walked towards the bathroom in the room but at that same moment, you stopped your steps.

Your fingers traced the bottom of your blouse. Little by little, your arms raised above your head, the fabric moving upward, uncovering your abdomen and back until you let it fall to your side. You looked over your shoulder. Nothing, his eyes were still glued to that Goddamn book.

You sighed heavily. More than normal. Your fingers rested on the waistband of your jeans, unbuttoning the buttons that squeezed your body into that tight fabric that, no matter how hard you tried, it never caught the attention of the gray-haired man. Little by little they went down, ending up on the wooden floor under yout bare feet.

Your hands traveled behind your back, to the clasp of your bra. Clack. And this fell on the floor with the other clothes. You didn't bother to look at him again, you were afraid you would end up with a bitter sensation at not seeing him appreciate you in your vulnerability. Then you took the silk nightgown and slid it over your torso. It was somewhat tight and that made you grimace strangely. You looked down, the belly that pumped out on your lower abdomen and your full hips made you a little complex but you forced yourself to ignore that.

You turned around. Red like a cherry. Your eyes avoided his because you knew very well that this was not something you usually wore. Who were you trying to fool? You never used that kind of thing. You were too shy to play the naughty girl.

Sliding over the mattress, next to him, you heard his book close. Your breathing became a little hitched. Then? What was next? Was he going to touch you? Was he gonna tear the nightgown off with his teeth?

You turned your back to him, arching your back slightly to pronounce your curves. Your derrieré and perhaps stylize your figure more. You rested your cheek on the pillow and breathed heavily. Hell. You were so excited that you already felt wet as if you were twenty again. The scent of your perfume—vanilla extract, obviously. It was very difficult to find a perfume in the apocalypse—it reached his nostrils as if it were a banquet that was served only for him.

Protein, pure. On your thighs, your plump hips, your stomach, your sweet breasts. The older man's mind was racing. His hands ached to reach you, to make you feel how much his body wanted you. To rip your panties with his teeth and get lost in your waters. He swallowed dryly, turned off the nightstand lamp and sank under the covers, turning his back to you.

You looked over your shoulder when you found yourself in the dark. Oh, please!

An hour passed. The silence, the darkness, it was killing you slowly. Was this body not enough? Was your presence not deserving of his lust?

Then, like a siren call, you hear it behind you. The rustle of the sheets and the low short grunt he does when he moves around in bed, restless. The blue light of the night illuminates the room enough for you to see something of his expression when he gently lays you on your back by moving your shoulder. His face hovers yours, his eyes look into yours.

“J-Jo” Your words are cut when his hand grabs the hem of the cover, moving it away and discovering your body. He caresses your thighs, almost hesitant, slowly sliding the hand further below the gown. His thumb finds it, your panties and the mess that damps the cloth.

Joel cup your cunt with gentle firmness, his eyes never leaving yours, his stoic expression doing numbers in you. When you gulp by the tension, his orbs drop to the work your throat makes.

He moves to kneel between your thighs, his movements like a silent wolf that has everything planned. His large calloused hands slide up your calfs and hook around the back of your knees to open your gates. Then, without warning, he leans down pressing his hawkish nose to your covered cunt. Sniffing like a mad dog, his hands squeezing your ass like anchoring himself to your body.

The gasp that escaped you was embarrassing. Stuttered, half broken, weak. And he was barely doing something. Your thighs attempted to close shut by reflex but he kept them open. His hot tongue slid over the fabric, dampening it even more, his lips suckle the curve of your nub over the fabric, making you see stars.

Your hands slid through his grayish hair, scratching his scalp to pull him closer, feeling the light tease of his teeth and the silent grunts he barely let himself emit. His hands push your gown, bunching it over your ribs, his mouth splays over the soft bumps of your body, sucking marks on them, biting your thighs as if he wanted to feed on them.

Joel finally and after you weakly whisper husky for him to do it, he hooks his hands around the straps of your thong to slide it off you. The slight tearing sound makes you even more wet, feeling the slickness fall down your winking slit to dissappear between your cheeks.

He was normally silent, not a vocal lover, but what he started to say made you tense and feel like you were inside an oven.

“That sweet pussy… Only cryin’ and beggin’ f’my attention” He said husky, low, so raspy that it was as if it scratched every corner of your brain. “It’s smell… God damn… It’s fuckin’ aroma…”

You almost laugh at it only because he was sounding so hungry like a mad dog, getting you more nervous and even more horny. You provoked that, you provoked him to become unknown of himself.

His tongue gives a rough lap that sent you slapping your mouth to not let a loud moan and wake up the whole town. Then he begin to draw circles around your swollen and throbbing clit, slurping it. He was hunched between your knees, hungry, starving, growling and you were his only food.

“God, Joel” Your eyes clamp shut and your knees press against your ribs opening way more. “Joel…. Jo- fuck…” Nothing more than gibberish sentences and his name like a mantra fall from your lips. And he feasts on it.

Then…

“Joel” Static. “Joel, are you asleep?” A patroller.

He pulls back and scrambles over the bed to reach the handie over his nightstand.

“What happened?” He asks, clearing his throat and sitting on the edge of the bed. You sit embarrassed against the headboard, pulling your gown back in place.

“We need cover. We had.. A little problem here. Two of our men ended up in the infimary..” Sigh. “Please, come to the Southern wall, I’ll tell you everything here”

“Okay, okay. Give me a minute and I’ll be there” Static. Beep.

He began to put on his jeans, taking them from the chair beside the bed.

“You really gonna leave?”

“They need me to cover”

“I need you”

“There’s more important things” He simply said. Tied his shoes, took his coat and backpack and left.

—

It was a complete failure. The next day, no one mentioned anything either. That's how you spent your weeks, trying to get his attention. To call him with your body. You had even tried massages.

“What are you doing?" - Joel watched over his shoulder when he felt your hands on his nape, your thumbs massaging his skin and tucking under his shirt. The older man's skin trembled under your fingers which made you smile.

“A massage. Nothing else” You whispered behind his earlobe. “The daily patrols must have exhausted you…”

He growled softly under his own breath.

“Yes, but leave it. Don't worry... Mhgm..” Joel trembled again under your hands and leaned forward, trying to get away.

You rolled your eyes but didn't move away.

“It's a simple caress, Jo…”

You were about to kiss his neck when the doorbell rang and Joel stood up suddenly.

“Is Tommy.”

And so, he ran away again.

You decided to stop trying. Over time, the idea of divorce began to pop up more and more in your head. You were tired of this strange dynamic. You didn't want to just be the one who cooked his food and mended his torn shirts. The world was already too shitty to let your life slip through your fingers.

“I’ll go to the cabin today. We have to fix a few things or it will end up falling apart,” You said as you spread jam on his toast and left it on Joel's plate. “I'll spend the night there.”

“The one on the mountain?”

“What other cabin do we have?” You both found a cabin a little after marrying and promised to make it a little safe spot for whenever you two wanted a getaway from Jackson and its people. It only happened two times to then be left in the shadows.

Your cold tone caught his attention. He lifted his head from his book and looked at your profile. Your hair fell over your right shoulder as you continued spreading the jam on the toast. Your expression was serious and stern.

He moved his lips a little without mentioning anything, as if the words didn't dare come out of his mouth. Then he spoke.

“Will ya go there alone?”

You shrugged your shoulders.

“How come you do not know? Who are y’going with?”

You looked at him for a moment. ¿That's jealousy? You asked yourself. Your eyes returned to the toast.

“If you want you can come with me. I'm just going to see if the past few blizzards didn’t made a mess. At this rate and without care, it will end up falling apart. I’ll fix what can be fixed for now.”

Why didn't you said it before? Why did you shrug your shoulders first? Joel was beginning to think that this was nothing more than a simple metaphor. That it wouldn't be the cabin that would fall apart but that they would do it themselves.

“I will go with you. I wouldn't want you to be attacked and not be able to prevent it.”

“Before you, I spent twenty years taking care of myself.”

They looked at each other again. What was happening to you? You had always been so calm and peaceful. Joel frowned. His temper, ah, that was the worst thing about him.

“Ah, y’were so independent being alone, weren't you? Well, let me tell you somethin’. Now you’re married. Things are different” His tone was dry. Aggressive as he was sometimes.

You didn’t answer. It was always like this. You said what you thought, Joel denied or refuted it and then, silence.

After a couple of sips of your tea, you got up from the table and began washing the dishes from the night before. It was then that you raised your head and as you looked out the window, you spoke, turning your back to him.

“No. Things are not different” That was more for yourself than for him, but in the same way, you let him know. You turned around while drying your hands with a cloth and looked at him annoyed. You? Upset? “I'm still alone. My bed is still cold. My days are the same, reproducing in the same monotonous tune.”

Your eyes hit him hard. Sore.

“You only remember that I am your wife when you feel that I am slipping out of your hands.”

You were spitting out the hard truths of your heartless self and their life together. He could tell that you had waited a long time for this moment and perhaps even hoped that things would be resolved before it had to come to this.

But there they were.

Feelings were boiling beneath your surface and you could tell you were tired of keeping everything in. And yes, you had saved too much.

“I have tried. Shit, Joel. Believe me I have done it. All these years I have tried to support myself and us, emotionally, but even my friends have warned me that it was not a good idea. That this would go nowhere”

You felt a chill run down your spine, a feeling of lightness once your chest found a way to let go of everything that had never found a way to let him know.

“I tried to get to you. In all ways. I tried to talk to you, to touch you, to even make you feel at least a little of the pain that you have made me feel but you never even flinched. You are so used to having me by your side without asking for anything in return that you left me behind, in case in a moment you fall, I will get you up... “ And the tears began to come out. After years of not letting even a drop fall, tears lined his wife's sweet cheeks. Her crystalline eyes, you were a woman crying girl tears, you were a girl who hated hurting as a woman.

Her lower lip trembled, your hands covered your mouth as you tried not to show yourself that way but what could you do? You loved him and hated him at the same time, because you hated that you couldn't hate him and loved him in such a religious and devout way.

Because even if he was an idiot, you couldn't see yourself without him.

And he couldn't see himself without you.

He approached you, his wife, his life and wrapped you in a tight, warm hug. The pained sigh that escaped you climbed up his spine, making him shiver. Your hands surrounded his back with a sort of desperation, as if you feared that moment would escape you. With one hand he held your head against his chest and the other rested on your back, caressing you gently, as if you were made of glass.

He was ashamed of himself every time they reached that point. Just noticing it when you hit rock bottom and break in front of him. He hated that he had been so oblivious to your pain, so locked in his own nightmares.

With your face hidden in his chest, you pressed your nose against the older man's neck, feeling his scent. So close to him, you wanted to remember how he smelled, how his skin felt against your lips. Its aroma of tobacco and wood took you away from your morals, taking you to your most primitive senses. His hands held you close, resting his hands on your hips as you parted your lips, letting the warm air caress his collarbones.

You heard a soft growl escape from the depths of his throat, you felt his large, rough hands squeeze your waist and slide down slowly. The flesh of your ass between his fingers made you produce a slight gasp that the older man's lips soon captured between his.

Your back met the kitchen counter in which his large and robust body pressed you against it. His hands came up to cup your chin and wipe away your tears with his fingers. He kissed every corner of your face, your nose, cheekbones, forehead and again, licked and devoured your lips.

You were melting, letting yourself be slowly eaten by who was your greatest captor and hunter. His hands didn't know where to hold on so you just raised your hands to his sides, as if asking for mercy. They soon sank into Joel’s gray curls.

The gasps were kept in the opponent's mouth, like a drawer of secrets that he would keep deep in his chest. His lips sucked and bit yours, stealing some grunts from you, exciting the heartbeats of your body even more.

Soon, knowing you like no one else, he noticed the way your thighs rubbed against each other, holding back. His hands ignored any border that separated him from your underwear. His fingers skimmed beneath the cloth of your jeans and panties and found the damp heated folds of yours, sliding his rough pads between them. Rubbing your clit slow but intensely, You separated from his lips, frowning and opening your mouth in a steaming gasp, looking into his eyes.

There it was, that flame you wanted. He was hungry for you and you felt like a feast from end to end.

"Sh... I know, I know," he whispered between your wet lips while small moans of pleasure came out of your mouth. It was you asking for more without needing words. He didn't need words when he knew your body from top to bottom.

He noticed in your flabby and weakened eyelids, more in your lips that they melted into a grimace of pleasure that you were close. He felt it himself in his fingers and in the way your thighs moved against him. He felt it in his body, his own body swelling with excitement to feel you again. For being in your heat, for getting wet in it.

His hands abandoned your jeans. Your soft growls told him that you hadn't had enough but he had something better for you. A gasp escaped you as he twirled you around and your eyes found themselves looking out the window that overlooked the backyard. Out of inertia, you leaned over the counter and grabbed the curtains, closing them in a single movement.

But when his hands exposed you to him in a single movement, a fire bloomed like a explosion in your chest. Your garment now at the height of your knees, your thighs trembling with excitement, as if you were a cold puppy. His lips found the back of your neck and his teeth sank into your flesh causing you to let out a breathy moan.

Behind you you had a hungry man, you felt the unbearable heat of his skin against you, his rough hands holding your hips and the sound of his belt only made you more excited. He could tell, the way you trembled, it made him want you even more.

He had no prior notice. His mouth spit on his palm and rubbed your cunt getting it even more slick to then stroke himself two or three times and slide slow without stop until his hips met yours, one of his arms held your chest, the other your stomach, caressing every part you hated so much about yourself. Your voice seemed short, the sound of their hips meeting and your panting was the only thing that could be heard around the house, the kitchen this time was hotter than the fireplace itself in the living room.

“I know… Let me take care of this sweet pussy… Let me get deep in it… Y’feel me? Y’feel me? Y’feel how I’m hittin’ it?” He murmur husky through his teeth, hunched against you while his balls slap harshly against your clit, making your thighs jiggle with each kiss of his tip inside you.

You put your hands behind his head, holding the back of his neck as Joel’s mouth murmured against your ear from behind. You felt loved and he was loving you so well. Their bodies spoke the unspoken language of their strange dynamics that repeated like a loop. Like your hips meeting, like your hands squeezing his flesh, like your lips asking for more of him, like his thumb rubbing your clit to make you come.

They both knew well that sooner or later, no matter how many promises they made, they would return to the same thing. To the bed feeling cold, to their flesh aching without each other, to the silence of their pain. They knew it was what they both chose, because in this world, each one chose how to hurt.

And they chose to hurt like that, with their strange dynamic that only they understand.

leave a like or a comment at least to know if I did it well, pls T-T hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading <3

#joel miller #fanfic writing #jackson!joel #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal x reader #fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #tbt

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