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sassconvict · 3 days ago

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Screaming, crying and throwing up

Summer of 1989 ; Chapter 2

"aren't you a lil' old for cheerios?"

♫ my tears ricochet - taylor swift ✎ read this on ao3 previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

tommy miller x reader synopsis: You and Tommy circle each other like old ghosts, past bleeding into every glance, every touch—until a construction notice breaks careful distance and exposes old wounds still raw. Neither of you says what you really mean, but the silence between you screams louder than words. warnings: Domestic living. Pre-outbreak. Reader is a writer. Angst. Mentions of death, and implied suicidal ideation.

w.c 10k

AUGUST, 2003

Coming back to Austin was never part of the plan.

But desperation has a way of rewriting things. Work had dried up. Your parents needed an extra pair of hands. So you made a quiet deal with yourself: swallow the pride, pack the boxes, go home.

Home. That word didn’t sit right anymore.

Still, there were benefits. No rent. Warm meals. A roof that didn't leak. Time, too—time to write from the corner of your old bedroom, the wallpaper still faded in the shape of childhood posters. In exchange, you’d help out around the house. Maybe lend your skills to the family business, if they asked.

It was manageable. Comfortable, even.

Or so you told yourself.

Until the past started pressing in, as soft as a breath on your neck. Austin carried its ghosts well, and you knew exactly which ones still lingered. The Miller family hadn’t left town. You hadn’t dared drive past their old place—hadn’t even thought about it, not really.

Too afraid you'd catch a glimpse.

Too afraid you wouldn’t.

Now, every trip to the store felt like a gamble. You kept your head down in aisles, your chest tightening at the sound of familiar boots scuffing tile. The shape of a man’s shoulders could turn your blood cold in an instant.

It wasn’t just home anymore. It was haunted.

And you weren’t sure you were ready to face the one ghost still walking around in broad daylight.

It’s stupid, really—how he still lives in the corners of your mind after all these years.

Especially now, back in your childhood room, sitting cross-legged on the same threadbare carpet, staring at that rusted metal tin under your bed.

You haven’t touched it. Haven’t dared. It’s exactly where you left it, gathering dust like the part of you that never moved on.

Was he still in town? Married? Kids tugging at his sleeves, calling him dad?

Hell, if you knew. Hell, if you wanted to know.

What you did know was this: whatever you and Tommy had, it had taken root deep—deeper than you realized until you came back. And now it stretched through you like ivy, tightening with every breath, every thought that wandered too far into the past.

It didn’t just haunt you. It hollowed you out.

You always thought teenage love was supposed to fade—burn fast, leave nothing but a scorched memory. Something you could laugh about years later, over drinks with old friends.

But this? This wasn’t that.

This was different. This one never died. And part of you was terrified it never would.

The grocery store was nearly empty—just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional wheel squeak from a lone cart. Nine p.m. on a Wednesday was strategic. No small talk. No familiar faces. Just you, the shelves, and the quiet. You could wander without armor, float between aisles like a ghost.

A bottle of wine. A couple of wilting vegetables. A gallon of water. Your cart looked more like a motel mini-fridge than the groceries of someone edging toward thirty.

You rounded the corner, drawn by the cereal aisle like a moth to a glow. You told yourself you’d skip it. Be good. Grab something green. But what else would keep you company at midnight, spoon in hand, staring at the glow of the fridge light?

Cheerios.

You reached forward—and so did someone else.

Your hand met theirs. Warm. Small. Fingers painted with chipped purple nail polish, a fraying string bracelet wrapped around the wrist.

Something soft. Something familiar.

And suddenly, the quiet wasn’t so quiet anymore.

“Aren’t you a little old to be buyin’ Cheerios?”

The voice was laced with a southern drawl—sharp, playful, too clever for its own good. She sounded bold. Bright. And young. Really young.

You glanced over and blinked. She was young. A kid, no more than ten, maybe eleven. Big eyes, a spark of mischief, and all the confidence in the world.

Without thinking, your mouth moved before your brain could catch up.

“Where the hell are your parents?”

Smooth. Real smooth. Maybe not the best thing to say to a stranger’s child.

Definitely not in the cereal aisle. Definitely not while holding a box of Cheerios like some kind of existential prop.

You sighed internally, wondering when exactly your life had become a string of awkward moments and low-stakes public breakdowns. Before you could backpedal, a voice rang out behind her—low, worn, and gravel-thick.

“Sarah!”

It hit like a dropped match on dry grass. That voice. You hadn’t heard it in years, but your body remembered before your mind did—spine stiff, breath caught, blood rushing somewhere you couldn’t name.

Familiar. Undeniably. Panic took the wheel.

You held out the box, almost like an offering. “Here—take it.”

Your voice cracked on the edge of a breath as you gripped the cart’s handle, fingers tightening like it might anchor you to the moment. You considered walking away. You wanted to walk away.

But something in you hesitated. Stayed. Hoping—dreading—that your gut was right. That the familiar voice wasn’t just a cruel echo. There are faces that time can’t erase. Some are etched too deeply. Etched into blood, into memory, into the space between heartbeats.

“Am I even allowed to take Cheerios from strangers?” the girl muttered as she crossed the aisle, drifting back to his side with all the ease of someone who knew exactly where she belonged.

He shot her a look—half stern, half fond. Then, as if pulled by some invisible thread, he lifted his head. And your whole world tilted. For a moment, your body didn’t know what to do. Vomit? Collapse? Spontaneously combust? All of the above?

You stared. Then, softly—barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might break something—you breathed it out:

“Joel?”

You hadn’t seen this man since—God, what? 1990? And now he was here. In front of you. Looking older, sure—but still him. Still Joel. Lines carved deeper into his face, a little more tired in the eyes, but the foundation was unchanged. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then your gaze dropped.

Wait.

Does he have a kid?

Your brain scrambled to catch up, blinking fast as your eyes darted from the girl—still clutching the box of Cheerios—to him. Back and forth like a bad tennis match. You were trying to do the math in your head, but none of it added up, and suddenly the air felt too thin in your lungs.

Yeah. Yeah, you might actually throw up.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you—jaw tight, unreadable. That Miller silence, always more loaded than a whole damn conversation. He definitely recognized you. You could see it in the way his eyes no longer sat tired and low.

“She yours?” you finally managed, voice rough around the edges. It wasn’t judgment, not really. Just shock. Curiosity wrapped in disbelief.

He scratched at his beard. “Yeah,” he said, simply. “She’s mine.”

Something behind your ribs clenched. Not jealousy—no, that wasn’t fair. It was more like grief with nowhere to go. Like walking through the front door of a house you thought had burned down. Because this means the chances of his brother being around are only larger.

“Oh, right—Didn't... know,” you murmured.

He gave you that look.

The same one he used to shoot your way when you were seventeen and reckless with love—when he was older, angrier, and always carrying the weight of something he refused to name. Eyebrows lifted just slightly, one corner of his mouth tugging like he might laugh, or maybe just break.

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Life’s funny like that.”

You felt it—the sting, low and stupid, blooming behind your ribs. Your throat tightened.

Don’t ask. Don’t do it. Don’t say his name. Don’t let it crawl out of your mouth like some pathetic ghost. You’re older now. Stronger. You survived it, remember?

You even believed that for a second. Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

“How’s your brother?”

God. Fuck.

Joel’s jaw tensed, the weight of the question landing between you both like a dropped hammer. He looked away, just for a second—just long enough to say everything he didn’t. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, and Sarah, still clutching the box, watched the moment pass with the quiet awareness only kids had.

“He’s…” Joel started, then hesitated. “He’s around.”

Around.

That word—around—cut deeper than a clean answer ever could.

Around as in… here? This very fucking store? Around as in… Alive?

You nodded slowly, lashes fluttering like your body was trying to blink away what your heart refused to accept. Of course, he was around. Somewhere.

Living a life with wide open skies and no trace of you in it. Breathing. Existing.

Your arms folded across your chest—not defensively, but like scaffolding, like something to keep your ribs from caving in. Joel shifted beside the cart. At first, it was just a glance. A habitual scan. But then—he really looked. You felt it. That weight behind his eyes.

Like he was seeing something impossible. Like he was trying to stitch the image of you now to the ghost of the girl you once were—laughing barefoot on the Miller porch, chasing fireflies, lips stained with cherry popsicles. His brother was never far behind.

Joel’s brow furrowed, and his voice dropped low.

“You grew up.”

It wasn’t said with surprise, exactly. More like quiet awe. Or regret.

You managed a tired smile. “Yeah—Life's funny like that." Only echoing his words from earlier.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he added, his tone edging toward something heavier, quieter.

You swallowed. “Didn’t think I’d come back.”

He nodded. It hung between you. All of it.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Joel muttered, glancing toward Sarah, who had wandered a few steps ahead, already bored of the grown-up tension. “For what he did. But I figure that ain’t mine to apologize for.”

Your throat tightened. “No. It’s not.”

A long beat passed.

Then Joel’s voice softened in a way you hadn’t heard since you were a kid and scraped your knee on his driveway.

“But he was a damn fool for leavin’ you like that.”

You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t trust your voice not to crack.

Instead, you asked, gently—like the wind might blow the moment away if you weren’t careful:

“Does he still live around here?”

Joel hesitated. That pause said more than words ever could.

“He’s back,” he said finally. “Moved back a while ago."

"My guest bedroom...” He said it like it was a joke.

You felt something in your chest slide loose. Raw. Heavy.

Joel glanced down the aisle.

“If you want…I can let him know I saw you.”

You looked away. At the flickering grocery lights, at the Cheerios box still clenched in your hand like it meant something.

Then: “No.”

Joel blinked. “No?”

Maybe?

No.

You shook your head, voice tight. “He's smart—he knows where to find me.”

And with that, you turned—hands tight around the cart handle, knuckles pale with restraint, as if you could just walk away. Like the past wasn’t licking up your spine like fire. Like it didn’t still have teeth.

You made it to the next aisle before the mask cracked.

Your hand flew to your chest, gripping at fabric, trying to anchor yourself, trying to breathe. But the air wouldn’t come. Not fully. Every inhale felt like it got caught somewhere in your throat, shallow and scraping.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out the overhead music, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the rest of the world. You leaned against the shelf, next to a row of canned beans and sadness, and let the weight settle in.

He was here.

He left and never looked back. But you? You came home.

The house felt smaller than it used to. Every creak in the floorboard was louder, every familiar room more suffocating. Being home again wasn’t as soft as you thought it’d be. It was rigid. Airless. Your old bedroom still smelled faintly of dust and childhood. But now, the walls felt too close. Too loud. You couldn’t sit still in it for long—pacing was safer. Something about the silence made your thoughts too sharp, too unkind.

You kept telling yourself you were fine. That one aisle encounter in a grocery store didn’t mean anything. That Joel’s words didn’t loop in your brain at night like a skipping record.

“He’s around.”

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“He was a damn fool.”

You hadn’t even unpacked fully. Suitcases still half-zipped, laundry spilling over the edges. You told your mom you'd get to it. You lied.

The worst part?

You started hearing things. Little things. The clink of boots outside. A truck engine that sounded too familiar. That gravelly voice, echoing where it wasn’t. You’d look out the window. Nothing.

The metal tin under your bed—still untouched—started to feel radioactive. You’d stare at it some nights like it might burst open on its own, spill out the parts of you he never came back for.

The food tasted like cardboard. You stopped writing. Sat in front of your laptop, fingers frozen above the keys, stuck in a loop of opening old drafts and closing them again.

Your mother noticed. Asked gently if everything was alright, “Just tired.” You meant... I think I’m falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it. Until the dam finally broke. In the thick of your late-night anxiety spiral, you did what you always did when your mind wouldn’t stop racing—you fled to your laptop. The glow of the screen was a small comfort, a lifeline to something tangible.

You dove into the local municipal website, fingers trembling as you searched the address you once knew like the back of your hand: the old Miller house.

It had been sold.

Two years ago.

That meant they were gone. They weren’t here anymore. Not in that house. Not in the place that held all the ghosts you thought you’d outrun.

And, you weren’t going to camp outside the grocery store, waiting for Joel to come back, begging him to say something—anything—about his brother.

You weren’t that crazy. Okay, maybe you were.

You exhaled slowly, the breath tight and uneven as you tried to push back the anxious knot settling deep in your stomach. You mindlessly scrolled through the local ads, searching for something to distract, anything to grab onto.

That’s when it jumped out at you.

Your eyes locked on the listing: Miller Construction — bold letters beneath a grainy photo of a faded pickup truck and a logo that looked slapped together but somehow genuine.

And there it was. A phone number.

You stared at it for what felt like minutes, heart pounding in a frantic rhythm that only anxiety could compose. Your fingers itched to pick up the phone, to dial those digits and shatter the silence that had been suffocating you for weeks.

But then doubt crept in.

What if no one picks up?

What if Joel answers?

Fuck, what if Tommy answers?

What if it’s not even them anymore?

Your mind spun, painting every worst-case scenario in vivid, merciless detail.

You told yourself, Maybe it’s better not to know. Still, your thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. One call could change everything. Or ruin what little peace you’d fought to keep. The room felt smaller. The air is heavier. You closed your eyes and swallowed hard.

Just one call. But you didn’t do it. You didn’t call.

Because some battles aren’t meant to be won—not yet. Not when the wounds are still raw, and the cost too high. Maybe it was finally time to kill that stubborn dream. The one you’d been clutching like a lifeline—the future you almost had with Tommy, back when everything still felt possible.

The future where you held his hand through late-night study sessions and half-forgotten promises. You built a life together, one small piece at a time, giving him the family he never got to have. Where he escaped the shadows of his past and made his own way—free and whole.

But not in this life. No. This life was different. In this life, you weren’t meant for that kind of happiness. Not with him. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to let that ghost go.

To mourn what could have been. And learn how to live without it.

Tomorrow, you told yourself.

Tomorrow you’ll wake up, open your laptop, and finally write again. You’ll make a real breakfast—eggs, toast, coffee strong enough to chase away the weight in your chest. You’ll laugh when your dad grumbles about the news, and nod along when your mom reminds you to check the mail.

And maybe, just maybe, it’ll feel like something in you finally let go.

Like some part of that aching, hollow dream was finally laid to rest.

You’d mourned it. Buried it. Let yourself believe you’d moved on.

Or at the very least—you were trying to.

And for a while, it almost worked. You made that breakfast. Brewed that coffee. Sat at the kitchen table and filled blank pages like your life depended on it. Day after day, you showed up for yourself. Pretending the ache had dulled, that time was stitching over the old wound. And for nearly a month, the rhythm held. You wrote. You helped around the house. You laughed when it was called for, and cried only when no one was looking.

You were healing. Or faking it well enough that it didn’t matter. Until one morning, the pattern cracked wide open— and nothing felt safe after that.

The knock came just past nine. Sharp. Measured. The kind of knock that wasn’t just passing through. You shuffled to the door, mug in hand, warmth still clutched between your palms. You weren’t expecting anyone. The morning was still fragile. Undisturbed.

Until you opened the door.

Joel Miller.

Joel Miller stood on your front step like a fragment of some half-buried memory you’d spent the last two weeks trying to drown. Even his face reminded you of his younger brother.

Older now. Weathered. But still him. His voice was rough with that dry Southern rasp, “Your dad around? He said we were clear to start this mornin’.”

You blinked.

“…Start what?”

He nodded back toward the curb, where a truck idled loudly and low, “Backyard. Said it needed regrading. New fence. We're doin' a couple other things.”

You gripped the doorframe like it might help you stay tethered.

'We'

'We're'

You followed his gaze.

Another figure rounded the truck—shoulders broad, posture familiar even after all these years. You didn’t need to see his face. You knew that walk. You knew that silence.

The past wasn’t dead. It had just been biding its time. Curled in the corners of your quiet life, patient and unblinking—waiting for the right moment to crawl back in.

You stared at Joel like he’d cracked open something sacred, like he’d reached through time and dragged your ghost straight into the daylight. He stepped into the house casually, like nothing was out of place, like this wasn’t a ruin you’d spent years quietly rebuilding.

Your voice came out thin. Unsteady.

“Why—” Your voice cracked under the weight of it, barely holding shape as you forced the word out. You swallowed hard, tried again, and tried to steady yourself. “You brought him?”

Joel didn’t flinch. He stood like stone, hands in his pockets, gaze level—not cruel, just worn down by time and truth. “Didn’t know your dad was your dad until we pulled up,” he said, voice flat, matter-of-fact. “Work’s work.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. The tight coil in your chest drew tighter, shoulders pulling inward like armor about to snap shut. “You didn’t know that my childhood home was my home?” Your tone sharpened. Bitter. “That’s bullshit, Joel.”

His jaw ticked. A tiny movement, a tell. But still, he didn’t deny it. “You think I remember every address from twenty years ago?” he muttered, but it wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even convincing.

“Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Your eyes drifted past Joel, drawn like a tide to the figure moving around the truck.

Tommy.

And God—he looked good. Time had carved him into something fuller, heavier at the shoulders, solid in a way that made the earth seem to hold its breath around him. That broad back, once boyish and lanky, now bore the shape of a man who carried too much. And still—still—he moved like he used to. That quiet, slow confidence that made you fall the first time.

His hair was slicked back now, all sharp and polished like he was trying to tame it—those wild curls that once spilled like ink between your fingers. Back then, they had a mind of their own.

So did he.

Now? Now, he looked like a man trying to keep himself in check. A cowboy dressed for control. It didn’t suit him. Not entirely.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

You stepped onto the porch before hesitation could catch up to you. The screen door gave its familiar groan behind you, the sound slicing into the quiet morning like a memory you hadn’t invited. Sunlight spilled across the wooden planks, drawing a clean line between past and present—and you stood right at the edge of it.

He looked up.

Not startled. Not surprised. Like some part of him had known you were there all along. Like he’d been waiting. And without meaning to—without even really deciding to—you spoke.

“The back door’s open,” you said flatly, arms crossed tight against your chest. “I’ll leave the front unlocked, too. I’ve got work upstairs, so I won’t be in your way."

"... Just… try not to track mud through the house.”

Your voice was ice. Not cruel, but practiced. Sharp. The kind of cold you learned to wear like armor. You didn’t look directly at him—not for more than a second. Your gaze swept across the two brothers like they were just another chore to handle. Just another thing on your list.

Then, with the kind of grace only bitterness could teach, you pulled the screen door back. Just enough. Enough space for him to walk through.

If he wanted to. Tommy’s eyes lingered on yours, searching. But you didn’t give him anything. No softness. No invitation.

Only the door. A silent challenge.

He stepped forward, boots heavy against the porch boards. Hesitating at the threshold like a man about to cross into holy ground. Or wreckage.

He paused. “Thanks.”

You didn’t answer.

And then he slipped past you—into the house he hadn’t set foot in since he left it behind. Joel gave you a longer look. Not pitying. Just tired. Knowing. You turned without a word, shutting the screen door behind you. It snapped closed with a final, decisive click.

Upstairs, you sat at your desk. Fingers poised over your keyboard. But the words didn’t come.

Downstairs, you heard the quiet murmur of male voices. Boots scuffing against the tile. Familiar footsteps in an unfamiliar context.

The past wasn’t dead. It was walking through your childhood home. It was standing in your kitchen. It was breathing your air.

You stared blankly at the blinking cursor, heart climbing into your throat. And then—uninvited, unwanted—came the thought: What if he never left this time? Would you even let him stay?

The next few days passed in a strange rhythm. Tight. Unyielding.

You kept to yourself. Mornings started early—coffee, eggs, laptop open, headphones in. A fortress of routine. You made sure to stay upstairs when the work started, and when you did come down, it was surgical.

Quick. To the kitchen. To the laundry. Back up again.

But somehow, Tommy was always there. Not talking. Not looking for conversation. Just… nearby.

He was in the hallway when you went to grab your charger. On the back steps, when you went to let the dog out. In the yard beneath your window, hammer in hand, sleeves rolled up. The exact kind of cruel coincidence that made the air feel thinner.

You didn’t speak. Not much.

When you passed each other in the hall, it was a glance. Maybe a nod. If he said “mornin’,” you didn’t answer.

When he asked once—just once—if you wanted anything from the hardware store, you said, “No.”

He brought back a bottle of your favorite iced tea anyway. Left it on the counter without a word.

You put it in the fridge and never drank it.

At night, you heard him laughing with Joel in the backyard, low and warm. That familiar sound—the one that used to carry across your bedroom floor like music when you were seventeen—now curled around the edges of your chest like smoke.

You stared at your ceiling for hours.

On the fifth day, you handed him a beer from the fridge.

It was nothing. Just a gesture. A momentary lapse in your rigid silence. It didn’t mean anything. Not a crack. Not a thaw. Not anything.

Right?

“Here,” you said, voice flat, nudging the chilled bottle through the half-open sliding door. “It’s like... eight hundred degrees out there.”

He glanced at it, then at you. The sun caught in his lashes, sweat clinging to the edge of his hairline. He didn’t smile.

He took it.

“Thanks,” he murmured, voice low, gravel-worn.

You nodded once, already stepping back, as if you stayed too long in his orbit, you'd come undone. “I didn’t do it to be nice,” you added, backing toward the stairs. “I just didn’t want you passing out in my yard.”

Tommy lifted the bottle in a small, sardonic toast, “Would hate to inconvenience you like that.”

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even blink.

You turned and walked away.

But it snagged something in your chest on the way out—like a fishhook caught beneath the ribs. Goddamn it. Was this how it was going to be? Was this all it was going to be?

No. No—you reminded yourself. Steeled your spine. This is how it should be.

Silent. Distant. Cold.

He left you. Walked out of your life like it was easy. Like you were just another part of the small-town scenery, he was shedding on his way to something bigger. Like what you had—what could’ve been—was forgettable.

Like you were.

You kept to that script for days.

Short answers. Avoiding eye contact. Locking yourself in your room to write and rewriting the same sentence fifteen times because your mind won't shut up.

And Tommy… he didn’t push. Not exactly. But he lingered.

Took his breaks on the back steps just under your window. Adjusted his work schedule so he was still around when you came down for coffee. One evening, you walked into the garage to grab something—and found him already inside, fixing the latch on the side door.

He startled, turned. So did you.

You both froze in the dim light, dust swirling between you. He looked like he wanted to say something. You waited, against your better judgment. But he didn’t. So you walked away. Again.

You climbed the stairs like the house itself was heavier now, like the walls remembered everything you’d said—and all the things you didn’t. That night, you sat at your desk, the pale glow of your screen washing over your face.

The document was still empty. Still waiting. The cursor blinked in the silence like a pulse—steady, unyielding. A heartbeat you couldn’t silence.

A reminder that time hadn’t stopped, even if everything else had.

And for just a moment—just a breath suspended between memory and ache—you let yourself go back.

Back to that night. The night he left.

You remembered how small you felt, sitting on the edge of your bed. Your knees drawn up to your chest. Bare skin touching bare skin, like you could hold yourself together.

The hum of cicadas outside had filled the space where his voice should’ve been. The night had swallowed him whole. And all you had left was the shape of him in your bedsheets, the echo of him in the room.

He never said goodbye.

Not a word. Not a note. Just gone.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—how he didn’t leave with a slammed door, didn’t give you a fight to cling to. He left softly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want to wake you.

Like he thought erasing himself gently would somehow hurt less.

You could survive the loss, maybe. You’d done that already—day after day.

But the not knowing. The lingering weight of all the almosts? That’s what gutted you.

Because how the hell are you supposed to stop loving someone who never let you say goodbye?

Someone who never gave you a final page to turn?

You didn’t want a clean break. You would’ve settled for jagged.

Shattered. Anything other than this quiet, aching permanence.

The grief of a love that just… drifted.

Like he took all the chapters you were meant to write together—and lit them on fire before you ever saw the ink.

How can you love someone you never closed a chapter with?

You didn’t have the answer. So you just lived. That’s all you could do.

The next morning was bleak. The kind that felt colorless from the moment you opened your eyes—sky the shade of wet concrete, air too still, too heavy.

The kind of morning where nothing quite sits right on your skin. Sleep. Sleep and read. That’s the kind of morning this was.

The boys had shown up early, hammers already echoing against the bones of the house by the time you dragged yourself from bed. The second addition—the part your parents conveniently forgot to tell you about—was underway.

A whole wing is being built like an afterthought. Like the house needed more rooms to feel emptier.

You stood in the kitchen, pouring your coffee into your chipped mug, the one with the fading rim and spider-crack down the side. Your phone was pressed between your cheek and shoulder, your mother’s voice crackling through the receiver.

"Yes, Mom… I know," you said, your voice edged with sleep and irritation. "I’ll tell them not to use the darkwood."

You stared out the window as the boys moved like ghosts across your backyard. Dust in the air. Heat is already rising off the soil. You squinted.

There he was.

Tommy.

Shoulders bent under the weight of some lumber, jaw tight, shirt sticking to his back like it was a second skin. He looked like the summer you’d tried to forget. Just older.

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t plan this before you left the country,” you muttered, lowering your voice. “You left me with the world’s most cryptic blueprint and no answers.”

Your mother sighed on the other end, already tuning you out.

“I have to go, sweetheart,” she said. “Tell Joel I said hi. And Tommy, too.”

No goodbye. You took a sip of the coffee, bitter and burnt, but it gave you something to hold. You opened the back door.

“Hey,” you called out, your voice cutting across the morning. Tommy looked up, blinking sweat from his lashes.

“No darkwood,” you said plainly. “Apparently, it clashes.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, leaned slightly on the beam in his hand. “What the hell doesn’t clash with this house?”

You almost smiled. Almost. But didn’t let the edges of your lips rise.

“My patience.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, then nodded, and turned back to the work.

You stood there for a moment longer, your fingers tightening around the handle of the mug, watching him move like he belonged to the earth. Like the weight of the wood grounded him. Like he didn’t once disappear from your life like a ghost at dawn.

You hated that it still made your heart ache.

And somehow—worse than anything—he always seemed to know when you were watching. Like there was some invisible thread still strung tight between the two of you, humming in the silence, pulling at the air when your gaze lingered too long.

As he rounded the corner of the house, he paused—just once. Looked back.

And your eyes met. It was brief. Barely a second. But it knocked the wind from your lungs all the same. You ducked instinctively, your head bowing out of view behind the kitchen window. Staring down at your hands like they held something worth inspecting. Like you could pretend you hadn’t been caught in the act. Caught in him.

Feigning indifference. Feigning innocence.

But it was too late. The moment had already happened.

And it was enough to remind you of the thread between you. It had never truly broken.

You stayed hunched for a while, eyes on your fingers as if they might still tremble. You hated that he could still do that—look at you and stir something deep in your chest, something old and warm and traitorous.

Eventually, you forced yourself back into the rhythm. Coffee cooling beside your laptop. The dull hum of construction outside pulsing against the windows like a heartbeat.

Work. Just work. You had an article due, something about the resurgence of analog photography. But the words wouldn’t come easily today. Your fingers hovered over the keys, twitching. Restless. The sentence you typed three times already still sounded like someone else wrote it. It was so hard to write lately.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed back from the desk and wandered into the kitchen, legs stiff from too many hours of sitting in your own silence. You reached for an orange—bright, firm, promising something clean and sharp to cut through the fog pressing against your skull.

Maybe the acid, the scent, the bite of citrus would jolt something loose. A sentence. A metaphor. A way to end the paragraph that had been rotting on your screen for the past hour.

You steadied the fruit on the cutting board and pressed the knife down—careless, distracted.

The blade slipped.

It was quick. A sudden, slicing kiss across your palm. You barely saw it happen before the sting bloomed, hot and biting. Then came the warmth—blood pooling fast, dark against the pale ridges of your skin. The orange rolled lazily toward the sink, abandoned.

“Shit—” you hissed, instinctively clenching your fist. Blood welled instantly, thick and crimson, dripping in slow, syrupy globs onto the tile.

You barely had time to grab a towel when the back door opened.

“Hey, I—” Tommy’s voice stopped short. The sound of his boots scuffed once, twice on the threshold, and then—

He was at your side.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just crossed the room like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Like he hadn’t been gone for over a decade.

“Let me see,” he said, low. Not a demand. Just the kind of voice you don’t argue with.

You tried to turn your hand away from him, but he caught your wrist gently, his calloused fingers curling around yours like they remembered how.

“It’s nothing,” you murmured, not trusting your voice to be steady.

“You’re bleeding all over the damn place,” he muttered, brow furrowed, eyes flicking down to your palm. The concern in his expression was too raw, too real—something that didn’t belong to a man who had left you behind without a word.

He pressed the towel into your palm, firm but careful. “You got a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, it’s—” The words stalled in your throat as your gaze lifted, catching his.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that the air felt different between you—thick with heat, tension, history. You could smell him: sun-warmed sweat, the faint bite of cigarettes, and something faintly artificial… cologne?

You blinked. He wore cologne?

For work?

Your mouth went dry.

You swallowed hard. “It’s under the bed.”

He froze for just a beat, eyes lifting from your hand to meet yours.

And for the first time since construction began, you really looked at each other—no shielding, no avoidance, no polite glances and feigned distractions. It was raw, heavy. The kind of eye contact that rattled something deep in your ribs. That said everything neither of you had the guts to.

Grief. Anger. Ache. Love. All of it—pressed into a single, suffocating second.

Tommy’s breath hitched, but he covered it with a short nod. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “I’ll get it.”

He didn’t ask where. He didn’t need to.

Because he already knew. It was exactly where you left it. Years ago—tucked under your bed, in that old shoebox, next to the flashlight and extra batteries.

Just in case.

Just in case he ever needed it.

He shifted his hand, covering yours atop the towel—a silent invitation to press down, to steady the pain yourself. Without another word, he headed upstairs—not rushing, but with a purpose that betrayed a memory sharp and certain. He knew exactly which door to find.

When he returned, he knelt before you as if by instinct—as if the years hadn’t dulled the unspoken understanding between you. The kitchen seemed to shrink around him, heat thickening the air. His presence was unbidden, yet it felt like something that belonged.

You might not pass out from blood loss, but the fact that he was kneeling in front of you.

“You didn’t have to—” you began, voice rough and tight.

“Don’t,” he cut in, quiet but resolute. And you didn’t.

“It’s fine,” you murmured, trying to pull your hand back, your voice brittle beneath the heat rising in your cheeks. “I can handle it.”

Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “Doesn’t look like it.”

His fingers were already unfurling gauze from the battered first aid kit, hands working with the same stubborn care he used to fix broken fences and busted drywall.

Steady. Precise. Unapologetic.

“You’re bleeding through the damn towel,” he added, eyes flicking to the deep red soaking through the cloth like it had something to prove.

You weren’t. He was being kind of dramatic.

And then—his hand wrapped around yours again.

Warm. Solid. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

For just a breath, just a flicker of a moment—you let it happen. Let yourself imagine it was still then. It was still a hot July night, and he was slipping through your bedroom window like he belonged there.

That he hadn’t taken every soft thing you gave him and vanished into silence.

He peeled the towel back slowly, and hissed through his teeth.

“You always did this,” he muttered under his breath, almost like he didn’t mean for it to slip out. “Couldn’t cook without hurting yourself. Still clumsy as hell.”

You blinked. The words cut deeper than the blade had.

“Don’t,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, trembling but sharp as glass. “Don’t talk like you know me.”

His jaw tightened. But he didn’t let go. Didn’t retreat. His thumb moved without thinking—just once—over the edge of your wrist, where your pulse thudded wild and panicked, like it knew better than to trust him again.

“I do know you,” he said at last. His voice wasn’t soft, or angry.

Just… worn.

Tired.

“That’s the part I can’t seem to forget.”

The kitchen went quiet—stifling quiet. Only the hum of the fridge, and the sound of your own breath snagging on the edge of emotion.

And still—he held your hand like it was something worth protecting.

Like maybe, for once, he was the one who couldn’t let go.

As if summoned by the thrum of your fear, the front door creaked open. Joel stepped inside, a paper bag slung casually in one hand, eyes narrowing the second he caught sight of the kitchen.

“The hell’s goin’ on in here?”

“Nothing,” you said too fast—your breath hitching in the middle of the word. “I’m fine.”

You yanked your hand back like it had caught flame, heat rising in your cheeks. Hold the line.

Tommy didn’t flinch, but something passed over his face—quick, unreadable. He flexed his fingers once, then raised them slowly in a mock surrender. His tongue pressed into the corner of his cheek, but the tension in the air pulsed too loudly for jokes.

Joel clocked every bit of it. His brow lifted.

Silent. Sharp. Suspicious.

You didn’t say anything else. Just turned and walked out. Quick, sharp steps—an escape. Because staying? Staying meant unraveling. Splintering the whole house down the middle.

Tommy stayed frozen, hands braced on the counter like he might push the whole kitchen away. His jaw ticked, tongue dragging over his back teeth. Joel didn’t say a word, but Tommy could feel his stare like a weight at the base of his neck.

Finally, he glanced up, exhaling through his nose.

“…Hell of a thing,” he muttered. “Cuts an orange and suddenly it’s a goddamn Greek tragedy.”

“Go get the goddamn cement bags…” Joel exhales, dragging a hand through his hair.

It had been a month since construction began.

A whole month of the Miller brothers tearing apart your backyard and piecing it back together—sweat-streaked days of lumber stacks, concrete dust, and the whine of power tools cutting through the silence you'd once cherished.

Expanding the house wasn’t easy. Adding a whole new wing wasn’t some HGTV weekend project—it was invasive, loud, exhausting. The kind of change that pressed into every corner of your life, even the ones you thought were safe. You were managing it all on your own, with your parents halfway across the world chasing their latest academic obsession, sending vague texts about ancient temples and unfiltered sunsets.

You were the one answering questions, signing off on adjustments, pretending like you had it all under control when inside, everything felt like it was slipping.

The house didn’t feel like yours anymore. Not with brothers tracking in dirt, rearranging your walls, changing the literal structure of the space you grew up in. And especially not with Tommy Miller’s ghost—his voice, his laugh, his scent—pressed into every hallway, lingering long after he'd gone for the day.

It felt like trying to build something new on top of bones you hadn’t buried properly.

Like every hammer swing was driving something deeper into your chest instead of the walls.

The heat pressed down like a second skin, sticky and relentless.

One of those nights where even a cold shower leaves you clammy, soaked through with sweat you can’t wash away.

You rose from your chair, limbs stiff and aching, the words on your screen blurring into nothing—meaningless.

Your writing, your efforts, all of it felt hollow, like shouting into the void.

Fuck. Everything felt wrong.

Downstairs, the air still carried him—faint traces of beer, the sharp cotton scent of his shirt, and that subtle, feral tang of sweat that somehow smelled like home. Like, even when he was dirty, rough, and exhausted, he was cleaner in your mind than anyone else.

Your eyes flicked toward the back door, still ajar, a sliver of the night creeping inside. Tommy groaned low, shifting his workbag over one shoulder, muscles tensing with the familiar motion.

“You’re still here?” Your voice was barely above a whisper, hesitant and rough. Bare feet slid over the hardwood, soft as a ghost’s approach. “It’s like... ten at night. You do know we’re not paying overtime, right?”

He glanced up, surprise flickering across his face, but he didn’t let the bag slip from his grasp. Instead, he let out a tired chuckle, dry and short.

“Yeah, I figured.” His voice was rough around the edges, like gravel smoothed by time but still sharp enough to cut. “Work’s slow when it’s this hot. Thought I’d get a head start, try to wrap it up before it gets worse.”

You nodded, though your heart pinched with something you couldn’t name. The space between you stretched taut, loaded with unsaid things. “You—” Your voice caught, words tangled in the tension thickening the air. You stopped yourself, the weight of what you wanted to say crushing the breath from your lungs. “You didn’t have to come back.”

His eyes locked with yours—steady, unflinching, almost unapologetic.

“I came back for the job,” he said quietly, voice rough around the edges. “…Save Joel some time.”

The words settled between you like cold stones. You swallowed hard, but the heaviness wouldn’t lift. It anchored you where you stood.

“His kid is cute,” you said then, voice clipped, sharp enough to draw blood, “Sarah...”

His niece.

It wasn’t a question or an invitation—it was a declaration, a wall built from years of silence.

Tommy’s gaze flickered for a moment—something like regret, or maybe pain—but he didn’t respond. The silence stretched. You hated how much you still wanted him to say something, anything.

Instead, he shifted his weight and muttered, “Yeah. She is.”

Your heart twisted—bitter, raw, aching in a way that felt both familiar and unfamiliar.

This awkwardness between you? It wasn’t who you were. Not the way you’d been before, back when laughter filled your rooms, when teasing and jokes were the language you both spoke effortlessly, when you prodded and pushed at each other with no walls between you.

When you were each other's first.

“How’s...” You faltered, fingers drumming nervously on the granite countertop, “How’s your dad?”

He paused, tongue pressed to the side of his cheek like he was swallowing something hard.

“Dead.” The word came out clipped, a breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl, frustration threading through it.

Your mouth opened, his name on your tongue, but he cut you off with a sharp shake of his head.

“Don’t do this—"

"Not tonight.”

The silence after his words was thick, loaded. You wanted to push, to ask more, to unravel the years of silence, but something in his eyes warned you off—this wasn’t the time.

Was it ever going to be?

“You left.” The words hit the room like a jagged blade—plain, sharp, unforgiving. “You slid out of my bed. Climbed out my window. And you left.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stand taller, spine stiffening like steel under fire.

He tilted his head, that old, familiar frustration simmering just beneath the surface—like a storm you’d weathered before, one you knew too well. You've seen it before. Hell, you were there when it was made.

Your name slipped from his lips, low and urgent, a warning:

“Please.”

But you didn’t back down. You couldn’t. Why would you?

“You left,” you spat, voice breaking but fierce, “And you never came back.”

He stepped back slowly. The weight of your words knocked the breath from his chest. The work bag slipped from his shoulder like a dying limb, thudding softly against the floor.

You didn’t let up.

“Do you feel guilty?” you asked, voice trembling with fury. “Do you even want to apologize?”

Silence. So you pressed harder, cutting deeper.

“Did you like it?” The words came like venom. “Wasting all those nights I let you sleep in my room. Pretend nothing was wrong. Hiding from your father... while I—while I held you together.”

His jaw tensed. Still nothing.

“Did you like it?” you hissed. “Fucking your best friend—”

That shattered him. He stepped forward so fast the air shifted, his voice raised above yours for the first time.

“Jesus—fuck…” he barked, dragging a palm down his face like it might erase the moment.

Anger. Sweat. Shame. It was all there, bubbling just beneath the surface.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. His presence filled the kitchen like smoke from a house fire—heavy, choking, impossible to ignore.

He looked at you like he didn’t know whether to argue or fall to his knees.

“I was seventeen,” he said, low, guttural. “And I was drowning.”

You blinked, your voice quieter now. But not kinder.

“And I was there. Every single night. And you still left me.”

He stepped back, that frustration blooming into something more brittle. Regret. Maybe even grief.

“You think I haven’t thought about it every goddamn day since?” he asked, his voice cracking at the edges.

You laughed. It was short and bitter, “Not enough to come back. To apologize.” The silence that followed was loud enough to swallow you both whole.

He stared at you—really stared. But this look was different. It was weighted.

You could see it in the quiet collapse around his eyes. The carved-in creases along his brow. The lines hugging his mouth like they'd settled there after years of clenching.

He looked tired. Weathered. Older.

Hell, so were you.

But the boy you once knew—the one who whispered secrets against your bedsheets and flinched at every car door slam—he was still in there. Flickering behind the amber-brown of his eyes, freckled skin flushed from heat and memory.

“What do you want me to say?” he finally rasped, voice rough as gravel. Another step forward. Closer.

“That I love you?”

Your breath caught.

“That I was a dumb fuckin’ kid who fell for his best friend?” His voice grew sharper. “That I hated my life? That you were the only good thing in it? That every day, I thought about leavin'—and I don’t mean runnin' off to the army.” He looked at you then, unflinching.

“I mean, leaving. For good,"

"My dad ain't keep his gun in no damn safe.”

You flinched, a ragged inhale escaping before you could stop it. Your arms folded around yourself like armor.

But he didn’t stop. He took another step—careful, cautious, like you were something sacred he didn’t know how to hold.

“That seeing your face—sneakin’ into your window, smelling your shampoo on my fuckin’ hoodie—that was the only thing that made me feel alive?”

Your silence begged him not to go on.

But he did.

“That every hit I took, every time I bit my tongue bloody just to keep quiet... I did it so I could make it to the next night? Just so I could hear you laugh?”

“Just so I could feel like a fuckin’ person for once?”

He was close now. Close enough to break you.

And when you didn’t respond, when your body remained rigid and your lips sealed shut, he added—soft, but ruined. “You think I wanted to leave you?"

“I didn’t leave you—I left me.”

The words landed like a hammer to the chest. Blunt. Unforgiving. Final.

You exhaled, a sound more sob than breath, and your knees nearly buckled with it. Tears tracked silently down your cheeks, warm and steady like they’d been waiting all this time for permission.

That wasn’t the answer you wanted. But it was the one you got.

And God, it gutted you. Because you'd spent years stitching his absence into abandonment. Into betrayal. You’d made it about the leaving—not the why. Not the rotting town that carved him hollow from the inside out. Not the bruises he kept quiet. Not the glassy stare he wore like armor. You never realized. And now it was too late to fix it.

He stood there, just looking at you—eyes wide and wild with something close to regret. And then, his breath hitched. He lifted a hand—hesitating—like it wanted to reach for you, to cradle your cheek, wipe away the wreckage.

But it faltered. It dropped. He couldn’t even touch you.

“Fuck—” he rasped, stepping back like your pain had burned him, “I’m sorry. That was—” He choked on the next words, shaking his head like they wouldn’t come.

“Too much,” you whispered for him. Your voice thin. Broken.

His eyes flicked to yours again.

And for a second, there it was.

That same goddamn look. The one he gave you on that night—your window cracked open, the summer air thick, his hands trembling as he kissed you like it was the only thing that could save him. That night he left without a goodbye.

He still looked like that boy.

But this time, you weren’t seventeen. And this love wasn’t enough to rewrite history.

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, jaw trembling. “You don’t get to do that. Drop some tragic confession and expect it to make the mess prettier. You left, Tommy. You chose to disappear.”

“I didn’t have a goddamn choice,” he said low.

“You did.” Your voice cracked on the last syllable. “You did, and you didn’t choose me.”

The silence between you turned heavy, thick with all the years lost to what-ifs and should’ve-beens.

Finally, you turned toward the stairs, wiping your face again.

“Just—lock the back door when you’re done.”

You padded up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Behind you, his voice barely filtered through—just the edge of a broken exhale, the muffled crack of “Fuck,” and the restless shuffle of feet with no direction, no place to go.

But you kept climbing.

Because what else could you do?

You reached the landing and closed your door like it could block out the past. Like it could erase the way his words were still ringing in your bones.

I didn’t leave you—I left me.

It echoed like a curse.

You stood there, still. Shaking. Eyes darting across your room like they were searching for something to hold on to—something that hadn’t already been shattered.

But everything looked different now. Smaller. Older. The bed where you once whispered into the dark with him. The chair where he used to sit in silence, a quiet escape from the bruises on his ribs. The window he’d disappeared through.

You slumped to the floor.

What the fuck were you supposed to do with all of this?

With the memory of a boy who’d wanted to die—who’d only stayed alive because of you—and the boy who never told you. Never gave you the chance to carry any of it.

Cry?

God, yes. You cried.

It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t soft or cinematic. It tore out of you like a wound reopening under pressure. Sharp. Immediate. Ugly. Loud. The kind of crying that hollowed your ribs and made your molars pulse. You cried like your body thought grief was a fire to be purged, like noise could rewrite history if you screamed loud enough. If you hurt hard enough.

You didn't even remember falling to the ground. One moment you were upright, the next you were on your side—curled fetal on the cold floor like some ghosted version of yourself. Your fists clutched the hem of your t-shirt, pulling so hard you thought the fabric might tear, might snap you out of this. But it didn’t. Nothing did.

You couldn’t breathe around it—this grief, this truth that clawed at your lungs like it was trying to make space for itself. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. Tear the memories out of your skull. Rewind to the summer of ‘89 and beg him not to go.

And the worst part?

The cruelest part?

You still loved him.

You still fucking loved him.

Through all of it. Through the leaving. Through the years of nothing. Through the not-knowing and the silence and the way he looked at you now like he still held your name behind his teeth.

You loved him, and he had left anyway.

Not because he stopped. But because he didn’t know how to stay.

And that? That broke you worse than if he’d said he never loved you at all.

authors note: hi .. was this bad.. idk feedback is like so appreciated.. i am intimidated.

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#the last of us #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #tommy miller #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller fanfic #young tommy miller #tommy miller imagine

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sassconvict · 3 days ago

Text

It’s Always Been You

Joel Miller x F!reader

Masterlist

Chapter 12: Alone Again

Word Count -> 2.9K

Warnings -> 18+ smut (Minors DNI), oral (f receiving), lot’s of swearing and arguing 😬

Your POV:

It took about 2 days before Joel was back on his bullshit, the apologies and I love you confessions had no chance against the grief Joel was feeling.

Your couple of days free from the medical centre were short-lived, you headed back to work with little to no enthusiasm to be there and Henry was quick to notice. It didn't help that Joel decided he wanted to pick a fight with you this morning right as you were getting ready to leave. Something along the lines of "What do you expect me to do while you are at that damn clinic almost 24/7?" which is complete bullshit, which is what you told him. He didn't appreciate that answer, so you told him to go find a job around the QZ or something useful instead of being on my back all the time about things I can no longer control.

You assume when you return at the end of your long day that either he listened to you and found something to do or was at the bar drinking again, not caring which one it was you went to bed. When you wake up the next morning to get ready for another day at the clinic, you find him passed out on the couch covered in dirt and dry blood.

You decide not to even engage with him on this, leaving him passed out on the couch as you leave the apartment unit, but making sure to slam the door when you do so that he knows you saw him.

You walk through the doors of the clinic and are immediately greeted with chaos, and people running around you. Finally, you see Henry walk into the area and you flag him down, "What's going on? Where do you need me?" you ask.

"We've got a girl in her mid-20s it looks like in the 3rd examination room on the right, a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Can you handle that, might need surgery" he replies.

You swallow and reply "Yeah of course I'll head over there now". All you can think is, what if it's Sarah?

Immediately upon entering the room, you can quickly deduce that it is indeed not Sarah. This girl looks younger than sorry and lacks her gorgeous dark curly hair and dark skin. You picture Sarah in your head and get lost in thought for a moment before the medical centre staff member yells out to you, “Doctor, we need you over here right now!"

You run over to the bedside and begin your evaluation. She had a gunshot wound to the abdomen and was losing blood quickly. “Can we get some O neg in here!” You yell out to the “nurse” standing in the doorway, and she turns quickly to get that for you. When she returns, you start the transfusion and try to control the bleeding, but you can’t seem to get ahead of it. The heart monitors start to scream at you, indicating she’s lost her pulse. You yell out, “Starting CPR!” As you get on top of her and start doing chest compressions.

After doing compressions for a while and the first transfusion, you call the time of death. In a perfect world, you would have given her more blood and continued CPR, but you’re running on a limited supply and have a protocol to follow.

You get off the young girl once you stop CPR and unhook her from all the machines before pulling the sheet over her head and calling the soldier in to take the body away.

You let out a loud sigh before walking back into the hallway and over to yours and Henry’s office so you can sit down for a moment before they call you back into the hell hole. You place your face into the palm of your hands as you try to hold the tears back. You saw a lot of intense shit while being a doctor before the outbreak, but somehow it never measures up to the things you’ve seen since getting to the Kansas City QZ.

When you worked in Austin, you mostly just clipped a lot of aneurysms and did a lot of tumour resections. The occasional trauma when you worked the ER or when you were on call, and for the most part it was almost exclusively head traumas. Though you did a full rotation in the intern and resident years of your surgical residency, it had been a long time since you’d done a lot of the things that you do here in the QZ. Back at your job in Austin, you were also provided with a more than adequately stocked hospital, while here at the medical centre, you were lucky if you had the basics. No major surgeries, not because you didn’t have the equipment but because you didn’t have properly trained staff to pull it off.

The QZ soldiers had raided a nearby hospital before you even arrived, they got hospital beds, medication, IVs and other miscellaneous hospital supplies but it wasn’t enough, it’s beginning to run low now. You and Henry have sat in front of the leaders of the QZ to express these thoughts with them but “the closest hospital isn’t close enough” they say. While you find that to be a load of bullshit, you don’t bother arguing with them because it ain’t gonna get you nowhere, so you bite your tongue and move on.

The rest of the day wasn’t as hectic, just a few people coming in for a variety of different reasons, no more losses though thankfully. Once the sun started to go down, Henry came to relieve you from work. He lived at the medical centre, and by that, he does live there. He never takes a break, he blames it on the fact that he doesn’t have anyone waiting for him at home which has always brought a frown to your face but he is a very stubborn man and there is no persuading him out of his ways.

Once you finally give in to Henry’s persuasion for you to go home, you grab your bag and start walking back to your apartment. In your head, you hope that Joel isn’t there lying on that damned couch. But with your luck, that isn’t the case as you lay your eyes open, he’s passed out on the couch.

You let out a quiet laugh while rolling your eyes before slamming the front door closed. This immediately causes Joel to jump, eyes opening wide and glaring at you. He is met with your smug smile; you are feeling petty tonight, and having woken him up makes something inside light up.

He quickly stands up on his feet and starts walking up to you; he looks down at your body and sees the blood on your clothes from work but chooses to ignore it and keeps walking closer, right until he is so close that he pushes you against the wall.

Unable to move, he feels power over you, and this brings a smirk onto his lips. He likes being in control—he looks down at you as you fight to meet his gaze; he grabs your face and forces it up so that your eyes meet his. You try and turn your eyes in the opposite direction; he starts pushing against you harder, trying to force you to look at him again and finally give in.

You bring your eyes back up to him, and he brings his hand up to your neck and applies slight pressure, causing a quiet moan to slip past your lips. He pushes his hips against yours.

Your mouth opens and lets out another moan and brings his lip to your neck and starts sucking on the sensitive skin, pulling the skin into his mouth before using his teeth to leave a mark on your skin. He brings his lips close to your ear and whispers “Jump”; you hesitate for a second before jumping up so that his hands can grab you. Squeezing your ass as he continues to push you into the wall, this time taking your lips in his. Sliding his tongue past your lips, you push against it with your tongue, causing a groan to come from him.

He pulls you from against the wall and places you on the table just a couple of feet away from where he previously held you against the wall. Placing you down and dipping his head to give a kiss to your inner thigh while looking up at you through his eyelashes, waiting for you to stop him, but you don’t. He takes his mouth and gives a kiss to your heated core, still covered by your leggings. His name starts leaving your mouth along with needy moans, you feel his smirk before he pulls his face away from between your thighs grabbing the waistband of your leggings and pulling them down your legs to remove them, throwing them on the floor before bringing his face back to yours before pressing a needy kiss against your lips, pulling away again, kissing your neck, down to your chest and then to your stomach before looking back up at you and bringing a kiss to the inside of your thighs. This causes your hips to buck forward, trying to get any type of release as he continues to tease you.

Finally, after hearing you whine his name, he brings his warm lips to your dripping core. Bringing an open-mouth kiss to your swollen clit before sucking on it and swirling his tongue. You start to lose control of your body and begin grinding against his face, you can feel a smirk build on his lips from your actions.

He pulls his mouth off you, looking up through his eyelashes to meet your gaze. You begin to whine at the loss of contact, but just as quickly as he stopped, he started again. This time he brings his fingers up to your core and pushes them inside you, the stretch causes your back to arch into him. While still looking at you he brings his lips back to your sensitive clit and begins flicking his tongue at a torturous pace. He feels your legs begin to shake and your walls begin to tighten around his fingers, he can feel you close to your orgasm so he quickens up his pace.

You feel yourself reaching your high, you moan his name over and over. You no longer have control of your body, at this moment he holds all the control and you hate it but love it so much at the same time. He lets out a deep moan and the vibration from his mouth on you sends you over the edge in less than a second. Your walls clench hard on his fingers and he feels your arousal release on him but he continues, dragging your orgasms out before finally pulling his fingers out and licking down your entrance to collect all your arousal on his tongue.

He pulls away and starts to undo his jeans but before he can pull them down, a loud banging at the door startles both of you. The banging is then accompanied by a voice.

“Joel! Are you in there?” A woman’s voice calls out and you immediately jump up and throw your leggings back on while glaring at him.

“Joel, who the fuck is that?” You try and whisper but it turns into something more.

He pulls his hands over his face before shaking his head and replying, “I’m sorry” as he walks over to the door while buttoning his jeans back up.

He opens the door and a woman, around his age is standing there. “There you are,” she says before looking back at you awkwardly like she didn’t know you would be there. She speaks up again “Oh hey Doctor, umm- nice to finally meet you.”

You stand there so lost in what the fuck is going on, you scoff “Oh is it, and who the fuck are you?”

She steps past Joel and you now see the blood soaking through her shirt, “I’m Tess, I’m a— a friend of Joel’s” she replies to you as she pulls out a chair from the table and takes a seat like she has the right to even be sitting in your apartment.

“A friend? Well funny because Joel ain’t ever mentioned a friend named Tess before, but from what it sounds like, he’s mentioned me to you huh?” You yell back at the two of them.

You can see the panic on Joel’s face. He’s been caught and he doesn’t know what to say, but he finally manages to say something: “Baby, it’s not what it looks like, okay.” He tries to grab your hand, but you yank it away. You look at Tess and notice she is refraining from looking at you. You can’t believe the scene that’s unfolding in front of you.

You take several steps back, rage beginning to take over your body. “Okay, well, ‘Joel’s friend Tess’,” you say with air quotes to indicate you can tell this is a load of bullshit. “What the fuck are you doing at my apartment looking for my boyfriend?”

She quickly looks at Joel, like she didn’t know that this was a shared apartment or that the two of you were dating. She just knew of you and from Joel’s lack of friends that’s why she assumed you were the Doctor he came in with. “Well, as you can see, I’ve got a bit of a situation here,” she says, pointing at the giant growing blood stain on her shirt. “I knew Joel had a pretty stocked-up first aid kit here, so I came to use it, but I get the feeling that the first aid kit might belong to you?”

You shake your head again, not knowing what to even reply to her. “Yeah, you’d be fucking correct in assuming that, and why the hell couldn’t you go to the clinic, huh?”

She hesitates before responding to you. “Well, this injury didn’t exactly come from within the QZ walls.”

Holy fuck is this woman serious? “What the fuck, you need to get the fuck out of here. I cannot have some smugglers just sitting at my kitchen table.”

Tess looks at Joel again, but his eyes are locked on you, and finally, it all clicks.

You walk up to Joel, shoving him hard and yelling at him. “Is that what you’ve been doing these past few nights? You’re going past the walls smuggling with this fucking stranger. You’ve brought her into our apartment! Jesus Christ, Joel, have you fucking lost it?”

You step back and take a breath to collect yourself before speaking to both of them, but mostly to Joel. “You both need to get the fuck out of my apartment right now.”

Joel takes a step towards you, but you throw your hand out and stop him. “Get your fucking shit out of my apartment, Joel. I can’t deal with you right now. I can’t fucking believe you.”

“Your apartment? I thought this was our apartment.”

You laugh. “Our apartment, funny. And what have you done to make this apartment any bit yours, huh? I slave away at that clinic while you sit here drinking, and now apparently spending your time with other women doing things that could get us both killed!” “The only reason they gave us this apartment and even let us stay is because I’m a doctor, for fuck sake.”

He takes another step, and you snap, running over to the bedroom and pulling his stuff out of the drawers. “Here’s a head start. I’m going to leave for an hour, and when I get back, I want to be like you were never here. You can go figure it out on your own and leave me the fuck alone. I don’t want to fucking see you, do you understand?”

He doesn’t answer, so you yell at him again. “I said, do you fucking understand?”

He quietly answers, “Yeah, I understand.”

You leave the room and go towards the doors, throwing on your jacket and sliding on your shoes before turning to Tess. “And you… You can get the fuck out right now and go find someone else’s medical supplies to steal.” She nods and gets up, but you open and slam the door in her face before she can follow behind you.

Tears fill your eyes. You quickly walk away from the once-shared apartment.

You find yourself coincidentally at the bar where he probably met Tess. Pounding back drinks, and waiting for an hour to pass by, it may be the longest hour of your life, but finally, it passes.

You drunkenly make your way back to your apartment, unlocking and opening the door. Once inside, you look down and see Joel’s key. He slid it back under the door when he locked up.

You look around, and it indeed looks like he was never here. You know that’s what you said you wanted, but the tears start coming anyway as the life you’ve known for so long finally comes apart.

Previous -> Chapter 11: Grieving

#joel miller #the last of us #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #tlou #joel tlou #joel and tommy #joel x reader #pedro x reader #tlou fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel smut #tlou smut #tlou fic #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction #itsalwaysbeenyou #sassconvict

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sassconvict · 8 days ago

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Oh wow I’m now sobbing. Thank you so much😃😅🥲

#tlou 2 spoilers #tlouedit #tlou gif #pedro pascal #pedro pascal gif #joel miller #ellie williams gif #tlou spoilers #bella ramsey #the last of us hbo #joelmilleredit #joel miller tlou

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sassconvict · 9 days ago

Text

Masterlist:

AO3 account

My multi-chapter fic:

It’s Always Been You (Joel Miller x F!reader)

Oneshots:

Text in red if there is smut

Joel Miller x F!reader:

Bruised Hand

Distracted

Sweet Girl

Tommy Miller x F!reader:

Midnight Love

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sassconvict · 9 days ago

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It’s Always Been You

Joel Miller vs F!reader

Masterlist

Chapter 11: Grieving

Word Count-> 2,237

Warnings-> Violence, drugs and alcohol use, mentions of the death of family members, and lots of swearing cuz they both got truckers mouths

A week later:

Reader's POV:

The past seven days have been nothing short of hell, Joel has barely spoken a word to you, but you know that he probably just needs some time but its hard because he wasn't the only one who loved and lost Tommy and Sarah.

You started working in the medical centre the day after you both arrived and it's been non-stop ever since, mostly QZ soldiers getting all banged up and shot. Today felt like it was no different but things took a turn for the worse pretty quickly.

You had placed a man in a quarantine room not too long ago, just a few doors down from the one they had put you in. The only difference between you and this man though was that he was lying about being bitten and you weren't.

When you entered the room he was facing away so you approached him, as you got closer noticing the uncontrolled shaking movements his body was making. You quickly turned on your heels to run to the exit but tripped on your foot in the process, falling to the ground directly on your injured shoulder causing you to let out a scream of pain, drawing the infected man's attention to you. Quickly it makes its way on top of you and from the pain in your shoulder making you almost unable to push him far enough away to stop him from biting you, pushing your body beyond its breaking point as you feel the stitches in your shoulder snap from your skin.

You screamed for help and within seconds a soldier appeared at the door and shot the infected in the head causing its limp body to fall on top of you. Using your uninjured arm to push the dead weight from on top of you and quickly exit the room, your breathing is heavy and you feel like your heart might explode. That was almost it you thought, you almost died right there in that room.

The other doctor, Henry walks up beside you and puts an arm on your shoulder, pulling you from your thoughts. "You okay, not bitten are you?" He asks.

You shake your head before replying "No I'm not bitten, just pretty shaken up honestly."

"Well you know it's on the slower side today so why don't we take a quick look at your shoulder and then you can head home" he says to you while pointing to your shoulder where blood has been soaking through your shirt.

You agree and follow him to one of the examining rooms, you remove your shirt and take a look at the gunshot wound for yourself. The stitches from when Henry cleaned out your wound had indeed split open.

Henry takes his time cleaning and re-stitching your wound, insisting you put it in an arm sling for a few days to prevent your stitches from splitting again and then commands you to take a couple of days and rest which honestly catches you by surprise.

He walks you to the door but before sending you off hands you a bottle of pain medication.

"Take these to ease the pain, be careful with 'em' them though. They are strong, okay?" He says to you.

"Thanks, Henry, I appreciate what you're doing for me."

"Not a worry, now get home before I change my mind about letting you leave" he jokes.

You wave goodbye to him as you walk away, making your way to the place they moved you into. It wasn't crazy big or anything but it was big enough for you and Joel. You walk through the doors of the apartment unit and instead of being treated by Joel, you are greeted with the smell of booze. You slam the door closed and hear a groan coming from the living room, you notice the half-empty whiskey bottle on the table. Joel had been drowning his emotions out with the booze and you knew that this might get ugly.

You let out a loud sigh and immediately this gains the attention of Joel, "You got something to fucking say?" He yells at you.

You ignore him, knowing he is just trying to get a rise out of you. "I'm fucking talking to you" he yells again.

This does get a rise out of you causes your hand to slam down on the table, "Jesus Joel can you calm down, I just got home and it's been a long day so please, can we not do this" you yell back at him.

He scoffs and stands up to walk over to the table, grabbing the whiskey bottle and taking a drink out of it before hissing and placing it back on the table, his eyes not leaving yours the entire time.

You roll your eyes at him as he walks back to the couch and lays down. Your next move, might not be the smartest but he's pissed you off and you want to return the favour. With his eyes still on you, you grab the bottle lift it to your mouth and begin chugging the liquid down. It burns but you are determined to finish it.

Joel swears before getting up to come yank the bottle from your hand but by the time he does, he grabs an empty bottle.

He swears again before looking you dead in the eyes and saying "Are you fucking serious! You don't even like whiskey. Fucking crazy woman" he scoffs and slams the empty bottle back onto the table so hard that the glass breaks.

A slight smile creeps onto your face making you indeed feel like a crazy woman but you have no regrets. Not until you see him throwing his jacket on and sliding on his boots, headed for the door.

"Where the fuck are you going?" You say with a slightly more attitude than you intended.

"Well you drank all my fucking whiskey so I'm going to the bar" he hisses back at you before slamming the door behind him.

You didn't expect his reaction to be good but you didn't expect that. Finally you take off your shoes and jacket, heading to your shared bedroom to take your blood-soaked clothes off, minding the arm sling. You realize then that Joel hadn't even noticed your blood-soaked shirt or the sling holding your arm. You think, "Well he was probably just drunk", but then your brain throws darker thoughts at you "Does he even care about you anymore?".

The dark thoughts begin to multiply and swim around in your head, then you remember the pills Henry had given you. You throw on a tank top and some shorts and walk over to your jacket to pull the bottle out from your pocket. You know you shouldn't because of the whiskey but the need to numb your mind wins over your self-control.

You walk over to the kitchen and grab a glass of water before bringing it over to the couch, opening the pill bottle and ignoring Henry's warning about them being strong and taking three of them out and swallowing them back before you have the chance to change your mind.

You place the glass of water next to the pill bottle on the small coffee table before lying down and staring up at the ceiling. It doesn't take long for the effects of the liquor mixed with the pills to start taking over your body. You start to lose the feeling of your body, almost as if you're floating in space, eyes fighting to stay open until finally they give and you fall unconscious, mind leaving your body just like you hoped it would.

Joel's POV:

For the past week all you've done is either sit at home and drink or sit at the bar and drink, some parts of you feel bad because you know she is out there working hard so that you both have a place to stay and ration cards so that you can eat. Everyone around here already knows you as the boyfriend of the pretty new doctor so they pretty much give you whatever you want, probably hoping that this will earn them a favour from her in the future.

You sit at the bar thinking about the events that just went down minutes ago in the apartment, "what the fuck came over her" you thought to yourself before grabbing the glass in front of you, slamming the liquid back before motioning the glass to the bartender to fill it back up.

After a few more drinks and some failed attempts from drunk women trying to take the empty seat beside you, they must not know you as the doctor's boyfriend. You finally decide to go take your place back on the couch in your apartment. Hoping that it's been long enough that she's asleep when you arrive.

When you walk in the front door you immediately notice that the lights are all still on, "fuck I guess I didn't wait long enough" you thought to yourself before quietly closing the door behind you and removing your jacket and boots. You make your way to the couch to go to sleep before realizing that she is already passed the fuck out on it. You groan before taking a closer look and seeing the bottle of pills on the coffee table, you walk over to it and pick it up. Pain meds. Then you remember why you left in the first place, she drank all your liquor. Fuck.

You call out her name and when she doesn't even twitch you grab her face and start rocking it back and forth repeatedly calling out her name but no response. You start to panic, "is she dead?" But then saw her chest rise and fall again. A little of the anxiety being lifted you decide how you are going to wake her up, you grab the glass of water sitting beside the pill bottle and dump it on her.

This immediately causes her eyes to open and her arm to fly over her face, that's when you realize the new stitching on her shoulder and her arm being in a sling. Immediately feeling back you didn't notice it before.

The water trick didn't work very well as you see her eyes are already closed again. You yell out to her loudly and this wakes her up again and she begins to yell at you now.

"What the fuck do you want Joel, can't you see I'm fucking sleeping."

You put your arm on her shoulder to apologize but before you can she sits up, yanking her body from your grasp before yelling out at you again.

"Don't fucking touch me!" she says through gritted teeth.

Pure shock is your reaction to her actions and words. "Darling I'm sorry for being a dick earlier, you know I'm just having a really hard time right now with everything that's happened" You begin to try to apologize.

She scoffs and lets out a drunken laugh "Yeah you were being a dick, but not just earlier. All fucking week Joel. You know I'm sorry about Sarah and Tommy you know I am but you aren't the only one who lost them! I lost them too!" She yells out the last part before her face falls and tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

You feel even worse now, you had been so lost in your own emotion that you forgot about hers. You motion her to move over so you can sit beside her, eventually she hesitantly moves to make room for you.

"Baby you're right, I've been selfish and I'm sorry. I haven't been there for you when I should have" You apologize again, motioning for her to lay down on your lap and she does, letting out a sigh of relief.

You take your hand and slowly drag it across her arm that's being held in the sling and you ask "What happened at work today love? Are you okay?"

She nods "I'm fine, I just had a rough encounter with a patient who turned infected and I ripped my stitches fighting it off," she says a little too casually, the sentence making Joel's eyes go wide.

"Jesus, I'm so glad you're alright. I can't lose you too okay?" He says while rubbing his thumb on her cheek, wiping away the tears.

You push her up so that you can stand, reaching for her hand and pulling her up after you. She forgets how out of it she is and almost falls to the ground so you pick her up bridal style and walk her over to your bedroom where you carefully place her on the bed. You remove your clothes before joining her in the bed, pulling the blanket over you both before sliding your arm over her body to pull her back to your chest.

With your head nuzzled beside hers, you speak out quietly "I'm sorry again darling, I love you so much."

She hums as she grabs your hand that's resting on her stomach, replying "I love you too Joel" before you both let sleep take over you.

Previous -> Chapter 10: Bitter Welcome

Next -> Chapter 12: Alone Again

***AN: Oof angry grieving Joel, can't blame him tho. Shits tough man, hopefully he doesn't let his anger get the best of him..............

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!

#the last of us #joel miller #joel the last of us #tlou #joel tlou #pedro pascal #joel and tommy #joel x reader #pedro x reader #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tommy miller #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel and sarah #the last of us hbo #sassconvict #itsalwaysbeenyou

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sassconvict · 10 days ago

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How he always look so good😫😩

hey, kitty-kitty-kitty [incomplete wet Joel Miller icons collection <3]

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joelmilleredit #the last of us hbo #tlou hbo #the last of us #joel the last of us #joel tlou #sassconvict

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sassconvict · 10 days ago

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Forever grieving his death 😩

Oh, I'm gonna miss you forever, pedro's Joel Miller.

#pedro pascal #joel miller #tlou #the last of us #joel the last of us #joel tlou #joel miller tlou #tlou spoilers

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sassconvict · 11 days ago

Text

Oneshot

Midnight Love

Masterlist

Dbf Tommy Miller x F!reader

Summary -> Your father throws a pool party to celebrate you coming home for the summer, his best friend Tommy sees you and realizes he can’t resist himself any longer.

Warning -> 18+ (minors DNI), mega smut, unprotected sex, oral (F receiving), creampie, fingering, swearing and just Tommy being a dirty man

Word count -> 2.9k

Reader’s POV:

You decided you wanted to come home for the summer, take a break from the terrible college dorms. Of course, your dad has to go all out for your arrival and host a huge pool party and barbecue. You would rather had a night with just him and maybe gone for a nice dinner, but that was never his style.

You arrived a few hours before the chaos begins. You decide while unpacking to change into something a little more fitting for the occasion. You put on a black bikini and as you begin to throw a sundress overtop, you hear your door open. You quickly turn around to see who it is, hopefully just your father, but to your surprise, it’s actually his best friend…. Tommy Miller.

He stands there for a moment in shock, just staring at you. Instinctively, he gazes up and down your body with his mouth open. He snaps out of his thoughts and quickly turns back around.

“Fuck, darlin, I’m sorry, I really need to learn to knock.”

Though you’re a little embarrassed, you just laugh back at him before replying, “Tommy, it’s just a bikini. You can turn back around.”

Hesitantly, he does and he looks at you again, trying to fight the arousal building inside him that he knows is wrong.

“Uh, okay-well, I just came up here to offer you a beer. Fuck— you look good,” he admits.

“Well, thank you,” you say before sliding your sundress over your head, but of course, it gets stuck over your head and you blindly try and get it to go on properly. That’s when you feel his hand on your waist and then his other grabbing the material of the dress to help you get it on. Once it’s not covering over your face, you realize how close he is and start to blush a little too hard.

You’ve had feelings for your father’s best friend, Tommy, since before you started college, but you always thought the possibility was out of reach considering the age difference, and well, also the fact that he is your dad’s best friend, but now you think to yourself that maybe the idea isn’t as far-fetched as you originally thought.

You both just stare at each other for a moment before you hear your father call out to you both from the hallway, and Tommy quickly backs up.

“Did you find her?” Your father says to Tommy before getting to the entrance to your bedroom. “Oh good, you can drag her downstairs now, time for beer, let’s go you slowpokes,” your dad teases you both, completely oblivious to the intense tension in the room.

Your dad walks away, and Tommy turns back to you and says, “Shall we?”

You nod and follow him downstairs, immediately grabbing the tequila and some shot glasses from the liquor cabinet. You hold them out to Tommy and ask if he wants a shot too.

“Fuck, darlin, are you trying to kill me?” he says with a smirk, but then agrees.

“Old man can’t handle a little shot of tequila? What happened to the party Tommy that dad is always telling me about?” you say with a laugh as you begin to pour out two shots.

“He went into retirement years ago, but I think he could make a little appearance tonight if you’re a good girl.”

This makes you choke on your own breath, and he laughs and takes the tequila shot and motions for you to grab yours. He lifts it off the counter and clinks it to your shot glass before you both pound the tequila back. You have no reaction; you’re a college student, so this isn’t a struggle for you. Tommy, on the other hand, twists his face in disgust and looks at you.

“Fuck , do you drink a lot of tequila at college or what? Is that what they’re teaching you out there?” he jokingly teases you.

You shrug your shoulders and answer, “Maybe I’m just not a pussy like you.”

He scoffs and shakes his head before taking a step closer to you, eyes slipping down to your lips as you lick the tequila off them.

Suddenly, you hear another voice, and both your heads snap. It’s Tommy’s older brother, Joel. Unlike your father, Joel immediately senses the tension in the room and gives you both a weird look.

“Everything okay in here?”

“Yup,” you answer just a little too quickly, you realize and quickly turn on your heels and grab a beer from the fridge and excuse yourself, saying you’re going to go out to the pool.

Once you reach the edge of the pool, you slide your sundress over your head and grab one of the floaties sitting on the edge of the pool. You throw it into the water before jumping in yourself. After a bit of struggle, you finally manage to get onto it and lay back to enjoy the sun.

With the music blasting out of the speaker, you don’t hear Tommy exit the house. He walks over to one of the poolside chairs and takes a seat, enjoying the view of you. Not long before your dad walks out, and they start talking. You glance over at them, and you can see Tommy fighting the urge to look at you, making you smirk a little as you bring your beer to your mouth and drink the last bit of liquid out of it.

“Boys, I’m in need of another beer. Which one of you is going to deliver?”

They both laugh, and you see Tommy get up and walk to the sliding door that leads to the kitchen. Your dad had followed behind him, said he still has some things to do before people start arriving. A minute later, Tommy returns and stands by the edge of the pool and stares at you.

“You going to come get it or what?”

“Oh well, I figured you could just bring it to me in here,” you tease him, not expecting him to actually do it. To your surprise, he places the beer on the ground and quickly pulls his shirt off, exposing his torso. You stare, your eyes follow his tanned skin down to his toned chest and his abs, and then down to his trail of hair that leads down into his shorts. You can’t take your eyes away, but before you know it, he’s jumping into the water. The waves from his landing knock you off the float and into the water.

When your head comes out of the water, you see him laughing at you. You roll your eyes and head in his direction. Trying to grab the beer from his hand, but he pulls it out of your reach, causing you to place your hand on his chest for stability as you get on your tiptoes to try and reach the bottle. You begin to lose balance, and Tommy notices and brings his hand to your waist to balance you. Both a little too close to each other, you feel his heart begin to race, and his breaths get heavier under your hand on his chest. Both of you just stand there staring at each other, but yet again, you hear your dad calling from the distance, and you both step away from each other quickly. You wish it was just the two of you so you could see this play out, but you know that’s not going to happen.

A few hours later:

The party is in full blast now. You’ve got a few of your friends from before college here, and you are all in the pool talking and taking tequila shots after tequila shots. Your body is buzzing now, and you can’t get Tommy out of your head. Your eyes search the backyard, and you see him sitting around the fire with your father and Joel, plus a few others you don’t know ever well.

You decide that you’re ready to get out of the pool, so you excuse yourself and grab your towel. Drunkenly passing Tommy and heading inside to change out of your swimsuit. Once you are in your room, you strip and wrap the towel around you. Then, you hear a knock at your door.

“Come in,” you say, assuming it’s one of your friends, but when the door opens, you see Tommy walk in and close the door behind him, locking it.

He just stares at you, eyes racking up and down your body. He doesn’t know why he followed you, but he just couldn’t stop himself.

You feel the liquor hard and it gives you maybe a little too much confidence, and you drop your towel to the ground. Watching Tommy’s face, his jaw drops and a groan comes out of him. You can feel the wetness building between your thighs. He doesn’t move, and you start to feel a bit embarrassed, thinking that maybe you got the wrong impression and made a really bad decision. You try and cover yourself with your hands, but Tommy walks up to you, grabbing both your wrists.

“No, don’t cover up. You’re so fucking gorgeous, darlin’. Lemme look at you, please,” he says in a low and heated voice before dropping your wrists and bringing his hands to your waist. Then they move up your body, his calloused hands scratching at your skin, and you feel your breath trapped in your lungs. You press your thighs together without realizing, and he notices, looking down at your naked body before bringing his eyes back to yours.

You’re the one that moves this time, grabbing his face in your hands and pulling him towards you, crashing your lips together.

You open your mouth, allowing him to slide his tongue in, and you respond by pressing your tongue against his, and this gets a moan out of him.

He pulls back for a second, heavy breathes as he manages to speak, “Are you sure this is okay? Don’t want you to do something that you regret because you’re drunk.”

“Tommy, you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting this,” you speak out in a whisper, and that’s all the convincing he needs. He pulls his shirt off before bringing his lips back yours. He grabs your waist and pushes you backwards, and your knees hit the front of your bed, causing you to fall back so that you’re back on the mattress. You both shuffle up the bed so that you’re lying in the middle, his body pushing fully against yours, and you can feel his erection fighting against his jeans.

You reach your hands down and try to unbutton his jeans, but your hands are shaking and you can’t seem to get it. He smirks on your lips before pulling away and standing up, swiftly undoing his jeans and pulling them and his boxer down, and they lie on the floor next to your towel.

He wastes no time coming back to you, his lips on your neck making you moan, then they travel down to your breasts. He places an open-mouth kiss on the one, using his tongue on it, causing your hips to buck towards him. He takes the hint that you need him, and his kissing continues down your body, now his head between your thighs. You look down at him, and he’s looking up at you.

“Can I taste you, baby? Please,” he asks, but it sounds more like a beg.

You nod, and he immediately brings a kiss down onto your dripping core, taking your clit in his mouth. Sucking on it while flicking his tongue back and forth, your eyes roll back from the immense pleasure, and your hips start to grind onto his face, but he takes his hands and places them on your hips to hold you still. Moans leave your mouth, forgetting that there is a party going on downstairs. You take your hands and cover your mouth to try and hide the sounds of your moans, but you secretly hope that the loud music downstairs will drown them out for you.

Tommy moans on you, and the vibrations cause you to whine his name. He then takes his fingers and slams them into you, no warning. Just him filling you with his long fingers; he goes at a torturing pace as he continues to attack your clit with his mouth, and you are barely holding on. Your pussy starts to flutter on his fingers, and he can tell you’re close.

He takes his mouth off you to catch his breath and speaks out to you, “I can feel how close you are, baby—fuck-cum on my face, please. Need you to.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is back on you and you can feel yourself start to unwind. Moan after moan leaving your mouth, you curse his name out and he lets out a long moan. This is what sends you over the edge and you break, orgasm pulling through your whole body as you begin to shake and your pussy squeezes down on his fingers and you release on them and his tongue. He doesn’t stop right away, but after a moment he pulls his fingers out and takes his tongue and licks along your folds and collects your arousal on his tongue before pulling back and looking back up at you.

“You taste so fuckin sweet, could eat this pussy for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You might be my new favourite meal” he says before moving up and taking your lips on his. You can taste yourself on him and you moan again.

As he kisses you, you feel his hard cocks pressing through your wet folds as he tries to get some release.

“Tommy-I-I need you, I need all of you” you whisper in his ear before placing a kiss on his neck and pulling the skin between your teeth to leave a mark.

“Are you sure” he asks you.

“Yes-yes I’m sure. Please Tommy” you practically beg him.

He nods and brings a hand to your face and the other down to his cock aligning himself with your entrance and slowly he begins to push inside you.

The stretch is intense but it doesn’t hurt, it feels so good and by the way Tommy jaw goes slack and his eyes roll, you can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

Once his hips are flushed with yours he stays there for a moment just enjoying your warmth, but you need more. You start to push your hips against his trying to get some movement.

Suddenly his lips are back on yours as you feel his cock slide out of you so that just the tip is still inside you, then he slams back into you and it nearly knocks the air right out of your lungs. He continues at this pace and both of you moan into each other’s mouths, completely lost in each other’s bliss. He feels you start to flutter on his cock and he knows that you are close and he knows he isn’t far behind you but he wants to try something else before this is over.

He stops and you let out a whine, then suddenly he’s flipping you so that you are straddled on his lab. The new angle causes you to moan, you can feel him push deeper into you.

You start to bounce up and down on him, he can feel your ass jiggle every time you slam back down on him. He brings his hands to your ass and helps you build up speed.

Moans leave his mouth as he throws his head back. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to your orgasm as your legs start to give out on you. He takes this moment to begin pounding up into you at a fast pace, he then takes his one hand and brings it to your clit, rubbing circles on it.

You begin to fall apart, bringing yourself closer to him and sliding your arms around his neck. Foreheads pushing on each other as you look into his eyes as you fall apart.

“Fuck Tommy, I-I’m cumming” you practically scream out, again forgetting your father is just outside.

“Let go for me darling, let me feel you” he groans in response.

Your second orgasm, more intense than the first comes over you and you can’t control the noises leaving your mouth.

Tommy’s thrusts start to get messier and he moans out to you, “fuck baby, I’m gonna come. Where do you want me.”

You quickly respond “Inside, I’m on birth control. Please Tommy”

That’s all he needs to throw him into his own orgasm as he thrusts up into you and pushes your hips down so that he is as deep as he can go as he releases into you.

You can feel him twitching inside you as his warm release fills you up and both moan loudly again.

He doesn’t move, enjoying you as his cock starts to soften inside of you. Finally, you roll off him and onto your back beside him.

You look over at him, he looks out of it.

You are the first to speak. “So, that happened,” you laughed.

He smiles and laughs with you. “Yes, it did, and I hope it happens again.”

You blush and say, “Well, we better get back before a search party comes for us, if they haven’t started looking already. Hopefully, no one heard us.”

He nods and replies, “Even if they did , it was worth it. Never felt something so good in my life.”

#tlou #joel and tommy #tommy miller hbo #tommy miller fanfic #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller smut #tommy miller #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #tlou smut #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #sassconvict

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sassconvict · 11 days ago

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Oneshot

Bruised Hand

Masterlist

Teenage Joel Miller x Teenage F!reader

Summary -> Joel gets into it at home and you see him the next day at school.

Warning -> Parental abuse, physical violence, swearing

Word count -> 700

Idea from @grayandthyme 😏

Joel’s POV:

You’re standing in the kitchen when you hear the front door swing open and slam shut. Your father is swearing Tommy’s name as he stomps up the stairs to his bedroom. You run quickly to catch him. As you race up the stairs, you hear him slamming his fists against Tommy’s door after realizing it was locked.

You push yourself between the door of your brother’s room and your father and attempt to shove him away.

“Leave him the fuck alone,” you scream at him, but this just seems to make him want to get to Tommy more.

“Watch your fucking mouth when you talk to me, boy. Now get the fuck outta my way. That fucking boy needs to learn a lesson or two.” Your father yells back at you as he attempts to shove you out of the way.

“I won’t let you hurt him!” You say before winding your fist back and placing a mediocre punch to your father’s face.

He steps back and rubs his face. “Fuck sakes, you gonna take the beating for your little shit of a brother then, huh?”

Suddenly, you feel his fist collide with your face, and the impact sends you to the ground. He doesn’t stop there. After you harshly collide with the ground, he sends a kick to your side, and you scream out in pain, a tear rolling down your face as he speaks up again.

“Are you done testing me, boy, or do I need to keep going?”

You don’t reply, just slowly try to get up. Then you hear the doorknob to your brother’s room turn slowly as he peeks out the small crack in his door, opening it wide open when he sees you with blood dripping from your face.

“Tommy, don’t come out here!” You yell, but it’s too late. Your father kicks you back on the ground before he runs into Tommy’s room, slamming and locking the door behind him.

You crawl over to the door, banging on it while begging your father to leave Tommy alone. But you know he can’t stop this from happening, so you sit there praying that he won’t get it too bad.

You don’t even know what Tommy did this time. You don’t care. You’ll always protect your brother, no matter what.

The next day:

Reader’s POV:

You enter your first period classroom early, like always. Taking your seat before looking over to see Joel Miller entering the room, you immediately notice the gash on his face and how he walks with a slight limp. He must have gotten in another fight with his brother, you thought.

He looks over to you, eyes catching yours as he offers a slight smile and a little wave before coming over and taking the desk right beside you. You notice the bruises on his hand, and this makes you frown at him.

“Hey Joel, you okay?” You ask him.

He nods, “Yeah, just got into it a bit at home, but it’s not anything I’m not used to.”

This reply makes you feel a little sick. You want to ask more but decide not to pry.

“Can I see your hand?” You ask him quietly.

He hesitates before putting his hand out in front of yours. Instead of grabbing it, though, you place your palm up against his and let out a laugh at the difference in size.

He smiles before taking his fingers and curls them over the top of yours to show how big his hands really are.

He laughs this time before saying, “Cute little hands you have. I bet they fit perfectly holding mine.”

This makes you blush hard. You look away a little embarrassed, but he moves his hand and turns your face to him again.

“Thanks for asking if I was alright. It’s nice to know someone cares,” he confesses to you while looking deep into your eyes.

You smile again and answer him, “I’ll always care, Joel.”

You then hear other people enter the class, and you are broken out of your moment as he pulls his hand away and rubs the back of his neck.

“Well, if it means anything, I care about you too. A lot.”

You don’t say anything yet. You just smile brightly at him, blush creeping back onto your skin.

“That means a lot more than you think it does.”

#joel miller #the last of us #tlou #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #joel and tommy #joel tlou #joel x reader #pedro x reader #joel miller tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us fanfiction #sassconvict

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sassconvict · 11 days ago

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I want to get more into writing one shots, while still updating my longer story of course🙃

I’m taking requests😏 SO if you got some ideas send them my way

#joel miller #the last of us #joel the last of us #tlou #joel tlou #pedro pascal #joel and tommy #joel x reader #pedro x reader #tommy miller hbo #tommy miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tommy miller #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou smut #joel miller tlou

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sassconvict · 12 days ago

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My face while reading this🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

dirty dancin' ;

tommy miller x wife!reader ♫ pale, pale moon - jayme lawson

Synopsis: Wearing his belt at Tipsys to show just who owns you. Warnings: Smut, 18+ MDNI. barely a plot. Oral sex (f receiving). Tommy talks so much. Spanking. Choking. Unprotected p in v.

authors note: to the anon who said they're ovulating. yeah. i get it. something about the tipsy bison being the hub for bad decisions.. or good ones, yk?

w/c 3.1k

The Tipsy Bison was the heart of Jackson’s chaos—good and bad. Built on drunken decisions and half-remembered nights, its foundation was as unstable as the laughter that echoed off its walls.

Blues music spilled out of the speakers like spilled bourbon—raw, loud, seductive. Every Friday was a celebration. Hell, why not? It was a commune.

A place built on shared work and shared freedom.

Nobody was stopping you from drinking hard, dancing harder, and fucking like the world had already ended.

So that’s exactly what everyone did—especially on Fridays.

You moved with the music, hips loose, blood humming with whiskey. The line swayed as one, but you felt only yourself.

The drag of low-rise denim against your skin, the subtle clink of the sky-blue, rhinestone-studded Howlite belt riding your hips—it wasn’t even yours.

Tommy’s.

Stolen from your shared closet, left to dangle loose around you like a silent invitation.

You stomped once, then again, feeling the rhythm coil through your body.

The singer let out a riff that slid down your spine like a tongue—warm, slow, unrelenting.

You leaned into it. Hips tilting left, then right. Your fingers grazed down your waist as your shoulders rolled, each movement deliberate, slow, teasing.

Maria was next to you, laughing softly and lightly, mirroring your sway. But you barely registered her, especially not now. Your pulse thrummed under your skin, synced with the beat and the weight of one particular gaze.

Your husband didn’t dance. Never had.

One boot planted against the barstool rung, his arm sprawled over the counter, a half-empty glass in his hand.

Jesse was on his left, Joel on the right, talking low about something or other—probably Jesse griping over how close Dina was grinding near the edge of your group. The usual.

But Tommy? His eyes hadn’t left you all night.

He watched like a man memorizing something sacred.

Like the sway of your hips was scripture.

Like the glint of his belt on your waist was a prayer he’d whispered into your skin hours before.

This was a game you could play.

The type of teasing you could get behind.

Wanna play, Cowboy?

You knew he was watching. You could feel it like heat on the back of your neck, like the drag of calloused fingers even though he hadn’t touched you—not yet.

Your lips curled into a smirk as you shifted your weight, letting the beat guide your body in tighter, slower circles.

The music throbbed like a second pulse. You played along.

Then, without warning, you hooked your thumbs beneath the hem of your shirt. Just a little.

Just enough to lift it—inch by inch—so the edge of your stomach caught the amber bar lights.

A flash of skin, the faint line of muscle, the promise of more.

You let the shirt fall again, but not before your eyes met his. A silent challenge thrown across the room. The kind only a married couple could get away with.

His jaw clenched. Barely. His fingers tightened around the glass.

Jesse was still talking. Joel, half-nodding at something.

But Tommy? That man hadn’t heard a single word.

He was locked in. You had him.

So you did it again. Slower this time. Hips swaying, that soft cotton shirt gliding up your ribs—just shy of scandal. You could almost hear his breath catch from across the bar.

One more beat. One more hip roll.

And then—

The scrape of his stool against the wood floor was sharp, final.

You bit your lip, triumphant, as he stood.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t excuse himself.

He just moved.

Shoulders set, boots heavy, eyes dark and fixed on you. Every step felt like it landed in your chest. You kept dancing—barely—but your rhythm faltered as the space between you and Tommy collapsed.

His hand found your waist like it belonged there. Firm. Possessive. That belt—his belt—pressed under his thumb.

“Y’keep that up,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low, accent thick with heat, “... we ain’t makin’ it to last call.”

You turned into him, letting your hand graze his chest.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

The music pulsed low and steady, some twangy blues thudding through the crowded bar, thick with bodies and sweat and that familiar scent of whiskey-soaked floorboards.

The lights were dim, golden, casting everything in a warm, sinful haze.

You were circling him, slow and deliberate, each step like the start of something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t take his eyes off of. You let your hips sway with the beat, half-dancing, half-taunting, moving just enough to make him shift where he stood—rooted like a man trying real hard not to come undone in public.

Tommy watched you like a predator trying not to pounce.

His hands were clenched into white-knuckling at his sides, jaw tight, eyes burning beneath that familiar brim of his worn-out cap.

Everyone around you was loud and distracted, but you could feel his focus like a spotlight. Could taste it.

You turned your back to him, letting your body brush against his just enough to be dangerous—your spine arching, your hips rolling slow.

The bar’s floor vibrated with bass and footsteps, but all you could hear was the way his breath caught when you slid a hand down your side… down to the belt slung loosely at your hips.

His belt.

You caught his gaze over your shoulder, smirking as you twisted just enough to show it off. The leather hung low, resting against your bare skin where your shirt had ridden up, and you watched the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

“You like that?” you spoke, voice just loud enough for him to hear over the music.

He didn't answer right away.

Just stepped closer, the space between you all but gone now.

His hand hovered near your waist, fingertips twitching like they were dying to touch—but didn’t dare. Not here. Not yet.

“Darlin’,” he said low, so close you could feel the warmth of it against your neck, “... you keep movin' like that, I’m gonna forget there’s people watchin’.”

You turned slowly, facing him fully now, looking up at him with mock innocence dancing in your eyes.

Still, a fun and excited sway to your shoulders, magnetizing the rest of your limbs.

“That so?” you teased, running a finger along the edge of his belt where it hung loose. “Didn’t figure you for the shy type, Cowboy.”

His gaze darkened, a slow tongue roll against his teeth, “Ain’t shy. Just tryin’ real hard not to pull you outta here over my shoulder.”

You laughed softly, leaning in just enough so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “Maybe I’m hopin’ you do.”

That pulled a noise out of him—quiet, but sharp and guttural.

He took a deep breath, fingers finally landing on your hips, hot and steady, grounding you even as the world spun with movement and music.

“Careful,” he murmured, grip tightening ever so slightly. “I ain’t got a lot of patience left.”

You leaned back to look him in the eye, grinning like the devil.

“Good. I’m not in the mood for slow.”

One beat passed. Then another. And then—

“Ten minutes,” he said, voice rough. “We’re leavin’. Don’t test me.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide.

“Make it five and I’ll even keep the belt on.”

His eyes blazed like fire through whiskey.

“Four,” he exhaled, already steering you through the thick crowd with a hand at the small of your back, possessive, certain.

“Tommy,” you gasped between laughs, breath catching as he practically guided you around clusters of drunken bodies and swaying dancers, “Thought you meant home—”

He didn’t stop, just leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he said, low and rough, “Can't wait that long.”

Your breath hitched.

He pushed the bathroom door open with his shoulder, glanced once to make sure it was empty, and then hauled you in by the belt still slung low on your hips. The door shut with a hard click behind you, fingers twisting the lock with urgency.

The second you were inside, it was like the air shifted—went heavy with heat and anticipation.

Tommy backed you up against the door, hands braced on either side of your head, body not quite touching yours yet, but close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him.

“You wearin’ my belt like that…” he drawled, voice thick with heat, “lookin’ at me like you want me to lose every bit of sense I got—”

“I do,” you breathed, tugging gently at the front of his shirt.

“Been wantin’ to all night.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lower—to where the belt curved against your bare skin.

You saw it in the twitch of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils. The moment he gave in.

He kissed you like a man starved—hands finally finding your waist, your hips, your thighs. Pulling you into him so hard you felt your back press deeper into the door.

It wasn’t sweet, not at first. It was hungry.

Full of heat and tension, wound tight from hours of stolen glances and low murmurs in your ear.

But underneath the urgency, it was still Tommy—steady hands, careful even when he was desperate. o

One hand cupped the back of your head to keep it from knocking into the door, the other gripping your hip like you might vanish if he let go.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen and your breath was shaky. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“You sure?” he asked, voice gravel-rough, but his eyes—God, his eyes were soft. Always soft with you.

You nodded, thumb brushing along his jaw. “I started this, didn’t I?”

He smiled then, just barely. “Yeah,” he rasped, mouth ghosting yours again, ... 'n I’m sure as hell gonna finish it.”

Without another word, Tommy threads his fingers through your belt loops—lifting until your ass hits the cold granite of the countertop.

His teeth graze against your collarbone, nipping up until his lips rest against your jawline.

"Such a fuckin' tease," He begins, hands methodical and slow as they unthread the leather of the belt on your hips, "Showin' everybody you're mine."

He left it on. That was the best part.

Only undoing the buckle enough to pry it from the middle of you. His fingers slow—calculated as they pop open the button of your jeans, thumb and middle finger slowly dragging the zipper down.

Your breath came out parted between lips, the smell of alcohol wafting around you. "Isn't this what you wanted?" He hummed, grabbing the denim fabric and slipping it down, "You wanted me to take you into the bathroom?"

Head careening lower, he lowered himself to his knees with a soft, aching grunt.

Calloused finger pads treading the path up your bare thighs. Taking a palm under your knee—only parting your legs enough to get a view of your aching cunt.

Slow as he kissed against the fabric of your panties, tongue only lulling out to tease against the already wet center. "Fuck you in here? Like some sort of fuckin' gentleman."

His eyes flicked up against heavy lashes, deep and dark. He no longer looked at you as just his wife, but somewhat of prey.

"Fuck—"

This was your nature. Teasing back and forth, until someone takes it a bit too far.

"No smartass comment?" He continued, smiling at your uneven heaving, eyes back to target—using his middle finger to hook the fabric away, "Thought so."

"So fuckin' wet I'm surprised there's a thought tumblin' around in there," He murmured, lowering his mouth against you, tongue making languid laps—only savoring the swell of essence.

"Tommy—" It came out through worship, hand threading through dark, sweat-slicked curls, a tight squeeze. It earns a guttural noise, somewhere between a slurp and a growl. His tongue doesn't stop its antics, circling, flattening, teeth jutting out just to catch anything swollen and needy.

"Oh, darlin'," He murmurs between breathless huffs from parted lips, one last flattened lick up before he sets blown pupils up at your face. "So pretty when you're needy…"

“Oh—fuck, Tommy—”

He laughs. Not a little, pathetic huff of air—full of gravel, hoarse as he takes a hand to his mouth, letting it swipe downward to collect the liquid from his facial hair.

Your face is a contortion of missing pleasure, practically crying for his lips back onto sobbing folds.

It's teasing as he whispers it.

"What?"

"Missin' my mouth that badly? Don't worry, babygirl, you're only cumin' on my cock tonight."

Your pupils, now blown wide, only hinder at his words—flicking down, and then back up.

His mouth crashed into yours, deep and bruising, all teeth and tongue and heat. Hands mapped every inch of skin like he was trying to memorize you all over again, like this wasn’t the hundredth time he’d undressed you, but the first.

Tommy whispered your name like worship. It's soft and easy as it comes off his tongue.

His tongue was still laced with traces of your taste.

His hands snake back down to your waist, a small shimmy of your body until you've been bent over the sink. It's enough of a bend that your feet dangle to touch the floor, toes of your boots scratching against the wood.

"See what you do to me?" He's quick to snake a hand against your jaw, palm and fingers splayed long enough to clasp against your throat and tilt your chin high.

You're staring at yourself in the mirror.

The sight in itself was enough to make you unravel. He's been aggressive, and he's sure as hell been needy. But this? This is a whole new level.

“Tommy—" You exhale, fingers white knuckling against the granite, eyes half-lidded, "Need you…"

"Yeah," He smiles, fingers rounding your ass, a drumming of the pads of his fingers. With a quick lift of his hand, his palm comes down across your ass in a swipe.

It's loud, cracking against soft supple flesh, "Bet you do."

"Shit—" It came spilling out of your mouth, uncontrolled, trying to bite back any noise elicited.

You hadn't even noticed when he unzipped his jeans, letting the belt clink to the side.

Hand pulling himself from his boxers, already red and angry.

No surprise there.

"You're gonna be quiet f'me, yeah?" The drawl thickened the more aroused he got. The more unhinged, and sloppy. He lined himself up, taking soft and slow circles against your entrance, just the tip—and then pulling back.

"Yes—" It punctured your lungs, breathy and needy, "Please Tommy—Please, Please—I—"

Without another word, he bottomed out, tip of his cock crowning against slick folds. Fingers tightening against your throat—soft—compared to the way his hips ground you into the granite.

"Look how well we fit together," He hums, letting his hips draw back, slow and unnerving. Then he lurched forward. It hit that spongy part that practically eviscerated your nervous system.

The way he filled you to the brim was a different type of satisfying—wanting to bury so deep inside of you he didn't want to come out.

The bathroom filled with panting, and heaving—your gasps and bite backs of whines like music to his ears. His shirt drawn into his mouth, teeth baring as he held the fabric up—a nice view, watching as he slid in and out.

"Needed this so bad, huh, babygirl?" He mutters through clenched teeth, the pace at which he sets practically sending you into orbit.

The toebox of your boots not even touching the ground, granite pushing so deep into your stomach you could practically feel him hit it.

His hand flew from your throat, parting between your thighs to position his middle and ring finger against your clit—rubbing long drawn out circles against his rhythmic pumping.

"Tommy—Cumming—Tommy!" It ripped from your throat like a prayer. So natural. So loving.

Fingers white-knuckled against the granite, you're surprised you didn't break something. A nail, maybe.

You felt your eyes flutter closed, the tears stinging pretty little marks against your flushed-fucked out complexion.

"Keep those pretty eyes open," He hushes, leaning down, angling deeper—anything to feel you squeeze around him. "Fuck—That's it…" Your name spilled from his lips like prayer-turned-curse.

It came out as an array of gasps and praises.

"Fuck, you're so good—So fuckin' good…"

"Shit—sweetheart... made f'me.."

He continued to drill, hands slipping into the base of your scalp—a quick grounding tug until your chin pointed towards the mirror.

Pleads slipping from your lips until he screwed his eyes shut, hips clumsily slapping until it's a foreign, unsteady rhythm.

The aftermath came in silence.

The kind that throbbed just like your pulse still did.

Your legs trembled as you leaned into the wall, catching your breath. The tile bit at your stomach where your shirt had ridden up.

A bruise would bloom there. Probably a few.

Heart pounding, legs barely steady. He didn’t let you fall.

Instead, he crouched in front of you, big hands gentle as they slid your shirt down. His fingers traced your thighs, the dip of your hips, slow and careful.

“Jesus, darlin'…” he muttered, breath warm against your skin as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief. “You alright?”

You nodded, but it was shaky. A flicker of something behind your eyes—vulnerability, raw and real—flashed too quick to catch unless you knew where to look.

He always knew where to look.

“C’mere,” he said, voice softer now. He lifted your chin with two fingers, brushing damp hair from your cheek. “Let me see you.”

The handkerchief was rough, smelled faintly like tobacco and leather, but his touch was patient.

He dabbed the mess from your thighs, kissed the corner of your mouth.

Took his time like you were something worth tending to.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, brows pinched with worry as he searched your face.

“No,” you whispered. “Not at all.”

"Fixed me, even."

Tommy let out a quiet sigh and leaned his forehead against yours.

“Reckon I’d do that a hundred times if it means I get to hold you after,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone.

Outside, the bar roared on.

But in here, it was quiet.

Just porcelain, cold tile, and the kind of warmth that only came from a man who still looked at you like you were the only thing in Jackson worth keeping safe.

Masterlist

#tommy miller #the last of us hbo #the last of us #tlou #tommy miller fanfic #tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller hbo #gabriel luna #the last of us fanfiction #tommy miller smut

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