#TLOU2

[orangecatsmissingbraincell]

Ellie + Abby as textposts

[absdollievu]

Is It Casual Now?

internalized homophobia!abby x lesbian!reader

Warnings: lesbian sex (abby!receiving)

I lost the request to this but if you were the anon who requested this, here ya go!

You still remember the first time Abby Anderson looked at you like you weren’t normal.

It was sophomore year, outside the locker room after gym. You were laughing with a girl you had a crush on—nothing big, just flirting, the kind you thought no one really noticed. But Abby did. She stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, watching like she’d stepped into a room that smelled wrong. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed. And then she said it—loud enough for everyone to hear.

“No wonder no one wants to change next to you.”

You froze. The other girl laughed, awkward and sharp, and peeled away from you like she’d touched something dirty.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. The damage was done.

That was how it started.

⸻

Abby never hit you. Never shoved you into lockers or called you slurs. Her cruelty was quieter, more calculated. Snide comments in the hallway. Avoiding group projects when your name came up. A pointed roll of her eyes when you answered a question in class. Loud whispers of “Jesus” or “disgusting” when she passed you holding another girl’s hand on campus.

And she had a following—friends who mirrored her disapproval with mocking stares and muttered jokes, like she gave them permission. It didn’t matter that she was smart, respected, even admired. Her words were always sharper around you. Her tolerance thinner. Her discomfort obvious.

You learned to ignore it. Or you tried to.

It wasn’t the worst bullying you’d faced. But coming from her, it hurt more.

Because before that moment in sophomore year, Abby Anderson used to smile at you.

Just once or twice. Passing in the hall. When you said something funny in class. There was a flicker of warmth there—confusion, maybe, or curiosity. You remembered thinking she had kind eyes.

But now you’re used to Abby Anderson looking at you like you’re something she wants to scrape off the bottom of her shoe.

It’s a stare you’ve come to recognize: a cold, disdainful sweep from head to toe that lingers a beat too long, like she’s cataloguing everything she hates about you. Or maybe everything she doesn’t understand.

She doesn’t talk to you anymore. Which is weird, because you’ve had at least three classes with her over the last two years. You move in the same social circles, even if they rarely overlap. You’ve been at the same parties, stood feet apart at campus rallies.

But she acts like you’re radioactive.

Like if she got too close, she might catch whatever makes you… you.

You tell yourself you don’t care. You roll your eyes when she glares. You smile brighter, laugh louder, flirt more when she’s in the room—just to spite her. If she’s going to judge you, then she might as well have something to look at.

But when your professor calls out your name alongside hers for the upcoming group project, your stomach drops.

You don’t hate her. You wish you did.

⸻

She sits next to you in the library like it’s a punishment, her legs splayed wide, arms crossed, a hoodie pulled low over her face like armor.

“I’m not doing the girly stuff,” she mutters before you’ve even opened your laptop. “No pink fonts. No cutesy transitions.”

You arch an eyebrow, smiling tightly. “You think I use pink fonts?”

Her lips press into a line. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I really don’t.”

She finally looks at you. Her eyes are sharp, blue-gray, too intense for someone who’s always pretending not to care. “Just… I’m not putting rainbows all over the slides.”

There it is.

“Right,” you say, teeth clenched. “God forbid someone think you’re not aggressively straight.”

Her jaw ticks. “I’m not doing this.”

You lean back in your chair, folding your arms. “Then don’t.”

But she doesn’t move.

⸻

You meet again the next day. And the next.

She doesn’t say much, but she shows up. Brings notes. Stares hard at the screen and refuses to make eye contact.

You catch her looking, though—always out of the corner of your eye. A flick of her gaze to your lips when you chew your pen cap. A second too long staring at your hands when you scroll.

She’s not subtle. But she wants to be.

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

⸻

It happens on the fifth day, when you offer to get her a drink from the café downstairs. She grunts something like approval, and when you return with a coffee just the way she likes it—black, two sugars, you remembered—she stares at the cup like it’s a trap.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she mutters.

“I know,” you say, shrugging. “But you look like you’re gonna bite someone if you don’t get some caffeine in you.”

She doesn’t smile. She never does. But her eyes flick toward you—curious. Conflicted.

She doesn’t thank you.

You don’t need her to.

⸻

The breaking point comes when you’re at her dorm. A last-minute cram session. Her roommate’s gone, the place smells like cedar and something faintly floral—body wash, maybe. You sit on the couch, notebooks scattered between you.

It’s late. You’re both tired. And something in the air has shifted.

She’s quieter tonight. Less combative. She leans back against the cushion, legs stretched out, her knee brushing yours. She doesn’t pull away.

You glance at her profile—sharp, defined, so fucking beautiful it’s painful. Her lips are slightly parted. Her throat works when she swallows.

And then she says it. Out of nowhere. Like it’s been boiling under her skin for years.

“I don’t hate you.”

You blink. “Okay…?”

“I mean, I act like I do. I know. But I don’t.”

You set your pen down. Carefully. Slowly. “Then why do you treat me like shit?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her jaw clenches, and her eyes stay fixed on some spot in the distance.

Then, quietly—so quiet you almost miss it:

“Because you make me feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Silence.

You shift toward her, cautiously. “What does that mean?”

She exhales, long and shaky. “It means I don’t understand how you can just be so… open about it. Like it’s not a big deal. Like you don’t even care.”

You stare. “About being gay?”

She flinches at the word. Doesn’t answer.

“Abby,” you say softly, gently, “are you—?”

“Don’t.”

Her voice is sharp. Defensive. But not angry—scared.

You reach out, almost instinctively, your hand brushing her wrist. “It’s okay. Whatever it is you’re feeling—”

“No, it’s not,” she snaps, and finally looks at you. Her eyes are wild. Shining. “I wasn’t raised to think this was okay. I’ve been trying to ignore it for years. But you—”

She stops herself. Breathing hard. Her whole body trembling.

“You make it worse,” she says, voice breaking. “Because when I look at you, I can’t pretend anymore.”

Your throat tightens. “Then don’t pretend.”

You reach up. Touch her cheek.

She freezes. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

And you kiss her.

Soft. Questioning.

She doesn’t move for a heartbeat. Then her hands rise, uncertain, and she kisses you back.

It’s messy. Desperate. Her mouth moves like she’s starving for it, like she’s been craving this for years and never let herself feel it. Her fingers clutch your sides, your shirt, your hair—anything she can anchor herself to.

She moans into your mouth. It’s raw. Vulnerable. Scared.

You pull back only enough to whisper, “Are you sure?”

“No,” she breathes. “But I don’t want to stop.”

You pull back just a little, only to catch your breath—and hers.

Her lips are still parted, flushed from the kiss. Her chest rises and falls like she just ran a mile. Her eyes—those sharp, guarded, unflinching eyes—are wide now. Uncertain. Open.

“Abby,” you whisper, one hand still at her jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone, “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Her breath stutters.

“I want to,” she says quickly, then—softer—“I think I want to.”

You nod, slow and steady. “That’s enough.”

She leans forward again, not quite kissing you—just pressing her forehead to yours, her breathing shallow, her hands trembling at your sides.

“I’ve never…” she starts, then stops. “Not with a girl. Not with—someone like you.”

You smile, small, just for her. “I’ll go slow.”

That gets a little exhale out of her. A nervous laugh, almost bitter. “You’re too good at this.”

You shake your head. “I’m not trying to be good at anything. I just want to be with you.”

That word—with—makes her shudder.

But she nods. Swallows hard.

You kiss her again, slower now. Less desperation, more depth. Her hands roam your sides like she’s learning you, memorizing every inch she’s never allowed herself to imagine touching. When your tongue teases the seam of her lips, she lets out a soft gasp, surprised at how natural it feels to open up to you.

Your hands slip under her hoodie, fingertips brushing her waist. She tenses—but doesn’t stop you. Just breathes harder, like every new inch of skin you find sends a shock through her spine.

You murmur, “Can I take this off?”

She nods, barely. So you do—pulling the hoodie up and over her head, revealing a plain gray tank top beneath that clings to her chest, rising and falling with every breath. You trace your fingers along the hem of it, and she closes her eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

She laughs again—nervous, shaky. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not saying it for your sake. I mean it.”

That makes her open her eyes.

Something flickers there—pain, longing, disbelief. Like no one’s ever said that and meant it.

You lean down, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. Then another. And another.

When you kiss just beneath the strap of her tank, her fingers tighten in your shirt. Her head falls back, and her mouth opens in a quiet, breathless sound that goes straight through you.

You shift to straddle her lap slowly, giving her time to react. She watches every movement, frozen in place, lips parted. You sit over her, chest to chest, your thighs on either side of hers.

“Is this okay?” you ask.

She nods—quick, almost frantic. “Yeah. Fuck—yeah.”

Your hands trail under the hem of her shirt, up over her stomach, feeling the solid muscle underneath. When your fingers graze the bottom of her bra, she flinches—but not from fear.

“Can I…?” you ask.

She swallows. “Yeah.”

You pull her tank up and over her head. Her bra’s simple—black, cotton, a little worn at the seams. She looks down, arms twitching like she wants to cover herself.

“Hey,” you whisper, taking her hands gently. “You don’t have to hide.”

She exhales through her nose. “I’m not hiding.”

“No?” you smile. “Then let me see you.”

She nods, just once, and drops her arms.

You unclasp her bra slowly, sliding the straps down her shoulders, watching her the whole time. Her chest is flushed, rising and falling rapidly.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Abby.”

She closes her eyes like it hurts to hear. Like it’s too much.

But when you lean forward and kiss her breast—just above the nipple—her back arches slightly, breath catching in her throat.

Your tongue teases her nipple, slow and deliberate, and she moans—soft, almost like she’s trying not to. Her hands grip your hips hard. You take your time, sucking gently, kissing lower, worshipping her like she’s something sacred.

When you look up at her, her eyes are glassy. Her mouth slack. Her thighs are shifting under you like she’s already aching for more.

You slide one hand down, under the waistband of her sweatpants.

She freezes.

You pause immediately. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, voice hoarse. “Just—no one’s ever touched me there.”

Your heart swells at the vulnerability in her voice.

“I’ll be gentle.”

You ease your hand down, fingers slipping beneath her underwear. She’s already wet—soaking, warm, and trembling under your touch.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, half horrified, half amazed.

You laugh softly, kissing the side of her neck. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to want this.”

She doesn’t answer—but when your fingers find her clit, she gasps and grabs at your shoulders like she’s falling.

You circle it slow, barely-there pressure, watching her come undone piece by piece. Her hips lift. Her breath stutters. She bites her lip so hard you have to kiss her just to make her stop.

“Let go,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

She moans into your mouth, louder this time, and grinds against your hand. You slip two fingers inside her—slow, careful—and her entire body jerks.

“Holy fuck,” she chokes.

“You’re doing so good,” you whisper.

She clutches you tighter, rides your fingers like she’s chasing something she’s never let herself feel. You keep your pace steady—deep and slow, thumb brushing her clit, her breath getting more ragged by the second.

And when she comes—God, she shakes. Her body stiffens, legs trembling, her mouth falling open in a desperate moan she doesn’t even try to stifle. Her eyes squeeze shut. Her head drops against your shoulder.

You hold her through it, whispering softly into her hair.

When the tremors stop, she collapses back into the couch, breathless, wrecked.

You kiss her temple. “You okay?”

She nods. Barely.

Then, quietly: “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

You smile, pressing your forehead to hers.

“That’s just the beginning.”

⸻

[emmabeeart]

Ellie and Joel <3

[64reprieve]

picture you (e.w.) ˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

pairing: butch!college!loser!ellie x femme!camgirl!reader

synopsis: you need promo for your business. ellie’s tuition is due. or ellie’s a college student in her junior year scrambling to get her shit together and desperate to make ends meet with side jobs. you need pictures taken by someone who isn’t a creep from craigslist and won’t kill you. your friend knows just the person.

content: angst, amateurphotographer!ellie, loser!ellie, college!ellie, butch!ellie, brief mean!ellie at first but she softens up, camgirl!reader, femme!reader, ellie is broke and judgmental, awkward photoshoot, mentions of depression, mentions of agoraphobia, miscommunication, explicit language

word count: 4.7k

nsfw, men and minors dni

prologue ➤ chapter one ➤ chapter two ➤ (tbd.)

A beaten mumble drawls from you.

“I’m going to lose my job.”

The basement air is crisp from the harried sliding door of people reentering, the cold wafting in and raising your exposed skin to pebbles. Parties fall short in appeal, but you’re undeniably lonely; a skewed dichotomy granted how you spend nearly every night with an audience.

It’s hard enough to collect the mail from your doorstep, but you’d much rather hang out with Riley than die alone from holing up in your shitty, off-campus apartment.

Your isolation was a deluded salvation of choice from the start; there’s no childhood bedroom to sleep in during the holidays, no weekly phone calls home you pretend to make begrudgingly.

Winter break empties and hollows out your insipid college town into a blanket of white, undisturbed.

Self-help books have stacked themselves in your closet since Freshman year, but there was little to romanticize or heal over sitting on park benches under a single streetlight until your hands curled into the wood and buried blue beneath the snow.

Those weeks are cold, but your empty bed is freezing.

It’s unequivocally a first-world problem but you’d soon rather shake a cup on the sidewalk to make rent than return to late rides from campus to work, and then home.

Memories rouse the thick, stale scent and warm air of the bus, and your inner cheeks chewed raw from standing outside at night, bones buzzing with exhaustion.

You couldn’t go back, you couldn’t, you couldn’t, you wouldn’t, you–

Riley swirled a mint in her mouth, clicking against her teeth, "Okay. It can’t be that bad. What’s wrong with the photos you took last time?”

The ratty couch chafed the back of your bare thighs pink. Smeared eyeliner clung to your heavy lashes as you traced the rim of your sharp-scented cup, swimming with a repulsive concoction of sparkling fruit juice and gin that weighed down your insides.

“For one, those are from four months ago,” You paused to sigh, shutting your eyes in half disbelief and acceptance, “And two, they were Christmas-themed."

Your fingers pinched your ears to mimic a point, “I’m wearing elf ears in them. I can’t repost that in March, it’ll look like I’m pedaling for Santa fetishists.”

Across the cushions, Riley’s attentive gaze was a warmth that bordered sobering. It's not often you get to complain.

An amused laugh bubbled from her, “Have you tried posting about it online? Maybe like Twitter or something. Or I could do it. I know that our phones are busted, but we could probably photoshop the glare out. ”

“No,” Your head stabbed at the thought, “And I want to stay anonymous. I can’t imagine anyone who responds to that and pays attention to my content would be normal.” You sigh, “Shit, I wish Abby didn’t transfer.”

“She took your elf pictures?” Riley snickered, sitting up to hear you over the music and drunken babbles.

“It was one time. Her dad bought her a really good camera.” You argued, shooting her a look of disapproval.

Riley kissed her teeth, stretching her arms out with a faint grunt.

A short, pensive silence fell between the two of you.

Riley’s knee knocked into yours suddenly, pulling your attention, “I think I know someone.”

Who does Riley know that you don’t? Then again, you haven’t properly socialized outside your tiny circle in a couple of years.

You winced at the vision of a guy with a five o’clock shadow, greasy hair, and a camera bag hanging around their neck. Or worse, a cologne-drowned, perm-haired, red-pilled, indie boy with an abnormal vintage camera obsession.

“He’s not super weird, right?” You probed, wearing a look of uncertainty.

You worried as though it paid.

Riley leaned back on the armrest, “No, she’s friends with Dina. We’ve hung out before. You guys would get along. Want me to talk to her?”

A weight retreated from your slumped shoulders, “She has a camera and stuff? I don’t need much. Just some shots at my place and it won’t be anything crazy. Do you think she’d be like–okay with it?”

Riley nodded to your ramble, spitting her candy into your neglected cup before setting it on the floor. You’d worry about it later.

“She won’t mind, trust me." Riley insisted, waving you off, "So, is that a yes?” She mused.

“Tell her I’ll pay well.” You exhaled in relief, taking her hand.

Riley affirmed lazily, squeezing back, “She’ll do it.”

────୨ৎ────

Morning dew unfurled the lushness of vernality as worms curled beneath saturated dirt; Earth rose in the stillness.

Ellie squinted in the luster of warmth; the breeze cooling sweat before her clothes could stick. She walked beside her friend, taking space on the path with disregard and forcing passersby to walk on the damp grass.

“Who?” Ellie asked, taking out her earbuds and slipping the cord through her belt loop.

Dina looked up at Ellie as they walked to the library together, “One of Riley’s friends.” She exhaled through her nose, “I sent you her Instagram already. You would know if you ever checked your messages.”

Ellie mumbled, slipping her phone out of the pocket of her cargo pants. Her fingers tapped on the screen, eyebrows furrowed, “Okay? What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? She has two posts and one of them’s from five years ago.”

“I didn’t send it so you could gawk at her pictures–text her!” Dina groaned, adjusting her backpack as they tread uphill on the sidewalk.

“Relax.” Ellie refreshed your profile before tucking her phone away, “Riley said she asked for pictures? For an event or something?” She guessed, nearing the building.

Dina shrugged, stopping by the door before Ellie opened it, “Thanks,” Dina whispered, looking around the quiet library. “She said it’s just for social media but it’ll be at her friend’s place.”

Ellie bit her tongue, holding off her complaints. It would be pointless, she already knew she wasn’t in any position to say no.

Ellie worked over expenses for the month; a ninety-dollar textbook, course enrollment fees for the following semester, credit card bill, the brake pads of her truck still needed to be replaced, and her meal plan card only had around sixty dollars left–which bit when she was exhausting at least two to three energy drinks every day.

It wasn’t the type of money she could ask from Joel. She refused to. She couldn’t if she tried by this point. The thought alone of calling Joel sent a shiver through her body and made her palms sweat.

Ellie hadn’t grown up with much, though it wasn’t out of Joel’s cheapness and she knew that, always had.

It led to the fight on Ellie’s fifteenth birthday after he’d gifted her a Martin despite barely making the light bill that month.

Ellie had screamed until she turned red, trying to drag Joel and the guitar down the driveway and into the truck so they could return it to the shop. He refused until Ellie’s voice gave out, but learned to stick to grocery store birthday cakes from then on.

She made sure never to see another dollar from his wallet.

Ellie sighed under her breath, “Don’t tell me it’s another mixer. I swear to God.”

The two walked past the front desk, finding their usual study corner tucked away by rows of shelves. The scent of fresh carpet and paper imbued the building.

Ellie sat down, tossing her backpack between her legs and turning on her laptop while Dina set up her iPad from across the table, arranging her notebooks in a neat stack and rifling through her pen case to lay out highlighters and little sticky notes.

“Dina,” Ellie smirked, watching with amusement, “Are you prepping for surgery?” She teased, raising her eyebrows.

Dina clenched her teeth, sending her a glare, “Shut up.” She whispered harshly.

Ellie scratched the back of her neck as she aimlessly clicked around on her laptop for a few minutes before taking her phone back out. She should be using this time to study, especially with how awful her procrastination had grown since starting college.

Still, Ellie had adopted ‘I’ll start tomorrow' as a commandment.

She found your profile again looking through your tagged photos. Nothing. Ellie sighed before searching Riley’s Instagram: a plethora of posts; car selfies, blurry concert videos, photos taken on late nights out with criminally overused flash, though Ellie was culpably in some of them, until finally she came across a post of you.

Simple, sweet.

A photo in a bustling restaurant of you blowing out birthday cake candles, captioned ‘19 years today for this beauty queen’ with your account in the comments, asking her to take it down.

Your hair was down, curls cascading a little past your shoulders, with one side pinned behind your ear to show just enough of your face. Your red, manicured nails reflected the candlelight as you locked your hands, looking through your long eyelashes.

As if your smile wasn’t striking enough, you had dimples. Fucking dimples.

It seemed you two ran in the same social groups, so how had she never met or heard of you? From the looks of it and your absence of an online presence, you couldn’t be a sorority girl or anything.

She would’ve ghosted you if so.

Ellie chewed her top lip, glancing up at Dina to find the girl grossly entranced with doodling a diagram on her Ipad. Ellie cleared her throat, leaning forward, “You’ve met her?”

Dina nodded without looking up, “Who? Oh–maybe a couple of times. She’s nice.”

“Is it a baby shower or something?” Ellie asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“Ellie, I don’t know. Like I said, I’ve only met her twice and Riley didn’t give much detail. She just said it’d be small.” Dina mumbled, tilting her head with a bored expression.

Ellie sat back with a short nod, clicking back to your page before finally typing a message.

hey, this is ellie. i heard you need some pictures taken.

Too short, dry, and awkward. She clenched her teeth, backspacing through the entire thing before retyping.

hi, this is ellie. i heard from riley. when do u need the pictures by?

Better, she figured.

She waited and waited, staring at her phone until Dina kicked her beneath the table. She ignored her, sitting up when a text from you loaded in.

hi! thanks for getting back to me, i really appreciate it. i just need a few pictures. if you’re still comfortable, i’d like to do it this week but next week is fine if that works better for you!

How polite.

i can make time this week. what’s ur address?

You were waiting by the phone too; her guess. You texted back in seconds.

thank you so much! i’ll send you a link to the building. i’m in apartment #28. do you prefer cash or card? and what’s your availability?

Ellie clicked the link. You lived about five minutes from campus, which was barely a drive. She could skate over instead of wasting gas if she wanted but there was also the chance of tripping on cracked cement and breaking her camera, or worse– someone witnessing her fall off her board, but it was an undeniably better gig than the day before, when Jesse paid her thirty bucks to bake a box cake and she nearly burnt down the dorm’s communal kitchen.

i’m okay with either. we can talk payment after i get there.

She rubbed her nose, biting her cheek as her thumb hovered over the keyboard before she gave in.

i’m free right now if u are. or we can work out a different time. just send me ur schedule.

Your typing bubbled in and out, before you finally replied.

I’m free! just shoot me a text or knock when you get here or if u get lost. im on the second floor.

Ellie hurriedly packed her bag, laptop thudding against the table in the quiet building. Dina glanced over, squinting at her.

“What are you doing?” Dina mouthed, setting her pen down.

Ellie shrugged, pushing her chair back in, “Something came up but I’ll be home tonight. Are you good to walk back or should I text Jesse?”

“Don’t text him. I want to enjoy my peace and quiet without you two.” Dina waved her off with a lighthearted sigh, “I’ll be fine. I’m almost finished.”

Ellie exhaled, ruffling the top of Dina’s head, “Alright. Call me if anything changes. Have fun with your nursing stuff.” She snickered.

Dina shoved her away playfully, groaning, “Just go.”

────୨ৎ────

Ellie stood outside your apartment door. She wiped the sweat beading on the back of her neck, staring down the burgundy paint before knocking.

What kind of prissy bitch had the money to afford to pay someone for Instagram pictures while simultaneously going to school and living off-campus?

It left a bitter taste in her mouth– you left a bitter taste in her mouth.

The door opened, and Ellie’s shoulders loosened at the sight; your hair was straightened unlike the photo Riley had uploaded, you wore pink gloss to match your nails, and your eyes were larger in person.

Pretty. You were so fucking pretty.

You stepped aside to let her in, fidgeting with the belt of your robe and wearing a cautious smile as the two of you exchanged hellos.

Ellie set her skateboard against the wall, and you took the time to look at her then.

Her auburn hair stopped at her neck, half tied up with an undercut and her chipped nails were painted black. She wore an aged, light blue flannel over a white wife-beater, and black cargo pants that sat on her hips with just a sliver from the band of her grey boxers and a happy trail peeking through. A heavy carabiner loaded with keys, keychains, a couple of worn hair ties, a pocket knife, and some lettered beads you couldn’t quite make out, pulled down from the left of her belt loops that jingled as she straightened up.

Her green eyes gloomed in the dimness, freckles scattered across her skin like she was kissed by the stars. A faint scar rose from the corner of her chapped, pouty lips.

She was devastatingly attractive in a ‘lover i dreamt of once and couldn’t replicate’ kind of way.

It made you feel all the more graceless about the situation.

You took a step back as she turned around, offering a smile, which she returned with one that didn’t meet her eyes.

Ellie glanced around the living room of your apartment, thumbing at the strap of her backpack.

Your place was quaint with inconsistent decorations; a fake plant here and there in corners of the room, a scratched coffee table with a stack of mail, a grey couch with a few throw blankets folded on the armrest, and a TV across the room. The curtains were drawn shut, only a lamp and the kitchen light to brighten and the walls were bare; just a dead clock above the balcony doors. Your kitchen was clean, from what she could see, aside from a pot sitting on the stove.

You pulled the curtains back, apologizing sheepishly, “Sorry. I forget how dark it is in here sometimes.”

“I have blackout curtains so I get it,” Ellie shared, setting her backpack down on the couch and taking out her tripod and camera, “How do you wanna do this? The balcony or we could go outside? It’s still light out.”

A nervous laugh bubbled from your throat.

What kind of content did she assume you made?

You flushed, shaking your head, “Oh– god, no. I’m not like that. I thought my room would be good. I also have lights if you want to use them.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, scanning you, “Are you shy?”

What was your deal?

Maybe Ellie was in a bad mood today, as she often was, but she couldn’t figure you out. You seemed nice, spoke softly, and smelled so sweet; you’d clouded her with a bubble of rose as soon as the door swung open.

She couldn’t be upset with you despite her premature animosity. And the fact you were paying.

Regardless, she just wanted to get this over with so she could go back, edit your pictures in her bed while she shared a joint with Dina, get paid, and then ignore you as if you didn’t exist because until now, you didn’t.

“Not really, no.” You mumbled, “Would you like a water?”

She scanned your being then looked off to the side, “No, thanks.”

“Right, sure. I’ll show you the way.” You hushed, walking away.

Ellie glanced down at the back of your ankles to see a pair of embroidered winking cartoon cats. Cute.

She snorted, following you.

The bedroom was noticeably more lived in; posters and tapestries lined up the white walls except for the one your bed was against, fairy lights adorned the trim of the ceilings, and your dresser with heart-shaped knobs had trinkets and makeup littered atop. A desk sat pushed in the corner with a glass-stained lamp glowing and a heavily stickered laptop with a webcam. A few ring lights were resting against a wall. Your closet was partially shut, a sweater sleeve hanging out the gap and a pink duvet swallowed your bed. A fluffy, white rug lay in the center of your bedroom, and Ellie considered how you’d managed to keep it spotless.

It all looked new. Did your parents help you? She assumed they’d picked out this apartment, and then furnished it too.

You were annoying, but she couldn’t deny how well your place suited you.

“I never asked how many you need. Will this take long?” She blurted out.

You wavered at her tone. It wasn’t like she owed you anything, and she had come out all this way just for you.

“No, not at all. Honestly, if we can get just one decent shot, I’ll be grateful.” You confessed, biting your tongue.

She set her tripod down, turning her back from you to mess with the ring lights and their placement. She wasn’t very experienced using them, but lighting wasn’t an unfamiliar concept–she hoped.

“Thanks again for helping me. I know it’s probably weird, but it would’ve been hard to find another girl, I think. I tried to do it myself but they looked– horrible.” You explained, sitting down on the edge of your bed.

Weird?

Ellie’s eyebrows knit together, glancing over her shoulder at your words.

Her eyes faltered over your presence as you shrugged off your robe. You weren’t wearing an overpriced dress underneath that you were hoping to avoid staining.

No– in fact, you weren’t wearing much at all.

You peeked at her through your lashes with uncertainty; hands smoothing the thin straps of your sheer babydoll dress and a lighter lingerie set peeked under the mesh. A pair of ruffled, bow adorned garters hugged your thighs, bare skin glowing through.

She snapped her head back, fighting the pink rushing to her ears. Pink like you, she senselessly thought.

She should’ve just asked Riley or you what this was about, instead of aimlessly berating Dina for answers earlier, but it hadn’t crossed her mind. She grimaced at her previous behavior. It wasn’t your fault that her friends played Telephone with your request.

Did she make you out to be an inconvenience when you were half-naked in front of a stranger the entire time?

Ellie cleared her throat as she swallowed a shaky breath, “Yeah, no problem.” She exhaled, licking her lips nervously. She turned with a tight-lipped smile, praying the hue of your room would drown out her skin.

Please, please, please.

But you didn’t say anything. You avoided eye contact, shifting on your duvet and fixing your hair, “Is there a way I should pose or–”

She shook her head sharply, skimming over your figure again. Her hands shook around the camera, looking through and adjusting the settings, “No. Just do whatever you like. Whatever feels natural.”

Sure, you could do that. You laughed your head off with Abby that time she helped you, and it was nothing. But Ellie wasn’t your friend or anything like her.

This didn’t feel familiar.

Ellie glanced between you and the light as she flicked through the buttons, “Tell me if it’s too much on your eyes or if you don’t like something.” She murmured.

You hummed, rubbing your arm in a soothing manner as you watched her, fixing your posture when she clicked the camera into place.

Ellie observed the photo for a second, peering up at you, “Ready?”

It was silent at first, aside from the occasional shutter of the camera. Your movements resolved into something less hollow, and Ellie softened the tension with small talk. You kept your breath even and your gaze fixed on the veins sprawling the back of her hands.

“How long have you been friends with Riley?” She rasped behind the camera as you sat on your knees, looking over your shoulder.

“About a couple of years. We were paired on the same tour our senior year– found out we both enrolled there halfway through the first semester.” You divulged, laying on your stomach and kicking your feet up, “How about you?”

“We grew up in the same neighborhood.” She emitted.

You nodded slowly, then rolled over, laying on your back and propping your knee before resting your arm beside your head. She wasn’t much of a talker, but you appreciated her fill of the silence.

Ellie walked closer, thighs brushing the edge of the bed from where she stood over you.

To her, you looked beautiful.

Ellie loved women like you. She worshiped their otherness; reveling in the act of placing her hand on a girl’s back through a large crowd, watching them get dolled up, and being the pair of arms they ran to. All of her ex-girlfriends had been complete opposites.

The sweeter they were, the deeper her admiration, and in turn– the worse the breakup.

In terms of physicality, you surpassed her type; a great inconvenience, considering how jaded she felt toward you.

You pursed your lips from the dip in your stomach, meeting her gaze briefly before staring into the lens.

She regarded your doubt, whispering, “You can look at me, it’s okay.”

Up close, Ellie smelled of faint smoke and light cologne; a fleeting thought passed of how close you’d have to be, to smell her skin. Her voice lured like a moth to light; firm yet reserved. It was low with a hint of scratchiness and your mind racked for the last time anyone spoke to you with such patience.

You returned to her as she held the camera.

Another shutter.

Ellie eyed a strand of hair between your eyes, reaching out with a soft murmur, “Do you mind if I–”

You shook your head; pulse pounding within your neck, “No.”

Ellie’s fingers brushed the tip of your nose, tucking the strand behind your ear. You felt the roughness when you blinked, pushing down a sigh.

When was the last time you’d allowed warmth to greet yours?

“Do you go full-time?” She inquired.

Your ankle twitched as her voice brought you back, just barely, and you were grateful it was out of view, “Not this semester. I’m trying to focus on other things.”

Ellie’s hand gripped your ankle absentmindedly, shifting it so your foot didn’t hang off the bed before fixing your sock. She noticed.

“Smart.” She quipped, “I should to do that, but I don’t have the patience.” Or money, she thought, the corner of her mouth twitching.

You smiled up at her, “It’s definitely frustrating, but at least I have work to pass the time.”

Ellie hummed in agreement. You worked. That was a far better reality than what she’d conjured in her head earlier for the sake of justifying her presumptions.

A qualm of guilt heavied her throat; one she swallowed down.

Ellie’s palm wavered by your legs, and you instinctively leaned in. She clasped your knees, carefully pinning them to the side, thumb brushing the back of your knee before leaving you cold, lowering to smooth the duvet beneath you. Her tongue poked between her lips.

You stared.

────୨ৎ────

The glowing stars stickered to your ceiling were beginning to peel from their points.

You twiddled your thumbs over your ribs and traced the edges with your eyes, laying flat on your bedroom floor with the occasional sigh. Your damp hair soaked into the rug beneath you; skin rising to pebbles from the box fan fixed at your lower half, and still tender from the boiling shower. Your breath synchronized with the spinning blades, hands unfolding to brush your thighs, mimicking her touch.

It was nowhere near the same.

You wanted her.

The day had unfolded in providence. You’d furiously erased every photo on your laptop that afternoon and swore that you’d delete your accounts by the next morning.

By divine timing, you received Ellie’s text an hour later.

An underlying perturbation radiated off of you the moment you found Ellie at your doorstep.

It’s not as though you were ashamed– your work paid the bills and kept your stomach full, but Ellie had felt so indifferent and intimidating upon first impression, that you immediately contemplated sending her home with full payment and a long-winded apology for the abnormalities ailing your life and thus, inconveniencing hers.

You fell into a routine then, though you slipped elsewhere, because you couldn’t recall much of what was said between you two in the window of an hour–only how it felt.

You learned Ellie had a cat back home named Daniela, and gray was her favorite color. It reminded her of rainy skies reflecting off the lake in Jackson.

Before putting the camera away, she’d draped the robe around your shoulders and gathered your hair to sit against your collarbones.

You met her in the living room, once you came to, and helped her grab her belongings, tucking two hundred dollar bills in her hand when she was halfway out the door.

“I don’t mean to be annoying, but thank you again. Is it okay if I reach out to you next time?” You expressed, holding her backpack.

You’re not.” Ellie hummed but didn’t meet your eyes as she took her bag, “And you can. I’ll give you my number when I get home to send you the pictures.”

Ellie thanked you before reminding you to lock the door.

You locked it twice, repeating her words in your head.

────୨ৎ────

Upon her return to the dorms, Ellie stepped into the shared area, exhaling at the first sight of Riley curled up on the couch with her legs tossed over Dina’s lap.

“You’re a fucking dick.” She chastised, pointing at her friend while kicking off her tattered Converse into the shoe bin.

Riley blinked in disbelief, squinting at Ellie, “What the hell did I do?”

“I met your friend today,” Ellie blurted, “I took her pictures–why didn’t you tell me?” She snapped, taking a step closer to the couch.

Dina fisted a handful of popcorn, increasing the volume of the TV. It wasn’t be the first or last time Ellie walked into a room, pissed off.

Riley sat up, furrowing her eyebrows with a clenched jaw, “Why does it matter? I mean, of all people–”

Ellie cut her off, insisting, “Because I felt stupid! A warning would’ve been nice, you know?”

“A warning?” Riley repeated, quirking an eyebrow, “You wanted a warning for her?” She deadpanned.

“Whatever–” She gritted, stomping to her bedroom door, “Give me a heads up next time. I almost made an ass out of myself. ”

The door slammed shut beneath her foot, enclosing her in the darkness of her cramped bedroom.

Ellie tossed her skateboard down, watching it roll to the wall with a light thud. She ran her palms down her face, puffing air from her cheeks before falling over on the bed.

She’d only met you today. You were likely straight. These pictures were probably meant for your boyfriend–where were her thoughts heading?

Her arm extended to smack the bedside lamp, filling the space of her nightstand. She closed her eyes in exhaustion, groaning at flooding visions of you; how pliant and perfect you’d been when she moved you into another pose, how your dimples deepened at her poor jokes.

Your frame stamped her inner eyelids with vexation, a multitude of strained curses misfiring as she hooked a finger in the collar of her flannel, tugging it from her neck.

Her shirt smelled like you.

“Fuck.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ hi, chapter one as promised! this is more so introductory. im in the process of editing chapter two but there's a lot of incoming smut for sure. shoutout to my mutuals who passionately indulged this concept. i did it all for you <3

please reblog or comment if you’re interested in being added to the series’ taglist!

thank you!

taglist: @sweeterthing @orphicsun @crystaksack @honeylovee @elliesngirl @sewithinsouls @corpsebride25 @sulliefimmie @vahnilla @elliesangel444 @pussyeatercunt @starryrae @snuffphiliaa @stardropsblog @morticeras @spiidergwenn @ruevu @ellabssweetheart @rbnvrnxoxo @starrdelight @violetszn @nut-button-baby @thalchmy @ferxanda @crucifiedfem @blossom-teablog @eclipcee8 @onlyasp3nn @fortunatelyfurrypaper @trueellivingx @madsxh1022 @artemisdreamfairie

[industrations]

I’ll be coming for your love okay

[ladyblackbirdart]

“I’m not going to fight you.”

“Yes. You will.”

Alphonse Mucha inspired TLOU piece for you today 🩵

[almondcrssnt]

okay i wanna run back to this and say a couple things. I am media literate, i am aware of the glaring issues in the new season. But I could still enjoy the show!

… That was until I saw the season 2 finale. :( it REALLY missed the mark for me. Ughhhh because IM the fuckass now. I really enjoyed episodes 1,2,6, and liked the others okay. I never thought the show was perfect, I knew there were many problems, but this time there wasnt someone in my ear about it, the show told me itself. 😔 anyways that’s my update!! love u guys

how it feels to watch The Last of Us without some fuckass complaining about tiny changes

[raewritesfiction]

Joel's tears in the ship scene were not in the script, they were genuine. The team only noticed in the edition and decided to keep it.

It was Pedro’s last scenes, and the connection with Bella was so deep that he simply felt it.

This is the happiest moment we will ever see from Joel and Ellie.

[via]

[missdaddycool]

Joel miller x wife reader

Summary : Joel work everyday for creat the most perfect room for their baby

A/N : hi lovely people, i decided make part two of my last short story you can find on my masterlist if you want read the p.1 tell me what you think in comments and if I should make p.3 :)

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚

Jackson 📍

The first hammer strike came just after dawn.

The sky was still bruised with night, the kind of pale indigo that never quite turned blue anymore. The kind of morning where the silence pressed in. But Joel was already up, sleeves rolled, work gloves tight on his hands.

Y/N heard him moving around before the sun had fully risen. She turned in bed, hand slipping over the swell of her belly, and listened to the low mutter of tools being moved, wood scraping against stone. He’d started without breakfast. Again.

She pulled herself upright, every movement slow, careful. At seven months pregnant, her body wasn’t hers anymore—it was a house being lived in by someone else, and she was just the walls creaking. But she didn’t complain. Not much use for it. Joel had taken on all the worry in the room and then some.

Out in the main room of their house in Jackson, Joel was hunched over a spread of rough wood slats, measuring and marking, the furrow between his brows already carved deep. Sawdust floated in the shafts of light like falling ash. He was building a crib. From scratch.

“Morning,” she said softly.

He looked up, startled like she’d caught him doing something wrong. “Shit—did I wake you?”

“No louder than the kid kicking me in the ribs all night.”

He gave a tired smile, barely there, and wiped a hand down his jaw. “Almost done with the frame. Thought I’d get the sanding started today. Wanna make sure there ain’t no splinters.”

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, hand resting on the top of her belly. “You’ve been working on that thing like it’s gonna be inspected by the goddamn president.”

Joel didn’t laugh. His hands stilled. “Just want it right.”

She could see it then—underneath the worn denim, the rough hands, the permanent scowl—he was scared. Joel Miller wasn’t a man easily shaken. But this? This shook him. Not the building. The becoming.

“I know you do,” she said gently, crossing to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “But you don’t have to do all this alone.”

Joel shook his head, eyes on the crib’s unfinished railings. “I do.”

And that was the truth of it. He needed to. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was love, but either way, it kept him up at night.

He hadn’t said it out loud, not once, but Y/N could feel it in every screw turned too tight, every piece of wood planed down to a shine. He remembered Sarah in everything he touched. And Ellie, too—somewhere in the ache behind his eyes. This time had to be different. He wasn’t gonna fuck it up again.

By midday, he’d moved on to painting. A soft sage green, hand-mixed. The color didn’t scream baby, but it was peaceful, quiet. Like he hoped their world could be—at least in one room.

Y/N brought him water, sandwiches, sat nearby in the rocking chair he’d dragged in the day before. She watched him work, watched the tension in his back, the way he squinted at every edge like he was afraid it might bite.

“You think the kid’ll sleep in it?” he asked finally, voice low, like the question might splinter the silence.

“Probably not right away,” she said with a smile. “But eventually, yeah. They’ll love it.”

He gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything.

“Joel,” she said, “they’re not gonna care if the crib’s perfect. They’re gonna care if you’re there.”

His shoulders tensed. Then dropped. “What if I ain’t enough?”

“ You are.” She said it without hesitation. “You’ve already done more than most would. You’re here. You stayed. That’s everything.”

He looked over at her, eyes shadowed with something old and worn but still open—still trying. “Don’t wanna let ’em down.”

“Then don’t. Be here. Change diapers. Lose sleep. Love them hard.”

He looked at the crib, now painted, drying in the corner like some kind of promise. Then he looked at her. And the smallest, realest smile touched his mouth.

“I can do that.”

She smiled back, reached for his hand. His fingers were calloused and rough with work, but he held her like she was the only soft thing left in the world.

Outside, the wind picked up. Snow would come soon. But inside, in that small nursery of wood and paint and sweat, there was warmth. Not safety—not in this world—but something like hope.

Joel squeezed her hand. “I’ll finish it tomorrow.”

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder. “We’ve got time.”

And for once, they believed it.

[kizishere]

“my community was beaten to death in front of me while i was forced to fucking watch”

[allconsuminglovergirl]

Pov: your camera roll if Joel Miller was your boyfriend

[sothisisablog]

My son is coming home to me

(And his actor better be fucking trans)

[zepskies]

TOMORROW

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: It’s another one of those dreams he won’t remember when he wakes. For now, it has no qualms about torturing him. He’s alone…until he’s not. 

AN: Well, here we go! My first little attempt at writing Joel Miller and for TLOU. 🫣

Word Count: 650

Tags/Warnings: Jackson!Joel, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

He twitches in his sleep sometimes.

Twitches and mutters, broad shoulders shrugging in on himself while he lies on his side. His long legs curl a bit more under the cotton sheets. The quilt has tangled down around his waist somewhere.

It’s another one of those dreams he won’t remember when he wakes. For now, it has no qualms about torturing him. Sweat beads above his brow. His stiff fingers clench and claw fruitlessly into the mattress. 

But the point is that he does wake up.

The room is pitch black. That hasn't changed since the mid-afternoon, thanks to the wintertime shift in Wyoming. It’s also fucking cold, freezing his toes, his hands, his nose. Joel sniffs, glances over his shoulder, finding the space behind him empty.

He’s alone.

Until he’s not. You pad back into the bedroom on bare feet, no matter how many times he’s reminded you to wear socks at night. You make sure to stoke the dimming fireplace back to life before you slip back into bed, covering both of you more securely with the quilt you knitted in greens, soft browns, and reds. The colors that remind you of him.

You let out a breathy hum while wrapping your arms around him from behind. You shuffle in closer, your knees bending behind his, and you press a kiss between his shoulders. He closes his hand around yours against his chest and hopes you can’t feel the pat-pat-pat racing of his heart.

“Where were you?” he asks.

“Mind your business,” you quip, smiling into his shirt. You feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric.

His lips pull at a smile too. “Jesus. What’re you planning now?”

“What’d I just say?” If possible, you snuggle deeper against him and sigh. “Sleep, baby. You’ll find out tomorrow.”

A few beats of silence tick on while Joel lays there and thinks (broods, actually), and you pretend not to hear his mind cogs turning.

“I told you I don’t want anything. Don’t need anything,” he grumbles.

You’re tempted to laugh.

“Too bad. It’s fucking Christmas, Joel.”

A few more halting seconds of contemplation, and then…

“What’d you get me?”

“You’ll find out, Mr. Grinch. Now go back to sleep.”

He huffs at the nickname. You bite your lip in amusement. You know he isn’t used to celebrating holidays, or even birthdays for that matter. Here in Jackson, it’s one of the more obvious, sentimental ways to reclaim a piece of the world you and Joel used to know.

Ellie’s not that much better, but even she’s working on something for him: a collection of cassettes of his favorite music.

Of course you’ve done your best to get him something special, but practical—a new(ish) rifle you traded from Seth. You also had Tommy engrave the hilt with two sets of initials: S.M. and E.W. You just finished staging it out on the coffee table.

“I might’ve, uh…got you something too,” Joel says.

 You blink in surprise. New warmth laces down your spine.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushes over the back of your hand. In fact, he brings it to his lips. You feel the familiar scratch of his salt and pepper beard against your skin.

“Hmm…” A softer smile retakes your face, and you shimmy up the bed to rest your chin on his shoulder. You curl your warming toes against his hairy calves. “What’d you do?”

“Nuh, uh. Tomorrow, right?” His voice is nearly a rumble with the remnants of sleep, even with that hint of teasing. He does like getting you back.

And when he does, he doesn’t fucking miss.

Joel’s a man of sparing words when it comes to the heart, but he often lets his actions do the talking for him. In the morning, he’ll do it for the woman who’s accepted him, despite who and what he thinks he is. He’ll do it for the woman who wasn’t afraid to give him hell while becoming his peace.

He’ll do it with a modest ring.

AN: Let me know if you want to see more Joel! I have ideas brewing for these two...

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Joel Miller Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Joel Miller Tag List:

Aside from those who added themselves to the tag list, I'm just tagging some of my lovely friends who encouraged me to dive into TLOU! 💛

@risingwolf97 @superbouquetgarden @disappearintofanfiction @luci-in-trenchcoats @wayward-dreamer

@tofics @lamentationsofalonelypotato @rizlowwritessortof @roseblue373 @supernotnatural2005

[calamlynchs]

That's better.

[64reprieve]

picture you (e.w.) ˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

pairing: butch!college!loser!ellie x femme!camgirl!reader

synopsis: you need promo for your business. ellie’s tuition is due. or ellie’s a college student in her junior year scrambling to get her shit together and desperate to make ends meet with side jobs. you need pictures taken by someone who isn’t a creep from craigslist and won’t kill you. your friend knows just the person.

content: (18+ content), angst, smut, fluff, amateur!photographer!ellie like she really only knows to point and shoot, loser!ellie, college!ellie, recreational use of weed bc ellie needs a vice, other substance use, ellie is intimacy-deprived/abstaining, lesbian yearning, pining, useless lesbians, explicit language, power play dynamic, friends with benefits, self-harm ideation, mentions of agoraphobia, family issues, depression, soft dom!ellie, sub!reader, jealousy, miscommunication, ongoing themes

nsfw, men and minors dni

prologue ➤ chapter one ➤ chapter two ➤ (tbd.)

Ellie tossed her skateboard down, watching it roll to the wall with a light thud. She ran her palms down her face, puffing air from her cheeks before falling on the bed.

You were likely straight. These pictures were probably meant for your boyfriend–where were her thoughts heading?

Her arm extended to smack the bedside lamp, filling the space of her nightstand. She closed her eyes in exhaustion, groaning at flooding visions of you; how pliant and perfect you’d been when she moved you into another pose, how your dimples deepened at her poor jokes.

Your frame stamped her inner eyelids with vexation, a multitude of strained curses misfiring as she hooked a finger in the collar of her flannel, tugging it from her neck. 

Her shirt smelled like you.

“Fuck.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ new series! a few of the chapters are already in drafts but i’m still in the process of tweaking a few things. chapter one is coming very, very, very soon however. please reblog or comment if you’re interested in being added to the series’ taglist!

thank you!