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daryltwdixon · 4 months ago

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So could you write a pretty angst-y fic where Joel and reader are in an established relationship and they've been settled in Jackson for a while, taking part in patrols and all. And one day, reader and Tommy go out on patrol and they're taking longer than they should to come back and Joel is anxiously waiting by the gate. Then he sees Tommy approaching on his horse with reader's limp body in his arms and a scared look on his face. Reader's been badly hurt while saving Tommy's life. Joel thinks he's gonna lose her but thankfully she recovers (so happy ending!!!)

Thanks! I hope you can understand the general idea, English is not my first language so bear with me lol

first ever Joel request :') thank you anon!!!! had this in the draft for the past few days

The air bit at Joel’s face as he paced near the gate, his boots grinding against the frost-touched dirt. The sun had started to dip, its light staining the snow a faint amber, and still, there was no sign of them. He glanced at Maria, who stood a few feet away, her arms crossed and her expression tight.

“They’re late,” Joel muttered, more to himself than her.

“Give them time,” she replied evenly, though her voice carried no conviction.

Every nerve in Joel’s body felt like it was stretched thin, pulled taut by the silence. He wasn’t the type to panic—he’d seen too much, lost too much that he'd grown a thick skin—but this was different. You were different. And Tommy... Hell, he couldn’t let himself think about it.

When the sound of hooves finally broke the stillness, Joel’s head snapped toward the horizon. Relief flickered in his chest, but it was fleeting. The sight of Tommy riding toward the gates, his horse kicking up fresh snow, sent his stomach lurching.

You were slumped against Tommy’s chest, your body limp as a rag doll.

Tommy’s face was pale, his jaw tight. “Open the gate!” he shouted, urgency sharpening his voice.

Joel’s feet moved before his brain could catch up, his heart thundering like a war drum. His hands felt clumsy as he helped Maria shove the gate open, the cold metal biting into his palms.

“What the hell happened?” Joel demanded, his voice rising as Tommy reined the horse in.

“She—she saved me,” Tommy stammered, his breath fogging in the cold. “Raiders. She pushed me outta the way, Joel. Got hit bad—”

Joel didn’t hear the rest. His eyes were locked on you, on the blood soaking through your jacket and the way your head lolled against Tommy’s shoulder. He reached up, his hands trembling, and carefully took you from Tommy’s arms.

“Jesus, no—no, no, no,” Joel muttered under his breath, his voice cracking as he cradled you against him. You were too still, your face too pale, and the warmth of your blood seeped through his clothes.

Maria was shouting something about getting a stretcher, about calling for a doctor, but Joel barely registered it. He carried you toward the infirmary, his steps uneven and frantic.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispered, his voice breaking as he pressed his face to your hair. “Don’t you dare leave me. Don’t you dare.”

The hours that followed were a blur of blood-stained bandages, hushed voices, and Joel’s chest so tight he could barely breathe. He sat by your bedside, his hands gripping yours like they were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

You didn’t stir.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Joel rasped, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. His voice was low, hoarse. “You hear me? You’re gonna be fine. I’ll kill anyone who says otherwise.”

Joel hadn’t moved from the chair in hours. His back ached, his legs felt stiff, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The only thing grounding him was the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest.

The infirmary was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the heater. The blood had been cleaned off your skin, the deep wound on your side stitched and wrapped. But the pale cast to your face still gnawed at him, clawing at the frayed edges of his composure.

“C’mon,” he murmured, his voice low. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face. “You’ve fought through worse, haven’t you? Don’t make me sit here and talk to myself like a damn fool.”

He didn’t realize he’d drifted off until he felt your fingers twitch in his. It was subtle—barely there—but it sent a jolt through him. His head shot up, his heart hammering as your lashes fluttered.

“Hey,” he breathed, standing so quickly the chair scraped against the floor. He leaned over you, his hand cupping your cheek as your eyes cracked open. “Hey, there you are. You’re awake.”

You blinked sluggishly, your gaze trying to focus on his face. “Joel?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s me.” His voice cracked, his forehead lowering to press against yours for a long moment. His breath was shaky, his hands trembling as they cupped your face.

Then—in a move that to anyone but you that knew Joel would be uncharacteristic—he kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—his lips lingering as if trying to will you back to life.

But the reprieve didn’t last. When he pulled back, the familiar furrow of his brow returned, and his jaw tightened.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” he growled, stepping back just enough to meet your eyes. The raw edge of his voice sliced through the haze of your exhaustion. “Throwin’ yourself in front of Tommy like that? You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

The gruffness in his tone didn’t surprise you—it was Joel’s way of dealing with fear. But the storm in his eyes made your throat tighten.

“Tommy—he… needed help,” you rasped, your voice weak.

“I don’t give a damn what the excuse is,” Joel snapped, his hand raking through his hair. He paced to the foot of the bed, then back to your side, his frustration barely contained. “You think I can just sit here and watch you—watch you almost…” His voice broke, and he turned away, rubbing a hand over his face.

Your heart twisted at the sight. Joel Miller wasn’t a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, but here he was, raw and undone.

“Joel,” you whispered.

He turned back to you, his jaw tight. “You don’t get to do that,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You don’t get to make that choice for me. For us.”

The weight of his words settled between you, and you reached out, your fingers brushing his hand. He hesitated for a moment before taking your hand in his, holding it tightly like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you murmured.

“Well, you did. You scared the hell outta me,” he shot back, though his grip on your hand softened. “Don’t ever do that again. You hear me?”

You managed the faintest of smiles, your lips quirking despite the ache in your body. “Bossy.”

Joel let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Damn right I’m bossy. And you’d better start listenin’.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the hum of the heater and the quiet, shaky breaths Joel took to calm himself. He sank back into the chair, his head bowing as he rested his forehead against your joined hands.

“You’re stuck with me,” you whispered, echoing the words he’d once said to you.

Joel huffed, "Got that right.”

When he lifted his head, his eyes were softer, though the tension in his jaw hadn’t fully eased. He kissed your knuckles again, lingering for a moment.

“I mean it,” he muttered, his voice gruff but tender. “Don’t scare me like that again. I can’t…” He trailed off, the words hanging heavy in the air.

“I’ll try,” you said softly, your fingers brushing against his.

“That’s all I’m askin’,” Joel replied, his lips twitching into a small, reluctant smile.

He stayed there, his chair pulled close to your bedside, his hand never leaving yours. And for the first time in hours, the storm inside him began to quiet.

#Joel miller #Joel Miller x you #Joel Miller angst #Joel Miller x reader #requests #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fanfic #Joel Miller drabble #tlou drabble #the last of us one shot

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grayandthyme · 6 days ago

Text

my ground gives out beneath you | oneshot

masterlist

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

synop: While gardening, you make the wrong move. Slipping through a door you had no right to be near in the first place. Tommy is mad. Really mad. He can't lose anyone else. Especially not you.

warnings/tags: fluff, slight angst, sexual suggestions, showering together, implied sex, use of swearing, mentions/depictions of violence, self-deprication. no use of y/n. reader is lowkey kinda silly for going outside but oh well.. gardener!reader.

a/n: the miller boys and getting angry about you almost getting hurt. typical. also I loooove writing dialogue for tommy... emotional sassy man.. wanna lick that mustache pls

w/c 4.6k (super short, kind of a drabble)

You wiped the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, careful not to smear more dirt across your face—not that it mattered. You were already covered in the stuff: jeans caked to the knee, boots sunk half an inch in soil. Your fingers dug into the earth, turning old till with practiced motions, pressing it down again like it was muscle memory.

Jackson had its charm. Quiet. Steady. Safe enough that you’d stopped flinching at every shadow. And somehow, you’d found a purpose here. Strange little corner of peace in a world long laid to hell. Resident gardener. Crop overseer. The one who brought a pop of color to porches, or laid flowers at graves no one else could visit.

It wasn’t just a job. It was something to do. A way to keep your hands busy. A way to keep moving forward. You planted things. Grew things. Helped life come back in the smallest ways.

Then you went home. Washed the dirt from your skin. Letting the man you love gently scrub the rest from your back. Sat close enough to him that neither of you have to speak.

For the end of the world it was good. Sometimes, too good. Some days it felt almost normal.

But today wasn't one of those days.

Your eyes skimmed the seed packets laid out in rows—carefully labeled, sorted. One bag near-empty, light in your hand: tomato seeds, your favorite project of the season. You drummed your fingers along the edge of the garden box and stood, stretching the ache out of your spine.

"I'm gonna go grab the rest of the bags—you guys good in here?" you called over your shoulder.

A chorus of “Yes ma’am!” and “Thank you!” followed you out, and you slipped through the wooden corridor of the greenhouse.

Outside, the sun had started its descent behind the mountains. Jackson glowed in that late golden hour—the kind of light that made it feel like nothing bad had ever happened here. The smell of roasted meat from the Tipsy Bison floated on the breeze, kids screamed with laughter at the wooden playground, horses clopped along the gravel paths with saddlebags full of supplies.

You weaved through the garden plots—mounds of soil, rows of orange tree saplings, rusted shovels leaning like old men against fence posts. You passed rows of sprouting herbs and markers scribbled with names that felt like promises. Toward the farthest edge of the land, just before the great wall of Jackson rose up like a fortress, you spotted the stash.

Stacks of seed bags. Five feet high, months of scavenging and trading packed into burlap and plastic. A quiet kind of accomplishment.

You sifted through the bags, fingers brushing over worn burlap, each one so familiar that you could almost name the seed inside by scent alone—mint, coriander, marigold. It was second nature by now. Kind of pathetic, maybe.

Blowing out a short breath through your nose, eyes flicking across the row. No tomato seeds in sight. That same low-grade frustration began to simmer, a small, annoyed huff escaping you. Maybe hangry.

"The hell…" you muttered, dirt-smudged fingers raking through your hair, tugging strands away from your face. Definitely hangry.

That’s when you saw them.

Just outside the gate. A few bags—stacked a bit haphazardly—barely ten feet away, resting against the outer fence. You could practically touch them. Tomato seeds among them, you were sure of it.

A metal door stood between you and them. Heavy, rusted, barred from the inside.

It’s not like anyone’s out there, you told yourself. The walls were manned. Watched. This spot was under a watchtower, practically inside the town. It wasn’t like you were heading out into the goddamn wasteland. It was… what? Two minutes outside the line?

You didn’t want to radio someone to fetch it for you. That felt worse. Weak. Like asking meant you weren’t capable. That you were soft. Cowardly.

Hell, Tommy had gotten you into Jackson in the first place. Pulled strings. Gotten people to vouch. And ever since, it felt like you owed something. Like every seed you planted was penance for a favor you didn’t know how to repay.

Your hands were already moving before you could talk yourself out of it. You unlatched the thick metal bar with a quiet grunt and slipped the door open just wide enough to slip through. The hinges creaked like they hadn’t been used in weeks. Still, you stepped through.

The air outside was different. Feral. Thick with the smell of pine and iron. Just past the threshold, nature had taken over—overgrown grass curled around your boots, vines crept up the base of the watchtower, and fallen branches tangled in forgotten fencing. You’d said it before: this would be prime land for garden expansion. You’d even told Tommy. But no one ever followed up.

You navigated through the dirt and gravel with careful footing, the uneven earth crunching beneath your boots. Kneeling by the stack, you moved fast—hands brushing over the coarse burlap, the scent of earth and dried seed rising up to meet you.

"Gotcha," you muttered, fingers closing around the tomato seed bag and tugging it free from the pile. It was heavier than you remembered—forty, maybe forty-five pounds—but you managed to hike it against your hip, adjusting for balance.

The weight pressed into your side as you made your way back, sidestepping tangled roots and patches of wild grass. You moved slow, cautious, but confident. The door was just ahead, right where you left it. Still cracked open. Still safe.

See? Easy. No problem. You worried for nothing.

A snap. Not from beneath you. From the trees. Somewhere off to the right.

The seed bag dug into your side as you slowly turned your head. Not fast—fast would make noise. Fast would mean panic. And panic meant death.

You scanned the trees. The underbrush. The shadows stretching longer now that the sun had nearly dipped below the horizon.

You shifted your grip on the bag, inching one foot back toward the open door. Then it screamed.

That god-awful, bone-splitting screech—somewhere between a person and a demon—ripped through the air. From the treeline, it lunged.

Runner.

No time. You dropped the bag, stumbling backward as the infected barreled toward you, all limbs and rage, its mouth gaping open with the promise of ruin. Its hands stretched, fingers curled like claws.

Its arms missed you by inches, but its momentum dragged you both down in a vicious spiral—crashing through the underbrush. You tumbled, slamming through dirt and dead branches, pain flaring in your back and ribs. The runner snapped its jaws in blind rage, its limbs clawing at the earth beside you but never quite finding skin.

You slammed against the base of a tree, disoriented, vision split by branches. You kicked and swung out, again and again, keeping the thing’s flailing body at bay.

BANG.

The shot split the air. The runner seized, neck jerking. It dropped. Silent.

Your breath caught in your throat as you lay there, heart thundering. Then the sound of boots barreled down the hill—furious boots.

Tommy’s hands were on you before the world came back into focus. “What the hell were you thinkin’?” he snapped, grabbing you by your shoulders, shaking once—not rough, just enough to remind you you were alive.

“No bite,” you gasped. “Didn’t touch me, I swear—”

“I don’t give a shit what it touched. You shouldn’t’ve been out here alone.” His voice cracked halfway through, like it betrayed him. His jaw clenched. “You know better. You know better.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide. His were burning.

“I almost put a bullet through it too late,” he continued, quieter now, but heavier. “You realize what that would’ve done to me? What it would’ve meant if I saw that thing sink its teeth into you?”

You stayed silent. There was nothing to say.

Tommy looked away, like even meeting your eyes hurt. He ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Jesus… You’re not just some fuckin' girl. You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.”

He hauled you up—not gently—and slung your arm over his shoulder. His grip was tight. Protective.

“You want tomato seeds?” he growled, voice dark and cracked with anger. “You ask. I’ll bring the whole damn field if it keeps you behind the gate. But you don’t get to pull stunts like this."

"Not now. Not with me.”

You nodded, throat tight. The weight of what almost happened still ringing in your bones.

As he guided you back toward the wall, you could feel it in the tension of his body—he wasn’t just mad. He was terrified.

. . .

You’d misread him.

He wasn’t just upset—he was seething. Quiet, tight-lipped fury. The kind that didn’t need to be shouted to make your chest ache. The walk back to town was heavy with it. No words. No looks. Just the clamp of his hand on the back of your jacket, guiding you forward like a soldier escorting someone who’d stepped out of line.

You hadn’t even gotten to finish your shift. No chance to wave off the other gardeners. The stares were the worst—dozens of eyes trailing after you, low whispers cutting the air. Concern. Pity. Fear. You weren’t the survivor today. You were the reckless one, the fragile one, the woman who nearly didn’t come back.

Tommy’s grip never loosened. Not once. Like if he did, you’d vanish into the ground or go running back out again.

By the time you reached the house, your heart was pounding with the quiet shame of it all.

He finally spoke, voice flat and firm, the words razor-sharp in their simplicity.

“Go get changed.”

“We’ll talk later.”

And then he disappeared—into the hallway, into the silence, into himself. You stood there in the entryway, mud drying on your boots, hands still trembling from the brush with death, and it hit you.

It felt like punishment. Maybe it was.

A few moments pass, and you finally make your way upstairs to the bathroom.

You peeled off your clothes in silence, careful with every movement. Each scrape, each bruise, each patch of gravel-burned skin lit up angry and raw against the parts of you that were still whole. It all stung now—the sting of adrenaline gone, leaving nothing behind but pain and consequence.

You sat on the edge of the tub, sockless feet pressed to the cold tile floor, your arms folded tightly across your chest like they could hold you together. But they couldn’t.

The bathroom light buzzed above you, casting your reflection in the mirror like a ghost. And then, finally—finally—you let go.

A breath broke. Then a sob. Then another. And another.

No gasping. No theatrics. Just that hollow kind of crying that seeps up from your ribs, thick and unrelenting, like grief had been waiting patiently behind your teeth.

It wasn’t about the fall. Not really. It wasn’t even about the runner. It was the look on his face. The way Tommy hadn’t spoken to you. It was knowing, deep down, that you scared him. And that scared you more than anything else. It was an accident. You tried to convince yourself it was an accident. That you didn't go through with it because you were tired of being Tommy's sheltered girl. He's lost so much, how could you add to that?

You’re part of me now. And I ain’t got the kind of heart left to bury another person I love.

The sobs didn’t stop—they just changed. Softer now. Like something had cracked wide open inside of you and there was no stuffing it back in.

You slid from the edge of the closed toilet, knees curling beneath you as your bare skin pressed against the cool, aged wood of the floor. Arms braced out in front of you, hands shaking against the boards like they could hold up the weight of the world. Like they could hold you.

But they couldn’t.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. Time blurred at the edges. Pain and shame blurring with it.

A knock.

Soft. Careful. Still heavy.

Tommy.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t need to.

You didn’t answer right away—couldn’t—but you heard the way he shifted just outside the door. Boots scuffing against the floor. A sigh, quiet and worn.

“I ain’t gonna ask to come in,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. “But you’re hurtin’. And I’d rather be in there hurtin’ with you than standin’ out here pretendin’ like I ain’t.”

Silence.

“I was mad,” he added, slower this time. “Still am. Don’t mean I don’t love you. Don’t mean I ain’t scared shitless at the thought of you not comin’ home.”

You swallowed hard, head still bowed. The words splintered something in you, but not in a way that hurt. In a way that made you feel seen.

You reached for the towel near the counter, dragging it close, wrapping yourself in it like armor.

“C’mon in,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

The doorknob clicked. The door eased open.

Tommy stood in the frame, his expression unreadable—somewhere between fear and fury and a heartbreak he’d never admit to. But he stepped inside without a word, sinking to his knees beside you.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmured, eyes glassy, but jaw tight. “And I can’t. You hear me?”

“…’m sorry…” you manage to gasp, the words catching and breaking in your throat like brittle glass. Each sob lurches out of you, wild and raw, dragging your chest tight. The tears keep falling—hot, carving burning paths down your cheeks.

You’re still on the floor, still bare, shivering from the cold and guilt. The wood beneath you bites at your skin, goosebumps rising in waves. You feel stripped open, not just of your clothes—but of everything.

Pride. Defenses. Sense. Though the entire thing was your fault.

Tommy doesn't speak right away.

He just kneels there, next to you. His fingers twitch—tight, twitch, release—over and over, like he’s working through something bigger than he knows how to say.

Then, quiet and flat:

“Don’t apologize for survivin’.”

You blink up at him through the haze of your crying, eyes swollen, lashes wet.

“That’s what that was,” he continues, voice a little rougher now. “You didn’t go out there ‘cause you’re stupid. Or reckless. Or tryin’ to piss me off.” A bitter huff. “Though you damn well managed that last two.”

He pauses, jaw ticking. His gaze doesn’t quite meet yours. It hovers just over your shoulder, as if looking straight at you might shatter him, too.

“You went out there cause you thought you had to. ‘Cause no one ever taught you to let someone else help. You don't owe me anythin'." His voice softens, quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“Well, I’m here now. I’m right here. And I ain’t lettin’ you bleed alone on a bathroom floor. Got it?”

You don’t answer.

But you nod.

And that’s enough.

Tommy reaches for the towel, tugs it a little higher over your shoulder, making sure you’re wrapped tight. Then he shifts, lowers himself beside you, pulling you gently against his chest. You curl into him—still trembling, still raw—and he just holds you there, like he’s trying to put all your broken pieces back in place with nothing but his hands and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You sink into him like soft wax against a flame—malleable, undone. His arms encase you, dark and steady, holding you like a thing he refuses to let shatter. You let your fingers roam in small, quiet passes—mapping the constellation of moles and sun-darkened spots that speckle his skin like old stories. Scars like soft warnings, sunspots like prayers. He feels real beneath your hands. Solid. Warm.

Your voice is barely more than breath.

“Tommy?” A pause. The weight of his name clings to your tongue. “…Is it a bad time to ask if you’ll… shower with me?”

For a moment, there’s just the sound of the house breathing around you. Wood creaking. Pipes humming. Your chest rising and falling where it rests against his.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes scanning your face—searching, measuring. Not for lust. Not even really for permission. But for intent. For what you need.

His voice is quiet. Rough, like gravel smoothed down by the years.

“Darlin’,” he says, “I’d carry you in there if you asked me to.”

"I'm a big girl, I can walk…" You jest, a small laugh slipping out from your crying demeanor.

His eyes are soft as they meet yours. Thumb brushing across the back of your hand before he drifts to undo the buttons of his flannel. There’s something hesitant in the movement, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. He doesn’t want to push you, doesn’t want to make you feel anything more than what you’re willing to give.

But you can’t stop the way your body moves towards him. How your lips lift, barely brushing against his as you reach up to gently pull his shirt from his shoulders, your fingers trembling as you guide it down his chest. His breath hitches, a low sound escaping him when your lips meet his neck, soft, fleeting. Like each soft kiss is an apology.

I'm sorry for being stupid.

There’s no hurry. No franticness. Just the weight of everything you’ve been through, pressing in, and the need to feel something real. Something that isn’t broken. You press your body against his, and he inhales, his hands coming up to your face, brushing your tears away, though you’re not sure when they started again. Maybe his presence.

You pull back for a moment, your breath shaky. You don’t say a word. But the look in his eyes tells you everything. It’s soft, but it’s fierce. Like he’s terrified of what’s been lost and what could slip away in an instant.

You kiss him then. Slow, soft, desperate in its quiet way. Your hands slide over his chest, fingers slipping down the curve of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He doesn’t stop you.

It’s not about sex. It’s about the quiet, desperate need to be together in this chaotic world. To remind each other that you’re both still here. That you’re alive.

When you finally break apart, you let the fabric fall between you both. His shirt, your clothes—discarded in a pile against the old wooden floorboards. His arms circle around your waist, pulling you into the shower with him, close under the hot water. Feeling the weight of everything you didn’t say, everything you didn’t need to, pressing against you. You kiss him again, this time deeper, pulling him closer, seeking solace in his warmth, in his scent, in the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"I'm sorry," you whisper again, the words barely rising above the hum of the water. They cling to your throat like thorns, fragile and raw, curling out with a trembling breath as your fingers curl into the warmth of his skin.

"I'm so fucking sorry," you repeat—choked, hoarse—like it’s not a sentence but a prayer. A desperate offering to something bigger than the both of you. Maybe to him. Maybe to the pieces of yourself that still believe you deserve to be held.

Tommy doesn’t say anything at first. Just rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, like he’s trying to breathe you in. His hands move over your spine, slow and deliberate, anchoring you there like you might otherwise drift apart. The warm drip of the water.

“You think I don’t know what that guilt feels like?” he says lowly, voice gravel-worn and edged with something close to ache. “I’ve carried it so long, I forgot what it feels like to walk without it.”

You keep your face pressed to his chest, lips parted but speechless. The silence says everything you can't.

He exhales, slow and tired. “I can't bury you. That ain't somethin' I can do… You go, and I go with it. There'll be nothin' left of me."

There’s no venom in it. Just truth. Just the kind of pain that sounds like anger because love doesn’t always come out gentle.

“I ain't mad you went out there,” he continues. “I’m mad 'cause you didn’t think twice about what it'd do to me. About what I'd be without you.”

Your breath catches. He feels it.

“I ain't like the others, never have been,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “I don’t shut it down when I care about somebody. I feel it. I feel all of it.”

You look up then, blinking through the mist, your thumb brushing over the scar on his forehead.

“I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Tommy’s jaw clenches. “You’re not a burden. You’re mine. My girl. My woman—" He hesitates, a deep inhale, "And mine don’t die alone in the goddamn dirt.”

He says it like a vow.

"If you asked me to lay down n' die, I sure as hell probably fuckin' would…"

His words don't burn anymore.

You kiss him again—slow and firm and full of every word you can’t manage. And he lets you. Holds you like the world might split if he doesn’t.

Your fingers find his hair—thick, dark—and you curl them there, anchoring yourself in the strands like they’re the last solid thing in a world built on rot and ruin. A gentle tug, not out of desire but out of need. Something quiet and aching. Like you're trying to make sure he stays.

The kisses taper off, each one slower than the last, until your foreheads rest against each other and the only thing left between you is breath. Steam swirls around your tangled forms, the water falling soft.

You're both still, tucked into each other beneath the muted warmth. Spaced out. Safe, for now.

And then your voice breaks the hush, small and hoarse but real: “How’d you know I was there?” You pause, fingers still laced in his hair. “I thought you were out on patrol.”

Tommy exhales through his nose, his arm tightening slightly around your waist.

“I was,” he says, voice thick with something unspoken. “Checkin’ the perimeter like I’m supposed to.”

He pauses.

“But then I saw one of the watch guys… leanin' over, squintin’ toward the south gate. Looked nervous.”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it against your temple.

“And I don’t know what it was—just somethin’ in my gut. Cold, sick feelin’. I ran. Didn’t even think. Just ran.”

His voice quiets, but it hardens too.

“Don’t ever make me feel that again.”

You swallow, guilt catching sharp in your throat.

Tommy shifts then, just enough to look at you. His hand comes up, thumb brushing a drop of water from your cheek.

“I know you’re strong. I know you’ve survived a helluva lot. But don’t you dare think you gotta prove it to me by gettin’ yourself killed.”

There’s no accusation in his voice, just a worn-out sorrow, like someone who’s lost too much and refuses to do it again. The silence returns, but it’s softer now. Heavy with feeling, but not drowning in it.

The water runs warm for a little while longer, soaking into your skin like ointment against old bruises. Tommy doesn’t say much more after that. Doesn’t have to. His touch stays—steady, grounding. You stay curled against him in the falling water until your fingers start to prune and the steam fades into the cold edges of reality.

Eventually, he murmurs, “We should get out. Water’s goin’ cold.”

You nod, not really wanting to move. But he helps you, carefully untangling your limbs, stepping out first to grab two towels from the wall hook. He tosses one over his shoulder before turning to wrap the other around you, gentler than you expect. The fabric scratches your scraped knees, but you don’t flinch, it only stings a bit.

You dry off in silence, your breath fogging the mirror, his silhouette moving behind you as he runs a hand through his wet hair. He’s quiet, but there’s still a charge in the air between you, something unspoken and taut—less like a rope about to snap, and more like one that just pulled someone back from the ledge.

He watches you in the mirror, eyes flicking to each fading bruise and open scrape across your shoulder and collarbone. “You got lucky,” he says, voice low, gruff.

“I know.”

There’s a beat where you think he might say more, maybe even get mad again. But instead, he moves in behind you, pressing a hand flat against your back.

“You hungry?”

Your eyes dip in the mirror, watching his hand round your hips, tough calloused fingers resting right below your bellybutton.

"I don't know," You exhale, eyes flicking back up to meet his face in the mirror, "You angry enough to not give me what I want?"

His eyes practically dilate—soft fingers once resting on your stomach, now curling into a deepened hold. Pushing your waist against him. The angular feeling of his bare body pressing against the taut arched form of your hips against the granite. His free hand comes up to brush some of the hair from behind your back, over your shoulder. Soft kisses peppering shoulder blades. His lips trace up, the feeling of his facial hair tickling against soft vulnerable skin. A gentle kiss to the lobe of your ear, and a whisper.

"Don't ask for shit you can't handle."

. . .

You curl toward him instinctively, limbs tangling with his. One arm under your head, the other slung across his ribs. His hand settles between your shoulder blades, thumb grazing slow circles into your spine.

He smells like soap, saw dust and sun-warmed cotton. And for the first time in hours your chest doesn’t ache from holding it all in.

Minutes pass like that. The silence between you is full—but not heavy. Not yet.

Then, his voice, low and rough in the dark: “I heard the runner before I saw you. Screechin’ like it was already eatin’. Thought I was too damn late.”

You don’t say anything. You just press your forehead harder into his collarbone.

“I’ve seen what those things do to people. What they leave behind.” His voice cracks a little. He coughs, as if to clear it. “You don’t get to do that to me.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper.

“I know.” A pause. “But intent don’t mean shit when the ground gives out beneath you.”

You tighten your grip around him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur again, but he shushes you this time, mouth brushing your temple.

“Not tonight,” he says, voice softer. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You let yourself believe him. Let your eyes fall shut to the rhythm of his breathing. Let the warmth of him hold the pieces of you together while you rest.

Tomorrow will ask more of you both.

This isn't fixed.

. . .

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sweetercalypso · 1 year ago

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༘⋆ abby masterlist 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ tlou masterlist ˎˊ˗

Thinking about coming home from a fancy event with Abby and she’s practically doing a strip tease as she takes her suit off.

Sliding her tie loose with two fingers tucked under the knot, hair loose from its usual braid and falling over her shoulders in sleek waves.

She’s so casual about it when she pops open the first two buttons of her shirt and exposes the column of her throat to you. “You okay baby? Lookin’ a little flustered over there.”

And then she’s moving her attention to her cuff links and her expensive black shoes, anything to drag out her state of undress. You’ve stopped halfway through taking off your own clothes just to watch her performance.

Her tie hangs undone around her neck, drawing your eyes to the trail of open buttons leading down her chest. “See something you like?”

The sly grin on her face tells you she’s doing this on purpose. You try to think of something witty to say in return but she shrugs her suit jacket off and the way her shirt clings to her muscles makes your jaw fall slack.

She deposits her jacket somewhere off to the side and perches on the edge of your shared bed, leaning forward so that the open v of her shirt reveals the freckled swell of her tits.

“Why don’t you come over here and get a better look?”

#the last of us #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby anderson drabble #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #tlou #tlou x reader #tlou drabble #the last of us x reader #the last of us smut #the last of us drabble

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megalomaniacz · 1 year ago

Note

up late thinking about chaotic roommates they mean so much to me

i’m thinking about them too! thinking about how abby and ellie arm wrestle and of course abby wins every time without breaking a sweat while ellie’s gritting her teeth with a tomato red face. how they both love to help you relax after a stressful day at work, abby massaging your legs and feet while ellie massages your shoulders and back. the way abby NEVER leaves the house without sunscreen and ellie is always getting burnt because she’s stubborn as hell. how abby’s kisses are soft and purposeful and ellie’s are sloppy and soo fucking desperate. ellie’s got a lanyard for her weed pen that abby steals because she likes making her freak out. abby acts like a hater but she really finds ellie’s drawings impressive and she’ll hang them up on the fridge but say you did it. they’re my angels <3

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dnvrsmedia · 2 years ago

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love at first suture

abigail anderson x medic!reader

warnings: mentions of injuries (no gore)

canon universe setting, no pronouns or r physical attributes used!

°°°

Soft light enters the hallway as the rising sun shines its beams onto Earth, enveloping its warm rays like a blanket on your skin. Puffs of air leave your sleeping lover's mouth as her chest steadily rises at a rhythmic rate. Calm is the state you find yourself in on the rare occasion you wake up before the blonde. Her long hair cascades along her broad shoulders like a warm toned waterfall. On days like these you feel a little bit more filled with gratitude. Never have you believed in soulmates until you met yours. Abigail Anderson was the textbook definition of your other half. She fulfilled every need, want, hope, and dream you could ever have asked for—ever so effortlessly. Love was never easy, but loving Abby was the easiest thing you have ever done.

Your hand moved to tuck a stray piece of hair from tickling her nose. A giggle erupts from your mouth as the blonde scrunches her nose and furrows her brows, trying to get away from the tickling strand of hair. Her body relaxes with a content hum as you free her from the itching. Abby moves into your hand, subconsciously yearning for your touch. No matter how big and scary she looks to others, you’ll always know the true Abby. Your loving and caring partner. Abby who goes to the ends of the earth for what she believes in. Your sweet girl and most powerful protector.

Reminiscing on when you first met always brings a smile to your face. The once tough girl falling into a puddle of mush—flushed beyond belief as you patch her up in the infirmary. You were newer to the area and quickly became one of the most crucial surgeons for the WLF. Abby luckily was not hurt badly, just a few lacerations to various parts of her body. Leaving only a slightly deeper cut on her upper thigh. The blonde stubborn as always, grumbled her way in the infirmary. Nora being the only one to get through her thick skull.

“Abigail I swear to god if you don’t sit your ass in that fucking chair-“ Nora’s voice heard through the groans and chaos of the infirmary.

Your eyebrows shoot up in amusement. In the few months you’ve been with WLF, you’ve known that Abby was not one to be fucked with. The top scar killer, Isaac’s number one asset, was one to be listened to. You had only a few run-ins with the tall blonde. Abby did well in either playing down her injuries or patching herself up. Yet, here she was, being yelled at like a toddler by her best friend. Tail tucked between her legs with an adorable pout to her plush lips. Her thick thighs spread wide after unceremoniously plopping into your open chair. Her pout could be seen from miles away as scoffs left her lips.

“Hi, how can I help you?” You don your nitrile gloves with a ‘snap’.

Abby’s stubborn nature made her snarl before she looked up at you. All of her previous stipulations melt away as her eyes meet yours. The stubborn blond rendered speechless as her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

“Uh-I…um-” Abby struggles to speak as she dumbly points to her thigh.

Nora catches onto her best friend’s actions with a smirk as she nudges Abby’s watermelon sized bicep.

“This dumbass needs stitches on her thigh and bicep. The other lacerations aren’t deep enough for stitches, but a good cleaning should fix it. I’d help her myself but I'm busy and you need more friends, bye!” Nora rushes the last sentence before going into the middle of the storm of hurt soldiers.

Crimson red is the color that peaks under Abby’s freckles. Your own belly betrays you as it flutters w butterflies. Her teeth sitting atop her tucked in bottom lip makes your knees weak. You snap out of your trance, turning to attend to the matter at hand. Your fingers fumble with the suture package before placing your materials on your tray. You sit down on your stool before her.

“How are you feeling? I’m sure there’s no major injuries since your reluctance to be checked out, but this is a pretty gnarly cut here.” Your gloved hand caresses her clothed thigh that currently has a gash in the fabric.

Abby’s thighs tense at the feeling of your gentle finger caressing her. You take that as a symptom of tenseness and pull away immediately in worry. Abby silently curses herself.

“Is that painful there? I could check you out some more to see-” You ramble before being cut off by the blonde.

“N-no i'm okay just wasn’t ready for your touch. I didn't mind it.” She smirks, loving the shy smile that adorned your lips.

“Oh! Okay then, that’s perfect. So I’m just gonna need you to uh take off your pants- or what’s left of them, to stitch you up and send you on your way.” Your eyes veer from her eyes, oozing with nerves. Abby has this effect on you that you couldn’t explain.

Meanwhile, Abby is trying not to lose her shit at the thought of taking her pants off for you. She wished she was taking them off for a different circumstance-

“Uh, *cough*, yeah, th- that’s fine.” Abby tried-and failed- at keeping a cool and mysterious tone. In actuality, her brain was going a mile a minute all because of the beauty in front of her.

She stands and unbuckles her belt in front of you. Due to your height difference as you were still on your stool, her hips stood at face level. Your mouth salivates at the filthy thoughts flooding through your brain. You clear your throat and turn your head in a hurry, pretending to preoccupy yourself with something useless. Once the clang of her heavy belt buckle sounds, signaling it hitting the ground, you turn back to your patient. Your eyes bulge out of your eyes at the sight. You thought her thighs looked good before but holy shit. Her sculpted thighs were something to worship. Yet, this certainly was not the time.

You get through your mini short circuit and immediately get to work cleaning her wounds. The whole time you talk the blonde through what you’re doing. Abby wasn’t stupid, she was actually decently knowledgeable on things of the sort due to her late father, yet she didn’t once stop you to mention she knew what you were doing. She fell in love with your passion to heal others, your passion for your craft. Any frustrations from her patrol melted away as she listened and watched you work. Soft giggles leave your lips as Abby filters in jokes every now and then. If your voice is honey then your laugh is heaven to her. The way your nose scrunched when she said something you found particularly funny or dorky made her heart soar. Your laugh gave Abby a high that no drugs could ever give her.

“You are good to go!” You finish wrapping her bandage securely.

“If you have any questions feel free to stop by, okay? Make sure you’re not doing any rigorous training or activities for at least a few days.” You pointedly look at her with your eyebrows raised. You may be new but you know that all of your warnings will go in one ear and out the other.

Abby laughs at your knowing look, wondering how you could read her so well so soon. Unbeknownst to the two of you, that would only be the beginning.

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mxlktxa · 2 years ago

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shamepless plug — tlou mlist. & quick reads/rambles

straddling dinas lap, you sighed as quietly as you could, your way of quietly apologizing before actually facing her and coming to terms with what upset you and why it upset you. dinas arms wrapped around you, continuing to read her book while peeking over your shoulder.

“you okay?” dina whispered, placing kisses on your shoulder between the sentences. you only nodded, pressing your body closer to hers, “i can tell youve been crying.”

“cause ive been so mean to you as of late,” you muttered, “im sorry. i just didnt like when you promised me youd come to see my presentation. but you stood me up and didnt even apologize when i came home.”

“mmm,” dina placed her book down on the coffee table, hugging you tightly and kissing your neck and shoulders, “well im sorry. i got caught up in some work myself and didnt have time to call you. i was also trying to get you a little present.”

“present?” you looked to her, “what for? i havent been doing much lately.”

“just because i can,” dina kept pushing to kiss all on you, neat, soft kisses turning into sloppy, rough ones, “because youre my girl and you deserve it all, deserve the world, even.”

you hummed as she nipped at your skin, moving your hands to knead her breats while she dug her nails into your hips, “dina, please.”

“please, what?” she chuckled against your soft skin, “you wanna go upstairs? hm? let me show you how sorry i am?” you could only nod as she managed to stand while also holding you up still, “yeah?”

“can i still have the other gift you got me?”

“you can have whatever you want, whenever you want it. ill spoil you til the day i die.”

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unrefinedmusings · 2 years ago

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joel and his fixation with your ass, grabbing it, spanking it, grinding on it, everything

he's obsessed! imagine if that's how you met lol. he's been living in Jackson a couple months now and starting to go out more. he's having dinner at the mess hall. Tommy is talking across from him, but Joel's eye catches the curve of your ass across the room and can't look away. Tommy catches on quick to his brother's distraction and laughs.

"forgot how stupid a pair of tight jeans makes you."

after you get together, his hands are always slipping into your back pocket. he loves to come up behind you while you're cooking breakfast, and often ends up with you bent over the counter.

one night he's out with Tommy. Ellie's been asleep for hours. it's a warm night, so all you've got on is one of joel's flannels and a pair of panties. joel come stumbling in, a little tipsy and very horny. especially when he sees you lying on your stomach in bed. he climbs atop you and brings his face level with your ass, placing kisses all over your cheeks.

"didn't know it was peach season already."

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller drabble #joel miller imagine #tlou #tlou drabble

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banigarubug · 1 year ago

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warning ;; david’s attempt

consider:

sarah, a college student home for the summer, is hospitalized after falling ill

& ellie who was seriously injured while running away from a foster placement and is placed in the bed next door

they click instantly. sarah is a sweetheart who gets along with anyone and ellie is eager to please a cool college student like any 14 year old would want to

joel and ellie … not so much

ellie gets a kick out of pissing joel off almost as much as sarah gets a kick out of witnessing it .. so ellie amps it up a notch over the course of a few days to really drive joel crazy and make sarah’s time in the hospital better

one of the nurses tells ellie laughter is the best medicine and that’s what sarah deserves. sarah is probably the first person to be nice to ellie like this. to just… accept her with a fond smile. (except maybe riley. but she’s gone now. sometimes ellie thinks sarah looks like her, just a little bit.)

but then ellie is discharged and has to go right back to the place she ran from. her social worker says no one else will take her. of course they wouldn’t.

ellie doesn’t have a phone, but sarah gives her her and joel’s numbers anyways. makes her promise to call if she wants to run again. that way sarah can keep her safe

ellie uses the elusive payphones and stranger’s cells to call sarah sporadically so she knows ellie’s alive, but other than that, it’s inconsistent contact at best. but her birthday is coming up and sarah doesn’t want a gift this year. instead she asks joel to get ellie a phone.. and he says yes. next time ellie calls sarah, it’s 3 days before her birthday, and sarah gets ellie’s address. gets joel to sign her out of the hospital to drive her there and deliver the gift in person. its the most expensive thing ellie’s ever seen and she cries and hugs sarah and then hugs joel

and joel realizes, really, that ellie’s just a kid

she’s a spitfire with a sharp tongue and a huge ego to make up for how small she really is but she’s also just some kid who has never been shown love before

so joel decides to take ellie in, a little bit

not as a foster parent - he and sarah have their hands full, she’s dropping out and the hospital bills are piling up, and ellie’s foster parents are fine anyways, just old and weird - but takes her to visit sarah once a week for a meal together - sarah calls it family dinner, behind ellie’s back but straight to joel’s face - and whenever else sarah wants the company

and maybe he brings sarah to ellie’s school once or twice to pick her up and take her to lunch … or cuz ellie was in an art gallery and the featured piece of the whole exhibit was something she made … or sometimes without sarah when she cuts class and wont tell him why so he just gets her a milkshake and listens to facts about dinosaurs until she agrees to catch the last periodd

christmas is coming up soon and ellie’s excited because she’s gotten them both gifts . for sarah its a couple things - handmade friendship bracelets and a pair of earrings she skipped a week and a half of school lunches for and she painted sarah’s pennyboard with butterflies and crashing waves and a little white moth beside a purple emperor

for joel a huge framed painting of sarah and joel with sarahs grandmother/joels mom who died when sarah was little. joel cooks all her recipes and talks about how much he misses her and says stuff like “she woulda loved you, ellie” so she’s confident he’ll love it and she knows sarah will too

but ellie gets into a fight at school. it’s not really a bad one by any means but it’s the worst her newest placement has seen and they decide she’s too complicated for them. she cant leave the state but she can leave the city, and she’s out of boston with little to no warning, moved all the way out to a “home for troubled kids” in a shitty town called silver lake all the way in berkshire county and only has enough time to frantically tell joel where to find the gifts — in a garbage bag that her art teacher agreed to hold onto

this new placement is way worse than the old people. at most they’d been neglectful. this home is … freaky . a weird religious cult, some branch of christianity that ellie’s never heard of, and all the kids living there treat the director guy, david, like he’s — well. like hes god.

ellie wants to run away again, but this time, she can call sarah! right? except she’s not supposed to have the phone and david finds that thing immediately, sniffs it out like a bloodhound and takes it from her. he makes a deal with her. if she’s good, she use it once a day to call sarah. if she’s really good she can get it back - but she cant tell any of the other girls. david says ellie is special.

ellie’s… never been special before. its gross, a little, the way david says it, but she cant complain much. he feeds her and none of her foster siblings are violent even though shes the smallest by far. she figures david will want her to do chores or handy work, some free labor and she’ll get to call sarah & joel every day. it’s no big deal

within just 5 days of living there, ellie realizes that is not what david meant when he said to be good.

at first its just the lingering touches. a hand a little too high or too low . staring in that weird too-long way .. he tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and she feels the dirt on his fingers for hours.

and then. it’s christmas eve and she’s planning her escape (she knows where the phone is, and she’ll make a break for it. her bag is packed and she’s quick) when david brings her into his prayer-room for something.

u can infer what happens, right?

and when she’s on the ground and his hands are on her jeans she sees some metal shining as she thrashes around and something shining catches her eye and she reaches out and grabs it and its some bowl with a heavy weight at the bottom so ellie bashes it into davids skull

over

and over

and over again

until he falls on the ground and she hits him a few more times for good measure

it’s the middle of the night and snowing like a bitch but ellie wanders outside anyway and just sits on the front porch step under the falling snow

she doesnt know how much time has passed before the time the sun starts rising. but when it does she sees a very familiar big grey truck barreling towards her and ellie thinks she must be dead or dying

but sarah is out of the car before it’s even stopped and joel’s yelling at her for it and ellie’s covered in blood thats not her own so she just stands and walks to the car in a trance and figures its either the gates of heaven or actually fucking joel and sarah

(“you didnt call me all day,” sarah says later, when ellie asks about it, “i knew something was wrong.” and her phone had gps and joel had a gut feeling and her social worker had a few too many missed calls so they took it into their own damn hands and showed up for her)

ellie trips and falls and lands in joel’s open arms and sarah hugs her from the side, crowding her until the phantom touches david left behind on her skin are completely invisible

joel applies for guardianship and it is shockingly easy

sarah’s been getting better, too. transfers to the community college so she can stay in the house and ellie’s being homeschooled for a while so they spend even more time together

running out of steam i might come back to this but i was only thinking abt it all bc sarah and ellie being siblings is SOOO important to me … big sister sarah ykwim ….

#tlou #ellie williams #the last of us #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #liz writes stuff #sarah miller #sarah tlou #joel tlou #ellie tlou #tlou drabble #joel lives #tommy miller #tlou hbo #tlou2 #the last of us au #the last of us drabble

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xoxo-honeyy · 2 years ago

Note

Inspired by my flustered flirting could I request dina with a easy to fluster s/o

authors note: omg i love this idea sm, dina is such a tease it's not even funny. here's a short lil drabble for you! lmk if you want this turned into a full-length fic

wc: 416

warnings: implied smut, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), not proofread at all, fluff

it wasn’t too often that dina would come to visit you during work hours. the two of you opted to spend quality time together when the day was at its end. it wasn’t like you could just visit her on a whim either, with her constantly being on patrols and you working in the stables, your schedules never seemed to line up. but recently, dina expressed to you how lonely she's been feeling when she was away on patrols for days at a time. so she decided that she needed to visit you at work more often on her days off.

“hey, baby.” dina murmured into your ear. she wrapped her arms around your waist and pulled you back so you were flush against her chest knowing full well that you fluster easily, and dina intended to take full advantage of that.

not expecting her to visit you today, you jumped a bit.

she chuckled lowly, “why so jumpy?” her voice dripping with flirtatious banter

“jus’ wasn't expecting you today that’s all,” you whispered back so as to not disturb the other residents working with you.

dina moved her lips from your ear and started pressing wet kisses onto your neck. a sloppy trail of her spit connected the blooming constellation on your skin. your breath hitched as she reached your sensitive spot and started to lightly suck. no one noticed that your work was interrupted by your needy girlfriend but the threat of getting caught still lingered in the air.

“what’s wrong pretty girl? you feelin’ ok? your forehead feels a little warm.” she turned you around to face her and pressed her hand to your forehead, pretending to feel for a temperature. eyes gleaming with mischievousness.

smiling at her antics, you swatted her hand away. “stop it, i have to get back to work.”

she groaned loudly, the noise causing eyes to fall on the two of you, “ugh, you’re such a bore.”

knowing full well what she wanted, you pulled her down, leaned her in close to her ear, and whispered in her ear, “if you let me finish working, i’ll let you do whatever you want to me tonight.”

you pulled back and watched as her fave turned a light shade of pink. she nodded to you and pressed a gentle kiss on your cheek, “see you at home baby.”

humming in acknowledgment you picked up your work again hoping no one noticed the little scene between the two of you.

#the last of us #tlou #dina x fem reader #dina x reader #dina woodward #dina nolastname #dina the last of us #dina tlou #dina tlou 2 #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us drabble #the last of us fanfic #tlou fic #tlou drabble #tlou fluff #dina fluff #honey's anthology #xoxo-honeyy #honey writes

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daryltwdixon · 24 days ago

Note

Hey BB! For the giveaway prompts! not really a prompt but a song: the chain by Fleetwood Mac for Joel. I was thinking a little bit of angst? But smut would also be nice. Anyway, just curious what you'll come up with! Thxxx

joel x reader drabble

|| angst, pre & post Boston QZ, complicated feelings and joel isn't good at talking about them ||

hiii! going through some requests and wanted to give you guys some love. I am no longer doing a prompt giveaway, just finishing some requests ive had sitting in my inbox

Your boots crunch over shattered glass. The warehouse smells like rust and mildew, old rainwater collected in oil drums, the tang of something long dead hanging in the air.

You round the corner of the corridor, moving quiet, gun steady in your hands. They told you someone had been squatting here. That your target was armed. Dangerous. That he went by Joel Miller.

You laughed when they said it.

But you took the job anyway.

Because if it was true—if it really was him—you had to know.

The first thing you see is his back as you push through to the open warehouse. Fogged up windows let in slats of light, spotlighting him in the center of the room. His faded flannel, broad shoulders. A slow, methodical way of rifling through a crate like he's lost any semblance of fear of turning his back. You'd think he'd know better by now.

But still. The sight of him makes your stomach turn. Like no time has passed at all.

Your gun clicks as you take the safety off, and he freezes, back straightening.

“Don’t move,” you warn, voice low and sharp. “Not unless you want a bullet in your brain.”

He doesn’t move.

“Turn around.” you order.

He does. And when his eyes meet yours, it’s like the earth tilts sideways. He looks… older. Grayer. More lines in that face. There’s a weariness behind his eyes that you don’t remember, not quite like this. But it’s still him. Still Joel.

For a second, the past and the present slam together like two fists.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, the words barely escaping him.

You cock your head. “Still believe in God, Miller?”

Before

The world outside was falling apart again.

FEDRA checkpoints burned in the distance. The power grid was out for the third night in a row. Screams echoed now and then like they were part of the wind, like they belonged to the city’s bones.

But inside the apartment—your little borrowed corner of the world—it was quiet.

You sat cross-legged on the mattress, wearing one of his old shirts, threadbare at the collar. It still smelled like him. Sweat and gunpowder and that little bite of whiskey he managed to sneak in.

Joel stood with his back to you, shoving the last of his gear into a worn pack.

“You’re not serious,” you said, voice catching even as you tried to hold it steady.

He didn’t answer. Just tightened the straps.

“Joel. Look at me, please.”

He finally turned. And the look on his face… God.

Like he’d already buried you.

“You don’t need me draggin’ you around,” he said, voice low, guarded. “You’ll be better off without me.”

“That’s not true,” you breathed, rising to your feet. “You don’t get to decide that.”

He shook his head once. “Ain’t ‘bout what I get to do. It’s about what I know. And I know I ain’t good for you.”

Your throat burned.

“You’ve kept me alive, Joel.” you say, brows knotting and pleading, "I'm only here because you've—"

“I’ve kept you trapped.” His jaw flexed, the muscle ticking. “You don’t know how to survive ‘cause I’ve been doin’ it for you. You’re too soft. Too trusting. One day I won’t be there to save you and you’ll—” He stopped, eyes dark.

You stepped closer, careful, like you were approaching a wounded animal. “Then stay. Teach me. Don’t go, please—”

Your fingers brushed his wrist.

He pulled away like it burned.

“You deserve better than this life. Better than me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. How do you argue with someone determined to believe they’re poison?

So instead, your voice cracked as you whispered, “Joel. I love you.”

His mouth parted like he might say something. Like he might take it all back and climb back into bed with you, forgetting about any plans of leaving you here in this shit hole.

But all he did was sling the pack over his shoulder and murmur, without looking at you, “Don’t follow me.”

And then he walked out.

The door shut with a click. Not a slam. Not a goodbye. Just a click.

He doesn’t lower his hands, doesn’t reach for a weapon. He doesn’t even blink. He just stares.

You watch the shift happen in real time.

That flicker of recognition turning to something else—something hollowing. Like he’s looking at a ghost that crawled out of the dirt on its own.

“You… changed,” he says finally, quiet. His voice is soft enough it barely sounds like a sin.

You keep the gun raised. “You forced my hand.”

His gaze drops for a second. You watch the hazel of his eyes take in the tightness of your jaw, the scar cutting through your brow, the callouses that weren’t there before. You see it hit him. Everything he did by leaving you.

And you see something else, too.

Guilt.

A quiet, rotting kind of guilt that’s settled deep in the lines around his eyes. The weight he’s been carrying ever since that door shut behind him.

“You grew up,” he says.

“No thanks to you.”

There's a long stretch of silence until, even quieter, he adds: “You survived.”

“Don’t say that like it’s some kind of miracle,” you snap. “You didn’t leave me a knife. Didn’t leave me a fucking map. Just turned me loose in hell and hoped I wouldn’t follow.”

“I didn’t hope that.”

You step closer.

Gun still aimed. Voice low. Eyes burning.

“Then why did you leave me, Joel?”

His jaw works, like he’s chewing on broken glass. “Because I loved you.”

That stuns you still. For a beat, neither of you breathe.

“Fuck you.” you finally whisper.

“I mean it.”

“You don’t get to mean it now.”

He looks… wrecked.

The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix, that comes from carrying too many ghosts.

You should pull the trigger. You want to.

But the longer you look at him—weathered and worn and tired in a way that feels carved into the marrow—you realize you can’t. Not when every part of you still remembers the way he smelled in the dark. The way his hands knew how to hold you without breaking you.

That bond didn’t break. It just stretched. A rusted chain, coiled tight and mean.

And maybe that’s worse.

Your hand falters, dropping a few inches, and his face falls with it.

“I’m sorry, baby.” he says.

Your lips part, hands shaking. That nickname wraps around your ribs and squeezes.

You want to hate him.

But all you can do is whisper, “Why... why now? Why did it take for me to find you?”

And Joel gets on his feet and steps toward you, slow and sure, like if he moves too fast you’ll point the gun back at him and actually pull the trigger.

“I’ve been lookin’,” he says. “Since Dallas. Since that day. I never stopped searchin' for you.”

You stare at him.

And then you bark a sick laugh, dry and sharp. “You’re full of shit.”

“I am,” he says. “but not about this. I went back the next day...but you...you were gone.”

"There was nothin' left for me there." you whisper, brows furrowing, biting your lip in frustration.

And when he closes the last of the space between you, when he touches your wrist and doesn’t let go, you don’t pull away.

You should.

But you don’t.

#requests #tlou #the last of us #joel miller drabble #joel miller angst #angsty joel miller #tlou drabble #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader

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gracieheartspedro · 2 years ago

Text

I Will Leave Your Words

description: what does grief look like? truly? how would it feel to watch the man you love get completely taken from you, just completely out of the blue?

word count: 1.1k

warnings: ANGST. that’s it. mentions of death, blood, and murder. talking in detail about grief. this is literally a drabble as to what joel’s lover would feel like if she had been there after he was murdered. that’s it.

authors note: hi lovers. I posted about this already but I watched this tik tok: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8224mye/

and I instantly felt the need to write what I would feel if I was joel’s lover and witnessing his death. I enjoy writing angst for some reason. I think this is some of my best writing. please let me know if you want more stuff like this. thanks!

and because you two asked for it. dedicated to @jenispunk and @ilovepedro <3

You don’t remember what you saw that afternoon, you only remember the taste of the air. Metallic.

You were cornered, your body weak and full of grief. You couldn’t find the words. You leave once they wrap up the body and begin planning how to take it home.

The body.

That same body that was wrapped around you in the early morning hours. It was just a body now.

You knew your presence was needed, but you didn’t have answers for anyone. You didn’t have any input on what should happen next. What happened fucking happened before you had a say in the matter. When Jesse is asking who you’re riding back with, you just tell him you’ll walk.

“It’s a 5 mile hike,” He mutters, trying to reason with you. But there was no reasoning. You had just lost your other half and you were trying to figure out how that was even possible.

Sure, you had lost everyone in your life, but he wasn’t supposed to die. He was supposed to outlive everyone, his luck never running out. But on some random winter day, the tragedy of him came to a close. And you didn’t understand how that could happen. How could he just be gone?

You needed to be alone. You didn’t want to watch them haul his limp body back to Jackson. You didn’t want to face Tommy or Ellie. You didn’t want to face the truth.

As soon as you start your way down to the entrance of the lodge, you hear Dina trying to get Ellie to come with her. But she’s a lot like you. There’s no reasoning with someone who experienced what she experienced. They made her watch.

Your hands were already numb from the cold. You start treading up a steep hill, away from the ski lodge. You prayed you’d run into the crew who brutally took him from you. It’s rageful and complete rejection of the truth, this feeling you have in the pit of your stomach. You know it’s going to fester, blossoming all over your skin.

The crunch of the snow is repetitive. You’re walking in a steady rhythm.

You start to picture his face, it’s hazy and contorted in that grimace he used to make at you sometimes. He was perfect in your mind. His speckled and slowly wrinkling face. His gray hair, peppered through out the darker chocolate brown locks. His large and warm hands, that would cup your chin when you kissed him as he walked through the threshold of your home. His booming laugh you only heard once and awhile. He was all encompassing, his radiance filled your entire being with love and security.

It would be your 4 year anniversary next month.

And he was not going to be there for it.

You’d have to sit at his grave, planting yourself there like a tree. Maybe if you grew roots, you could be closer to him.

You hear movement behind you, spotting a lonely Tommy on horseback. He was beaten pretty bad, but it seems that now that he’s conscious, he’s able to ride by himself. He calls after you, but your ears are practically ringing. You freeze anyway, waiting for him to approach. He hops down from the large creature, reaching out to touch your wet and frozen body.

“We can’t have you dyin’ out here, darlin’,” He mutters, his voice cracking, “Listen, I kn-”

“Just… let’s go home.”

You two mount the horse, you wrapping your cold arms around his frigid middle. You place your head on his back, letting your tears trickle down your face. They practically turn to crystals when they reach your chin.

The ride is painfully long and quiet. You and Tommy don’t see anyone else on your trek, finally spotting Jackson’s gate in the distance. People are waiting, the doors wide open and letting in a crew of people.

When the horse halts in the middle of the crowd, you hop down. You stumble a bit, trying to remember what the ground feels like. Everyone was watching you, too wary to say anything or do anything. You knew you probably looked a mess, your cheeks frosted and red.

“Hey,” You hear her small voice behind you. It’s Ellie, she’s has this glazed over look. She can’t say anything else and you can’t return with any words either. Instead, you just grab her shaking hands and start to walk home. Past everyone’s glances and gasps. She squeezes your hand sporadically, expecting nothing but a returning squeeze.

You get to the front of the house, staring up the concrete stairs. You wanted to scream. What the hell were you supposed to do? How were you supposed to go in there and resume your life?

“Want to come to my place?”

You look at her, waiting for her to dissipate from your sight, too. Not that you wanted her to, you wanted to keep her around forever. But you were waiting for another rug to be pulled out from under you.

Her nose is still crusted with blood, her lip split open. She was completely wasting away right before your eyes.

“Yeah,” You finally say, your throat dry from not speaking for so long, “Need to clean you up.”

You two spend the rest of the night together. She was in shock, the full realization not hitting her until you crack again and start sobbing. You hold each other, rocking back and forth. Ellie was the only person who got it. She knew what you meant to him. She knew what he meant to you. And God, even between the differences they had going on between them, Ellie felt the loss in her bones. They ached with sorrow.

She finally falls asleep in your arms, but you can’t shut your eyes. You will just see his limp body, contorted and broken. The blood trickling all over the floor, it splattered across the walls.

He was fucking gone.

You’d never feel those arms wrap around you again. You’d never get to see that smile again. You’d never feel him between your hips, appreciating every piece you were willing to give to him. You’d never smell his woodsy scent, especially after he was twiddling wood all day. You’d never hear him strum his guitar on the front porch again, replaying the same tune you heard a million times over.

All of your senses would live in agony, never able to recover from losing him.

You would spend eternity missing him. His memories were now just a book on the shelf that was forbidden to be open. You wouldn’t get to pick his brain anymore. The only thing left of him earth side is you and everyone else’s memories. He would hold a spot on the mantle, in all the pictures you took.

And of course, in the imaginary file cabinet in your head. You’d organize every possible moment you could remember spending with him. How he made you feel. How you hoped you made him feel. It would be labeled, The Only Reason I Decided To Stick Around.

#joel miller tlou #joel x reader #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou fic #tlou drabble #the last of us drabble #joel miller drabble #joel miller angst #joel miller the last of us #joel miller fic #pedro pascal #joel miller one shot #joel miller #angsty as fuck #gracieheartspedro

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