Joelshuckleberry - His Huckleberry - Tumblr Blog

It’s been a hot minute since I last drew Pedro ♥

Fixed my old Joel/Pedro drawing so it’s more show accurate

Keep reading

Look for the Light.✨

Week 4 Spring prompt: Joel wipes out the fireflies

Medium: Procreate on iPad

Total Strokes: 54,403

Tracked Time: 11 hours, 52 minutes.

Here’s the final artwork for Joely July 2024.

It’s been a pleasure and a mission. Humbled to be part of it, amongst such amazing talent. ILY. TYSM, endure and survive 🖤 xx

Me if u even care

QZ!Joel Miller + Drugs + Whiskey = Fanfic inspo?

🧡 Please use and enjoy my gifs as you please! Reblogs appreciated🧡 Gif requests are open!

G I F N O T I F I C A T I O N S | G I P H Y

as a Joel forearm enjoyer, I have no choice but to repost.

Anyone cares for Joel's hands... and fingers?

hey just fyi write whatever the fuck you want because people will always have an issue regardless of whether you did every single thing possible that you thought was right and correct. no matter what, there will ALWAYS be someone who thinks you're doing something wrong and it's fucking exhausting. just write what you want and how you want and only warn for what you think you should warn for i'm so serious. it's gotten to a point now where you can list every single possible warning ever and someone will still get mad at you. it's actually insufferable to be in this fandom sometimes. who would've thought the pedro pascal fandom would be the most morally righteous & judgmental fandom to ever exist.

He means everything to me.

The way Joel just falls back against the elevator wall with Ellie in his arms like he's so exhausted, like he can't even breathe, like everything has already been too much for him; almost losing her after he got impaled, now almost losing her for good in the 'care' of strangers who have never given a damn about the kid. She's been through so much. He's been through so much. He's so tired of this. He's taking her home. 

WHERE IS THE OPERATING ROOM??

I AIN'T GOT TIME FOR THIS!!

WHERE?!!

*shoots the mf again* WHEERE?!!!!

hi friends <3 sooo this is something i've been working on, sort of off and on, for a little while now. it's not perfect and i'm still learning, but i'd love to possibly create more of these immersive audios (with hopefully even more clips of joel talking) in the future so if you like it please lmk. just be nice i beg

big big thanks to @perotovar and @joelscruff who both helped me out a ton with securing some of the necessary materials i needed to make this

anyway enjoy and sleep tight bye!!!!!!!!

He was meant to be a girl dad

Little brother.

Joel and Tommy's hug Tlou mods: request #11, part 1

My Body, His Choice

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: After a long day, Joel just needs some relief.

Warnings: 18+. Come get y’all juice (consensual freeuse). Unprotected p-in-v. Praise kink. Daddy kink. She/her pussy pronouns. Perverted but ever-respectful Joel.

Note: ‘Púdrete’ means ‘rot’ or ‘fuck you’ in Spanish.

Word count: 2.9k

It wasn’t often he’d fuck you anywhere but his bed.

At fifty-two, Joel was still old fashioned like that.

No matter how hard you tugged on the front of his shirt, begged him gently, baby, please take me right here on the kitchen table—on your desk—in your truck—really anyplace, Joel would shake his head and tote you away to his room. Then he’d blow your back out on a plush and cushy king-sized bed exactly how a gentleman should.

“Wasn’t raised to treat a lady any different,” he’d always say, sucking a breath through his teeth as he plunged his cock inside you from the comfort and quiet of his sheets.

‘Whatever you say, old man’ was your habitual response.

It was one that more often than not ended with you walking funny for the next couple days, thanks to that twenty-something stamina Joel was still able to boast.

So, with sore legs and a warm load leaking out of your cunt every night, you shut up. You didn’t mind being confined to his bed if it meant getting fucked like that. But you would let him know, every now and again or as often as you happened to be ovulating, that there was a freestanding offer for him to just…take, if he ever felt so inclined. The first time you’d said the real word for it, Joel had just smiled and kissed you on the top of your head.

“I’ll sure keep that in mind, sweet pea,” he’d chuckled.

Or, in boomer-speak: ‘No way in hell am I doing that.’

You’d made your peace with it. You’d quit wearing open-gusset undies in the hopes of getting bent over the sink while doing the dishes on a random Tuesday afternoon. You’d put all thoughts of freeuse out of your head and now just waited patiently under the covers at night if you wanted some action on the go. That was more than okay.

And when Joel thundered through the door an hour late one night, you just offered up a smile and a sleepy wave.

“Hi, handsome.”

You were splayed out comfortably on the sofa, and your favorite show was playing in a dim, muted glow on TV. Joel toed off his boots and ducked his head in the closet.

“I said he-llo, you big hunk.”

You regularly alternated between handsome, hunk, and some form of baby or beefcake if he appeared extra large that day. You hadn’t gotten a good look at his form coming in, but you figured you’d give it a stab, shoveling more popcorn in your mouth before returning to Narcos.

Somewhat garbled: “Well hello to you too, babycakes.”

It was either going to piss him off or earn you a big, wet kiss on the cheek—or both, if you were lucky. The words had scarcely hung in the air for more than a second or two, and your popcorn was going down in one slow, crowded gulp, when something fell heavy at your feet.

Your legs were stretched as far as they would go to the end of the couch, and Joel had just dropped his weight right next to them. Then he was leaning back, gingerly.

Carefully.

Joel groaned.

“God, he looks stupid,” he said, staring straight ahead.

You coughed. You winced at a sharp, lone kernel that had snagged your throat going down, and when it passed, you sat up and glanced over to where Joel was looking.

All you saw was a sexy, if not slightly anachronistically-mustached man with tight pants and a slutty stance onscreen.

“Javier Peña?” you asked him.

The man’s nostrils flared in response.

“With that stupid fuckin’ Members Only jacket— dumbass aviators, too, he looks like the biggest dou—”

“Joel!”

You blinked at your boyfriend in disbelief. He knew better than to abuse your favorite DEA agent right to your face. At last, Joel met your gaze, and his cheeks tinged pink.

“What? You wanna fuck him or something?” he snapped.

You turned back to the TV and pretended to consider.

“Hmmm…I don’t know, would Agent Peña come home an hour late with no explanation and then start griping about another man’s clothes when I try talking to him?”

“Yeah. And he’d probably backtalk you, too. In Spanish.”

“Púdrete.”

Joel scoffed.

“Oh yeah? Fuck me?”

You raised both brows as if to say, ‘Yeah, dude, fuck you.’

Maybe there was a smile behind your eyes as you said it.

You didn’t mean to give in, or let him off so easy, but there was just no grappling with a man in blue jeans and a sweaty, dirt-sodden shirt giving you a look like that.

His eyes smiled back.

You didn’t protest when Joel muscled his way over across the couch and pushed you back on your side. Yanking your hips to lay flush with his front, taking up most of all usable real estate on the sofa just to lie behind you and curl his bicep around your belly. He nosed against you and inhaled deeply. He hummed.

You spooned and watched Narcos in silence.

“Bad day?” you murmured at length.

“Bad don’t even begin to cover it.”

Joel let out a breath, and you felt it migrate through your skull. The whole weight of the world, or, more likely than not, some dipshits at work who’d cost their team a bid or delayed a project by a week, ten, or twenty, was hanging somewhere close over his shoulders and depressing his whole demeanor. His grip on you tightened even more.

“‘M’sorry,” he said.

“Me too.”

Joel’s fingers seared a string of small crescents in your skin through the fabric of your nightie. Realizing he was pressing in too much, he eased back. Flexed his hand.

“Ain’t no need to be—it’s on me.”

You felt a kiss land on your shoulder. Your eyelids fluttered as a scene of chaos broke out onscreen with some ill-fated raid or other, and Joel’s hand traveled up your side. It cupped one of your breasts through the sky-blue satin material, and just as fingers began to knead—

“I don’t actually wanna fuck Javi,” you sputtered, dumb.

Joel kissed the space between your shoulder and neck.

“I figured.”

Then his index and thumb found your hardening bud and pinched it between them, rolling the skin in soft, languid strokes. That, paired with the movement of lips up the length of your neck, had your head lolling back gently and your eyes struggling to focus on any of the mayhem unfolding in time. You wanted to turn away from it all—meet Joel’s mouth with a feverish kiss of your own—but when your torso jerked the slightest bit, trying to move, the arm around your front kept you pinned to the spot. Joel’s grey, stubbled chin tickled the shell of your ear.

“Keep watching, darlin’,” he mumbled.

A low whine sounded in your throat, a noise Joel was no stranger to. It bubbled up, almost reflexively, and then was swallowed back as by force when his left hand shifted from toying with your nipple to joining the hem of your dress. Your breath hitched when you felt the pads of three fingers make an easy, careless sort of petting motion between your legs. Stroking you gently there.

“‘M’sorry I was late comin’ home,” Joel continued in the same attritional vein, gliding his middle finger between where he felt the seam of your folds through your dress, “Makin’ you wait up, wasn’t too kind of me, huh, baby?”

“D-Don’t mind,” you shuddered, just as the tip of his pointer finger found your clit and made a circle around it with the other two—a torturous loop that lacked just enough pressure to make it feel really good, and teased.

You would’ve liked to press on, were it not for him, again:

“Aw, hell, honey.”

Your eyes snapped open, and fear seized you momentarily. Had something gone wrong?

Instead, when you glanced between your legs, you saw a stain—a crude Rorschach-looking splotch in its place. With all rational thought currently suspended and your brain in a primal fog of just wanting to fuck, you groaned.

“Joel, please.”

You know what to do. You know what you’re doing.

Joel continued to carry on as though he hadn’t heard you. He rubbed the wet spot even harder with his middle finger and let out the faintest trace of condescension with his breath, fanning warmly across your cheek. It was as though you could feel his big, stupid mouth forming a grin behind your head that made you purse your lips together and force back a whimper when he pressed.

“Left a real mess missin’ me here,” he chided, voice low, “Poor thing hasn’t been fucked in…what, twelve hours?”

You imagined the spot growing larger, gaining warmth and wetness and slick from the timbre of Joel’s voice alone. Nevermind the fact he was practically smearing it all through your panties, through your dress; you’d be soaking his hand in a puddle if he didn’t let up soon.

“Then fuck it again,” you gritted, hips stirring.

“But you’re so busy watchin’ your new man, I—”

At the last, you bucked pathetically against Joel’s hand.

“Don’t want him, Joel,” you moaned, “I need you.”

With what little strength you had left, you tried to turn your body to face the man behind you. He didn’t let you.

In fact, his hold constricted all the more unforgiving, and his right arm curled around your front from underneath you while his left hand took the plunge beneath your dress, finally. It was as torturous as it was fused with any pleasure, though, as his fingers made a pass through your panties, between your folds, and into your heat with little warning at all. Just a kiss to your cheek and then two thick fingers working inside your cunt all at once. You writhed at the stretch, and Joel nosed you again.

“I said you’re busy, baby,” he shushed, “Keep watchin’.”

Keep watching.

Like that wasn’t the most nonsensical instruction he’d ever given you, with his arm twisted over your front and his face in your hair and his fingers pumping in and out.

In and out.

“Don’t care about the fuckin’ show, Joel,” you keened.

He brushed the heel of his palm against your clit, and you could’ve cried from the sheer influx of pleasure.

“Sure you do, sweet pea, you’ve just been so—”

Joel pressed another kiss to your cheek and kept going.

“—busy, lately, it’s only fair I get to have my way, hm?”

Oh.

Oh.

You hadn’t heard his belt come undone. You were so focused on your own pleasure, and getting it fast, that you hadn’t stopped to consider for a moment whether Joel might be testing his ‘free pass’ after all this time.

And, as if to dispel any doubts, Joel kissed your shoulder.

“C’mon, baby, let me use this pussy how I need to.”

He couldn’t have made your body any more pliant and willing than if your limbs had been made of wax.

It was all happening like a dream, almost too good to be a real, flesh and bones man with his hand in your panties, your man, pulling the fabric aside and making you lie on your side while he tapped the head of himself right there.

The hand that had once been toying with your clit was now lifting your knee, parting your legs to make space for him behind you, just outside of you—sliding his dick back and forth at first while he left trails of kisses down your skin. You could cum from the friction of that alone, the little squelches of his skin on yours and the fact that you weren’t in a bed, for once, and he was doing it now. He was making use of your body and cherishing it whole.

In spite of that gaping chasm between you in strength and size, he was obeisant, in a way. Painstakingly slow.

“This okay, baby? Can daddy fuck you right here?”

Joel pressed the head of his cock right against the weeping ring of muscles, felt it pulse against him, and groaned. He let just the cusp of your folds suck him in, forming the slightest, shallowest ‘o,’ only for him to retreat, moving his dick back up and down your slit.

You’d already cried and told him, yes, yes, you can fuck me there, daddy, please—but Joel was too busy tilting your head back up to the screen. Making you open your eyes and watch the show, loath as you were to focus on anything else but the soft, steady brush of his member.

“Remember, hon, you gotta stay focused,” he said, too sweet, “Chin up and keep those legs spread for daddy.”

They were. You were. Your head was up, just barely, and your eyes were nearly brimming with tears from just how badly you needed him inside you. You whined when he kissed the side of your mouth, but loved it all the same because it made you feel safe where you were. At ease.

Joel held you open for him, the shelf of his belly nudging at the small of your back and only pressing harder as he sank in deeper. It was a sensation that felt almost foreign, the first inches he’d breached, as he filled you from a new angle and held you close, you whimpered.

“Fuck, that pussy stretches out so nice for me,” Joel let out in a groan, “Feels like she’s made just for me, huh?”

At that, you felt a hand pinch both of your cheeks, forcing your mouth in a little pout as you nodded fiercely.

“Y-Yes, daddy, she’s made for you, all for you.”

One inch retreating, three more pushing in. Joel’s breath was hot on your ear again, and you could feel the soft grey tufts of hair on his tummy fold into themselves against your back as he pushed even deeper. His cock parted the insides of your walls and fucked you open like it was nothing at all. Your eyes stayed fastened on the television screen, but, frankly there wasn’t a thing on the LED display that was registering more than a passing thought. You felt the hand on your face squeeze even tighter, then release. Then your head was tilting sideways of its own volition, and your body was not—being moved by Joel’s gentle thrusts now—and your lips somehow met his in a kiss. One of his moans bled into your mouth.

“Look so. damn. pretty. when you’re like this,” he panted, “Never look better than when you’re fucked out on this cock, don’t ya, sweet pea? Nod your head and tell me.”

You nodded. You told him. Or whimpered it, anyway.

It was exactly the same and somehow nothing like you’d felt with him before: a new place, a new position, but then just the way you were letting him have you was a territory left entirely uncharted for you both. He could take, and take, and take, keep fucking you until his old joints gave out, and you were a vessel for that pleasure. Your body was limp; Joel’s frame was imposing and always holding you up, milking from your cunt what he needed and always praising you for how good it felt.

“My pretty girl,” he murmured, words like syrup. Then, each new one punctuated with a thrust as he sped up, “Gonna let daddy cum inside this tight little pussy?”

And, to his shock and yours, the hole he’d been using all this time grew wetter, more slick, then was pulsing with arousal as an influx of pleasure washed over your body—your brain had barely registered his words before the rest of you was making an even bigger mess of it, welcoming Joel deeper each time as your cunt spasmed over again.

Pressed into the sofa with your hips tilted down, now, you didn’t need to supply a verbal answer, just pulling Joel closer and pleading in broken moans to paint you white inside. He, like you, probably couldn’t have kept it from coming out if he tried. His hands were gripping your body, pushing you down with the weight of his grasp and his thrusts and feeling too fucked out to even know how much of himself he was pouring inside you as he came.

But it filled you to the hilt, all the way down his length.

In fact, there was a moment Joel feared he might’ve stuffed you more full of cum than you could take. You’d just barely come down, still moaning and shaking and dripping with more nectar than you’d ever felt before.

Joel tried to wipe the pussydrunk look from his eyes—terrible and greedy and wanting to see what he’d left—and he was just about to pull out to make sure you were alright, when he felt something grip him. On him and around him, pinching his wrist and squeezing his length inside you, you couldn’t help but turn back to face him.

Your eyes were smiling again.

One hand had just started to inch up his arm, kneading the flesh like you needed something from him then too. Only now your gaze was drifting down to the place where your body and his were still joined, and from that look, Joel sensed there had to be a lot of him there—which is why he was shocked when next you said sweetly, softly,

“Can I have a little more, daddy?”

Yes, Joel Miller's belly button is hairy, and yes, he has a happy trail. You're welcome. Also, the sound of a belt buckle getting undone has never sounded sexier in my head.

- and I wanna kiss you, make you feel alright I'm just so tired to share my nights i wanna cry and i wanna love but all my tears have been used up -

Oh, Joel is pissed off and it fuels my soul.

Joel threathening scumbags Tlou mods: request #3, part 1

Happy Father's Day to a father who only ever gives his whole heart to a girl who's just a cargo.

I will never forgive the creators for not giving us close-ups of this scene originally. Just look at how gentle and caring he is with her. Excuse me while I sob.

the last of us (2023) | 1.01 & 1.09

you believe me like a god

i’ll destroy you like i am

so i saw this man and my rotted brain went i bet he spends a lot of time jerking off and yes i know the context of the picture idk what to tell you, and then y'all encouraged me, and here we are.

cw: f!reader, masturbation (m&f), edging, addictive behavior, voyeurism, extremely inappropriate behavior by joelseph miller, light spoilers for tlou2, idk if this is hot or just weird but it's both to me, sorry if there are words missing i wrote this in a fugue state and that happens sometimes

It starts as a way to pass the time. Even with his wood-carving and guitar-making and patrol shifts, there are still soooooo many hours in the day. Ellie's in her own little place, all independent, and the dating pool is about as dry as you'd think for a place with 300 people.

He doesn't mean to get addicted to it. It just happens. He Pavlovs himself into getting hard every time he's alone in his house. And it's fine, actually, because he hasn't really been able to relax in over twenty years, so why shouldn't he just give himself this one thing? Just to pass the time.

But then it's not just to pass the time.

Eventually he can't keep his hands off his cock when he's alone. He can barely wait to shut the door behind himself and strip, using whatever's handy (lol) as lube, or if he really can't wait, he'll spit in his hand and go at it.

And it's amazing.

He's never let himself feel this good, never done anything just for him, and fuck, he can't stop. He likes making noise, moaning so fucking loud it echos. He figures out different techniques, different ways to hold himself, how to make himself almost come and stop before it actually happens.

He can go for hours if he has the time.

He tries not to let it affect his life, still makes time for other things, but if he can, he'll get off a couple of times a day.

Tommy comes knocking on his door one day, just after he's finished. He can still feel the flush on his neck, heart still pounding in his chest, head still clouded with endorphins. He wipes his sticky hand on a shirt he needs to wash anyway and opens the door, hoping it doesn't smell too much like come in the living room.

If Tommy notices anything he doesn't say it, just goes right into introductions--Joel, she's new, and she needs a place to stay until we get her permanent place ready. Just a few weeks.

You're pretty, really fucking gorgeous, smiling all sweet and polite with some little accent he can't place, but he doesn't want you here in his space. This is his space, this is where he--where he relaxes.

But he can hardly decline. You stick your hand out in greeting, and he clasps his over it, cringing internally as he remembers he'd just had his cock in his hand not five minutes before, just wiped all the results his activities even less than.

If he hadn't just come, he'd probably be hard again, and he feels like the dirtiest old man that ever lived.

You promise you won't be a bother, and he tells you not to worry about it. You're polite and thoughtful and you pitch in with chores and his dick is going to fucking explode if you don't leave this house soon.

He's gotta figure something out. He still gets time in the bathroom or before he goes to sleep, but his orgasms are small and unsatisfying and he's short tempered--even more so than usual, even to you. He doesn't want that, though. Even if he is a dirty old man, even if he does need this, he doesn't want you to be upset with him or have him think he's upset with you.

Eventually he starts locking himself in his studio, tells you he just likes to be alone when he's carving and to please not disturb him. And you don't. Sometimes you even leave, and he can be as loud as he wants, and it works, and he'll be able to get through these next few weeks.

The thing is that you're not an idiot. You know what an erection looks like, you know what desperation looks like, you know exactly what's bothering him. Also, the house is quiet, and your hearing is much better than his. You can hear him even when he's trying to keep it down, the soft slap slap slap, the groan, the stopping and whimpering before he spits in his hand and starts again.

He's making you fucking crazy.

Every time he comes out looking flushed and chipper and asking how your day's going, you have to excuse yourself and get off as quickly as you can.

It goes like that for a while, like this game of jerk off tag, and you really, really want to see him.

He wants to let you.

It doesn't take him long to pick up on the fact that you know what he's doing, when you just happen to be hanging around the immediate vicinity of his studio when he comes out. The way your pupils are blown wide, lips parted and bitten, almost panting, running off to take care of something in your room.

You've been so good to him, letting him have this thing he needs so badly, even though you could've shamed him for it, and he wants to share it with you. He wants to show you. He wants you to see him, and he wants to see you, too.

The door is ajar the next time you sneak down the hall, and you're greeted to the most delicious sight. Naked--naked--shimmering with sweat and effort, one big hand pumping his impressive cock, shiny with precome and spit. The bulbous tip is dribbling steadily like he's been at it for a while, every now and then he thrusts up with his hips, groaning and freezing like he's trying to keep from coming all over himself.

You've never seen a man enjoy himself so much, and you don't move an inch. You just want to watch him bite his lips and moan, that mane of salt and pepper hair slick with perspiration. This is on purpose, he wants you to see. He's so careful, door locked, mostly dressed all those times you got to your knees to peek through the keyhole.

He knows.

He opens his eyes when the floorboard creaks, a smirk spreading across his lips just before he bares his teeth, gripping the base of his cock.

"C'mere," he rasps. "Look at it."

You move a little closer, feeling shy, but you do as he says. You watch him. You wait.

"Look at it," he groans, breath hitching, hips stuttering into his fist. "Watch."

He comes with a long, loud moan. It goes everywhere--his hand, his belly, his chest. You don't move, you just watch his face slacken, whispering something over and over, licking his lips. He's lost in it. You're shaking, pussy soaking as you wait for him to open his eyes.

His panting slows, his soft belly going up and down with each steady breath. You can't stop looking at him. He gives you a long, feral leer and crooks two fingers at you.

"C'mere." He pats one sticky thigh. "Your turn."

ANYWAY BYE

he's literally not a model, stop asking

Joel + leaning against the doorway