#.....I'm writing this fic
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chodzacaparodia · 8 months ago
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It's frustrating that you can come up with the plot of an entire fic in just a few seconds, but writing it all down can take anywhere from never to forever.
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raylangivins · 4 months ago
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i am Locked In.
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lazylittledragon · 10 months ago
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if i had a nickel for every au spawned from twitter that i SWORE i was going to be normal about
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lgbtlunaverse · 1 year ago
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Nothing will dispell the "the curtains were just blue" myth faster than writing something yourself, because the amount of pretentious symbolism i am putting in my silly little fanfics is ridiculous. I mean SO much with these words, literally every single one of them. This fic has twenty five typos and zero correct uses of punctuation but if there's curtains you bet your ass I put thought into what colour they were.
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sceletaflores · 2 months ago
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I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)
pair: logan howlett x fem!reader
wc: 4.1k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.
nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!
divider by angel @saradika-graphics!
it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...
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The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.
It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.
It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.
He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.
Apparently, he was wrong.
Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.
His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.
By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.
He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.
The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.
"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.
Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.
You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.
Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.
You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.
Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.
The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.
Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent. 
The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.
“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”
Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.
The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.
You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”
Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.
“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”
You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.
“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”
The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.
You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.
Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.
You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.
In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.
He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.
You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.
“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.
“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.
Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.
“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”
“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts. 
Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.
He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.
Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning. 
“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”
The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.
Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.
Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more. 
He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.
Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you. 
It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved. 
The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.
His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.
“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure. 
The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.
Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.
The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.
He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.
Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.
Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”
Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.
Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.
But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.
He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.
“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.
The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.
“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."
He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.
Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. 
Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.
Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist. 
He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.
You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.
He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.
“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.
You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.
With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.
“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”
Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”
The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain. 
The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.
With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.
He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.
Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer. 
Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.
Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.
He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.
“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.
Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”
He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours. 
The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.
Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.
Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.
It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.
Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.
His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.
Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow. 
Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.
“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”
The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.
“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”
Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.
He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.
“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.
The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.
You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.
He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.
��Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”
"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."
A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest. 
Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.
“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”
Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt. 
Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.
He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.
He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.
Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.
He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.
“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.
“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.
“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.
It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.
Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”
Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.
He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.
And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.
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tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!
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artsandfartss · 21 days ago
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insert super cool caption here
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crispyliza · 7 months ago
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Fanfiction in the late 2000s-early 2010s was wild bc you'd find a beautifully written story with the most compelling heart-wrenching plot you've ever seen and the author's note would be like:
Author with a username like ~SasukesWaifuxD~ : Ohayo gozaimasu! ↖(^▽^)↗, I'm sowwy it took me so long to update (๑•́_•̀๑)
tsundere twink from their fic : It was about damn time you idiot (눈‸눈)
~SasukesWaifuxD~ : Hey now! It's not my fault the plot bunnies kept wunning away fwom me (╥﹏╥)
tsundere twink: W-watever, it's not like I missed you or anything (💢,,>﹏<,,) b-baka!
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clockwayswrites · 7 months ago
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Oh look, the boys...
“I promise I’m not bleeding,” Danny said as soon as he opened the door and saw Jason on the other side. Jason gave a curious tilt of his head. Danny wanted to close the door and pretend that he hadn’t just said that. “Maybe not enough sleep though, I guess. Wow, sorry, I have had a lot of stuff due this week.” His neighbor, bless him, just chuckled. “Yeah, I think I got that, and I’m glad you’re not bleeding. Question is, are you hungry?” Jason asked holding the casserole dish in his hands up a little higher. “Ancients yes. What is that?” Danny asked and held his door open wider. “It smells amazing.” “Lasagna,” Jason answered as he slipped past Danny and into the apartment. “I’m trying out a vegetarian version and could use some feedback on how it is.” Danny locked his door before following behind like a lost duckling. “Luckily for you I have a long history of being a lab rat and am very good at it.” Jason paused in pulling off the tinfoil to frown in Danny’s direction. “You know that’s a pretty concerning statement in somewhere like Gotham.” “You don’t know my parents, it’s a pretty concerning statement in somewhere like Amity Park too.” “Not helping yourself, Tuesday.” “And yet still not bleeding!” Danny said proudly.
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yuuchama · 2 months ago
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The easiest way to find Sebek is to walk around the Night Raven campus, going "where's my Sebek?"
It elicits odd stares and plenty of snickers from the other students, but it gets the job done. You'll know when he's nearby. After repeating this phrase enough times and in multiple places around campus, you'll hear a familiar thundering cry.
"I am not your Sebek!"
The shout is eventually followed by the man himself. You can tell what direction he's in by the heavy stomps, thudding against the ground almost as loud as his voice. His frown is as sharp as his furrowed brows. The slight tinge of embarrassment colors his face.
"Human! How dare you..."
The familiar face makes you smile with joy. "There you are! There's my Sebek."
He falters. It's clear he has so much to say, but can't find the right words to get out first. They pile up in his mouth while he stammers. You fear you may have traumatized him until the verbal barrage bursts out like a dam.
"How dare you! You know I serve none other than the great heir to Briar Valley. To even imply that I am yours? A mere human's? Inconceivable! Your absurdity knows no bounds!"
He sounds as energetic as ever. You decide to interrupt the angry monologue before he really gets going.
"Sebek, I wanted to know if we're still having lunch together."
"To insult the very essence of my being! As if you..."
It takes a hot second for your inquiry to reach his ears, but when he catches it, the rambling drifts off. He grows oddly quiet. He balls his hands into fists and unclenches them several times in quick succession, testing the limits of his uniform gloves. This would already have delved into a physical fight if you were any other student.
Despite your inane actions, you're practically harmless. Any great guard should easily be able to ignore petty taunts. It's best to consider this a test. Sebek clears his throat.
"Of course we are. You didn't have to come find me just for that. I always keep my word." The redness of his ear tips peeking out from under his hair remind you of a Christmas tree.
"Great! Can't wait."
You stick out your hand for a parting high five. Sebek subverts expectations by grabbing your palm. His gloves are warm and a little sweaty after rushing to find you, and his grip is anything but soft in a boyish display of dominance.
"Do not do this again," he says. He's stern, but after that warning his voice drops to a normal level and he sounds almost gentle. "Just... text me, like a normal person. You have my number."
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tourettesdog · 2 months ago
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I am begging people to be normal about completed fics, and in particular one shots.
I am begging people to stop demanding more from authors, and insisting that one shots need to be longer or have sequels.
I don't think yall understand how many fanfic authors are one more "where's the rest of it?" comment away from throwing out any plans they might have had to continue an idea.
Unless an author like specifically says they might write more for an idea, just-- assume something marked as completed is complete, and respect it as it stands, please.
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saintrosalyn · 1 month ago
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Thinkin about Ghost writing to his personal jailbird. It started as his 'good deed.' A dumbass idea Gaz came up with to get them out of the house in-between deployments. It felt a little odd to try and be a good influence. A soldier, known for their rules and regulations, penpals with those who lack discipline. It was Price who liked to train little birdies to do tricks, not him. Then he saw your mugshot.
It escalated from letters to phone calls to taking a trip cross country to sit across from you. You were a shit actress. Batting your eyelashes and whispering promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs once you were a free woman. He knew your game. Milk 'em of his money, let your soldier boyfriend use his connections to pull some strings. As soon as you were free you'd fly the coop.
But Simon was brought up by meaner things than you and if his old man taught him anything it was how to clip a bird of her wings.
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zephyrchama · 26 days ago
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You were sick. Your head was in a fog and your throat hurt something fierce. It was sweltering hot yet you shivered under the covers, hoping for the fever to pass soon. Your body, doing its best to get better, decided to empty the contents of your stomach over the side of the bed.
Beelzebub was the first to discover your condition. He came to wake you up in person when you hadn't shown up on time for breakfast. You were teetering like a newborn deer trying to clean up your mess. He was taken aback at the sight, at how clammy you were, and gently wiped the sweat from your face while checking how warm your forehead was. "You should lay down," he recommended, practically pushing you back into bed. You asked him to guide you to the bathroom instead.
He disappeared to fetch Lucifer. The eldest arrived immediately upon being informed of your condition. Your face muscles twitched as you tried to hold back a second round and apologized for the state you were in. Lucifer told you to stay quiet and just rest. "If you want to apologize, then get better soon."
"Don't tell anyone about this, ok?" you tried to ask. It came out as a garbled, barely perceptible whisper sending bolts of pain through your neck. You didn't want anyone to know how bad things really were.
"I do need to inform Diavolo, but rest assured I'll keep it brief." After ensuring you had water and would be fine alone for a few hours, Lucifer left early to inform RAD of your absence. He later texted you, "Don't hesitate to summon me if you need anything."
The house was quiet. It felt surreal to be the only one there. After some time had passed, you hobbled back to your bedroom and tried to sleep through the pain. Blissfully unaware of the chaos occurring elsewhere.
RAD is no small academy by any means, but rumors sure do spread fast. In first period, Beelzebub told Belphegor the sight he witnessed. They were overheard by Asmodeus, who lamented your absence to Solomon. Solomon asked Raphael to come with him to prepare some nutritious human food so you'd recover faster, and had to be forcibly stopped by Simeon. Luke found out by interrogating Solomon about why he was causing a scene in the kitchen.
Mephistopheles caught wind of the gossip and went directly to Diavolo for confirmation. Lucifer was none too happy at the situation, but the rumor mill was already spinning in full force. He did his best to uphold your image by telling anyone who broached the subject, "it's just the sniffles."
By lunchtime, Mammon was taking bets on how sick you were. "500 grimm says they're explodin' from both ends." "If that were the case, one of us would have stayed at the house with them," Satan rebutted, spying an easy win. "500 grimm says it's just coming out the bottom." They went back and forth, with others occasionally chipping in new symptoms such as hives or internal bleeding. Asmodeus, unable to listen any longer, left the cafeteria to post vague stories about his concern for you on social media.
Leviathan and Thirteen sent you get-well-soon text messages. One was full of worry and asked you to respond ASAP so they knew you weren't dying, as anxiety over your condition was causing them no end of fear. The other assured you to rest easy knowing that your candle was fine and you had plenty of time left before you kicked the bucket. It even recommended passing your bug onto someone else for fun.
You only saw the notifications in the evening, when a pounding headache woke you up and resounding footsteps in the hall signaled that people were home from school.
There was a knock at the door and Lucifer announced you had company. The crown prince and his butler imposed with a tray of fresh herbal tea. It would have smelled amazing if you possessed the ability to breathe through your nose. As the door shut behind them, you spotted at least ten figures out in the hallway.
Barbatos silently served you a hot cup, hopeful the rising stream would assist your sinuses. "Looks like you're recovering well!" Diavolo chimed. "That's great. I feared you were going to heave your guts out all day."
The frank sincerity caught you off guard and you choked on your tea. Barbatos was quick to grab the cup before it spilled.
"You knew?" you rasped. "Oh yes. Lucifer said it wasn't that bad, but tales of your illness have spread all over campus. We know human bodies aren't very strong."
You hunched down into the blankets to hide. The heat spreading across your face this time was not due to fever.
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lazylittledragon · 10 months ago
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'i'll just do a couple of doodles of mombin™/platonic stobin parents' nevermind, borderline graphic novel
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jennelikejennay · 28 days ago
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You know what I think t'hy'la means?
It's not an ambiguous term, like it could mean three different things. But I also don't think it always means all three. I think it's a singular concept that we don't use on Earth, but maybe we should.
You know how some people's number one person is their spouse, while other people, married or not, have a best friend who's the one they really tell everything to? You know how you might have a queerplatonic relationship but whether or not you have sex with them is just ...not an important question?
I think t'hy'la means your number one person. And humans don't have a word that says most important without distinguishing whether we're blood-related or whether we're having sex.
Vulcans do. So I don't especially like the idea that all t'hy'la pairs have to be lovers in a sexual sense. It's not that at all. It's that they have this deep bond that transcends everything. You could have that with your brother. You could have it with your friend. Or if you're attracted to that person, you would probably be lovers.
Kirk and Spock love each other deeply; everyone who knows them knows that. The word they use for each other doesn't say whether they're having sex because Vulcans don't care about that. Humans are all "weird, the dictionary definition won't tell me whether they're boning, which is information I'm used to having publicly announced!" Well, too bad. Vulcans have arranged marriages usually, and some of them have sex once every seven years. So I just don't think sex is the defining point that makes a relationship serious to them.
If a Vulcan says "this is my t'hy'la" that lets everyone know they are bonded in the deepest level of the katra and any arranged spouses or temporary pon farr surrogates they might have don't even rank, by comparison. That's uncomfortable to humans.
Now Kirk and Spock are definitely having sex, but Spock doesn't consider that to be the fact that makes their relationship serious and primary over all others. So that's why he chooses a word that is about the soul bond, not the flesh.
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obihoebikenobi · 28 days ago
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There have been few people to earn the trust of Logan over two-hundred years, but when Logan's comfortable with someone, he lets his guard down. Like, all the way fucking down.
The adamantium makes Logan cold and stiff in the winter, and usually he'd just grit his teeth and take it, but then there's Wade.
Wade, running Logan a hot bath, setting up some music, lighting a candle, sitting on a stool and keeping him company.
Wade, towelling Logan off while his eyes droop shut and the chilly air reminds him of the ache in his bones.
Wade, steering him back to the bedroom, sitting Logan on the bed, allowing him to be loose-limbed and half-asleep.
Logan lets him pull a pair of baggy sweatpants up his legs, a cozy sweatshirt over his head. Wade towels of his hair, and presses a kiss to Logan's forehead. He pulls back the covers and helps Logan slip underneath them when his stiff body resists. For a second Wade leaves Logan's side, but he returns with a microwaved mug of soup and a heated blanket.
Wade lets him eat, crawling in the bed, ready to hold Logan close as soon as the soup is gone.
And Logan fucking lets him. No--Logan fucking wants this. It isn't something he allows, it's something he desires. Only from Wade.
He wants gentle hands, and stupid fucking jokes about pop culture that he doesn't understand, and the soft comfort of Wade's scent on the sheets.
Logan shamelessly wants to be held in Wade's arms, pulled close and held even closer.
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sceletaflores · 1 month ago
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well, all right i’m bad, but then you’re no prize either…
pair: joel miller x fem!reader
wc: 8.6k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no ellie, general violence (only referenced), age gap (56/26), swearing, so many spacers lmao, not quite friends to lovers and not quite enemies to lovers but a weird other thing, kinda mean!joel for a good sec, dressing wounds, joel miller TUMMY, loss of virginity (reader is a virgin but she's not completely oblivious and weirdly infantile about it lmao), fingering (fem!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex whoops, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, porn with a tiny plot, no use of y/n.
nat’s note: well, i finally caved y’all. baby’s first tlou fic! this literally took me forever to write and even longer to post cause i was so terrified LMAO so please give me some grace if it’s shit and he’s ooc and timelines are a little fuzzy cause i barely know what i’m doing. thank you chickens love you mwah mwah mwah. kisses!
dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!
joel found a lodge house…
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You don’t know what you did to make Joel Miller hate you so much.
He's never outright said it, but you know it’s there—in every sharp glance, every clipped word, every deliberate avoidance.
Besides, his silence is worse than anything he could say. A quiet condemnation that settles in your chest like stone.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you don’t care what he thinks, but the truth is harder to swallow.
You do care—more than you want to admit. His approval, his respect, hell, even a sliver of kindness from him feels like an impossible prize you’ll never win.
And you hate yourself for wanting it. For needing it.
It's not just the weight of his disdain that eats at you, it's the not knowing why. God, do you wish you could ask him why.
What did you do to make him look at you like you’re some necessary evil he has to tolerate. Why does he hold some unspoken grudge that's manifested itself into something you couldn't dream of ever comprehending.
But the thought of confronting Joel feels like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a void that might swallow you whole.
So instead, you do what you've always done. You keep your distance, try to match his indifference with your own, and tell yourself it’s better this way.
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You were young when the outbreak hit, six years old.
You’re sure that’s part of it. That that’s how Joel sees you, as some bumbling, naive child who’s more of a hassle than anything else.
Another mouth to feed, another back to watch, baggage.
You've been with him for almost seven months now, traveling side by side when you may have well been miles apart. Trekking through abandoned cities, overgrown highways, and every godforsaken patch of wilderness in between.
In the beginning, you did everything you could to prove him wrong.
You pushed yourself past your limits, hunted, scavenged, fought, kept up. You did everything that needed to be done without hesitation.
All to show that you were more than what he made you out to be. It never seemed to matter much.
After you lost your parents in the early days of the outbreak, it was just you and your sister. She taught you everything you know, taught you how to survive.
It's because of her that you know how to shoot a rifle, how to skin a rabbit, how to start a fire with nothing but sticks and dried moss, how to snap bones and locate which vital arteries bleed out the quickest.
It's because of her that you've been able to hone some sick skill in the maiming of clickers.
A skill you never thought you'd need to use on her.
You were supposed to be safe in the QZ. You weren't supposed to be fifteen years old, aiming a gun at the one person you had left.
Your own flesh and blood wasn't supposed to be the very first in a long list of red tallies under your belt.
It’s been years and you’ve still never forgotten that day. December 19th, 2012, the date burned into your brain like someone took a branding iron to the tissue.
You can’t count the amount of times you’ve been ripped from your sleep drenched in a cold sweat with the tail end of a scream tearing at the skin of your throat.
The image of what was left of your sister, slumped on the ground lifeless as her blood painted the wall behind her flashing behind your closed eyelids. The sound of her last labored breath ringing in your ears louder than any shotgun blast.
You ran that same night, with the weight of her death on your shoulders.
Your entire world spinning out around you as you clawed through barbed wire fencing, not caring where you were going or what would happen to you—just needing to escape.
There was nothing left for you to do after that but survive. And that’s what you did, for years, scraping by in a world that had already chewed you up and spit you out a mangled mess.
You learned how to be ruthless because of it.
How to harden yourself against the loss, the pain, the brutality. But there were cracks, too. Cracks you hid well, buried deep beneath layers of stubbornness and distance.
The endless days blurred into each other. Empty houses, hollow streets. A life reduced to scavenging, hiding, and the occasional, fleeting moment of human connection that inevitably ended in loss. 
And then you found yourself with Joel.
You hadn’t exactly found him, though. More like crashed into his orbit by accident.
A few desperate days spent scavenging through the ruins of a small town, a chance encounter that left you both wary and unwilling to turn your backs.
But, inexplicably, you somehow became part of his traveling routine.
He wasn’t like any of the others you’d met before. At first, you thought he might be different. A man who seemed broken, but different nonetheless.
As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you began to see the truth. Joel Miller wasn’t concerned with you. He didn’t need you. And, more than that, he didn’t want you around. 
You didn’t know what to do with that.
It’s a bitter kind of irony. You’ve survived all this time completely on your own, fought tooth and nail to stay alive, but with him, you might just crumble.
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Joel found a lodge house. It's a small, weathered place tucked away in the dense trees of the wood surrounding it.
He only deemed it suitable after an extensive perimeter check and a thorough sweep of the interior.
It's not much—just another run-down place in the middle of nowhere—but for the first time in what feels like forever, it’s a roof over your head for the night.
The walls are sturdy, though the windows are cracked and half of the floorboards creak like they're about to give out at any moment.
You explored the second floor alone, creeping through the desolate rooms and taking in all that was left behind.
Old family photographs covered in thick layers of dust, worn clothes riddled with holes still hung in the few closets you stumble across.
The oddest of all was an old jewelry box tucked away in a dresser draw, tarnished silver dull and muddy.
The sound of familiar footsteps comes from somewhere behind you. The door creaks open slowly.
Joel. Of course.
He clears his throat, the sound abrasive in the quiet of the house.  
“Fire’s low,” he says, voice rough from its lack of use today.
You don’t turn around, not yet. You take the box in your gloved hand, running your fingers across the intricate design of the lid, touch trailing over winding vines and small roses.
“Okay,” you mutter, your voice coming out quieter than you intended. “I’ll grab some more wood later.”
Another beat of silence. Then, “It’s gettin’ cold out, I’ll go.”
Your fingers pause their ministrations, moving to flip the lid open. Empty.
“Suit yourself,” you reply after a moment, your tone just as neutral as his.
Joel doesn’t leave right away. You hear the floorboards groan beneath his weight, his presence lingering in the doorway. 
You wonder what he’s waiting for, or if he’s waiting at all.
Finally, he speaks. “Don’t touch anything.”
With that he turns and leaves the room, you wait until you can’t hear his footsteps trailing down the stairs anymore to let out the scoff festering in your chest.
You snap the jewelry lid shut with a little more force than necessary. “Asshole.”
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Joel's been gone for a while now. Longer than it takes to chop a few logs for firewood.
You came down from the upstairs a few minutes after hearing the tell-tale sound of the heavy door opening and closing. The main room is quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dwindling fire.
You're perched on an old armchair near the entrance, peering out the dirty window that has the best view of the treeline as you nervously pick the skin around your nails.
You tell yourself not to worry. He’s probably fine, he’s been doing this a lot longer than you. And if Joel is anything, it’s annoyingly competent.
Still, a nagging doubt itches at the back of your mind. It's been at least half an hour, maybe more.
You’re just about to grab your own pack and go looking for him when the front door creaks open.
Joel stumbles inside, the frigid evening air rushing in behind him before he slams the door shut. At first glance, he looks fine—no more haggard than usual. 
But then you notice the way he favors his left side, the way his free hand is pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and staining his torn undershirt.
You’re on your feet in an instant.
“Fuck,” you say, voice sharper than you expected. “What the hell happened?”
“Raiders.” Is the only explanation you get as he tries to brush past you like it’s nothing. The stiff way he moves and the tightens of his jaw betray him. “S’just a scratch.”
“Bullshit,” you snap, stepping in front of him and blocking his path to the fire. “Sit. Now.”
He gives you a look, one of those deep, withering glares you’ve seen him use to intimidate countless others into submission. But you stand your ground, chin raised and jaw set–defiant. 
His stubbornness finally meeting its match in your own. 
Finally, with a low growl of frustration, he drops onto the couch. “Happy now?”
"Not until you let me take care of that." You motion toward his side, where the blood is still spreading.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, lolling his head back to rest more heavily on the couch.
“Sure you are,” you snap, crossing the room to rifle through your bag. “And I’m the fucking Queen of England.”
"Said I’m fine," he bites through gritted teeth, but you’re already moving, heading back to him with the first aid kit from your pack.
"You want to bleed out on this ugly-ass couch? Be my guest," you shoot back, dropping to your knees in front of him. "Otherwise, shut up and let me help."
Joel surprisingly doesn’t argue any further, just sighs heavily and reluctantly sinks further into the couch cushions.
You push the front of his jacket open to slide it off his shoulders as gently as you can, peeling back the layer of his flannel next.
The smell of blood hits you immediately.
The gash is about five inches long, trailing the span of his ribcage. It’s deep—but not fatal—just an angry red and oozing blood.
Definitely not the simple 'scratch' he made it out to be.
Your stomach churns at the sight, but you push it down. No time for that.
“Jesus, Joel,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for the alcohol in your kit. “You really know how to underplay a situation, huh?”
He doesn’t respond, just watches you with those dark, calculating eyes of his. Always watching, always assessing.
It’s unnerving, but you focus on the task at hand, grabbing a clean cloth and soaking it with alcohol.
“This is gonna hurt,” you warn, though there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind the idea of causing him a little discomfort.
A petty, vindictive part that still stings from all the scorn he’s thrown your way.
“Just get it over with,” Joel grits out, his voice low and gravelly.
You don’t give him any more warnings as you wipe the soaked cloth over the wound. He flinches, a harsh curse slipping through clenched teeth, but he doesn’t pull away.
You work as quickly as you can, wiping away the blood and dirt with steady hands, your movements as gentle as possible given the situation.
You let out an annoyed huff when the torn fabric of his shirt gets in the way of your hands for a second time.
You lean back on your heels, glancing up at Joel. “You need to take your shirt off.”
Joel raises a brow at you, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That really necessary?”
“Yes, it’s necessary, Joel,” you huff, already losing patience. “Unless you want me to sit here and cut around every thread of this ratty thing while you bleed out, then by all means—”
He sighs heavily, cutting you off as he shifts forward and grabs the hem of his shirt. He tugs at the fabric, grunting in pain each time it strains his ribs.
You roll your eyes at how slow he’s moving, and your patience—already worn thin by the day's events—snaps.
“Jesus Christ, let me help,” you huff, reaching forward and grabbing the fabric.
Joel jerks back slightly, his hand shooting up to stop yours mid-motion. “I got it,” he growls, a sharp edge in his voice.
You glare at him, your hand still caught in his grip. His palm is calloused, his hold firm enough to make your pulse jump unexpectedly. 
For a moment, the two of you just sit there, locked in a silent standoff.
Then he releases your hand and pulls the shirt over his head himself, wincing as the movement pulls at his side.
You wait with your arms crossed, trying to ignore the awkward flutter of nerves in your stomach as the fabric peels away to reveal his chest.
Joel’s broad, solid frame isn’t new to you. You’ve seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when bathing in rivers or changing in run down houses between stops.
But this time feels different, more intimate somehow.
You’re staring, and you know it.
The firelight cast shadows over his skin, illuminating old scars, faint lines of muscle, the barely there jut of his stomach over the hem of his jeans.
You had been getting more game kills recently, two hunters are always better than one.
Joel clears his throat, dragging your focus back to the present. “You gonna gawk all night, or can we move this along?”
You snap out of it, scowling to cover your embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
You finish cleaning the gash and grab the small needle and thread lying next to you.
“This’ll hurt worse than the alcohol,” you say, threading the needle easily.
Joel snorts, a rare sound. “Figures.”
The needle pierces his skin, and this time, you catch the smallest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t make a sound, but his jaw tightens, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.
His hands grip the edge of the couch hard enough that his knuckles turn white with it, but he doesn’t tell you to stop or slow down.
He’s too damn proud for that.
You shift closer, your knee brushing against his leg as you position yourself to work from a better angle. You feel his eyes on you, that intense, scrutinizing stare that makes your skin prickle.
“You’ve done this before,” Joel says after a moment, his tone less sharp than before. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.
You shrug, keeping your hands steady. “Of course I have.”
“Who taught you?”
The question catches you off guard, Joel’s never shown much interest in what your life was before you met him. You glance up briefly, catching his gaze. There’s no malice there, no judgment—just curiosity.
You swallow hard, dragging your eyes back to stitches, half way done now. “My sister.”
You don’t elaborate and Joel doesn’t push.
Maybe it’s the sudden tightness in your tone or the look you know must be clouding your face that keeps him quiet.
You finish off the stitching, tearing the thin strand of thread with your hands before you’re leaning away again.
“Good as new,” you say, dabbing some more alcohol on your own hands to disinfect. “Try not to tear these open anytime soon.”
Joel leans back, strong arms spread across the back of the couch, his face unreadable as he peers down at the fresh stitching on his side. 
“Could’ve done it myself,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is gone, replaced with something softer, almost resigned. 
You roll your eyes with a scoff, not even trying to hide your irritation as you rise from the floor. “Sure you could’ve, right before you passed out. You’re welcome by the way.”
You gather your supplies and turn to head back to your bag, but Joel’s voice stops you in your tracks.
“You’re always like this, y’know,” he says, and the words carry that same gravelly drawl, but there’s something new there—something heavier.
You pause, your hands tightening around the kit in your grasp. “Like what?”
“Pushy. Stubborn,” he replies, his tone cutting, though it lacks the usual venom. “Like you’ve got somethin’ to prove all the damn time.”
You whip around, your patience officially gone. “You think I’m stubborn?” you shoot back, your voice rising. “Coming from the guy who would rather bleed out on a fucking couch than admit he needs help?”
Joel’s jaw tightens, and his hands flex against the couch cushions, but you don’t stop. Not now. Not after months of this.
“I’ve been busting my ass since day one to prove that I’m not dead weight to you. I’ve fought for us, for you. And for what? Just to get more of your bullshit attitude?”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” Joel snaps, pushing himself upright despite the obvious strain it puts on his freshly stitched wound. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”
“Because you won’t let me!” you fire back, stepping closer, your voice rising. “All you do is look at me like I’m some burden you can’t wait to get rid of.”
Joel’s glare sharpens, his lips parting as if to respond, but you cut him off.
You really can’t stop yourself now that you started, all the anger and frustration reaching a fever pitch hot enough to burst the tight lid you’ve kept on your emotions.
“If I’m such a hassle, why didn’t you just leave me back there, huh? Why didn’t you just walk away like I know you wanted to?”
Joel’s breathing is heavier now,  his broad chest rising and falling as his dark eyes bore into yours.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then, he stands, and the sheer size of him forces you to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your glare fixed on his face.
“You think I wanted this, kid?” he growls, his voice low and strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You think I wanted to be responsible for someone else? To have someone else’s fuckin’ life on me?”
“Don’t call me kid,” you spit, shoving a finger into his chest, ignoring the way his jaw ticks at the contact. “I’m not a fucking kid.”
He scoffs, casting his eyes to the ceiling disbelievingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Fuck you, Joel,” you growl, fists clenching at your side. “If you hate me that much, why the hell are you still here? Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off the second you met me?”
“Because I couldn’t!” Joel snaps, booming voice filling the small space.
The confession slips out like it pains him. His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, he looks like he might break something.
You’ve never been scared of Joel, even though you’ve seen first hand just how scary he can be.
Now, as he looms in front of you, eyes blazing and jaw working furiously beneath his skin, it’s the closest to scared you’ve felt.
“I’ve seen you out there,” he continues, tone low and dark. “You’ve got a fuckin’ death wish. You’re too damn stubborn to just stop, and I’m not gonna let you go so you can run off and get yourself fuckin’ killed.”
Your heart pounds in your chest, his words hitting far too close to home.
“I’m just trying to survive, Joel,” you snap, your voice shaking. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? Survive.”
“Survive,” Joel repeats bitterly, his gaze burning into yours. “That what you call it? Throwin’ yourself into every goddamn fight, gettin’ stabbed and shot right fuckin’ in front of me and expecting me to brush that shit off?”
You let out a humorless laugh, nodding your head exasperatedly. “Yes, yes I do expect you to just brush it off, because that’s what you always do.” 
“Well I can’t,” he grates out, taking a step closer. “I can’t ‘cause despite whatever it is that you may think about me, I don’t hate you. I care about you too damn much and that's my goddamn problem.”
That shuts you up, your mouth snapping closed with a sharp click of your teeth as you stare at him, shocked.
Joel holds your gaze, lips pressed into a thin line. “That what you wanted to hear?”
It’s in that moment that the fire finally fizzles out, the dull hiss of it the only sound left in the room.
You’re quiet for a beat, stunned into silence. The heat of his anger, his frustration, it radiates off him, and you realize suddenly that this isn’t just about you. 
It never was.
“Then show me,” you challenge softly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Show me that you don’t hate me.”
Joel’s eyes darken, his head cocking to the side as he searches your face for a sign. You don’t say anything, you only square your shoulders and raise your chin, your eyes just as hard as his own.
“I want you to prove it.”
The tension snaps like a rubber band stretched too far. 
You shouldn’t—this shouldn’t—happen. Not like this. Not after everything that’s been said.
But when Joel’s lips crash against yours, hot and desperate and urgent, it makes everything blur into nothing. 
It’s not gentle, not soft—this is anger and longing and frustration all wrapped into one. It’s messy, frantic, like a fight that’s been brewing for too long.
He grips your arm, pulling you closer, almost too roughly, but it feels like it’s everything you’ve both been avoiding.
His other hand moves to cup the back of your neck, grounding you as his lips press harder against yours, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into this single moment.
You respond just as fiercely, nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as you kiss him back with all the pent-up emotion that’s been simmering beneath the surface.
The coarse hair of his beard scrapes against the skin of your chin deliciously, the scent of blood and firewood filling your senses as his arm wraps around your waist, dragging you impossibly closer.
Close enough that you can feel the wild beat of his heart booming against your chest.
You pull away for a second, breathless, both of you looking at each other, your eyes wide and pupils blown.
“Goddamn it,” Joel mutters, his voice thick with frustration and something else you can’t place. He presses his forehead to yours, the deep brown of his eyes dark than before. “What the hell are we doing?”
You don’t have an answer. You’re not sure if you even want one.
You reach for him again, arms looping around his neck to drag his mouth back to yours.
This kiss is nothing like the first, it isn’t a clash of frustration–it’s filthier, rawer. A near feral thing, all teeth and tongue, a surge of hunger and need that borders on violence. 
Joel groans into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine. His teeth catch your bottom lip, pulling just hard enough to make you gasp.
He takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to slide against yours with wet, messy desperation, like he’s trying to claim every inch of you.
The taste of him—salt and iron and something distinctly Joel—makes your head spin. 
Your fingers knot into the chocolaty curls at the nape of his neck, surprisingly soft to the touch. His own hands roam the soft curves of your body, rough and insistent, like he can’t decide where he wants to touch you most.
“Joel—” His name spills from your lips like a plea, and he answers with a deep, guttural noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. His tongue follows the path of his teeth, soothing the bites with lazy, deliberate strokes that make your knees weak.
You’re moving before you even realize it. Joel dragging you across the room and down onto the couch with him, using the strength he’s built up after all these years to manhandle you until your thighs are spread wide on either side of his lap.
“Joel,” you gasp again, rearing back enough to break the kiss. “Your stitches–”
He cuts you off with a sharp nip to the sensitive spot behind your ear, tearing a high whine from your throat. “Can hardly feel ‘em.”
You make a displeased sound, but it’s undermined by the way you tilt your head to give his wandering lips more room. His hands find a home on your hips, one slipping beneath your shirt to press against the soft skin of your stomach. 
His fingers splay wide across your skin, his palm callused and rough. His pinky just barely brushes the underside of your breast, and you’re suddenly rearing back. 
“Wait,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.
Joel’s hands immediately loosen their grip on your hips, his brows knitting together in concern. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I just...I need to tell you something.”
His jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for you to speak.
You take a beat, chewing at the skin of your bottom lip nervously.
“I’ve never...” You pause, swallowing hard as your cheeks heat up. “I’ve never done this before. I mean, I’ve never been with anyone like this.”
Joel pulls back slightly, his expression unreadable as he processes your words. For a moment, you think he might pull away completely, but then he exhales a long, slow breath.
“Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re tellin’ me this now?���
“I didn’t exactly plan for this to happen,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “It’s not like I had the luxury of a high school sweetheart to pop my cherry out here.”
Joel’s gaze softens at your tone, and he reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”
You glance away, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the weight of his stare. “I just...I wanted you to know. But I want this, Joel. I want you.”
His thumb stills against your cheek, and he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he considers your words.
“I don’t...” He pauses, the most hesitant you’ve ever heard him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
It’s the most vulnerable he’s been around you, round eyes shining with something so raw and so earnest it makes your heart ache in your chest. 
“You won’t,” you insist, your voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach. “I trust you.”
Joel’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to argue. But then he nods, his shoulders relaxing as he cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your foreheads touch again.
“At least let me do this right,” he murmurs, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Not here. Not on some goddamn couch.”
You blink up at him, surprised by the tenderness in his tone. “What?”
“Upstairs,” he says, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the side of your neck. “There’s a bed up there. It ain’t much, but it’s better than this.”
You can’t do anything but nod, your pulse racing beneath your skin fast enough to combat the cold night air seeping through the walls.
“Okay,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Upstairs.”
Joel stands, gently pulling you to feet and taking your hand in his. He leads you upstairs, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The small bedroom is dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a broken blind. 
The bed isn’t much—an old mattress on a worn frame, covered with a patched-up blanket—but it doesn’t matter.
Joel shuts the door behind you, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a shiver down your spine.
“Last chance,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You say the word, and we stop. No questions asked.”
Your throat tightens at the sincerity in his tone, the way he’s giving you an out even though you can see the strain in every line of his body, the way his hands flex at his sides like he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch you.
But you don’t hesitate.
You step closer, placing your hands on his bare chest. You bite back a smile at the goosebumps that break out all along his skin at your touch. 
“Jesus, Miller,” you mumble teasingly, nails lightly scratching through the salt and pepper hair scattered along his chest. “How long are you gonna drag this out before you get it through your thick skull that I want to fuck you?”
"Christ." Joel huffs, shaking his head as the corners of his lips turn up in a small grin. “Like I fuckin’ said,” he starts, big hands kneading the meat of your hips. “Pushy.”
Joel walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it with a soft gasp.
He follows you immediately, crawling over you, his body covering yours, his weight a comforting pressure. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear.”
His fingers are everywhere, unbuttoning your shirt with a practiced ease that has your pulse racing. His lips follow the path of his hands, each touch a branding mark, each kiss leaving you wanting more.
“Pretty girl,” he mutters softly, pressing a kiss right between the valley of your breasts.
You feel his cock stirring against your stomach, and it makes the ache between your legs flare to life, the weight of it, the hardness of it, driving you crazy with need. 
You want him so badly you can barely think straight, but when his lips graze over your collarbone, you can’t stop the quiet whine that escapes your throat.
Joel growls in response, a sound that resonates deep in his chest, and you know then that he’s as far gone as you are. His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, tugging them down your legs with urgency. 
As your skin is exposed to the cool air, you can feel the heat of his gaze on you, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
“You’re fuckin' perfect,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.
Joel's hands find your thighs, parting them with a deliberate slowness that makes your breath catch in your throat. He positions himself between your legs, his body weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest rising and falling with the same frantic rhythm as yours. 
The anticipation is almost unbearable as his fingers trace the line of your panties, the fabric damp with want.
“Jesus, she’s drippin’ for me already,” he mutters, voice rough, as he slides the material to the side, his thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of your clit.
Your body jerks at the contact, a desperate sound escaping your lips, but Joel doesn’t relent.
“You touch yourself down here, baby?” he asks, working tortuously slow circles over your clit.
"Please," you beg, your hands grasping at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.
He looks up at you, his gaze dark and filled with an intensity that makes your stomach tighten. “Asked you a question, honey.”
You whine, high and loud in your throat as your thighs clench desperately around his wrist. “Yes, I touch myself.”
Joel’s lips curl into a satisfied grin, sliding his thick index finger through the messy wetness to slip inside your clenching hole, making you gasp. Your hands grasp at the sheets, pulling at them as if they can anchor you to the moment.
“Good girl,” he breathes, eyes darkening at the broken moan that bursts from your lips. “When’s the last time you touched yourself?”
Your brain feels hazy as you search for the answer, pleasure clouding your mind slow and sweet as molasses. “A–a few nights ago.”
Joel hums idly, slipping a second finger alongside the first. The stretch has you whining, his fingers a lot more to take than your own.
Your hands come up to claw at his shoulders, relishing in the way his broad muscle ripples and shifts beneath your greedy palms.
“Joel,” you whine, hips canting down against his hand impatiently.
He just shushes you softly, free hand brushing soothing circles along the skin of your inner thigh. “I know, honey,” he mutters, the pace fingers speeding up. “But I gotta get her nice and ready if you wanna take my cock.”
The gush of your pussy around his fingers is loud in the stillness of the room, a filthy wet noise that burns your ears each time he plunges them into your aching hole.
“I am ready.” Your breath hitches as your body begins to tremble beneath him. “Please, Joel—fuck—please, I need—”
“Need what?” His voice is thick with dark amusement, but there's a hunger in his eyes that has your stomach twisting. “Tell me, baby. What do you need?”
“I need you,” you rasp, your nails digging little crescent moons into his skin, your body pleading for release. “I need you inside me.”
Your hands grab at his hair, pulling him back up to meet your lips in a feverish kiss. 
The pressure of his body on yours, the way his hard cock grinds against your trembling thigh, drives you to the brink of madness. 
Your hands trail down his chest, past the waistband of his jeans, finally reaching the bulge straining against the fabric.
Joel groans when you rub him through his pants, feeling his cock twitch in response. He pulls back, breathing heavily, his lips curling into a smirk. 
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice thick with lust. “You want my cock in this pretty pussy? Want me to show you how good it feels to be fucked?”
“God, yes,” you answer, desperation lacing your tone as your hand moves to unbuckle his jeans. “Want it so bad.”
He lets you push his pants down just enough to free his cock, and you gasp, your eyes drawn to the way his length stands, thick and hard, just waiting for you. The tip flushed an angry red, drooling pre-come onto the scratchy sheets.
Joel pulls his fingers from you, using his hands spreading your legs wider, positioning himself between them with such careful precision that you can barely stand it.
The head of his cock drags through the mess between your legs, slipping all the way down till it catches on your soaked entrance.
Joel pauses, looking down at you, waiting for your signal, but the only answer you give is a pleading whimper, your hands pulling at his shoulders, urging him to move.
His mouth captures yours once again as he slowly slides into you, the stretch of his cock filling you steadily, making you gasp into his mouth. 
The slow burn of him carving a place for himself inside of you is almost too much, your body trembling as you adjust to the feeling of him.
“Fuck, baby,” Joel mutters against your lips. “You’re so tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me.”
As he sinks deeper into you, his thick cock finally buried to the hilt inside of you, the feeling is overwhelming. You gasp, nails digging into his back as the pain slowly shifts into pleasure.
Joel groans into your mouth, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you as he rocks gently against you. 
The rhythm is slow at first, deliberate, as if he's savoring every inch of you. Your body quivers beneath him, every inch of your skin tingling with sensation. You clutch at him, your legs tightening around his waist, needing more, wanting more.
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Take it, baby."
You screw your eyes shut tightly, trying to steady yourself as he thrusts deeper, harder. The angle shifts just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 
Every stroke feels like it’s hitting the deepest part of you, sparking heat in places you never knew could burn so hot.
"Fuck," you gasp, the sensation too overwhelming, too much in the best way. "Joel... please..."
"Please what, sweetheart?" He pulls back slightly, teasing you with a slow roll of his hips before driving back in with a grunt.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him to move faster, harder. "Don’t stop," you breathe, your voice trembling. "I need you to fuck me, Joel. Faster. Harder. Please."
The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as Joel finally picks up the pace, each thrust harder and deeper than the last.
Your back arches off the bed, chest pressing flush to his as your body coils tighter and tighter, already so close to the edge.
Joel reaches up to take your wrist in his, dragging your hand down to press flat against your lower stomach.
“Feel that?” he asks breathlessly, the speed of his hips knocking the dingy bed frame into the wall with every thrust. “You feel how deep I am?”
His own hand blankets yours, pushing down so you can feel the way his cock punches up against your palm on the next thrust.
Your pussy clenches desperately around him at the feeling, your slick lips dropping open on a loud moan.
You can barely hold on. The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling painfully as your free hand scrambles to find purchase on his skin. "I can't—I'm gonna—"
He grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he drives deeper, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Come for me, baby," he growls, his voice dark and commanding. "Let me feel it."
With a strangled cry, you finally release, your body clenching around him, every nerve igniting in a white-hot explosion of pleasure. 
You’re lost in it, your world spinning, your senses overwhelmed by the sensation of Joel’s body pounding into yours, the way his cock brushes against that sweet spot behind your clit enough to make sparks go off behind your eyelids.
Joel pulls out of your velvety warmth, hand coming up to fist his dripping length until he’s bowing over you tightly and coming with a deep groan of your name.
His release paints your stomach with milky strands of white, rope after rope of warm come claiming you in a way no one has before.
He finally collapses against you with one last shuddering breath, both of you breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftermath.
For a few moments, neither of you speaks, the only sounds are the soft creak of the bed and the quiet hum of your racing hearts. 
Joel rests his head against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you can feel the tension begin to slip away, the weight of everything that’s happened between you both settling into something new—something different, but still there.
Your hand slips down the sweaty expanse of your stomach, your fingers swiping through the sticky mess of his release curiously.
“Christ, quit that,” Joel groans, tearing his eyes away from the sight to press his forehead against your shoulder.
“Why?” you hum, brow raised in amusement as you drop your hand back to the mattress. “Can you even get it up again?”
Joel pinches your side hard enough to make you squeal, your body flinching away from him as a surprised laugh bubbles from your chest.
“Watch it,” he warns, though there’s no bite to his tone. You only laugh in response.
The two of you settle into a comfortable silence, wrapped in each other as crickets chirp from outside the window.
Then Joel clears his throat, fingers idly tracing different shapes on the skin of your hip as he gathers the courage to speak.
A circle, a square, a diamond, a circle, a heart, a heart, a heart.
“I’m…” he starts, trailing off softly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a real fuckin’ prick, and you didn’t deserve it. You never did.”
You turn your own gaze to his chest, hand coming up so you can trail your fingers along the jagged scar decorating his shoulder. Your touch featherlight over the rough patch of skin.
All the anger seeps from your body, a heavy weight gone until you feel so light you could float off the mattress and into the cold night air.
“It’s okay,” you whisper softly, so soft you think it gets lost in the quiet darkness of the room. “I understand now.”
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both just lay there, tangled in each other, not worrying about the world outside, about the chaos that waits. 
Just you, him, and the soft glow of moonlight.
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tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!
mini nat's note: should i add joel to my taglist...i do kinda want to write more for him in the future but i'm not sure yet...lmk chickens <3 bee tee dubs sorry the ending absolutely sucks i could not for the life of me figure out how to end this LMAO
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