#just break my fucking heart why don’t you

[paranoiddreams]

Somno, cnc?, voyeurism💪🏻, Satoru is a SICK FUCK for this

A/n!! - tbh, I just wrote this when I was high asf and the words came out on their own, and it might not even make sense. Idk what demon took over, but here, I hope you FREAKS enjoy this🤭

You’re just trying to take a nap on the couch while the tv plays episode after episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race—that literally all you’re trying to do. But once the sounds of soft grunts, and a shadow over your eyes, breaks through your sleeping state, you slowly wake up to see your roommate standing in front of you on the couch.

He’s not only standing though—he’s standing with his pants on the other side of the room, and his hand stroking his leaky cock furiously.

“Satoru?!” You grumble, coming back to awareness as shock floods through you. What exactly are you seeing right now? You’d ask yourself if you walked in on something you’re not supposed to see but…you didn’t walk in on anything. In fact, Satoru is the one who walked you into this situation.

“Fuck—finally, you’re awake…”

Satoru’s voice is husky, his breath’s coming out as heavy pants while he fucks his tight fist. Your eyes flicker down to his large hand, eyes widening when you see his even larger cock.

“Satoru!” You scream again, this time louder. “What the hell?!”

You try to hide your face in the pillow you were just peacefully snoozing on, but you suddenly feel fingers tangle in your hair and tug your head back, forcing you to look at the sight in front of you again.

“No, don’t be a baby,” Satoru pants, an amused smirk on his face showing off his pearly white canines, “look at me.”

Your gaze drifts back down, almost forcibly, to Satoru’s hand around his hard cock. He slows his strokes when your eyes widen, hissing softly.

“Fuck,” he moans, almost whimpers, “do you know how long I’ve been edging? Can’t even go a few minutes without stopping ‘cause I feel like I’m gonna cum already.”

You feel nearly all of your blood rush to your cheeks at his admission, even more so at the tone of his whiny voice.

“What-I-why??” You stutter, still wondering if this is some strange, sick dream.

The fingers in your hair tighten, lifting your face slightly to force your eyes on his.

“Why? Why what? Why am I stroking my dick, or why am I going to cum so quick?” He laughs, amused by your obviously flustered and confused state.

“Why all of it?!”

Satoru just huffs out a breath, rolling his eyes as if the answer was obvious. “You think you can just lay on my couch and sleep looking like that and I won’t react?”

Your heart is pounding violently, threatening to burst through your ribcage and out your chest. How someone could justify jerking off in front of someone else by simply saying they look attractive when they sleep is beyond you, but despite the horror and humiliation still running through your body, you can’t ignore the ache between your legs now.

Satoru seems to take notice to your flushed response, but instead of a witty remark, he lets out a soft moan, moving his hand over the leaking tip of his cock; he’s about to cum, and you can tell, especially by the way his fingers are tightening in your hair, but you somehow can’t find it in yourself to do anything by stare at his face contorted in blinding pleasure.

Then, before you can even process how fucking absurd this is, you feel something warm grace the flushed skin of your cheeks. You look down to see Satoru’s fist covered in the pearlescent aftermath of his voyeurism, like a shining trophy at the end of a race. His eyes are widened as he looks at what just happened—the evidence is all over your face anyways. Clarity hits him, and he feels a wave of embarrassment flood his body.

But at the same time, the realization makes his cock harden in his sticky hand again.

You just look too pretty like this, all surprised and questioning how this happened; but what makes him even more excited is the obvious signs that he’s not the only one enjoying this…

[butternutt613]

PSA!!! IT IS OKAY TO CHANGE YOUR STORY HALFWAY THROUGH OR TO NOT HAVE IT BE PERFECT!!!

Fanfic writers (myself included) are way too hard on ourselves sometimes. I was chatting with a few amazing creators on Discord about this, and I realized just how much pressure we put on ourselves to make everything perfect.

Let me remind you: it’s completely okay if your story isn’t flawless right out of the gate.

The way I see it, fanfics, and most things posted on AO3 or Wattpad are like first drafts. ESPECIALLY!!!!! when you’re still actively writing your story. You’re still figuring things out, shaping the narrative, and building the world. It’s not set in stone, and it’s okay to make changes as you go. Hell, completely rewrite it!

So many of us get caught up in trying to make our stories perfect from chapter one because we’re scared that if it’s not, no one will read it. I experience imposter syndrome so hard lol

But NEWSFLASH!!! Even published authors don’t create flawless stories from the start. Their first drafts are messy, full of edits, rewrites, and changes. Entire chapters get cut, characters get reworked, and sometimes entire backstories get scrapped. AND THEN!!! EVEN WHEN THEY THINK THEY ARE DONE!!! THEIR EDITORS GIVE THEM 39 THINGS TO CHANGE!!!

If that’s how the ‘pros’ do it, why are we holding ourselves to an impossible standard?

And I’m going to be so real with you right now… 99.99% of the time, the characters we write about aren’t even canon or have never even interacted in canon or only had 2.3 lines of dialog (I'm looking at you, Jegulus….)

That’s the magic of fanfiction. You get to create something ENTIRELY NEW. You get to take these characters and give them experiences and a life the og author never did or never could. Fanfiction is about imagination and creation, not about rigid rules.

There will always, ALWAYS, be someone who says "you're doing it wrong” or “that character wouldn't do that” and I'm sorry to break it to them but idk if you know this but… THEY AREN’T REAL!

If I want these two guy best friends to kiss, I will! If I want my MC to save Anne by perfecting Isadora’s magic, I will! If you want Ominis to say “fuck you” to his family or Sebastian to become a healer or an auror or a potions master, then GODDAMMIT YOU DO THAT!

BECAUSE YOU ARE WRITING YOUR STORY!! It is YOURS, not anyone else's. You’re the author. Your creative process is valid and so is your work, even if you decide to change direction halfway through. (Elsa was originally going to be evil…)

There will always be haters. Even when something is canon, there are people who’ll criticize it (seriously like look at flat earthers….) That’s why you can’t let the fear of criticism hold you back. Write what YOU love. Create what brings YOU joy. The right people will find your work and appreciate it for what it is.

At the end of the day, fanfiction is about expression and connection. Whether you’re writing for an audience of hundreds or just for yourself, it’s yours. You’re building a world, shaping characters, and sharing something that came from your heart. And that’s what makes it meaningful. So stop being so hard on yourself. Keep WRITING. Keep CREATING. KEEP COMING UP WITH FUN HEADCANONS!!!

Your story deserves to be told. And you deserve to have fun and love doing it.

*mic drop* *peace sign*

[bestalbertcamuslover]

Just Friends

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶

✯ pairing:  Franco Colapito x Reader ✯

✯ content warnings: cursing✯

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His hand had rested casually on her waist all evening, a gesture so simple yet so comforting that it left a radiant, almost triumphant smile on her face. At that moment, she felt undeniably wanted, utterly enough, and unmistakably his. Meeting his friends had felt like a monumental step in their still-blooming relationship, yet everything about it seemed effortless, as if this was exactly where she was meant to be. It was a lively celebration—he was Argentinian, after all—marking the beginning of his racing career.

She felt herself leaning into his touch, the warmth of his hand securing her in the chaos of the evening. It wasn’t something they ever really discussed—this easy intimacy between them—but it had grown naturally, like a quiet understanding they both shared.

At one point, someone across the table, a friend of a friend she didn’t really know, leaned forward with a playful smirk. “Okay, I have to ask,” they said, pointing between the two of them. “How long have you two been together?”

The question caught her off guard. Her heart skipped a beat, and her cheeks acquiring a subtle shade of red, the radiant smile that had been lingering on her face freezing in place. She glanced at Franco instinctively, unsure of what to say.

Franco, however, didn’t miss a beat. He let out a light chuckle, his grip on her waist loosening slightly as he leaned forward, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Oh, we’re not dating,” he said casually, shaking his head. “We’re just friends.”

Just friends. She tried to keep her expression neutral, her lips curling into a polite smile as she quickly looked down at her drink, suddenly very interested in the condensation on the glass. She felt something break very badly inside of her, sure that if the ambience had been less loud, there would be some auditory proof of it.

“Really?” the friend pressed, raising an eyebrow. “You two seem… close.”

Franco shrugged, his tone easy and unaffected. “We’ve known each other forever. She’s one of my closest friends,” he said, glancing at her with a warm smile that made her heart ache just a little. “That’s all.”

She forced herself to laugh lightly, as if she wasn’t affected at all, as if her heart had not been brutally assassinated by merely two words. “Yeah, nothing romantic,” she added, her voice steady.

The conversation moved on quickly, the group returning to their lively chatter and jokes. Her mind was felt like a scratched record, iterating over those two words. Just friends. Franco’s hand had slipped away from her waist, and suddenly, she felt unmoored, the radiant glow she’d been basking in all evening fading into something much colder.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur, the joy she’d felt earlier replaced by a gnawing sense of uncertainty. She couldn’t stop wondering if his words had been an honest reflection of how he saw her—or if they were just a way to keep things uncomplicated in a world that already demanded so much from him. Perhaps she was just lying to herself…

The closeness returned once they were back in the Uber, his thigh brushing against hers in the most familiar way. She seemed devastated, though her expression could easily be mistaken for simple exhaustion. Perhaps that was why he stayed silent, not just with his words but with his hands, refraining from his usual playful touches.

He stepped into her place, turning around to face her with a smile lingering on his lips. “I know you're exhausted and everything, but—” “Just friends?” she interrupted sharply, her tone a far cry from gentle as the door clicked shut behind her.

The abruptness of her question caught him off guard, his expression morphing into one of genuine confusion, which only fueled her already simmering anger.

“Franco, I don’t fuck my friends,” she snapped, her voice trembling as her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her frustration coloring her cheeks a deep red. 

The bluntness of her words, the utterly devastated expression on her face, hit him like a ton of bricks. He stood frozen, unable to summon a response, as if her pain had rendered him mute.

She huffed, her breathing ragged with a mix of anger and hurt, her gestures frantic and unsteady. "Do you just look at all your damn friends like that? Do you kiss them like that? Do you fuck them and tell them they’re yours?" she shouted, her voice trembling with emotion.

The silence that followed was deafening, long and stretched, the kind that tore through her like a blade. Her teary eyes pleaded for an answer, for anything, but his hesitation was all the confirmation she needed. She had been a fool.

A groan of pure frustration escaped her, her hands running through her hair as she tried to hold herself together, unsuccessfully. “Are you being dead serious right now?” she yelled, but the fire in her voice was fading, melting into sadness that threatened to engulf her.

Franco’s jaw tightened as he watched her, the rawness in her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. He didn’t move closer—he didn’t dare. Instead, he looked down, raking his hand through his hair, the tension in his posture undeniable.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he finally said, his voice low and uneven. “But... I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

Her heart sank at his words, her worst fears confirmed. She blinked back tears, forcing herself to stand tall, even as the weight of his confession threatened to crush her. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, her voice trembling but firmer than before.

Franco hesitated, his gaze darting around the room as if searching for an escape, for anything but the heartbreak written all over her face. “I didn’t think it would get this... complicated,” he admitted, his words slow and deliberate. “I care about you—a lot. But I don’t know if I’m ready for something... serious. For labels. For all of this.”

Her chest tightened, her throat burning as she swallowed back the lump rising there. “You don’t know if you’re ready?” she repeated, her tone filled with disbelief. “Franco, we’ve been acting like a couple for months. You kiss me, you stay over, you hold me like I’m the only person in the world. But when it comes to actually saying what this is, suddenly you’re not ready?”

He winced at the frustration and hurt in her voice, but his hands stayed planted at his sides, his shoulders stiff with unease. “I didn’t plan for it to be like this,” he said, his voice soft but defensive. “I didn’t plan for you to mean this much to me. I just thought we’d have fun, you know? Keep it casual. And now... it feels like more, and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

She took a step back, her arms wrapping protectively around herself as though shielding her heart from his words. “So, what?” she asked, her voice breaking slightly. “You get to decide when this is real and when it isn’t? You get to act like you want me but not actually take responsibility for it?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he replied quickly, his voice rising as if to cut through her pain. “I’m trying to be honest with you. I don’t want to lead you on. I just—” He stopped, his words faltering under her intense, tear-filled gaze.

“You already did,” she blurted out, her voice so hurt it made him shiver.

Franco’s head dropped, guilt heavy on his shoulders. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to fix this. He had been so sure of his boundaries, so certain that they could keep things simple. But now, as he looked at her—hurt, angry, and so heartbreakingly beautiful—he wondered if he’d been lying to himself all along.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a long silence, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean for it to get this far.”

“Well, it did, Franco. And you don’t get to take it back just because it’s inconvenient for you now,” she uttered.

She turned away, grabbing the door handle as her breathing hitched. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice cracking. “I won’t be some ‘casual’ thing for you to figure out when it suits you.”

She held the door open, her hand gripping the edge tightly as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Deep down, she wished he wouldn’t leave. She wished he’d turn around, cross the distance between them, kiss her like it was the last time, and tell her he loved her too much to walk away. But he didn’t.

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✯ authors note: English is not my first language, and I hope you liked it <3

[poopybaby3th]

Can I call you tonight?

I’m lying in bed, restless, not getting a wink of sleep because I’m thinking of my partner. Well, she’s not really my partner yet, is she? She’s just a work partner—and my best friend at that. I glance over at my alarm to check the time: 3:27 a.m. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to wake her up. I toss and turn, sighing and groaning until I look at the clock again. 3:32 a.m.

Fuck.

I stumble over the thought of texting her to see if she’s awake. I know she has trouble sleeping sometimes too. Finally, I pick up my phone and send a message to Arden.

"Hey, you awake?" Message sent.

The last time she was online was four hours ago. I set my phone back on the nightstand and start fidgeting with my ring—the one Arden gave me. She has the same one. She gave it to me so I’d stop bouncing my leg all the time, and it worked. Now, whenever we’re sitting in the car together, waiting on a bounty, we both end up fidgeting with our rings. She calls us "ADHD besties."

My expression darkens for a moment when I think about that label. Is that all we are? Best friends? Nothing more, right?

While my thoughts wander back to Arden, my phone vibrates. My heart skips a beat when I see her reply:

"Yeah, what’s up? Can’t sleep?"

Instead of texting her back, I hit the call button.

“Hey, dork,” she says, her voice warm and teasing.

I huff, amused. “Hey, Arden.”

I hear her shifting in bed. “So, what’s up?”

I lean back, setting the phone beside me on speaker. “I could ask you the same thing,” I reply slyly.

“True. How about this: I’ll tell you what’s keeping me awake if you tell me what’s keeping you awake,” she offers.

I yawn. “Sounds like a deal.”

She yawns back. “Alright, you first.”

I scoff. “Why do I have to go first? I’m the one gracing you with my presence—you should go first.”

Arden makes a disapproving noise. “I asked you first, so you should go first.”

I glare at the ceiling, stubbornly refusing to give in. After a moment, I sigh. “Okay, fine, I’ll tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

My heart pounds as I try to muster up the courage. “I’m thinking about you.”

Arden hums. “Okay, and?”

“You’re keeping me awake.”

“Yeah, because we’re calling.”

“No, Arden. I was thinking about you even before we were on the phone. You’re the reason I’m awake.”

“Huh…” She goes quiet. I think I broke her.

Finally, she speaks again. “Why?” she asks, her tone confused.

“I like thinking about you,” I admit, trying to sound nonchalant.

I hear her mumbling, as if she’s trying to form a coherent sentence.

“I don’t think I understand how you mean that,” she says finally, her voice wavering.

“I mean that I like to think about you… romantically.”

Uncomfortable silence stretches between us, and I decide to break it.

“Arden?”

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m still here. Just… processing.”

“Do you want me to hang up?”

“No, no, no! Don’t hang up. I’m done processing.” She lets out a sigh—I can’t tell if it’s one of relief or disappointment. “I… I like you too.”

My heart skips several beats. “You like me too?” I ask, barely able to contain my excitement.

“Yeah,” she says softly. I can hear the smile in her voice.

I sit there, grinning like an idiot, before making a decision.

“Okay, screw this—I’m coming over,” I announce.

“COMING OVER?! AT THIS TIME?! WITH YOUR BIKE?! NO WAY. If anyone’s coming over, it’s me,” she protests.

“Nope, I’ll be ready faster. I’ll be fine on my bike.”

“Uh-uh. You are not getting on your bike. I’ll drive to your place.”

I throw on a jacket, slip into my shoes, and grab my keys. “Too late—I’m already dressed. I’m on my way.”

I hear her sigh, amused but resigned. “Okay, but be careful.”

“I always am,” I reply, grinning as I get on my bike. “I’ll keep you on the line so you don’t have to worry.”

The ride to Arden’s place is uneventful, as expected at 3 a.m. The streets are quiet. When I arrive, I raise my hand to knock, but before I can, the door swings open, and Arden practically throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

I wrap my arms around her in return, nuzzling into her shoulder.

“Hey,” I mumble.

“Hi,” she whispers back.

We stay like that for a while before heading inside. Instead of going to the living room, we make our way to her bedroom. It’s late, and we both know we’ll probably fall asleep while talking.

I sit on one side of the bed while she sits on the other, facing me.

“So…” we both start at the same time, then laugh.

“Are we… together now?” I ask, wanting to clarify things.

“I mean, I want us to be together,” she says, nervously. “But if you’re not ready, we can—”

“I love that. Hey, girlfriend,” I interrupt, grinning. “God, I love calling you that.”

I take her face in my hands, looking at her with pure adoration.

“I like when you call me that too,” she says, her cheeks flushed.

We’re both grinning like idiots when I notice her gaze flicker to my lips. I pull her closer.

“Can I kiss you?” I whisper, my voice breathless.

Instead of answering, she leans in and presses her lips to mine. The kiss starts out rough and eager but quickly softens into something gentle. Our lips move together, our tongues exploring with curiosity.

After what feels like forever—but also not long enough—we pull apart, breathless.

I yawn, and Arden follows suit.

“We should sleep,” she says, glancing at the clock.

I glance too. 4:24 a.m.

“Yeah, we should,” I agree.

We lie down and pull the blanket over us. I wrap myself around her, letting her use my arm as a pillow.

“Good night, partner,” Arden murmurs sleepily.

“Good night,” I whisper back.

Before I know it, I’m fast asleep, wrapped around the person I feel most comfortable with.

[milla-frenchy]

I didn't expect to get hit in the face by the first sentence but here we are (and I'm here for it anyway😌)

“Let’s see what’s so fuckin’ special about you. Why your cunt is worth more than my brother’s life,” he spits, unfortunately literally, as droplets spray. 

omg oh no. Don't touch her you fuck

You’re not even mad, because it makes you dizzy enough that you don’t really register what comes after. Maybe you would have been worried about that, but he hit you hard enough that you didn’t even remember how hard you’d been hit. 

shit. shit

He steps away to rifle back through the duffle, and when he comes back, it’s with a pair of rusted pliers. 

(I'm so fn nervous Toni, hold my hand 😭😭😭)

You can’t even really hear your own screams. There’s pain, there’s blood, there’s Mike’s sick laughter. And then there’s darkness.

I hate him. I fn hate him so fn much. I'm gonna be so fn GLAD when Joel's gonna rip him in two

Satisfied that you aren’t afraid, that you’re okay for a moment, he finishes his feast.  There’s not much left of Mike when he tosses his corpse into a corner. It smacks against the far wall and drops to the ground. His final resting place. 

jfc YES!!!!

He looks down at you, long tongue poking out to lap at your cheek before he realizes the injury is inside. He whines, and you shake your head, weaving your fingers in his fur and burying your face there. He doesn’t need words; neither of you do. He just takes you home. 

Damn I wanna cry. I was so scared for her, I'm so relieved Joel's here, but seeing that he tries to heal her and then realizes that the wound is inside is so hard to read 😥

He makes good on his promise to soothe your other wounds. He can’t quite numb your aching mind or racing heart, can’t slide his tongue over the places that shattered inside, but he can damn well remove every trace of Mike from your body.

I hate what that guy did to her. I hate it so much

“My—” and there’s something potent in his pause. Something that saps the silliness of your subject change away and dances dangerously close to serious.  “My daughter loved that shit,” he says. 

Oh wow... Oh, Joel... 🫂

You go to turn over again, but this time, he lets you, both of his arms cradling you in a way that makes your throat feel tacky and tight. It’s made worse by the way his eyes are bright, the flecks of green bursting through the brown like lichen in soil. 

This is so beautiful

“Will you tell me about her?” you ask, barely a whisper, afraid to break whatever is happening.  “Not… not today,” he grants, and you take it for the huge step that it is, and nod, burying your face in his chest instead and taking a deep breath of his soothing scent.

Damn I love them so much

Then, of course, you wish you hadn’t looked at all. Once you have, though, you can’t look away. You understand that Tool song now, the one from the CD your dad burned you before the world went to hell.

I don't have the reference 🥲 Which song is it?

What a chapter Toni!!! The emotions, omg. This series is so so good 🖤🖤🖤

of rage and ruin - chapter nine

chapter nine

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 3.6k

summary: things take a turn for the worse.

Please read the warnings as some new important ones have been added. NOTE: this is the last time that the SA tag will be used in this story. However, the events of this chapter are important. If you decide to skip this chapter, feel free to message me and I’ll fill you in. Or message if you want specifics about the tags to decide if you want to read it.

chapter warnings: non-con, dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), body horror, viewer discretion is advised, sexual assault (NOT by joel, NOT described, just implied and alluded to), p in v, torture

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You were wrong about Mike. About his lack of retaliation.

You were so, so wrong. 

That much is clear when you wake up.

The first sign that things aren’t quite right is that you never did get around to going to sleep last night. 

The second is that you may be buried, or something. You can’t quite move your limbs beyond wiggling your fingers and toes. And you can’t see shit. 

The third sign is that you can’t smell Joel. Not beyond what’s soaked into your skin and sweater. No, he’s very much not here. Or anywhere nearby, if the rapidly tightening feeling in your chest is any indication. 

It’s panic you can’t shake off, you know, since you can’t fucking move. 

The fluorescent overhead buzzes to life. 

“Not so brave now, are you?” The voice blows in from across the room and sinks in your gut like it’s sleeping with the fishes. 

You really, truly are in some deep shit. 

You’ve been kidnapped from your kidnappers. Honestly, what did you do in a past life to deserve this? 

He’s right about one thing. The confidence you clung to in the early days has been picked at like carrion. You’re scared. 

“I didn’t–I’m–” but something is wrong, so very, very wrong. You’re bubbling out gibberish and spit. It’s just sounds, dribbling from sloppy lips. 

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up. It ain’t gonna wear off for a while, so best just sit quietly like a good bitch.”

You’re not sure if it's the panic or whatever he’s drugged you with, but your throat is cinched, and your cheeks sting from the uncontrollable stream of tears. 

“Let’s see what’s so fuckin’ special about you. Why your cunt is worth more than my brother’s life,” he spits, unfortunately literally, as droplets spray. 

Shit. They were actual brothers. Not that it mattered; what was done was done, but you had really miscalculated this. 

His hand is on your shoulder. It’s better than where you thought he was reaching, and yet, still horrible. It’s not like you haven’t had to deal with handsy or aggressive men. It’s just… usually, you can move. Fight. Run. 

His hand is nothing like Joel’s. His fingers are short, his nails broken and edged with grime. There are scars and dry skin, like Joel, but it’s nothing like his rough grip. There’s no nick above the webbing of his thumb, no calluses on the plump pads of his fingers to remind you that you’re alive. 

Mike brushes his thumb over Joel’s bite, the thin newborn skin taut and jagged. You make a sound. You don’t hear it, not with the way your heart is beating in your eardrums, not the way every note scrapes your throat, but you grate out a sound that might have been a hiss. 

Or a growl.

His hand connects with your cheek, which does not help the dizziness stuffed between your ears.

 

You’re not even mad, because it makes you dizzy enough that you don’t really register what comes after. Maybe you would have been worried about that, but he hit you hard enough that you didn’t even remember how hard you’d been hit. 

He must know he’s on a dwindling timetable. Inevitably, by dawn, the others will return to the base with Joel in tow. Inevitably, by dawn, they’ll know. 

As if he can tell you’ve dug up a fragment of hope, he leers, taking a swig from a bottle of dirty brown liquor. “You think Jim’s gonna waste resources on finding you?” he murmurs, grimy fingers stroking your cheek. 

And just like that, with a sharp breath, you lose that hope. Because he’s right, he’s undeniably right. Jim never misses a chance to bitch about the drain you are. They don’t need you, not really. Neither does Joel, not really. 

It’s easy, after the hours that have passed, to give in to the overwhelming dread. His hand wanders as it settles in, and you twitch away from his touch.

“Guess it’s wearin’ off,” Mike muses, taking another drink. “Can’t have you puttin’ up a fight now.” His bottle clinks against the file cabinet he sets it upon as he squats to dig through a duffel bag. 

There’s nothing you can do when he ties you down. There’s nothing you can do as he grips your cheeks hard, his thumb digging into your jaw until your mouth opens. You try not to swallow the liquor he pours in, only to aspirate it instead, wheezing and sputtering to little effect. 

“Jesus. Can’t even handle a little booze,” he sneers. “Too bad. Can’t have you gettin’ too feisty, huh?” He forces more down your throat, and it burns. 

He keeps squeezing your face, peering down at your mouth. “Reckon I should teach you a lesson about biting,” he said, tapping the bottle lightly against your front teeth. A whimper of fear slips free, and he grins crookedly. 

“Yeah, you don’t like that, huh? My brother didn’t much like gettin’ bit, either.” 

He steps away to rifle back through the duffle, and when he comes back, it’s with a pair of rusted pliers. 

You can feel your body twitch, trying its very hardest. The lingering drugs and booze make your head spin and throb. Mike faded in and out of view, but made his presence very clear as he pried your jaw back open. 

He tapped each tooth with the pliers, hemming and hawing about where to start. Garbled sounds are all the protest you can muster, trying to shake your head loose of his grasp as he selects an incisor. 

The first two attempts fail, the pliers slipping free, battering you in the process. The third try, though, clamps on just right. He clumsily tugs, to no avail, before wiggling and twisting the tooth. Reluctantly, your body parts ways with it as he increases the force, plucking the loosened tooth from the gum. 

You can’t even really hear your own screams. There’s pain, there’s blood, there’s Mike’s sick laughter. And then there’s darkness.

—

It’s not the fight that wakes you. Not the gunshots, not the snarling. Everything has died down by the time you come around.

Well, not everything. Based on the sounds, you’d hazard a guess that Mike is still at least a little alive. When you look up, you’re thrilled to find out you can, that the paralysis has waned. 

Then, of course, you wish you hadn’t looked at all. Once you have, though, you can’t look away. You understand that Tool song now, the one from the CD your dad burned you before the world went to hell. 

For a moment, Joel meets your eyes, and you are the wolf, nearly. You can feel the way it burns through your veins. 

Satisfied that you aren’t afraid, that you’re okay for a moment, he finishes his feast. 

There’s not much left of Mike when he tosses his corpse into a corner. It smacks against the far wall and drops to the ground. His final resting place. 

The Wolf that is Joel, that is your alpha, that is your savior, stands on his hind legs with those unsettling inverse ankle-knee-freaky bits bent. But even crouching, he fills the room. He’s a blur, like the first time you saw him, an ink blot in the center of your vision. A wormhole absorbing all the light. What little is left reflects off his shiny body. It takes you a moment to realize his fur (or his body hair, as he insists) is soaked in blood. 

It clings to the plaque on his teeth. His hands are steeped in it, some already hardening or coagulating under the stretch of his claws. He stalks over to you, and you do not flinch from him. His claws rend the rope as if it were no more than spaghetti. You tremble uncontrollably as he helps you sit up, most of your faculties back under your control. His blood-soaked, massive paws cradle your cheeks, pulling back abruptly when you whimper. 

A growl rumbles from his chest, and he throws his head back and howls. It brings footsteps in your direction as he gathers you into his arms. You’ve never felt smaller than you do now, and it’s not just the bulk and heft of his body. He cradles you with a delicacy unbefitting his sharp, deadly nature, but it’s all the more Joel to you than the brutality you witnessed. 

The raiders filter in, just a few of them, more to control him than assist, but they reclaim Mike’s stolen supplies and pay you no mind. At least until Cheryl comes in. 

“Alive after all, huh?” she says, approaching far closer than you think she should dare. But she wiggles the remote to the shock collar as she nears, peering at you. “Still want her, pet?” she asks Joel. “She’s all used up.”

He bares his teeth and snarls, and she shrugs. “It was just an option,” she says, hand dropping from the pistol on her belt. 

You feel sick from the second brush with death in as many hours. Or maybe it’s from the bootleg booze and blood that’s been dripping down your throat. 

He looks down at you, long tongue poking out to lap at your cheek before he realizes the injury is inside. He whines, and you shake your head, weaving your fingers in his fur and burying your face there. He doesn’t need words; neither of you do. He just takes you home. 

No. Not home. You can’t let yourself accept that. But it’s been almost a year, now. Almost a year since they plucked you from that FEDRA truck and brought you to hell. 

It’s not the cell that’s home, though. It’s him. 

—

You look up at the wolf once you’re locked in, the relief of your familiar prison bubbling up like bile. The others go back to their day, the incident no more than a blip of inconvenience. Silence lingers, both of you waiting, waiting, waiting to hear the heavy thunk of the cellar’s deadbolt. 

As soon as it sounds, you break.

“You found me,” you gasp, trailing into a whimper. “You found me, you found me.” Your voice is grating, leaking from your cracked and dry throat. It hurts to talk, your jaw throbs, and you struggle around the swelling, but you can’t stem the leak.

He grips your biceps with both paws, and rolls back the shift enough to speak. “I found you,” he says firmly, letting you feel his sturdy hold on you, keeping you there and present. “I’ve got you. Okay?”

You don’t respond, still shaking and swaying a little on the spot. “You found me,” you echo, raw and dredged up from the hollow of your lungs. 

“Hey,” he growls without aggression. “ Listen to me. ” He doesn’t mean to do it. His voice drops a register, an even lower rumble than usual, and your attention snaps up to him. 

He winces. There’ll be time to apologize later, though. “I’ve got you,” he repeats steadily. “Okay?”

You nod. “Okay,” you echo in a whisper. 

“I will always find you,” he promises, eyes gone dark. “Always, little omega. You’re mine, and there’s nowhere on this godforsaken earth that they can hide you from me.” 

In any other context, it would frighten you. It should, by all means, frighten you a little. Instead, you kiss him.

It’s a mistake that sends you pulling back, gasping in pain, and all the ferocity on his face falls.

“Let me see,” he coaxes gently, cradling your jaw. He’s careful as he presses your lip to the side to get a good look. “ Jesus, ” he whispers.

You can see the guilt building up, layers upon layers from all his life. You won’t let this, won’t let you be another. “Joel—”

But he’s not having it. He bristles and narrows his eyes at you. “Would you stop tryin’ to run your mouth? You’re making it bleed.” His eyes dart over your face, stopping back on your missing tooth each time before sighing, shoulders slumping. 

“C’mon,” he grumbles, leaving no room for argument by simply picking you up and carrying you over to the bed. He settles with you straddling his lap, wincing. He looks down for only a moment. “I’ll take care of that next. Sit still ‘n be good.” 

It turns out not to be a hard order to follow. He sets about to lick your wounds, starting with your mouth. He doesn’t mean for it to turn into anything, he really doesn’t, but he’s licking inside your mouth. As his spit mixes with yours, as he laves his tongue oh-so-gently over and over, the familiar tingling starts to set in. It numbs the pain, not entirely, but the relief is enough to make you sigh softly against his mouth.

He can’t entirely be blamed as it turns into lazy kisses, tongues brushing comfort over one another, each press of lips like a mantra. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. You’re not sure who’s reassuring who. 

It’s not going to fix it. There’s not a magical makeout session that can restore your tooth or even heal the socket. Not that quickly, anyway. But it eases the pain, and so does the way his warm hands hold you like you’re something precious. The way he groans into the kiss, the way he can’t stop reaching for every bit of you, checking meticulously to make sure nothing else was taken from you. 

He makes good on his promise to soothe your other wounds. He can’t quite numb your aching mind or racing heart, can’t slide his tongue over the places that shattered inside, but he can damn well remove every trace of Mike from your body.

He settles you down on the mattress, settles himself into the wolf, and he licks every inch of you. His long, hot tongue is just rough enough to make you feel clean. There’s no way even a cell of Mike’s skin is left behind on yours. Joel eats it all up like he did the man himself. It leaves your whole body tingling, your heart pounding in your ears, your cunt gushing by the time he sheaths himself in you. 

There’s no room left for anyone else. There’s no room for anything but you and Joel in the darkness. 

It’s too late before either of you realize he’s triggered his own rut. Your body responds beautifully, burning under his touch, following your alpha into blissful oblivion. He fusses relentlessly, worried despite his own distress and desire, not wanting you to feel trapped or forced. Not again. Never again. 

It’s a promise neither of you are sure he can keep, but both know he’ll die trying. 

It isn’t as long as your first heat, but it’s all the more intense. Your little room fills with sweat, pants and groans replacing any need for words. And it’s exactly what you need—no thoughts, no memories, no dealing with what you’ve suffered. Just Joel, just… love? No, that can’t be right. Just lust. 

His cock is insistent, pressing into you, filling the gaps he’d left behind. He doesn’t bother turning back to the man, doesn’t bother trying to pretend he’s anything but a mindless creature right now. And still, he’s so gentle. More gentle than he’s ever been. 

You didn’t have time to build a nest, but that’s okay. He doesn’t ever move from his place over your body, cocooning you, blocking everything else from sight. There’s just Joel. You’re warm and cozy and safe. 

You almost forget that you’re locked up at all. He keeps you on such a high with his deft fingers, mouth, and cock that you can’t even fathom a time when he might have to part from you. The lock of your cunt around his knot is your echo of his promise. Never again. 

—

“How much of this is even real?” you whisper in the fading light of your heat. Your hand is lazily raised, blocking out the fluorescents, but he catches it with his own, his thick fingers making room for themselves between yours. Locking you together in another way, keeping you close. 

“Couldn’t tell ya,” he says quietly, gruff voice even coarser in the way he holds back, keeping it soft in your ear. “Probably nothin’. But it’s there anyway.”

He was sure as shit right about that. This burning in your chest, the way your heart picked up as he wove your fingers together and tugged your hands down, using both your arms to hold you to his chest, your unified fist in the center. It’s not real, not really. You don’t know him. He doesn’t know you. There’s nothing for this heavy feeling to rest upon, no foundation for the feelings that should not be there. 

And yet.

The conversation is veering uncomfortably personal, of which you only have yourself to blame, but you run from it anyway. “You ever see Dawn of the Wolf? ” you ask, pushing for something unserious, something that’ll have him rolling his eyes and putting up a fuss about the W Word. 

That’s not what happens, though.

His breath catches for a second before rolling out in a soft sigh, his warm breath ruffling the hairs at the nape of your neck. “Yeah,” he admits. “My—” and there’s something potent in his pause. Something that saps the silliness of your subject change away and dances dangerously close to serious. 

“My daughter loved that shit,” he says. 

You can’t help the way your body stiffens. You want to roll over and look at him, to parse his pursed lips and warm eyes. He doesn’t let you, though, tightening his grip around your waist, fingers pressing a little more insistently in the divots between your knuckles until you settle. 

“Watched the damn movies, read the damn books, had the damn poster on her wall,” he says, something careful in his words. Like he’s trying to give this to you without giving anything up for himself. These memories he’s clutched in the recesses of his ventricles—they can’t be extracted without damaging the last soft tissue he could spare to wrap them in. 

“So, who’s team were you on?” you tease instead. 

“I didn’t give a shit,” he dismisses. A beat passes. “Why would she even have considered the wimpy blond vampire kid?”

“Oh, I see,” you say, nodding sagely. “You think the obvious choice was the tall, hairy, brooding wolf-man. I have to agree.”

“Shut up,” he grouses immediately. “It was all stupid, anyway. None of ‘em could stop whining.” 

You go to turn over again, but this time, he lets you, both of his arms cradling you in a way that makes your throat feel tacky and tight. It’s made worse by the way his eyes are bright, the flecks of green bursting through the brown like lichen in soil. 

“Never did get to see the sequel,” you say after a moment, trying to regain some sense in your brain.

He snorts. “Didn’t miss anything. I thought it couldn’t be worse than the first one but it was the stupidest two hours of my life.” 

“I can’t believe you saw Dawn of the Wolf 2, and I didn’t,” you say. A beat passes. “Will you tell me about her?” you ask, barely a whisper, afraid to break whatever is happening. 

“Not… not today,” he grants, and you take it for the huge step that it is, and nod, burying your face in his chest instead and taking a deep breath of his soothing scent. The oaky notes are easier to parse, now, much more complex. Hints of spices are there, sometimes. 

You’re getting too familiar. So much so that when the chamomile blossom of his grief leaks through, your grip on him tightens just a little, and you find yourself pressing a kiss to the thick thatch of hair beneath your cheek. 

It isn’t real, but how can it not be? How can something this intense not be real? No, it’s different. This isn’t real versus fake like something photoshopped, something on a green screen. 

This is more than that. The dotted lines that make up constellations aren’t real, but it doesn’t change the way those stars are bound together to make something unique, something breathtaking.

“I get it now,” he murmurs, breaking your existential reverie. 

“Get what?” you say, nose wrinkling.

He bumps his nose against yours, nudging at you in a way you know would involve a playful nip if he was his other self. “Why he didn’t just eat her,” he says.

You reward him with a bark of a laugh. “You’re still thinking about Dawn?” 

This time he does nip at you, catching your ear gently with very human teeth. “S’your fault,” he grumbles, and you feel it rumble through his chest. 

And yours. 

No, wait, that was your stomach. You’re suddenly starving, and with that revelation comes another, much worse one. You sit up so quickly that Joel follows suit, eyebrows raised. 

“What’s the matter?” He barks. 

“It’s the food,” you whisper. “That’s why they don’t let you share. That’s how Mike got me. It’s in the fucking food.”

He sits up, cupping your jaw. “Explain,” he growls.

“I think they’re drugging us,” you finally tell him. It’s been a haunting tug in the back of your brain, one you didn’t really want to admit to. There’s been a matching tug in your gut, the feeling of something not sitting quite right, but you couldn’t put a finger on it.

It had been twenty years since you had something like cough syrup, anyway. But that’s the feeling. The fuzzy spot between your eyes where the ground seems to swoop up, the way you move through the day underwater. 

“Fuck,” Joel whispers. But he can’t deny it makes sense. It makes too much goddamn sense. He’s been too fucking compliant, too fucked to care. He thought it was apathy borne of everything he’s been through. 

But goddamnit. He knows. He just knows you’re right.

[ourfinalisation]

⟶ let you break my heart again

cw:: i have never written angst like this before. gn!reader, reader is MEAN in this one, reader implied to be an english speaker, reader gets drunk? satoru + reader met at jujutsu high

Satoru Gojo is not a coffee drinker.

It’s bitter, it's either scalding hot or biting cold, and in your words, “it tastes like dirt.”

He remembers the way he laughed in agreement last year when you muttered that under your breath, consequence of sneaking a sip of Nanami’s coffee. He remembers looking at you, his cheeks flushed and his words all airy. And he can't scrub from his mind the way you didn't spare him a glance.

Satoru Gojo hates coffee. But after a long night of entertaining a drunken you, he needs something to propel him through the day. And cocaine is illegal.

His eyes follow you around the staff room. Rubbing your temples and groaning, snapping at anyone who dares to speak.

“Someone’s hungover,” he smirks.

“Shut up,” you hiss. “Your voice is so grating.”

He shuts up, and pretends you didn't say that. He shuts up and pretends you don't always say that. He shuts up and pretends he doesn't spend night after night picking you up from a bar, completely wasted, or dropping you off to a date, or picking you up from some fling’s apartment at 7am.

On days when the staff room is silent, he allows himself a fleeting moment to close his eyes and picture you. He dreams of the thirteen-year long softness with which he can't help but afford you, and he lets himself fantasise that once, just once, you'll turn around and return his lovesick smile.

But on days like this, he presses his lips together in a fine line and ignores the sympathetic glance Shoko spares him.

He wonders what it is about him that is so unappealing. Nursing a whiskey at some dive bar, he slurs out his troubles to a sympathetic barkeep.

“Girls like me. I get asked out all the time. But she doesn't want me, and I don’t know why!” He wants to scream, or cry, or laugh, but he's not sure which and he slumps over the bar and barely catches his glass before it goes tumbling over. “I don't want the other fish in the fucking sea. I want her. She’s the prettiest fish.”

No one comes to pick him up.

Some days you're sweet on him. You throw him a bone. You send him songs in English that he doesn't understand, but he listens to the melody and the gibberish lyrics and he finds pieces of you in the songs.

[satoru gojo]: good song

[satoru gojo]: i like your taste in music ;)

Read, 11:06PM.

On other days you pick him up as the unforgiving sun is setting. You drive, asking him about his day, letting him ramble about his students, or vent about the higher ups, or tell you about this super funny thing Nanami did as though you weren't there.

He turns his head away from you as he finishes speaking, and he's glad he wears a blindfold as it catches his tears.

He downs the rest of his coffee, shuffling over on the couch to give you room to sit next to him.

“Thanks for picking me up last night,” you mumble, picking at your nails. You refuse to make eye contact, which is just as well because he'd hate for you to see the wide-eyed stare he's subjecting you to.

“... No problem.”

[no-brain-just-good-omens]

okay.

i will be continuing to post about good omens, and i will still be watching it on amazon prime too as i currently don’t have a way of pirating it with captions, and i can’t do without this show. i will be watching season 3, and posting about it when it comes out.

but you will not catch me idolising neil gaiman.

i will be only buying good omens merch second hand or from etsy sellers, or other ways where it doesn’t benefit neil.

believe victims, always.

edit: i now have a list of websites available with subtitles, dm me if you want them

[lostmf]

Please don’t ever become a stranger who’s laugh I could recognize anywhere

Please don’t ever become a stranger who’s laugh I could recognize anywhere

Please don’t ever become a stranger who’s laugh I could recognize anywhere

Please don’t ever become a stranger who’s laugh I could recognize anywhere

Please don’t ever become a stranger who’s laugh I could recognize anywhere

Please don’t ever become a stranger who’s laugh I could recognize anywhere

Please don’t ever become a stranger who’s laugh I could recognize anywhere

…

Why did you ..

[immeasurable-depths]

‘Of course I love you

I will always love you

I just don’t know what to do with it’

Laura WHY 😭😭😭

[lornasaurusrex]

I miss you Lorna… this is such a mess

This is an old message and I had several other similar messages, but I miss you guys and hope you’re all doing well!! I’m sorry to see nothing has improved.

I saw I was kindly mentioned by @awesomefringey and some other commenters the other day, so just wanted to log in and say hello and log back out for a few more months. 💕

Sending so so much love to all of you. Take care of yourselves and each other, please.

The video is still on YT.

[skinreflectsthesun]

.

[purplebehittindifferent]

Aw man I wish I could drew this ide-

OH CRAP IM AN ARTIST!

[badolmen]

Incredibly frustrated by how condescendingly jaded my uncle can be but I’m being so brave about it <- not blowing him up with my mind even though I want to

[seventh-district]

.

[dark-elf-writes]

Me: man writing out of order so stressful why do I do that to myself

Me: what if I write all of the second task and the aftermath even though there is an entire chapter before it that I haven’t even started yet?

[save-the-villainous-cat]

I HATE NINTENDO