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kiraavi · 9 days ago

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banana cream pie

Summary: Joel is heading home after another long haul when he pulls into the travel center for the night. He's been struggling with his attraction to the waitress that works at the diner there, and is tempted to avoid you completely. The promise of coffee and an opportunity to stretch his legs, however, lures him in on a night you just so happen to be working the graveyard shift. CW: smut, pwp, unprotected piv, creampie + related innuendos that may or may not be cringe but I had to commit to the bit, oral f!receiving, a metric fuck ton of dirty talk, implied but unspecified age gap, (Joel is in his 50s, reader's age can really be anywhere from 20s-30s), rough and tough fuckin' with trucker Joel (he's lowkey a bit of a perv), exhibition, dumbification, hairpulling, overstimulation, wee bit of pussy pronoun usage. [No outbreak AU] Note: the demons took over... and I'm gonna be honest, this is 100% pure smut, no additives. It's got the cheesy porno plot and everything. I've been picking away at it for a week, and it's the longest smut I've written thus far!! As always, this was written with my beloved, game Joel (Goel), in mind. Also, reader is written to be plus size/chubby cause I felt like it! Comments, reblogs, and likes are all so incredibly appreciated! I'm always overjoyed to receive feedback. It means a lot to know that people have taken the time to stop by and read my fics. Lot's of love to y'all and happy reading! Word Count: 5.1k Ao3 Link: read here!

For a moment, Joel thinks about retreating into his bunk and winding down for the night, but his eyes dart back to the diner. The welcoming light that pours from the large windows, and the flickering neon open sign. Goddamn does a warm cup of coffee, and the opportunity to stretch his legs after a long drive sound good right about now.

His eyes dart back to the beat up blue hatchback parked around the side. He recognizes it, or rather, he recognizes who it belongs to. He feels like a teenager—you make him feel entirely out of his depth, and he’s not sure why. There’s nothing between you.

You’ve never been anything but friendly and accommodating toward him. You know exactly how he likes his coffee and make for good conversation. The problem lies in what you don’t know—in the moments between a sip of coffee in the diner, and before he passes out in his bunk. The secret between his fist and his cock when all he can think about is you—you in that fucking dress, you with that gorgeous smile, you who treats him with genuine interest. He’s pathetic. As mindless as a moth to a flame. As dumb as a fool to his execution.

When he finally finishes stewing in his guilt, staring blankly at the blinking amber lights of his dashboard, he musters up the courage to leave the comfort of the cab of his truck. He makes the walk across the parking lot a quick one—beneath the light drizzle of rain drops prickling his skin. He forgot his jacket in his truck, but he knows if he returns to his rig now he won’t be able to convince himself to venture back out.

Joel shoulders open the door with a huff as cool air rushes inside with him. The door falls shut and warmth envelops him in its place. He dares a glimpse at his reflection in the smudged glass and cards a hand through his unkempt hair. Turning, he surveys his surroundings for the first time, tamping his boots on the door mat.

Booths are nestled along one wall, their red pleather upholstery spiderwebbed with fissures that reveal the foam cushioning beneath. Chips and scratches litter the table tops, the varnish worn around the edges where elbows have often come to rest. The checkerboard floor is weathered all the way down the aisle, certain tiles marking the well trodden path. The walls are covered in all sorts of dusty relics; old license plates from various states, road maps, and flags. Posters peel away from the wall at their corners and photographs have yellowed with the years.

He’s certain that this place hasn’t been renovated since its opening. It’s dingy, and unremarkable, and most things here have been wasting away for decades. The diner itself isn’t why he keeps coming back, though. He could just as well head over to the convenience store next door for a quick meal and a drink.

His eyes land on you. You’re standing behind the counter that runs the length of the room, chrome stools with red tops line the other side. You wipe down the surface with a damp rag. The radio crackles, crooning some tune that you’re too busy humming to notice his entrance.

It’s late and the place is empty—as desolated and deserted as the parking lot outside—a far cry from the bustling morning rush on those days when he’s barely able to get a word in while you rush around, topping up coffees or balancing trays of food. But now, you’re lost in your own world, and Joel finds himself hanging onto every second that you’re unaware of his presence because the view is a bit like art; a painting that he wouldn’t mind having hung in his home, or permanently etched into his mind’s eye.

You’re entirely unlike everything else in this tacky, run down diner. You are bright. You radiate warmth. You are something to be admired, cherished, and held dearly, or placed upon some pedestal. And he thinks that he might’ve spent an eternity memorizing every facet of you—every line that makes up your face, every contour that shapes your body—if you didn’t look up just then.

The smile that lights up your face is nothing short of a privilege to witness. He has half a mind to throw a glance behind him because it certainly can’t be for him—he can’t be the reason for something so beautiful. He doesn’t warrant that kind of look, but he’s the only one here and he doesn’t want to make himself look stupid, so he gives a curt nod.

Clearing his throat, he takes a stilted step towards one of the tables before settling into the booth. He watches as you disappear into the kitchen, and return with a coffee pot and mug in your hands. Dutifully, you set the mug in front of him and pour him a cup. The steam curls up into the air and one of his hands wraps around the ceramic mug, feeling its warmth. He glances back at you. You’re still standing there and you look a little antsy. He gets the feeling that he might be your only customer for the night.

“Workin’ the graveyard shift, huh?” He asks, lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip. He pulls a bit of a face and sets it back down. The coffee is just okay, always has been, but the coffee isn’t why he keeps coming back. Again, his eyes flit to you.

“Yeah, I needed the extra shift,” you say as you set the coffee pot onto the table before sitting down across from him. He feels your knee brush his beneath the table and his jaw clenches. “And you? Heading home or heading out?”

You lean forward, bracing your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hands, as if preparing yourself to cling to each word he has to say. The angle provides him the perfect vantage point. His eyes naturally snag on the pillowy tops of your breasts and the hidden valley between them. His fist knocks the table as he leans back against the seat, shifting uncomfortably. They look about ready to spill out of that dress with the first two buttons undone. Fuck, had it been unbuttoned when he’d first walked in? Surely.

“Home. Gotta week ‘fore I’m on the road again,” he grumbles, lifting his gaze away from where they definitely shouldn’t be. It means a week before he has a chance at seeing you again. For some reason that thought stirs an ugly feeling within him, twisting and unfolding in the pit of his stomach. The silence stretches between you, and neither of you reach to fill the void. He notices your nails are painted a baby blue to match your dress. Cute.

The quiet becomes too much and he decides to put an end to it. “What’s the pie of the day this time?” It’s a question that he’s made the habit of asking, but he’s never made the habit of ordering a slice. A little routine between the two of you, and one that instantly has a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You hum as you think it over, making an effort to recall it, and the moment you do, your eyes light up. “It’s banana cream pie.” “Ah? S’it any good?”

“Oh, um, I’ve never tried it before,” you say and your leg jolts against his, your bare skin grazing the denim of his jeans. “Does my opinion matter? Unless you’re actually planning on ordering it this time?”

There’s something about you then—that glint in your eyes, the subtle curve of your smile, the teasing lilt of your voice. You’re adorable. He wants you all to himself. But he can’t have what’s out of reach. He’s struggling to keep up this act around you. The facade that he’s normal about you because he’s anything but normal about you. There’s nothing normal about his feelings for you at all. He is a beast that wants to swallow you whole and you are too naive to see it. Right? He blinks, eyes catching on the low dip of your top again, and then he feels your leg rub up against his once more. The touch feels almost purposeful, but he tries to convince himself otherwise. His imagination, his desire must be conjuring things—gleaning want where there is none. His throat goes dry and he swallows hard.

“Nah,” his eyes lower to his coffee, still full, but he stands anyway, and you’re standing up with him, looking confused. “I should get goin’, it’s been a long day.”

“Really? Stay and finish your coffee at least, Joel,” you say, stepping closer. He locks up, muscles going rigid. It’s both a curse and a blessing to have shared his name with you last time. The way it floats from your lips, something wispy and reluctant, and in that dulcet tone. It’s euphonic. It does things to him—terrible, awful, thrilling things.

He swivels around and you’re mere inches from him, peering up at him all doe eyed. He doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with this right now, but you look up at him like that—like a lost puppy trailing after him, and he knows deep down that he never really stood a chance. Not when it comes to you. It’s just been a matter of time—of how long he can manage to convince himself of his own lies and turn the other cheek.

”Did… Did I do something that bothered you?” Your voice wavers. It makes him feel like an ass for ever making you question yourself because there’s not a single thing you’ve done to upset him. The only upsetting thing is the way he feels about you, the way want and desire roil in his gut the moment he so much as sees you, or remembers the fact that you exist. It’s purely impulsive and frustrating, and the most blissful feeling. He never wants to feel this way again and he never wants to stop feeling it simultaneously. Two opposing outlooks at an impasse within him.

“No- No ‘course not,” he says, waving his hand dismissively but you still look so unsure, and his hand lands on your shoulder in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture. His thumb rubs a gentle circle there because he can’t stop himself. “Like I told you, just been a long day.”

You blink, your lip wobbling as you search for your next words. “Oh… it’s just that I was really enjoying your company.”

The last thread of his restraint pulls taut, the flame of tension between you whittling it away, and singeing one tiny, miniscule fibre at a time. You look upon him like he’s something worth a dime—someone of value who merits praise and admiration, but he isn’t. He’s sure that he isn’t anything more than a dumb, pathetic bastard too far ahead of himself to turn back now.

He knows that he’d be a fool to mistake your kindness for interest but, hell, if the way you bat your lashes at him, and worry your bottom lip between your teeth, and sway your hips with every approach isn’t interest, he’s not too sure what is.

So the thread snaps, giving way to that searing fire and he surges forward, all but stumbling into you. His lips are on yours, clashing with yours—hot and heavy as he licks into your mouth. His breath is hot and laboured, fanning over your face.

You shake in his hold, your hands hovering and unsure of what to do. He pulls away and takes in the sight of you. Flushed and warm with those glossy, wide eyes staring at him in surprise. But you shouldn’t be shocked. You’ve seen this coming, haven’t you?

“You’re just a little fuckin’ tease, ain’t you?” He asks, and you have the audacity to look bewildered, lips parted in a soft exhale. You are good at this innocent act, he’ll give you that. “Knew what you were doin’ the whole damn time, I bet.”

“Yeah, bet you like havin’ that kinda control over a man like me, huh?” He questions, taking a step forward and into you, crowding you against the table. You’re stunned and locked into place, hands falling to grasp the lip of the table. You make no move to push him away. And that’s the confirmation he needs. He’s right. He knows he’s right and it only emboldens him. “Well, are you gonna say somethin’ or just stand there lookin’ pretty?”

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. He’s sapped the air right out of your lungs.

“Bullshit, you’ve had me dreamin’ ‘bout this cunt for weeks now,” he scoffs, spinning you around and pressing a hand firm to your back, bending you over the table's edge. He’s got you pinned there.

“Joel…!” You squeak, gasping out.

“Fuck… been achin’ to taste it,” he says as he sinks to his knees behind you, and flips the back of your skirt up. His hands skim up your legs, lingering on the plush of your thighs in gentle up and down motions before grabbing a hold of them and prying them apart. His fingers graze your cotton panties—they’re that same baby blue, he notes. He clicks his tongue when his fingers come away damp. “Yeah, you’ve been drippin’ since I walked through that damn door, haven’t you?”

Your reply comes out as a weak, wavering sound—somewhere between a whimper and a mewl. Not very talkative, huh? There’s none of that denial anymore. No, he’s worked you into submission in a few measly seconds. But this is what you’d wanted. It’s what you’ve been getting at—been wanting some grizzled, old man like him to fuck you until there isn’t a single thought left floating around in that pretty little head of yours. Blissful oblivion.

“You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you, sweet girl?” He asks, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, and dragging the flimsy fabric down your legs. He smacks the side of your thigh when you don’t reply.

“Mhm!” You hum, not so subtly pushing your hips back toward him. Eager little thing. But he’s not one to make things quick. He won’t give you what you want just ‘cause. He’ll relish in it—in the things he can do to you not only with his touch, but the things he can do to you with the absence of it.

“Gotta use your words f’me…” he coos, his thumb pressing into the tender skin where your thigh meets your most intimate place, parting your lips gently. He exhales sharply at the sight—pink and glistening just for him. Precious. “C’mon, be a good girl.”

“Please-! I need you,” you keen above him, and he can hear the unadulterated desperation dripping from your words. It feeds into him and into his ego—into the beast you’ve created of him.

“Need what? Oughta be specific. ‘M no mind reader,” he murmurs, moving his hand to slide two fingers along your slit as he asks his next question. “D’you need my fingers?”

“My mouth?” Next, Joel leans in close to press a kiss to your inner thigh, just shy of your pulsing heat. He feels your legs quiver at the daring proximity—so achingly close to where you need him and, yet somehow, incredibly far. “Or does this greedy cunt need somethin’ more…?”

He is rock hard in his jeans, uncomfortably so. His erection pushes against his zipper but he ignores it, keeping his sole focus on you—the object of his desire, already weak and warbling from a few infinitesimal touches.

“Uh huh- please, anything…!” You beg so pretty, and how can he deny that? He has you in the palm of his hand, your muddled mind incapable of making a simple decision. You’ve relinquished control and deferred all choice to him. He relishes in it and he takes the responsibility in stride.

“Poor thing can’t even make a decision for herself,” he says as he draws nearer to lay a kiss over your dripping folds. He flicks his tongue out and his thumbs part you at your seam. You squirm and a moan falls from you. He can’t see your face right now, but Christ, does he wish he could. He’ll just have to settle for his imagination which is something he’s not entirely unfamiliar with.

“That’s okay. You don’t gotta think too hard when I’m here, just have to sit there and take what I give you, right?” He pulls back to whisper, the bridge of his nose ghosting over the sensitive skin. “Just gotta stand there bein’ good and dumb for me…”

Joel doesn’t bother waiting for a response before returning his mouth between your legs. He marks a trail of kisses all the way back to your cunt. And when he tastes you again, he lets out a languid groan, tongue flattening over your clit. He laps and suckles at it, siphoning shuddering moans from your lips. Your hips jolt and he moves higher, prodding at your entrance, flicking his tongue there.

He doesn’t belong here. Nothing he’s ever done renders him deserving of this blessing, but he’ll earn it. You whimper above him—tiny, bitten-off whines tumbling from you over and over as he licks into you, laving over your clit again and again. The sounds are downright obscene, filling the empty room as he feasts on you like it’s his final meal and he’s to die tonight—his last will and testament. His fingers dimple the flesh of your thighs, wrenching you open wider and nudging your entrance again.

You’re close. He can tell in the way your legs begin to tremble and your knees threaten to buckle. His hands lower to brace you, a silent gesture, as if to say ‘I’ve got you.’ And he does. He’s not letting you go until you’ve reached that peak and then some. He returns all his attention to your clit, swirling his tongue and suckling—working you up, up, up and coaxing you over that crest.

“Oh…! Nghh, Joel-!” You wail. Your orgasm is a wavering, jittering thing. He can feel your muscles convulsing against his tongue. He grunts and works you through it, drinking up every last drop.

It’s too easy to push you down and wind you up. Your body is pliant, willing, and accepting of everything he gives you. Even as it spasms and jerks, a weak sound of protest falling from your lips as he refuses to let up.

This moment, right here in this empty diner, is limbo—a space between two destinations in which time ceases to exist. He can’t get enough of you. He never will. He’s addicted, so he continues to take and take from you. The pleasure he imparts unto you is his own, his cock twitching in his pants.

Joel mouths at your pussy. He does not stop to breathe. He smothers himself in your wet, messy folds, teasing and licking—pushing and pulling. Raising you up and bringing you back down each time he diverts his attention to another sensitive place.

You are a mess. A heap of shaking limbs, sinful sounds, and babbled words—garbled and disjointed pleas. He doesn’t think you realize your own contradictions. A quiet ‘I can’t-’, a stuttered ‘no more’, followed by a ‘please don’t stop!’

He won’t. He will not stop until he’s torn another orgasm from you. He knows that you’re capable—you’ll give him what he wants and comply with his whims because you’re his good girl. You will give him another whether or not it’s dredged from you weeping and tremoring.

And you do. Your body coils like a spring, his hands move to your hips, tugging you closer against his face. One more pass of his tongue and your body unravels, unwinding and releasing all that tension.

“Oh God! Ah- Joel… fuck!” you cry out. When he pulls away, his face is slick with your arousal, droplets clinging to the scruff of his beard. He stands up behind you, his hands coasting up your sides as he does. You’ve gone limp, still folded over the table.

Shucking off his belt, Joel pushes his pants down alongside his boxers, freeing his painfully erect cock. It’s flushed and leaking, aching to be inside you already. He shuffles behind you, guiding his cock between your legs and dragging it over your seam, and slipping it between your pussy lips.

“You let any man have his way with you?” he questions, tapping the bulbous tip against your clit before sliding it back and notching it against your entrance. “D’you spend weeks practically beggin’ for it? Temptin’ any bastard that happens to pass through?”

“No! No, just you, only you.” you say, breath hitching and eyes watering.

“No? Just me? That’s damn right.” He grins and begins to sink inside, drawing a ragged moan from the both of you. Your pussy hugs his cock as it cleaves you open. “This cunt belongs to me.”

He starts off slow, bringing his hands to rest on your waist as he eases in and out of you, feeling your warm, tight walls clutch and flutter around his shaft, seeming to cling and suck him back in each time he pulls out.

“Fuck yes, baby…” he croons, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to set a faster pace. The mug and coffee pot rattle with each thrust that jolts your body against the table. The mug inches closer and closer to the edge. His hips meet your ass, bottoming out with each drive forward. Opening his eyes, his gaze lands on the window in front of you. The two of you look out onto the empty parking lot.

“Would you look at that, darlin’…” he remarks, giving your hip a squeeze to grab your attention and direct it forward. “Anyone could walk on past and see you gettin’ railed… you like that don’t you, though?”

There’s truth to his words. The looming threat doesn’t take away from it. No, your cunt contracts around his shaft, dragging him deeper at the acknowledgement of such an indecent thing. You enjoy the risk—you both delight in it.

To be caught now would be so easy. You’ve been put on display, vulnerable and exposed, beneath the glaring lights reflecting off the glass. Rivulets of rain water slip down the wide, open pane. All it would take is one lone traveler pulling into the parking lot, or the convenience store cashiers switching shifts, and a singular glance in the diner’s direction.

Just like that, and they would know that you’ve let this man defile you at your place of work. They’d know what a dirty girl you are. But it’s not off-putting in that way that it should be. It’s exhilarating.

“Mhm, you get off on it, filthy girl,” he teases, rolling his hips into you. You’re a wordless, mindless jumble of nothingness beneath him. Completely and utterly drunk on his cock, and unable to string together a single thought, let alone form a coherent sentence. You speak only in helpless mewls and keening moans. His focus is trained on your dazed, dumb expression in the reflection. You look fucking divine.

“Well, go on, look.” He reaches for your hair, tugging it and forcing you to face your mirror image. “Watch me fuck you.”

Joel knows he shouldn’t be so rough with you. You’re fragile and teetering, but he wants you to witness the sight—to face the image of what you’ve been taunting him with for weeks. You’re a work of art. He wants you to know that and remember the reflection in the glass in case this is the last time he bears the privilege of having you in such a manner.

“Joel, please!” you whine over the wet plap, plap, plap of his thrusts, your hands grappling with the flat table top. He’s not sure what you’re pleading for and he thinks that you might not even know yourself.

He hums, rubbing his hand up along your spine and then back down to the knot of your apron. He tugs it loose, and pulls you upright and against him, tossing the apron aside. Sliding his hands around you he undoes the rest of the buttons of your dress in quick succession until your breasts spill out.

“My beautiful, fuckin’ perfect girl,” he whispers, leaning in to press a kiss to the side of your neck and then another one as his hands cup your tits, kneading them and feeling the way you shudder against him.

Joel tips your head back, running his fingers along your jaw in a tender caress. They curl there as he thumbs your bottom lip, prodding and encouraging you to open up before tucking two thick digits inside. Obediently, your mouth closes around them as though it’s a habitual act. He smooths them over your tongue, unable to stifle the strained noise that escapes him.

The silky heat engulfs them and you practically purr, dissolving further into his arms. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth, and he pulls his fingers from your mouth with a schlick. His hand then slithers down your body and slips between your legs.

He feels the way you’re stretched wide around his girth, wedged open in a way he’s certain you haven’t been before. He continues to rock up into you as he seeks out your swollen clit, fingertips circling the bud in small, vigorous circles. His head drops to your shoulder, feeling that tight, delicious clamp of your pussy. Quiet utterances and muttered curses stashed under his breath flitter over your ear.

“So good… you feel so fuckin’ good, baby…” He drawls, fighting to keep his eyes from clenching shut because he wants to savour this moment and you. Blissed out and empty-headed, taking each inch of him. He adores you—everything about you. Every curve, and dip, and extra bit of plushness.

“You’re so damn perfect,” he moans, his thrusts turning sloppy. If he had the time to dedicate to worshiping every aspect of you he would. He’d spend hours working you through orgasm after orgasm, but you haven’t got the time, and he can feel himself inching closer and closer to his own.

“Shit, I’m close-!” he mumbles, folding you over the table again and following suit. His chest is pressed to your back, and his cock sinks deeper somehow, hips bumping yours against the lip of the table. You slap a hand over your mouth in an effort to suppress your moans.

His arm winds around you, curling beneath your stomach. His hand, large and roughened, fans over the plumpness there—so often hidden by the flared skirt of your dress. He squeezes gently. Groaning, he saws his cock in and out, feeling the unhurried, slick glide as the crown passes over that delicate and sensitive spot inside you. He feels you tense beneath him, another one of your sweet sounds is muffled against your knuckles. His free hand grabs yours and shoves it flat to the table.

“None’a that, darlin’. Lemme hear every damn sound,” he grunts, pressing his palm firmer against your stomach. “Ya feel that? Feel me right fuckin’ here?”

“Yes! Yes, feel you so deep, mmph…!”

“Where do you want it?” he asks, feeling that pressure brim and ache. “Tell me or are you too dumb and drunk on my cock to make up your mind?”

You babble beneath him—a jumbled mess of pleas and yesses, but no definitive answer to the question he has posed. He’s right. You’ve been reduced to a brainless, insatiable, needy thing. Hopelessly keening for more and more even when your body can’t take it.

“It’s alright, baby… I’ll just have to give you a taste of that cream pie you said you’d never tried,” he murmurs, continuing the staggering rhythm of his thrusts.

“Inside’s where ya need it, filling up this greedy cunt, hm?” His voice is hushed, dropping low and husky. The words are like a secret for your ears only. He feels you tense beneath him, a strangled cry is pulled from the depths of you as your walls convulse around his cock. He moans at that sensation. It’s addictive. It’s incredible. You’re writhing and unfurling for him—fracturing into pieces atop quaking legs. “Uh huh, can feel her sucking me in. She’s begging for it, ain’t she?”

“Please, give it to me…” And that’s all the permission he ever needs—that breathless, resigned request.

It’s uncontrollable. The pressure erupts as he bottoms out one last time, nestling deep. His cock swells and twitches, balls drawing tight as relief finally sweeps over him. His hips involuntarily jerk as the first jet spurts inside of you. He sucks in air through his teeth, suddenly feeling deprived of oxygen as his head spins and his mind goes blank. His pelvis spasms, grinding into you. His eyes fall shut and a groan tumbles past his lips. He stays there, shooting warm rope after rope, until he has nothing left to give and then a few moments longer.

When Joel peels himself from you, he slides himself free. Instantly, his eyes catch on your cunt and the way your entrance contracts around nothing. His spend oozes out in what can only be described as an obscene display.

You lay there panting until you find the will power to stand up and face him. Your legs wobble and you lurch, but he’s there to catch you, propping you up against him. “Easy now,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to brush back a stray hair.

“Right, sorry,” you say with a giggle, hands braced on his shoulders as you look up at him. You’re damn near delirious. He’s the one who’s brought you to such a state. His stomach churns. His eyes dart between yours and your lips then out the window to his rig in the parking lot. It doesn’t feel right to up and leave, so he makes the decision that he won’t. Not yet.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for,” he murmurs, cupping your face and tilting your chin. You smile up at him. It’s set in stone. He’s set in stone. There’s no pulling him from this moment anytime soon.

“I could go for another cup of coffee,” he says, glancing at the abandoned mug settled right near the edge of the table, its contents now sitting cold, “and I think I’d like to try a slice of that banana cream pie too.”

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pixelchills · 2 months ago

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Just a heads up that I have locked all of my fics on AO3 today and you are no longer able to read or access them without being logged in.

I did not wanna do this, I wanted to keep my fics open and readable to those who do not have accounts because before I started writing myself, I only read as a guest for years.

But with the latest AI-fed scraping done to public fics, I am just beyond pissed. I don't want my creativity, passion, and art to be used for an AI without my permission. It's unethical.

Please, if you're a reader of mine, make an account on AO3 right now. It might take 2-6 weeks to get it (as AO3 has a queueing system for new accounts) but I can send you any new chapters privately while you wait for your account. Just DM me (on Tumblr, Bluesky, Discord) and I'll keep you updated on my fics during the waiting time.

You deserve to read them for free. And I deserve to have my works protected from the stealing AI.

#update #pixel writes #ao3 #backstage au #animutants #a not so sunny world #my dear daffodil #dca fandom #fnaf daycare attendant #tsams au #anti ai #fandom discourse

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simswoon · 1 month ago

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previous // next // beginning

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anitalenia · 1 year ago

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⋆.˚⟡⊹₊⋆ 𝙋𝙄𝙉𝙆 𝘿𝙄𝙑𝙄𝘿𝙀𝙍𝙎 ✧˖°. ݁₊

♡ྀིྀི⋆.˚ 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆 . . .

‧₊˚ ✧ coquette dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ coquette dividers 𝐈𝐈, 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ coquette dividers 𝐈𝐈𝐈, 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦, 𝘥𝘢𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ strawberry girl dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink symbol dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink coquette symbol dividers 𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ bimbocore dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ coquette deer dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ coquette deer & bunny dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ gray + pink masterlist pack . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ cutegore dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink kuromi dividers . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ neapolitan dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & white cinnamoroll dividers . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ minimalistic heart dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ red & pink simple heart dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink lace dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ intricate pink dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & blue dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ black & magenta dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & purple dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink and green dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink and white dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink and white dividers 𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink and white dividers 𝐈𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink and white dividers 𝐈𝐈𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & black dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & black dividers 𝐈𝐈, + 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & black dividers 𝐈𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & gold dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ random pink dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ random pink dividers 𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ random pink dividers 𝐈𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink lace & ribbon dividers . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & white welcome headers + matching dividers . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink imvu dividers / headers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink imvu dividers / headers 𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink imvu dividers / headers 𝐈𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink imvu dividers / headers 𝐈𝐈𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & purple mdni dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink mdni dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink mdni dividers 𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink mdni dividers 𝐈𝐈𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink borders 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ my melody bow and wings dividers + 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink sanrio dividers 𝐈, + 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink butterfly dividers 𝐈, + 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & brown dividers 𝐈, + 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ hot pink dividers 𝐈, + 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & orange summer & ocean dividers 𝐈, + 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ chaotic sanrio inspired dividers + 1 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ divider dump 𝐈 , 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 & 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ divider dump 𝐈𝐈, + 𝘨𝘪𝘧 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘤. . ﾟ

♡ྀིྀི⋆.˚ 𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 . . .

‧₊˚ ✧ pink sparkle dividers 𝐈 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ my melody bow and wings dividers + 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & orange summer & ocean dividers 𝐈, + 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink butterfly dividers 𝐈, + 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ hot pink dividers 𝐈, + 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ pink & brown dividers 𝐈, + 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 .

‧₊˚ ✧ pink sanrio dividers 𝐈, + 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ animated divider dump 𝐈, 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘴, 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘴, 𝘮𝘥𝘯𝘪 𝘨𝘪𝘧 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ animated divider dump 𝐈𝐈, 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘭𝘺 & 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ divider dump 𝐈𝐈𝐈, + 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 . ﾟ

♡ྀིྀི⋆.˚ 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 . . .

‧₊˚ ✧ one . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ two . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ three . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ four . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ five . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ six . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ seven . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ eight .

‧₊˚ ✧ nine . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ ten . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ eleven . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ twelve . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ thirteen . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ fourteen . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ fifteen . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ sixteen . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ seventeen . ﾟ

‧₊˚ ✧ eighteen . ﾟ‧₊˚ ✧ nineteen . ﾟ

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inkrats · 4 months ago

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Really bringing back tradition (wall sized photo of Dick that he can stare at endlessly) aren’t we Bruce

#full clip is genuinely insane #someone on that writing team was definitely cooking..#it’s giving my pets 🙄 my kids 😒 and MY WIFE ‼️#Jason getting a singular pixel too Bruce didn’t even try and hide it #not a huge fan of the show but when you’re cooking ur cooking shrug #brudick #dick grayson #bruce wayne #dc comics #bruce and dick #inkblots #batman #batman and robin

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vhaotik · 10 months ago

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Do forgotten things belong in dreams?

Surely, even the nights that slip away from the mind still yet cling to being.

Why else do we dream of both the most beautiful and the wondrous things?

What was left by another can mean everything to someone new.

#pixel art #pixel illustration #pixelart #digital art #artists on tumblr #digital painting #poetry #flowers #my writing #my art #forget me not

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oxygen-stealer · 6 months ago

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There Is A Light That Never Goes Out by @readingalot123456

Merry Christmas! My soul aches.

I've been obsessed with this fic since like September it is so good and tragic and I'm going to be thinking about it for years probably. It's just a very nice but also very sad look into Fidd's and Ford's entire lives together. Be not intimidated by the 300k word count read it now now now now.

#how do I write post #i cried so much reading which is impressive considering it is physically hard for me to cry #very very good thats all I can say #im out here putting shakespeare flower symbolism on 10x10 pixel wedding invites #stanford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #fiddauthor #gravity falls #art tag

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dilf-luvr-4evr · 3 months ago

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Reader who always has Arthur’s picture in her locket necklace.

Clutching to it when Arthur disappeared.

You tell yourself this isn’t something he would do. That he still has enough of a man in him to not do a thing so cruel.

And if maybe he had died, then you will search for him through every crumble of soil and to the ends of the earth, locket by your chest.

So search you did, far and wide. Checked every post office. Tracked down traces of him.

It’s hardest when you ask around; opening your locket to them like baring your heart. The foolish thing that still beats for him day and night.

Months passed and you wonder if it’s better to be crazy. That maybe he had never existed at all. How did he just dissipate into nothing? Only leaving his face in this necklace and a yearning that is slowly killing you from the inside?

You’ve started to see him as this picture; black and white. Void of the blue that colored his eyes. Brazen hair rusting beyond the shade you remembered it to be. The places he once touched and had your skin set alight now cold. Maybe he’ll be forever frozen in time.

But just when your body felt like it’s been pulled completely taut, and your faith toppled on the edge of a cliff, you see him.

A ghost in vivid colors. Your name left his lips and it sent a chill down your spine. A ghost whose touch paralleled the warmth of a fire. Whose stare ignited a pace to your heart and brought you back to life.

You can feel him. Every scratch and every dent of his skin when he reached for your locket.

Where Arthur Morgan remained in your heart and is the reason behind its every beat. Where he has always and will forever reside in.

And you are reminded of this as he kissed you, a confirmation that he’s come home.

thank you for reading my scrapped work! 🥺🫶🏼

here is my masterlist <3

#brain vomit #perhaps a love letter for a fucking pixelated man that I am so desperate for 🧍‍♀️🧎‍♀️#I kindaaa fucking hate it idk #but practice is practice #a lil something before my longer writings get posted 🙏#arthur morgan #rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #lyla’s rdr fics

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niidsch · 4 months ago

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The Urbz: Sims in the City ♦ 2004

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illufinch · 2 years ago

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fish for a commission

#my art #pixel #LOL when i was writing the caption i automatically pressed #comma at the end like its a tab #i love drawing fish its very soothing #i love how all fish look shocked O^O faces

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kiraavi · 24 days ago

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thaw & trickle

Note: This was written with Game Joel (Goel) in mind because he is my precious, handsome man and I love him dearly. Happy reading! CW: Smut, unprotected piv, pull out method, oral f!receiving, dirty talk, brat-taming vibes, overstimulation, grumpy x grumpy, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, mentions of blood and injury. Summary: Regrettably, you fill in for Tommy and end up on patrol with Joel during one of the worst winters to hit the valley. Joel's stubbornness leaves you stranded and alone. It's by chance that you stumble upon an abandoned barn. Word Count: 5055 Ao3 Link: Read here!

The wind slashes at you, howling through the valley like some beast awakened from its slumber. You tug your hood tighter over your head for what feels like the hundredth time and squint into the blinding white void ahead. Four feet, maybe five, is as far as you can see before the storm dissolves the details. Joel’s silhouette was eaten by the storm several minutes ago.

You’d told him—argued with him, really—that you should’ve hunkered down in the town you’d passed through earlier. But no, Joel had insisted on pushing forward, and you suppose that’s par for the course with him. The blizzard had descended upon the valley quickly and now you’re lost in the frozen hellscape it created. The wicked cold bites through your layers and you’re beginning to lose feeling in your fingers and feet.

Lady, your mare, stumbles beneath you, her usually sure-footed gait faltering as the snow deepens and is swept around you. She’s tired. You’re tired. The prospects are grim but stopping here may as well be suicide.

“Joel!” you shout, but your voice is ripped away by the wind and you receive no reply that you can hear over the whirring tempest. You try again, louder this time. “Joel! Goddamnit!”

Nothing. No answer. Just the wail of the storm and the crunch of Lady’s hooves in the snow. You grit your teeth, fighting the panic that wells up within you, threatening to sink its claws into you. Beneath the fear something else churns. Anger. Frustration. Helplessness. That stubborn, infuriating man. You get the feeling that he doesn’t like you—hell, you’re not sure he likes anyone, except Ellie. And even she’s been keeping her distance lately, which has only made his sour mood worse. But did he really dislike you enough to strand you in the elements? You grumble.

You should’ve said no. You shouldn’t have covered for Tommy and gone on this patrol. But hindsight’s useless now. If you don’t find shelter soon, you’ll end up another frozen corpse buried beneath the drifts.

Your teeth chatter and your grip tightens on the reigns. You wonder if under your gloves frostbite has set in. Then, through the dense curtain of snow, a shape emerges. A barn. Old and slanting to one side, but still standing. Relief floods your system as you lean forward and pat Lady’s neck. “Come on, girl. Just a little farther,” you mutter, your voice trembling.

A chain and lock rattle on the other side of the barn doors when you tug and try to pry them open with weak, shaking hands. But it’s no use and the doors won’t budge. “Fuck! Fuuuuck!” You shout into the nothingness that surrounds you, your frustrations vanishing somewhere into the endless expanse. You stumble back, dread planting itself in the pit of your stomach and blooming into fear. For a moment, you feel like you might cry, and the only thing that prevents you from bursting into tears is the worry that they might freeze over.

You glance around desperately, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. The cold vapour feels like it crystalizes in your throat. There’s no way forward and no sign of Joel. Just you, Lady, and the gradually diminishing hope you’d been clinging to since you spotted the barn. Your gaze catches on a tractor parked along the wall. Several feet above it there’s an open window.

Clambering onto the icy metal is about as difficult as you expect. The frigid cold has sapped your strength and your balance wavers as your boots slip against the slick surface. Several times, you nearly lose your footing. By the time your fingers graze the window’s edge, your arms quiver with exertion. You feel brittle—as if another gust of wind might snap you in two. You curl your fingers over the lip and haul yourself up with every ounce of strength you can muster.

The window is narrow and the angle is awkward. Your backpack catches on the edge but you somehow manage to squeeze through. You tumble inside with a grunt, landing hard on the hayloft. The wood beneath you groans and before you can properly shift your weight, the planks splinter and collapse. You’re falling. The drop is far and you land with a sickening crack. The impact steals the air from your lungs. Pain blossoms from your ankle, radiating outward and shooting up your leg.

All you can do is lie there, trying to draw breath and gasping out. The cold presses in through the wooden siding of the barn but the pain in your ankle eclipses every other sensation. You can’t bring yourself to look at it—to lay your eyes upon your foot twisted in some unnatural angle. The thought makes you feel nauseous. You press your head back against the dirt floor, struggling to drag breath in.

Above you the rafters croak as if to taunt you. A screech rips through the barn and it’s now that you realize you’re going to die here. Not to the winter—no, you won’t have the privilege of succumbing peacefully—of being swept under a cold, numbing blanket of snow. Is this what you get for resisting a death to the elements? Something worse? Something violent, bloody, and cruel. To be alone and torn apart in the dark.

The runner is on top of you before you can draw your pistol, slamming into you. It screams and snarls as you brace your hands on its shoulders and desperately try to create distance. Its jaw snaps inches from your face as it draws closer. Its breath is hot and sour, fanning over your skin. Rancid. You’re losing. All your strength is gone, wasted on getting here—on climbing and stumbling into your own grave. And now, when you need it most, there’s nothing left. You’re running on empty. The runner’s teeth gnash closer. Your grip slips and you squeeze your eyes shut.

A gunshot pierces the air. The runner jerks and twitches before stilling. Something wet and warm splatters over you. The flailing creature above you goes limp, gurgling as it slumps against you. You don’t move. For a few moments you live there—in that split second before death and before your next forsaken breath. There is peace in that moment; a fleeting respite from whatever hell this world has become but you're pulled back into that reality. Shoving the corpse off of you, you look up.

Joel is standing over you, revolver held tight in his hand. His eyes are cold as he looks upon the scene and then they flit to you. He tilts the gun, directing the barrel toward you.

“Are you bit?” He asks.

“What the fuck?” you snap, your words serrated. You’re just beginning to catch your breath.

“Did it bite you?” he repeats, raising his voice. The words cut through the ringing in your ears that you didn’t even register until that moment.

“No, I’m not bit, Joel!” His name is like venom on your tongue as you sit up, propping yourself on your elbows. Your chest heaves, and you glare up at him. “How the hell did you even get in here?”

“The back door,” he says flatly, lowering the gun. His gaze flicks upward to the broken rafters. “You oughta check the whole building before you go tryin’ dumb shit like that. Christ, girl.”

Sure enough, behind him, there’s a door hanging ajar, snowflakes pouring in through the gap. You feel dumb. He makes you feel dumb. He makes you feel angry. You curse under your breath and a laugh bubbles up. You must be going insane and the look that crosses his face tells you he must be thinking the same thing.

“Well, maybe you oughta listen to your patrol partner,” you bite out, wincing as you shift your leg, “when she says to take shelter.”

The words earn you no response, just a blank look as he holsters his gun. You know you’re right, and he knows it too but he’s not going to admit it. It’s safe to say you’re just a couple of stubborn idiots stranded in a snowstorm.

Joel notices your injury after retrieving the horses from outside. Without a word or a second glance, he sets to work, rummaging through the barn until he finds the broken handle of a rake. You watch as he kneels beside you. He pauses.

“I have to set it,” he says and you swallow hard, but nod. His hands grasp your swollen foot. He gives you no count down and no warning before he snaps it back into place. You muffle your wail into your arm. His brows furrow in focus as he uses the straps from his backpack to fashion a makeshift splint. His hands are steady and sure as he ties it tight around your leg. You wince, a sharp hiss escaping you. He has the heart to mutter a quiet apology without meeting your eyes, and the sincerity catches you off guard.

The barn is standing, but only by the whim of a couple rusted bolts and a prayer. The building feels almost alive, or rather barely clinging onto life. It creaks and groans as the winds batter its sides, shuddering around you. You find yourself flinching and bracing for collapse every couple minutes or so. It’s better than nothing but the frigid air punctures the uninsulated walls. The cold is a punishing, formidable thing and you’re not sure you’ll last the night curled up in the corner of the barn. Your clothes are cold, damp, and bloodied, clinging to your skin. Your breath fogs the air as you watch Joel pacing the barn, boots heavy over the hay-strewn floor. He’s restless and his shoulders are drawn tight.

Finally, he circles back to you. In his hands is a blanket—or what might’ve been a blanket once. Now it’s little more than a fraying, moth-eaten scrap of fabric. He unfurls it with a flick, unleashing a flurry of dust that makes you cough and wave a hand in front of your face.

“Joel…” you mutter, your nose scrunching.

He doesn’t deign you with a response. Instead, he clears his throat and fixes you with a pointed stare. You arch a brow.

“You need to get outta those wet clothes,” he says.

“I’m fine,” you reply with a shrug, averting your gaze and pretending the hay on the ground to be far more entertaining than this conversation.

“You’re not fine,” he shoots back, “You’re gonna get hypothermia.”

The words settle between you and you roll your eyes, leaning your head back against the wall. You know that he won’t let this go and you’re not sure you have the energy to fight him. The thought of stripping down in front of Joel, the man you’re trying to convince yourself that you hate, makes your stomach twist. You think that maybe hypothermia would be preferable, and you’re tempted to say as much, but refrain, biting your tongue.

He tosses the blanket onto your lap and turns around. What a gentleman. You sit still for a moment, staring at the threadbare bundle of fabric. WIth a frustrated sigh, you begin peeling off your outer layers. You grumble as you wrestle out of them, your fingers numb and trembling as the zipper of your jacket catches and snags.

Joel doesn’t move. He stands a few feet away, his broad shoulders hunched and his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. When you’ve successfully wrangled your clothes off, you wrap the blanket around yourself. It’s itchy and rough, but dry. You’re not entirely convinced that it’s much better than stewing in your wet clothes, but at least Joel will stop huffing and grumbling now.

Night falls, swaddling the barn in darkness and the temperatures plunge with it. You can’t stop shivering, your arms wound tightly around yourself in a futile attempt to conserve warmth but the cold leeches from you, stealing into your rattling body. Joel is sitting a few feet from you, not that you can see him very well through the inky blackness. But you can make out the slow, even rhythm of his breaths and the occasional shuffle of his body. He must be asleep. Lucky guy. If only you could manage to get some rest too.

A hand clamps around your wrist, jolting you from whatever place your mind had been drifting off to. Calloused fingertips trail over your icy skin, brushing your palm.

“You feel like a fuckin’ corpse,” he says, drawing nearer. Suddenly, he’s right there, warmth radiating off him and bleeding into the air between you. Your body leans into it instinctively, like a moth to flame, but your brain tells you to stay away.

“Fuck off,” you snap and somewhere deep down, you regret it.

“This the thanks I get for savin’ your ass?” Joel mutters, but there’s no real malice, not so tender-hearted as to take offense. He doesn’t move away and instead settles next to you. His arm curls around your shoulders and he tucks you into his side. He is solid, exuding heat like a furnace—some solace amidst the plummeting temperatures.

Your head tilts up, and even in the dark, you can make out the faint curves of his face. A thin stream of moonlight seeps through the cracks in the barn and highlights his profile—his hair catching the light like spun silver, the bridge of his nose, and the subtle dip of the scar there. His eyes glint with something unreadable. He looks softer. All his sharp edges are a little more dull. It’s not the first time you’ve noticed how handsome he is. You just figured that it’d be the kind of thing you’d take to the grave.

“It’s the thanks you get for stranding us in a blizzard,” you say, and you feel rather than hear the huff of the tiniest laugh—his chest quaking beneath you and a puff of warmth against your forehead. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like it wasn’t meant to escape, and it makes your chest ache.

You shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not about Joel Miller. You’re supposed to hate his guts—he’s supposed to hate you. But as you sit there, pressed into his warmth, the lines blur. Your preconceived notions crumble. Hate was an over exaggeration, wasn’t it? It’s human to want. You’re human to want. It’s a lonely world out here.

Your gaze drops to his lips. They’re chapped and rough from the cold, as are yours, you’re sure. But you don’t care. You can feel the hitch in his breath. It’s almost imperceptible but you catch it. He noticed. And yet, he doesn’t move away.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

But you do.

You’re close, inexplicably close, and his warmth has poured into you, thawing more than just your skin. You lean in slowly, hesitant, giving him the out you expect him to take. But your lips brush his. He tenses but there is no retreat and you feel emboldened. Yet weak. So you let yourself fall into him, pressing a little firmer. His beard grazes your skin. A moment passes, and then another and his resistance withers away, his hand sliding to the small of your back and tugging you impossibly closer. You reach up and cup his jaw, shaky fingers curling there as a soft sound is muted by his lips against yours.

It is everything and nothing. It consumes every other sensation and all the thoughts in your mind. You must be delirious. Has the frostbite reached your brain? You try to convince yourself that it is nothing more than mindless desperation that drew you in, and not some unequivocal, deeply buried attraction. His tongue swipes your bottom lip and you hum softly. It’s your cue to pull away.

“That’s the thanks you get for saving my life.”

He looks unsure at first—his hands hover just shy of you, held still. His gaze flits around, down and then back up to you. All of the steeliness in his hazel eyes has dissolved into an endearing awkwardness. And for a split second you think that you’ve ruined the moment, but then this look crosses his face. A little bit of a smirk. A little bit of smugness.

“Do I also get a thanks for splintin’ your leg?” He asks and you swear that your heartbeat stutters. You observe him for a moment, a sharp remark dancing on the tip of your tongue.

“You don’t get a medal for fixing the mess you made.” “That so?” he hums, tilting his head. One hand lands on your thigh, his finger tips feathering up, up, up. A shudder courses through your body and your good leg instinctively shifts, opening yourself up to him. Silent permission. A silent request. His gaze flicks down and heat rushes to your cheeks. “Still cold?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, still trying and failing miserably to disguise how utterly desperate you are for him. The blanket slips away and you find that you don’t much feel the cold when he’s so near, working you up—pushing you down. His shifts over you, his large frame enshrouding you.

“Mm, there she is…” he coos, moving his hands to undo the buttons of your shirt before coming up to cup your breasts. You let out a stuttered breath as he leans down and ghosts a kiss over your neck followed by another, and then another. He leads a trail between the valley of your breasts and down to your navel until he reaches the waistband of your underwear.

You tilt your head back and try to suppress the soft sound that threatens to fall from you. He nips at the fabric, pulling it back and letting it snap back against your skin. His nose brushes right against your clothed cunt and you swear he inhales, the scent tugging a low groan from his throat.

“Joel…!” His name sounds like a prayer on your lips—a frantic and eager plea. It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s made you melt. You’re nothing but a puddle beneath him. A pliant and helpless creature yearning for his warmth. You haven’t done this in so long, and now that it’s dangling in front of you, you’re realizing just how much you need it. You don’t think you can go another second without it—without him.

And he is just as eager—eager enough to forgo the removal of your panties and lave his tongue over the fabric. Your hips twitch and he has the nerve to grin. A quiet moan escapes you as he repeats the action.

“Would you- would you just get on with it?” Your voice doesn’t come out sounding the way you want it to, instead it’s pitched higher in a pathetic whine, and you know that it feeds right into his ego the instant he pulls away. Still, you can’t stop yourself from adding your next utterance. “Please.”

“Oh, what happened to all that attitude, hm?” He asks and you’re already beginning to feel dizzyingly frustrated. Is he really going to make this difficult? Is he going to relish in your desperation? Judging by the look on his face, you think you know the answer and it’s not one you like.

But instead he surprises you and hooks two fingers in your panties, shoving them down your legs. In the brief five seconds he’s pulled himself away from you, your body misses him. He returns, filling the empty space between you. His hands are at your sides, splayed across the supple expanse of skin. It renders the distinct differences in you and him—whereas you’re soft and tender, he is weathered and scarred, marked by the passing of time and the life he’s led. The cruelty of the world has not made itself a physical mark on your skin and he seems in awe of it.

Your impatience, however, is thinly veiled in the way your body seems to strain toward his, back arching as his hands chart a course down your body once more. He wrenches your legs wider, cupping them as he leans down to press a kiss on the flesh of your inner thigh. Your mind is muddled, and trapped in limbo between total shut down and acquiescence. Your brows knit together as he licks a stripe upwards before stopping just short of your dewy folds. You can feel his breath fanning over your cunt.

“Joel, I swear to God- ah!” The words lodge in your throat when he finally, finally flicks his tongue over your clit.

He has the nerve to retreat just to make a remark. “Sorry, what was that, pretty girl?”

“You’re a lot more handsome when you’re not talking,” you mumble, reaching down to clutch at his hair and yank him closer. It’s a lie. That low southern draw of his is sexy as hell, but that’s besides the point. He grunts and resumes the task at hand, licking into your pussy as though it is his final meal.

His tongue swirls around your clit before journeying lower to prod at your entrance. His nose bumps against the bud and he sweeps his gaze up to look at you, taking in the way your mouth has fallen open and your eyes, misty and saccharine, flutter. He is unrelenting and fervent, tongue tracing every contour of your folds in order to siphon each illicit, cloying sound from you.

You can feel it—that slow, languid build, and he can sense it. Your body warbles and rolls up into him, fingers still tangled in his silver locks, keeping him smothered up against your cunt. “Oh fuck… hah!” you curse, body drawing tight as you crest the peak of your pleasure. You hover there, in that vanishing second, on the precipice of something far greater, and you wish you could stay there—wrapped up in that blissful feeling, but then you’re falling further and further, your cunt clenching around nothing.

“That’s it… there you go,” he whispers praise. When he pulls away you notice your arousal slathered over the lower half of his face, droplets clinging to his beard. It’s sort of obscene but he doesn’t stay put for long. He runs his thumb up along the seam of your cunt, smearing your slick and stopping to swipe over your clit. “Did so good for me. So pretty.”

Your chest heaves and your hips squirm under the excess attention. “Nghh-! Give- give me a moment.”

Joel doesn’t let up though and you whine. “It’s just that…” he begins but pauses to slowly sink two thick fingers inside you, “you pleaded so pretty earlier. Is it too much for you already? Poor thing.” You hate him. You need him. You hate that you need him, and you hate that he knows exactly how to play into these stupid mind games. He knows how to coerce your surrender from you.

There is a part of you that wants to deny him, and shove him out into the blizzard if only it would prove to him that you don't need this so badly—prove that your needs did not revolve around him and that you aren't merely something magnetized to him, floating in his orbit. But he's the only thing keeping the cold at bay and to do so would also be to deny yourself.

And so, you choose not to dwell. You’ll allow him to rend you open and devour you whole because it feels nice to be able to for once. It feels right. The quivering relinquish of control that you can so rarely afford yourself. You are in the palm of his hand. It feels so nice to let your walls down and be swept up in sensation.

His thick fingers move with purpose, curling upward as he eases them in and out of you. Each stroke drags them along your front wall. Prickling sparks ripple through you, curling your toes and stealing your breath. Your body slackens further as you give in. Gone are your defenses, doubts, and restraints. Joel watches you, his gaze heavy and lips parted as he hangs onto each sound that falls from your lips, and works devotedly to unearth the next. He pulls them like threads and looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Wind howls outside, but the blizzard that rages on outside is long forgotten—a distant memory as Joel staves off the cold with nothing but his touch. Something churns deep in your core, unfurling and roiling in the pit of your stomach. You are ensnared in him. You fall apart for him. Unravel before him. The edges of your vision blurs as you're thrown off that ledge again, lurching as your walls convulse around his fingers. Yet, when the heat breaks, he is relentless, keeping you teetering on the edge of overstimulation. He refuses to let up and you toe the line between ecstasy and numbness.

“I can’t- no more,” you mewl shakily, but you don’t push him away—you make no effort to put distance between you. You trust that he’s got you. You trust in his capable hands.

Joel leans in closer, his breath feathering over your ear. “One more,” he murmurs, coaxing another brittle whimper from you. “You can give me one more, sweetpea.” He slides his fingers from your cunt and reaches to fumble with his belt. The buckle clatters to the ground but you barely register it. He shoves his jeans and boxers down in a single motion, and when he positions himself between your thighs, your breath catches. He’s big—girthy and veined, cock curving slightly upward. The tip is flushed and glistening. Your breath shutters and you begin questioning your capabilities. But his hands are careful as he adjusts your injured leg with the utmost care.

“I know you’ve got it in you…” His gaze locks with yours, waiting for the go-ahead. You’ve bared yourself to him, and he’s made you tender and compliant in turn. You give him your permission with a small nod, body aching in anticipation. “Atta girl.”

He aligns himself, the blunt head of his cock sliding along your slick slit before resting against your entrance. Then, in one deliberate thrust, he sinks into you, stretching you wide and cleaving you open. It’s intense, but then there is a deep, smoldering heat that envelops you and cradles you so delicately.

Joel groans, his head tipping back as your walls squeeze him tight. “Mhm,” he hums, his voice thick, “you needed this so bad, didn’t you?”

His words are like kindling, stoking the flames of your arousal. You clutch at him, one hand gripping his bicep while your other reaches around to rest on his shoulder blade before smoothing down his back. You yank at the hem of his sweater, rucking it up frantically. He moves back to tug it up and over his head, tossing it somewhere into the dark void around you. The darkness eats the article up and he returns to you, chest pressed flush to yours. The coarse thatch of his chest hair scraping against your skin.

Your body arches into his as he rolls his hips, sawing in and out of you. You muffle your moan by crushing your lips against his in a messy and frenzied kiss. His breath flitters beneath your nose, mingling with your own. One large hand kneads your thigh, hiking it up as he crowds closer and drives himself deeper. The kiss ends and the both of you gasp for air. Joel’s breathing turns ragged, each thrust punctuated by a grunt. His even rhythm falters.

“Struggling to keep up, old man?” You tease. Your brazenness has returned in full force, galvanizing him to pick up the pace. His eyes narrow and his expression darkens. His grip turns bruising. Your body jolts with the force of his movements.

“You were the one askin’ me to stop,” he grits out, words strained. His body trembles and you know that he’s close. He pauses and levels you with the most terrible look—one that tells you that you’re in for trouble. “I can still make that happen.”

You keen, bucking your hips up to regain that delicious friction. He stills your hips forcefully, and his cock threatens to slide free.

“No! No, please.” You can hardly recognize your own voice. It’s needy and forlorn—born and dredged from the depths of your need. “I do… I need you- please, Joel.”

His pupils dilate at your plea and something stirs in his expression. Finally he sinks all the way back inside, filling you completely. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

He begins to fuck into you again. His pleasure is contingent on yours. Your mind is quickly going fuzzy. Everything else is unintelligible as that potent feeling brims inside you. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in vigorous circles until you’re quaking again—cunt fluttering and spasming around his cock. The pleasure is blinding, every nerve flaring alight as you fray beneath him. A cry tears from you.

“Shit- yes…!” he moans as you turn listless beneath him. He gets a few more stuttered, erratic thrusts in before pulling out and giving his cock a couple strokes. You watch through half-lidded eyes as he finishes, his spend spilling onto the ground. His brows furrowed and eyes shut. Teeth clenched and jaw set tight.

For a minute, the barn is silent save for the sound of your laboured breaths. Joel collapses somewhere beside you and you flop your arm out. The back of your hand lands on his sweaty chest, rising and falling with each inhale. He catches it, his larger hand engulfing it, and holding it there for a moment. Somehow it feels just as intimate as the act itself.

There’s movement, his arm is winding around your waist as he moves closer again. Well, he’s certainly better than some ratty blanket, and warmer. Maybe you’re a little glad that he had been so stubborn earlier and that you ended up here. You won’t admit that, though, not ever. As if his ego needs to be fed anymore. You gather yourself against him, letting yourself fit into his side.

“You’re not so bad,” you say quietly through the darkness.

Joel scoffs quietly, but you swear you can hear the smile in his voice. “You ain’t too bad yourself.”

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