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bambiaches · 29 days ago

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"Just this once, Officer?" Joel Miller x reader — NSFW!

♡ After a long day of working at the diner, you're a little too desperate to get home. Who can blame you? The cops don't actually hunt down speeders like they have nothing better to do...usually. And you're working on just above minimum wage, so you REALLY can't afford a ticket right now...

cw: afab reader, accidental creampie, sleazy cop Joel (but can you reallyyyy blame him? You're a bloody sweet angel in a striped blouse, checkered apron and shiney brown flats), car sex, semi-public sex, sex on a highway, mostly-clothed sex...

word count: 2896...

It’s nearly midnight when you finally peel off your apron and clock out. The fluorescent lights of the diner hum like flies, your feet ache in those shiny brown flats, and the scent of fries and burnt coffee clings to your skin like regret. The place was dead tonight. A few old men nursing pie slices, a trucker with too many questions about your name. Tips weren’t worth shit. Not even enough to cover what’s left in your gas tank.

You just want to get home.

The road’s empty, dark, the kind of thick Southern night that sweats through the cotton of your striped blouse and sinks into your bones. The world hums low around you—crickets, heat, your engine working too hard as your car coasts well over the limit down a two-lane highway. Just for a moment. You tell yourself it’s just for a moment.

And then—

Flashing red and blue in your rearview mirror.

“Shit,” you hiss, slamming on the brakes just enough to make your heart climb into your throat. You weren’t even that far over. Ten, maybe fifteen? You could cry. You don’t have the money for a damn ticket, and the last thing you need tonight is some clipboard-happy cop on a power trip over a woman because that's what the patriarchy's settled in.

You flick your signal and pull over, biting the inside of your cheek. The lights slow behind you. Park. Engine still idling.

“Goddamn it,” you mutter, already reaching for your glove box like muscle memory. License. Insurance. Bullshit smile.

You see him in the rearview. The car door creaks open behind the wash of lights, and a figure steps out—big. Broad shoulders, dark uniform, thick hands resting near the belt. Slowly, deliberately, he makes his way to your side window.

You sigh, roll it down just enough to be polite, and glance up with your best tired-innocent face.

“Good evening, officer,” you say sweetly, voice soft and worn-out with a twinge of your Southern drawl still hanging on, like old honey.

He leans forward a little, tired eyes raking over your face, blouse, then flats—then back up again. His hand rests lazy on the roof of your car.

“Ma’am,” he says, slow as molasses. “You know what you were doin’ back there?”

You lick your lips, nodding, already resigned to the inevitable. “Yeah. I was speeding.”

His eyes drag over you—slow, like he’s taking inventory. Striped blouse, buttons a little crooked from your rushed change after closing. Apron still tied around your waist like you forgot it was even there. Shiny brown flats, scuffed just enough to betray the hours you’ve spent on your feet.

Joel sighs like this night’s just been handed to him in a bad dream. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, brows drawn.

“It’s late,” he mutters, voice low and scratchy like he hasn’t slept properly in a few days. “And I don’t wanna have to give you a ticket, ma’am…” A beat. “Can I see your license?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, already rummaging through your bag. Receipts. Lip gloss. A pen that doesn’t work. No license. Your heart stutters.

You pretend to still be digging while he stands there, patient, leaning just a little on your window frame. The air between you smells like diner grease, asphalt heat, and him—coffee and cigarettes with the faintest bite of cedarwood cologne. The kind of scent that sticks to flannel and flirts with your thoughts.

“Shit,” you murmur, still flipping through your wallet. “I don’t… have it. I think I left it in my other purse.”

Joel exhales, long and put-upon, and glances out into the road like maybe he could pretend this didn’t just happen. But then he turns back, eyes narrowing just a hair.

“Speedin’,” he ticks off, holding up one finger, “and no license.” He lets the silence hang before he adds, tired as sin, “I gotta give you a ticket, ma’am.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Seriously?”

“‘Fraid so.” His tone’s a drawl now, a little too casual for someone ruining your week. “Rules are rules.”

He reaches to unclip the little pad from his belt, like this is just routine. “I’m just as tired as you are, sugar. Make this easy for the both of us and just take the ticket.”

“C’mon,” you whine a little, tossing him a playful pout. “Let it slide, officer. I had a long day. Two drunk truckers and a kid who tried to steal a slice of pie outta the warmer. I’ve been on my feet since lunch.”

He gives you a look over the edge of his clipboard. Dry. Curious.

“You flirtin’ to get outta this, sugar?” he asks, already amused.

You grin. “Only if it’s working.”

He huffs a half-laugh, shaking his head. “Ain’t nothin’ workin’ tonight. My feet hurt, my partner called in sick, and some asshole spilled chili in the back of the cruiser. Smells like a dead possum.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.”

“...That bad, huh?”

He nods solemnly. “Chili and onions.”

You gasp. “That’s criminal.”

He cracks a smile at that, lazy and reluctant. “See? Now that’s the offense you should be writin’ up.”

“Then you better let me go,” you tease, elbow resting against the open window. “I’m a victim here.”

He looks at you again, really looks this time—eyes flicking across your cheek, your mouth, your tired smile. Like he’s measuring something. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t softened, but it’s shifted. Less official. Less cop.

“Yeah?” he says quietly. “Victim, huh?”

“Yup,” You say, popping the 'p', loudly.

You can feel the way his eyes linger now, still holding that small amused expresseion like he’s trying not to let it get comfortable on his face. There's a beat of silence. It stretches.

“So,” you say slowly, shifting in your seat and letting your fingers graze the edge of the recliner switch just beside your thigh, all casual. “You got a wife or somethin’ waitin’ for you back home, officer?”

Joel arches a brow, clearly entertained. It was probably the most interesting thing he's seen all day. “Now that’s a real left turn, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“No wife,” he says, tipping his chin, still leaning lazily against your window like this is his front porch. “No woman, either.”

You hum like you’re surprised. “Really?” Your voice laces syrup-thick sarcasm. “A charming civil servant like you? Guess they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

Joel snorts. “Civil servant,” he echoes like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

“I’m just sayin’…” You flash a small grin, lips parted just enough to toe the line. “You give off a little… pent-up energy.”

He tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing with a new kind of curiosity now. Less bored. More alert. That eyebrow of his arches just slightly higher, and his mouth tugs into something that isn’t exactly a smile.

“Pent up, huh?” he repeats, slow.

You shrug, still playing the innocent card with a twang of devil. “Yeah. You know. Tense. Like you haven’t had a good fuck in… a while.”

The silence that follows is razor-edged and electric, the kind that makes your skin tighten and the back of your neck prickle. Joel’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t move.

You recline the seat back just a touch—barely noticeable, but deliberate enough that his eyes flicker to the motion. Your fingers still rest near the button.

His tongue wets his bottom lip. He exhales through his nose like he’s finally made a decision. The ticket pad in his hand—your ticket—he slides it slowly back into the pocket of his jeans.

“You in a rush to get anywhere, darlin’?” he asks, voice dipped into something low and gruff now, rough like gravel under tires.

You blink, lips twitching. “No, sir.”

He straightens up, clears his throat like that’ll somehow make this cleaner, less sleazy, less immoral.

It doesn’t.

“You got anythin’ else that ain't your license in there, sugar? ” he hums.

You don’t.

And you already know damn well, repeating with a shit-eating grin, “No, sir.”

You repeat, slowly turning the little button on the side of the seat with a click-click-click.

Now you're half out the driver’s seat of your busted-up sedan, your back pressed awkwardly to the worn upholstery, legs dangling out into the warm night.

Your checkered apron’s still tied messily at your waist, bunched up around your hips like it was trying to cover anything—like it ever could. Stockings stretched and torn just below the hem, ringed tight around your knees. The glossy brown of your flats catch the flicker of highway lights every time a distant car passes by, none of them slowing down.

And Joel—Joel’s standing between your legs, one hand braced on the car roof, the other dragging slow and rough up the inside of your thigh. He looks wrecked already, like the idea of you like this has short-circuited something in that cop brain of his.

“Christ,” he mutters, staring down at you. His gaze drags over the undone buttons of your striped blouse, the way your bra’s come unclasped at the front like it gave up the ghost. “What the hell are you doin’ dressed like a dessert menu, sugar?”

You huff a laugh, breath shaky as his fingers ghost over the crease of your thigh. “Makin’ ends meet. Y’wanna comment on my fashion choices or—?”

He cuts you off by pressing two fingers right to your cunt, dragging slick through your folds, spreading it slow.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice gone thick.

You shrug, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Worked a double. Real tired. Told you I needed some relief.”

Joel’s not teasing anymore. Not with his words. Not with his hands, either. One big palm grabs the back of your thigh, lifting and adjusting until your hips are tipped just right. He steps in closer, belt already undone, jeans tugged down just enough.

He strokes himself once, twice—his cock thick and already leaking, before he lines up and pushes in, one slow, deliberate thrust that eases the air right out of you.

You gasp, fingers digging into the seat as he watches so damn carefully, watching his cock get wet and slick. Watching the way your cunt stretches just to fit him.

Joel groans, deep and low in his chest. “Fuckkkk, m’, gonna have to forgive that ticket now” he breathes. “You feel that?”

You nod, blinking up at him, eyes wide and half-lidded, mouth parted in disbelief.

“I said—” His hips roll forward, sharply like he's angry—cock bullying into your cunt as he does, “—you feel that?”

“Y-Yeah,” you choke out, stars flashing behind your eyes.

And he laughs, rough and satisfied, hand fisting in the side of your apron. “Good. ‘Cause you’re takin’ every goddamn inch.”

The car rocks with every thrust, tires creaking gently against gravel as Joel pounds into you—slow at first, then faster, rougher, until your thighs are trembling and the edge of the seat digs hard into your spine.

You can hear everything—the wet slap of skin on skin, the low grunt of his breath, the obscene, messy squelch every time he drags his cock back out of your dripping cunt. It’s filthy. Loud. So fucking loud.

You try to bite it back, a moan caught in your throat like you’re still in that diner, still being polite. But Joel’s not having it.

“C’mon,” he pants, one hand braced beside your head on the seat, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. “Don’t hold back now, sugar. Ain’t no one out here gonna hear you. It’s just you ‘n me—nothin’ but highway ghosts.”

You moan as he slams in deep, the kind of sound that tears out your chest without permission—raw and high and needy.

“There she is,” he growls, breath hitching as your walls flutter around him. “That’s it. That’s my good little whore.”

Something about the word makes your whole body seize, back arching off the seat, cunt clenching so tight around him he hisses between his teeth. It’s primal. Instinct. Your hips buck up toward him on their own, chasing it—chasing him—like your body was just waiting for someone to fuck the sweetness right out of it.

“Joel—Officer—” you gasp, nails clawing for purchase on the armrest.

He bends lower, the sweat off his neck dampening your collar, his voice right in your ear, slick with sin. “Ain’t it filthy, sugar’? Gettin’ fucked like this with your ass hangin’ out the car door?”

Your mouth opens but no words come—only a high, warbled moan as he thrusts harder.

“Any poor trucker could roll by and see you,” he murmurs against your throat, lips brushing your skin. “See how wrecked you are for me. You like that? Bein’ used like a dirty little thing where anyone could watch?”

You whimper, nodding fast—embarrassed, but not enough to stop. Not even close.

He laughs again, low and dark, fucking into you harder now, his hips slapping against yours in quick, brutal rhythm. “Goddamn, look at you,” he groans. “Takin’ me so good. Bet you needed this bad, huh? All dolled up like a pretty treat at work, but this is what you wanted. Nothin’ sweet about you now.”

Your whole body’s trembling, cunt stretched open around him, the car seat soaked, your breath sobbing out between pleads and curses. Every thrust threatens to knock you out of your goddamn mind.

“Gonna cum,” you choke, hand flying down to rub your clit in messy little circles. “Fuck, Joel—”

“Yeah? Then be loud, sugar,” he pants, thrusting deeper. “Let the highway hear what a good, law-bidin’ girl sounds like.”

You're shaking underneath him, blouse clinging to your skin with sweat, bra hanging useless around your ribs. Your apron’s bunched at your waist, sticky and damp, and your panties are tangled somewhere near your ankles—if not lost completely in the footwell.

Joel’s got you half hanging out of the car, the door wide open like the world should see, like he wants it to. One of your legs is hooked over his shoulder, the other bent up against the dashboard, your pussy stuffed full and wet around him.

You can hear how soaked you are, every thrust filthy and wet, slapping echoes swallowed by the endless, empty stretch of highway.

And you’re loud—so loud it would be humiliating if he weren’t moaning just as hard, panting over you with that sweat-slick jaw and furrowed brow.

"Goddamn, sugar," he grits, fucking into you hard enough to make the shocks creak. "You’re squeezin’ me so tight. You tryin’ to make me knock y’ up?"

"Maybe," you gasp, teasing, breath hitching. "Is it working?"

He groans, like you just knocked the wind out of him. “Shit, yeah it is. But I wanna hear it—go on, sugar.”

"Joel—"

"Ain’t no one gonna hear you out here. It’s just us and the fuckin’ stars. So be as loud as you want, sugar—be a fuckin’ slut for me."

Your fingers are working your clit fast now, frantic, desperate.

"Joel, I—oh, god, I’m gonna—"

“That’s it,” he groans, hips grinding deep and perfect, dragging against that spot inside you like he knows what he’s doing. “Cum on it, sweetheart.”

And fuck—you do.

You cum hard, twitching and moaning, head thrown back, thighs quaking. Something about it makes your whole body seize, back arching off the seat, cunt clenching so tight around him he hisses between his teeth. Your hips buck up toward him on their own, chasing it—chasing him—like your body was just waiting for someone to fuck the sweetness right out of it..

“Shit— fuck, I can’t—” Joel gasps, hips jerking.

You know he’s supposed to pull out.

You both know.

But your arms are locked around his neck, dragging him closer, keeping him deep, and he just lets go—

Spilling hot and thick in your cunt with a broken, wrecked groan.

“Fuck,” he rasps, still pulsing inside you. “Shouldn’t’ve done that. Christ.”

You're breathless, boneless, spread wide in the driver’s seat, both of you panting into each other’s mouths. You blink up at him, dazed.

“Do I get off that ticket, Officer?” You gasp, lips twitching into whatever weak, sassy expression you could.

You’re breathless, boneless, spread wide in the driver’s seat, both of you panting into each other’s mouths. You blink up at him, dazed.

“Do I get off that ticket, Officer?” you gasp, lips twitching into whatever weak, sassy expression you could manage, hips still trembling with aftershocks.

Joel leans back slightly, eyes raking over the mess he’s made of you — your ruined stockings, your open blouse, the shine slicking his cock as he slowly pulls out with a low hiss. He tucks himself back in with one hand and rests the other on the edge of your door.

“Y’ got off plenty,” he drawls, voice rough. Then, after a beat, “But yeah, sugar... consider the ticket forgiven.”

“Good, because you owe me a pill in the morning,” You groan, feeling his cum almost rush out of your abused cunt, “And those things are expensive.”

“Suppose I do,” He huffs, amused and fiddling with his belt, clinking it back in place, “Smart lass, ain't y’? Why don't you hand me y’ digits so I can get y’ that pill in the mornin’?”

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @enchanthings-a

#the last of us #joel tlou #need joel like i need air #fuck me #pull me over plz

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bambiaches · 2 months ago

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idk y.. but after the show .. joels death has been hitting extra hard.. abby. im mad at u rn :( he was just a dad 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 she killed the wrong joel 😭😭😭😭 he was meant to live forever 😭😭😭 and make up with ellie 😭😭😭😭 and be a grandfather to jj 😭😭😭😭😭😭 he wouldve been the best grandfather 😭😭😭

#the last of us #joel miller

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bambiaches · 2 months ago

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"Cookies, sweetheart?" Joel Miller x reader — NSFW!

♡ You just broke up with your boyfriend and moved out of his house, buying one of your own in a peaceful little cul-de-sac. Though, you still felt the need to make a good impression on you neighbours, putting your baking skills to use, you whip up some cookies. And deliver them to the brooding older man around the corner.

cw: afab reader, age difference, creampie, fucking creampie back inside(?), fingering, jealousy if you squint, awkward reader, slight aftercare and praise towards end.

word count: 3183...

You're not 100% sure how you got here, on his couch, cock deep into your cunt lubed with nothing but cum and folded over like a pretzel. You swear you had good intentions, cookies were harmless, right? I mean, you didin't think you were the one getting pumped full of cream cum.

The sun was barely setting, casting the sleepy cul-de-sac in a warm, orange haze, when you padded down the sidewalk in your slippers, balancing the still-warm tray of cookies between your arms.

Your cotton tank clung to you in the thick evening air, thin little straps digging into your shoulders, damp hair sticking slightly to your skin from your post-shower sprint to get these cookies finished. Your sweatpants hung loose on your hips, swinging with every careful step, and the scent of vanilla and sugar drifted around you like a halo.

You must’ve looked a sight — bright-eyed, freshly scrubbed, standing there awkwardly at the dead end where the Miller house sat tucked behind a line of low shrubs. You shifted the tray up higher with a little huff, peeking around the side, trying to spot him.

You didn't have to look long.

Joel was there — hunched over by his driveway, fiddling with the hood of an old truck. His gray T-shirt clung to his back in the heat, shoulders broad, arms flexing as he wiped his hands off with a rag.

You cleared your throat awkwardly.

"Uh, hi!" you chirped, wobbling slightly to stop the cookies from tumbling into a crumbling little mess. "Mr. Miller?"

He looked up — slow, almost reluctant, tired, unbothered— and when he did, his gaze stuck.

Eyes dragging up the bare skin of your arms, your damp, shiny hair, the way your sweatpants clung to your hips. The tray of cookies trembling slightly in your hands.

You tried not to fidget under the way he was looking at you — like he wasn’t sure if he wanted your brief company.

"...You're the new neighbor," he said, voice a low rumble that made your belly flip. He set the rag down on the truck hood and straightened up, wiping his palms on his jeans. If he looked big hunched into the bonnet, he looked even bigger standing up. It was sort of scary. Probably the type of neighbour that minded when your plants shifted into his garden, but didn't care enough to say anything.

You nodded, flashing a nervous smile. "Yeah. I, uh... I made cookies? Wanted to introduce myself," you babbled, heat prickling your cheeks.

Joel let out a soft huff — something like a chuckle, almost like he was laughing at you. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, bare toes curling in your slippers.

"You gonna stand out here all day?" he drawled, jerking his head toward the front door. "C'mon. Looks like you're about to drop those damn things."

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. You scurried to follow him, balancing the tray awkwardly as he swung open the door, stepping aside to let you slip past him.

And as you brushed by, his hand hovered — like he had to stop himself from grabbing your hip, pulling you back against that solid, warm body.

Inside smelled like cedar and motor oil and something dewy that made your knees a little weak.

Joel closed the door behind you with a soft thunk.

"You always hand-deliver cookies dressed like that, sweetheart?"

You whipped around, quickly dropping the tray onto the kitchen counter, the clatter louder than necessary in the quiet house.

"Uh—" you laughed, too high-pitched, shoving your hands into the pockets of your sweatpants like you could disappear into them. "Yeah! Totally! I mean—uh, just came out the shower, you know... unpacked all day, needed to freshen up—"

You were babbling, and you knew it, words tripping over each other faster than your brain could catch up. "A shower was good. Really good. Like, really good—" you added lamely, voice trailing off as you caught the look on his face.

Joel stood there arms crossed, leaning lazily against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised in quiet, unimpressed amusement. He wasn't necessarily mad, but slightly amused. He was just watching.

And you were burning.

You swallowed hard, fumbling for something else to say, something to save yourself.

"I should, um... shut up," you mumbled, pressing your palms flat against the counter with a tricky smile, "So... what about you?" you blurted suddenly, flailing for normal conversation. "Do you, uh... live alone? Or—"

You visibily winced, instantly regretting that question.

Joel's other brow arched up to join the first. He tipped his head a little to the side, like he was humoring you.

You couldn't tell if the little twitch at the corner of his mouth was a smile or a scowl.

"Suppose I do," he said slowly, voice rumbling in that deep, dry drawl. "No wife. No one breathin' down my neck."

You nodded way too fast. "Cool. That's cool."

Joel stared a moment longer, the easy slang sticking out in the slow and definitely older rhythm of his brain, making him drag his tongue across the inside of his cheek before muttering, "How old are you, sweetheart?"

It slipped out rougher than he meant it to. His mouth thinned a little right after, like he half-wanted to suck the words back in.

You, oblivious, straightened up a little — clutching your damp hair together in one hand, like it was some kind of shield. "Twenty-four," you chirped, a little too cheerfully. "Just bought my first house! Around the corner—well, you probably figured that out. Since I’m... you know. Here. With cookies. In my pajamas. Acting like a weirdo—"

Joel let out a soft grunt. It might have been a chuckle. Might have been something else.

Twenty-four.

Jesus Christ.

A few more years and you could’ve been his goddamn daughter.

He shook the thought out of his head like a bad itch, rubbing a palm roughly over the thick stubble on his jaw. His voice came out even gruffer than before when he said, "Alright then, sweetheart. Let’s get these somewhere safe before you end up droppin' 'em."

You followed him, nervous as a rabbit, watching as Joel carefully slid the tray of cookies into an old tin he pulled from a cabinet. His hands were steady — broad, calloused, moving with a slow kind of care that made your stomach flip over.

He picked one out of the tin and bit into it. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed.

Then gave you a simple, almost begrudging nod.

"Good," he said, voice low. "Real good."

It wasn’t much — barely even a compliment — but it made your heart thud anyway, heat blooming across your chest under the thin straps of your top. You wondered if he noticed. You had the awful, burning feeling that he did.

You shifted awkwardly, pulling your sleeves down your arms a little like it might cover you more. "I should, um... I should probably go," you said quickly, stepping back toward the door, almost tripping over your own damn slippers.

"Hold on," he said — slow, low — something thick curling under the words. "You really gonna just... run off like that? After bringin' a man cookies, lookin' like..."

He stopped himself. Shook his head a little like he couldn't believe what was about to come out of his own mouth.

You turned around, heart flipping, mouth dry. "Like what?"

Joel's jaw flexed. His arms dropped from their loose fold, hands bracing heavy on his hips.

"Like that," he said simply, voice scraping a little raw. "Like a fuckin' dream walkin' around in slippers and sweats and smellin' like soap..."

He said it almost angrily — like it was your fault. Like he was furious at himself for noticing.

The air between you crackled. You barely registered yourself moving. Joel was on you before you could even second-guess it, crowding you back against the door with a low grunt, one hand coming up to cup the side of your face rough and sure.

His mouth didn't find yours — not yet — just hovered close, hot breath fanning across your lips.

"Say the word," Joel said, voice a tight rumble. "You tell me to stop, I'll stop."

You swallowed thickly, your hands already fisting in the front of his flannel without thinking.

"Don't stop," you whispered.

That was all it took.

Now you're on his couch — somehow, through the haze of greedy hands and stumbled kisses, he'd half-dragged you there — one of your legs slung over the armrest, the other bent open at the knee where Joel's broad hand held you.

Your cotton shorts were bunched at the side of your thigh, damp where his fingers had already been toying with you, slow and easy at first — but not anymore.

Now he had two thick fingers deep inside your cunt, curling slow, dragging against that spot that made your breath catch and your thighs tremble.

"Jesus Christ," Joel muttered under his breath, watching the way your body gave around his fingers, your little cotton tank riding up, the slope of your hips framed in soft sweatpants pulled halfway down your legs. It did feel a bit wrong, no, really wrong—

You were a goddamn vision. So young. So sweet. So fucking wet already.

"Look at you," he said roughly. "Barely even fucked you yet and you're squeezin' my fingers like you’re about to come."

You whimpered, rocking your hips up into his hand shamelessly, greedy for the friction, the pressure, the desperate fullness.

Joel grunted, thrusting his fingers deeper, rougher, feeling the way your walls fluttered around him.

"That's it," he murmured, low and urgent, leaning closer — mouth brushing the shell of your ear. "C'mon, sweetheart."

You were gasping, one hand scrabbling against the leather of the couch for purchase, the other clinging to Joel’s wrist as he fucked you through it, steady and relentless.

The room spun. The pressure inside you coiled tighter, tighter—

And then you were cumming, hips stuttering, thighs trembling around his broad hand as he coaxed you through it, slow and patient, low praise rumbling in his chest.

"There you go," he breathed against your temple, the faintest hint of a smirk curving his mouth. "Knew you had it in you."

You were still twitching around his fingers when Joel finally pulled them free — slow and glistening, a sticky string of slick clinging between your thighs and his knuckles.

You barely had time to whimper before he was dragging your sweatpants all the way off, tossing them somewhere over his shoulder with a rough grunt.

"Fuckin’ mess," Joel rasped, voice rough as gravel. His hand smoothed over your bare thigh, free hand was already fumbling with his belt buckle, jerky and impatient. The clink of metal on leather filled the heavy air, followed by the drag of a zipper.

"You that needy for me? Fucking your neighbour the week you moved in?"

Your head dropped back against the couch cushion, a helpless little whine slipping out, "I— that's not my... fault, I promise."

He let his cock drag against the inside of your thigh — hot, hard, leaking at the tip. "But it is, ain't it, sweetheart? Walking in here looking for a good fuck?"

You gasped, hips jerking up instinctively.

Joel chuckled low in his throat. "Easy, sweetheart." He ran the blunt head through your folds — slow, lazy — gathering up the slick there and groaning deep in his chest.

"Goddamn," he muttered. "So wet I could slide right in without even tryin'." He tapped his cock against your swollen clit once — twice — savoring the way you shuddered under him. God, he's so pent up, but still felt the need to ask—

"Don't got a boyfriend, do you?"

You paused. No, you didn't. You hiccuped, propping yourself up on your elbows a little, "I—bought the house here after we broke up. Maybe a month ago."

Joel genuinely pause for a moment.

Your eyes widened and you sat up a little straighter, shaking your head frantically, "I—I ended things with him clearly, you know? Um, it was quick, you know uh," You swallowed, almost whispering, eyes begging, "Still on the pill and all..."

Joel sucked in a breath, raising an eyebrow with an amused groan, "So you were looking for a good fuck, sweetheart?"

You shut your eyes tight, maybe in embarrassment. God, mentioning the pill and all. it did sound like that didn't it?

"Bet this tight little pussy's gonna be the death of me, huh?" Joel murmured, voice so thick with want it barely sounded like words anymore. "Bet you're just fuckin' made to take me."

You sobbed, back arching off the couch, one hand fisting in the front of his t-shirt.

Joel hissed — grabbed your knee, forced it back against the couch arm, opening you wider.

"Gonna ruin you, sweetheart," he said, almost gentle, almost sweet — until he gripped his cock at the base and pushed inside in one slow, brutal stroke.

You cried out — half a gasp, half a sob — feeling every thick, aching inch of him stretch you open.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Joel grunted, head dropping to the crook of your neck. "Tight as a fuckin' vice."

He stayed buried deep for a moment, breathing hard against your skin, letting you adjust with his teeth and lips occupied around your nipples. His stubble grazed the skin of your tits and it make you shiver until you had goosebumps.

Then he started moving. Hard, deep, filthy drags of his hips against yours — the couch creaking under the force of it.

Your whole body rocked with the force of each thrust, little mewling sounds spilling from your lips without your permission.

Joel groaned, low and wrecked, dragging his teeth against your shoulder.

"That's it," he panted, fucking you harder, deeper. "Take it, sweetheart. Take every fuckin' inch."

Your nails raked down his back, desperate, clutching like you couldn't help your head loll to the side, shifting away from him. Big mistake.

Joel caught your face in one rough, calloused hand — made you look at him, made you see how wrecked he looked, hair mussed and jaw tight.

"Lookin' away? You look so fuckin' pretty gettin' stuffed full of cock," he rasped. "Gonna fuck you stupid, sweetheart. Fill you up so good you won't even remember your own goddamn name or that stupid fuckin' ex-boyfriend of yours."

You whimpered something — something akin to a choked "Mr. Miller—!" or maybe just a desperate little cry.

The slap of skin, the slick, obscene sounds of him fucking into you filled the room.

"Fuckin' perfect," Joel grunted, watching you unravel under him.

You cum hard— again — walls clamping down around him so tight he almost saw stars, his hips stuttering as he cursed low and vicious against your throat, losing himself completely in the tight, wet heat of you.

Joel barely managed to hold himself back when he felt you clamp down on him again, spasming around his cock like you were trying to milk him dry.

"Fuck," he growled against your throat, hips jerking uncontrollably.

He stayed buried deep as he came — thick, hot spurts spilling inside you — groaning low and ragged into your skin.

You whimpered at the feeling, so full, so hot, and Joel just groaned again, sounding wrecked. "Takin' it so fuckin' good, sweetheart. Gonna keep you plugged up huh? Didn't expect an old man to make use of that sweet lil' pill, huh? Thought it would be y'boyfriend? "

He stayed there for a beat — pulsing deep inside you like he had something to prove — before finally pulling out with a wet, obscene noise.

You gasped, feeling a hot, slippery rush of him leak out between your thighs.

Joel watched it — pumping lazily at his cock as last spurts of cum released just down your slit in thick, messy blobs.

"Christ," he muttered under his breath, watching cum stick to your lips like icing.

And then he gripped the base of his cock — still achingly hard, still desperate — and dragged his slick, sensitive tip through your soaked folds, smearing cum across your swollen slit.

You cried out, hips twitching helplessly.

Joel grinned — dark and satisfied — and not a second later, he pushed back inside, fucking the load on your pussy deep back into you.

"There you fuckin' go," he muttered, voice gone hoarse, grabbing your hips roughly. "Can't let that go to waste."

You could barely breathe, the sensation too much — your pussy raw and throbbing, still twitching from the aftershocks, but he was already thrusting again in deep languid strokes.

"Gonna fuck it all back into you," Joel panted half breathless, snapping his hips in slow, brutal slams. "Gonna fuck it back into y to remind ya'— Y'better not get back with your boyfriend, you hear? Know how you young girls are..."

You whimpered, toes curling where your leg still hung off the couch arm. Shit, you couldn't even fathom ever getting back with your boyfriend, your eyes rolling, mouth drooling as felt his cum lubing your insides, sliding sinfully easily in and out of your cunt.

Yeah, you don't care how old he is, now.

Joel groaned, watching the way your body struggled to take it — stretched sore, red and glistening around his thick cock, already sloppy and spent but still squeezing him so desperately.

"Goddamn," he muttered against your mouth almost with a laugh, one thumb rubbing at your clit. "Ain't never gonna let you go, darlin'. Not after this. Y'gonna have to come around more often, hm?"

You didn't mean to, but you had tears in your eyes, your mouth open just slightly, flimsy straps of your tank now near your elbows where Joel had tugged them down, the soft cotton bunched around your middle.

Joel finally pulled out of you with a low grunt, your pussy twitching at the sudden emptiness. You curse softly, breathless and blinking up at him.

"Shh," Joel murmured, voice softer now, coaxing. "You’re alright, sweetheart. I got you."

He brought one broad, calloused hand between your thighs again — but this time it was gentle, soothing, two fingers sliding through the mess between your folds, slow and easy, his thumb circling your swollen clit with barely any pressure.

Your hips twitched at the touch, still so sensitive, but Joel just kept whispering low praise, brushing soft kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

"Such a pretty girl hm?" he rasped against your skin. "Took it so good for me. So fuckin' pretty like this."

His other hand ghosted up your trembling side, rough fingertips stroking the tender curve of your waist, your ribs, then higher — palming your tits, thumbing over your pebbled nipples so carefully you could barely stand it.

You whimpered again, arching weakly into his touch.

Joel huffed a low laugh against your throat, the sound warm and almost fond. He kept petting you — slow strokes along your hips, gentle tweaks of your nipples, brushing his thumb back and forth over your sore clit until your breathing steadied and your body sagged heavy and limp against the couch. You cum just weakly, almost pathetically against his gentle hand, clit twitching under the pad of his thumb

"There you go," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your open, gasping mouth. "Just like that, sweetheart. Makin’ you feel good. That’s all you gotta do. That and visit more often, alright? Call me over if y'need help settling in."

God, yes, yes yes you were gonna call him over more often. And maybe bake him something else next time—cake or pie? You were already deciding.

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

#the last of us #joel miller #joel tlou #FUCK ME #I NEED HIM SO BAD #need joel like i need air #joel miller x reader #im actually convulsing #need him to FILL ME UP

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bambiaches · 2 months ago

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My Journey to Escape the War in Gaza

My name is Abdelmajed. I never imagined I’d be sharing my story like this, but life in Gaza has become unbearable. I am a survivor of the war here, and in the blink of an eye, everything I once knew—my home, my safety, my community—was ripped away from me.

The war has transformed Gaza into a graveyard of broken dreams. The buildings that once stood as symbols of life and resilience are now piles of rubble. Every corner is filled with the echoes of explosions. Every moment is shrouded in uncertainty. There is no security. There is no stability. There is no light at the end of the tunnel.

Basic needs have become luxuries. Food is scarce. Clean water is even scarcer. Hospitals are overwhelmed and under-resourced, and there is almost no medical care to be found. Every night, families go to bed hungry, praying they’ll wake up to see another day. The cost of basic necessities has skyrocketed, and it’s become a daily battle just to survive.

I’ve seen things I never thought possible—standing in long lines for a piece of bread, rationing every drop of water, and watching my people suffer in silence. I have lost everything—my home, my safety, my dignity.

Escape from Gaza is my only hope, but it’s almost impossible without financial help. The cost of evacuation is far beyond my means, and without support, I’m trapped in a warzone with no way out.

I’m reaching out to you now, in the hopes that someone, anyone, can help. I am not asking for luxury. I am asking for a chance—just a chance—to live. A chance to escape this never-ending cycle of fear, destruction, and loss. A chance to rebuild my life somewhere safe, where I can begin again, where I can find hope once more.

Any amount you can give will help me get closer to safety. Even the smallest donation will make a difference—it could be the lifeline I need to survive. If you are unable to donate, please share my story. The more people who hear it, the better the chance that I can find the support I desperately need.

Your kindness and support mean the world to me. You’re not just helping me escape a war; you’re giving me a chance to live, to rebuild, to breathe again.

Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring.

Vetted by @gazavetters

#free palestine #gaza #palestine fundraiser

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bambiaches · 2 months ago

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What do you mean, "we"? Are you shootin' monsters?

Pedro Pascal as JOEL MILLER HBO's The Last of Us (2023- ) — 2.01 “Future Days”

#my baby #the last of us #tearing up #my baby daddy #my sweet baby joel

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bambiaches · 2 months ago

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ughh look at her

#vi arcane #my baby #my gorgeous angel

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bambiaches · 2 months ago

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i am doing backflips

"Say that again" — Valeria x f!reader

★ my headcannon post that this fic came from!

★ CW: NSFW, afab, wlw, Valeria and reader arguing about something unmentioned, Valeria gets embarrassingly turned on by fiesty women, tit-play, reader wearing a bra that like unclips from the front yk? fingering, sucking, g-spot TARGETTED, lace bra, Valeria smoking + reader with smoking metaphors... ★ Argument, Spanish, Lap Sitting, Groping, Apology Sex™ with Valeria because I'm so in love with her. Basically what happens when she's too busy palming your tits and blinking up at you all sweet while you’re trying to have an actual argument like a grown adult. word count: 1332

You weren’t yelling. Not really. It was more like raised talking—but with purpose, with bite. That clipped tone you only used when Valeria was testing you, and god, she was testing you tonight.

"Don’t give me that smug look, Valeria," you snap, standing in the middle of her living room, arms folded across your chest. The hem of your tank top rides up a little as you shift your weight, flashing the band of your underwear, but you don’t notice. You’re too pissed. "You can’t just decide shit and expect me to follow along like one of your soldiers."

She lounges back on the couch like she owns it—like she owns everything. Legs spread, black slacks rumpled from earlier, hair slightly mussed from pulling her fingers through it. A lit cigarette balances between her fingers, lazy smoke curling through the air. Her eyes, sharp and amused, flick up to meet yours.

"Ay, cálmate, mi reina," she says, voice low and dangerous, yet a little too soft. Too smooth. That fucking smirk playing on her lips. "You're sexy when you're angry, you know that?"

You gape. “You’re not even listening to me!”

She shrugs, unbothered. “I heard you. Loud and clear.” She brings the cigarette to her lips, inhales slowly, lets the smoke drift through her nostrils like she’s in a noir film. “You're mad. You don’t like being told what to do. Big surprise.”

You march forward. "You're deflecting. As usual."

That does something. Her smirk twitches—falters for half a second—and her legs subtly adjust, thighs shifting with tension. But she just looks up at you, dark eyes blazing with heat and something unreadable.

“You done yelling, baby?” she purrs, setting the cigarette in the ashtray without looking away from you.

“No, I’m not done yelling,” you snarl, leaning over, hands planted on your hips. “You don’t get to pull rank when we’re in bed and then ignore me when I call you out for it. You’re not La Macabra with me, Valeria. You’re my girlfriend. Or at least, you’re supposed to be.”

Your words echo. Heavy. Too honest. And for a second, she looks like you knocked the wind out of her.

Then—

With one hand, she reaches up, grabs your wrist gently, and tugs you forward.

You stumble, confused, but she keeps pulling—guiding you until you're straddling her lap, your knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of her thighs. She's silent the whole time. Watching. Smiling.

“Valeria—”

Her hands slide to your waist, fingers curling into the waistband of your shorts, dragging you down closer.

“You’re so loud,” she murmurs, but there’s no malice in it. Just awe. Admiration. A hunger. “You drive me crazy.”

You don’t notice her hands under your shirt until her thumbs stroke bare skin. You flinch, surprised by the warmth of her palms, the softness of her touch.

“Valeria,” you warn again. A little breathless now.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly. Voice cracking like it hurt her to admit. “Lo siento. I fucked up, alright? I just…” Her gaze flicks to your lips, then down to the way your shirt is riding up over your ribs. “I hate when we fight. But God, it turns me on when you talk to me like that. You’re the only one who doesn’t flinch. The only one who’s not afraid of me.”

You blink, heart hammering. “You’re a menace.”

“I know.” Her smile grows softer, cockier. “Let me make it up to you, cariño. Let me touch you, please, baby.”

Valeria’s fingers move fast, suddenly unclipping your bra from the front with practiced ease.

You genuinely yelp. You’re still straddling her, thighs tense around hers, still a little stunned. Still pissed.

“Valeria—what the hell are you doing—?”

“Shh.” She barely hums in response. You’re half tempted to stop her—but her mouth is already moving, pressing slow, reverent kisses beneath your collarbone, dragging down. Down.

Then—

Her tongue flicks over your nipple.

You suck in a breath so sharp it burns your lungs.

She groans, low and animal. Her lips close over it, sucking gentle at first, then rougher when your hips jerk against her lap without your permission.

"Fuck—Valeria—"

Her hands find your hips again, dragging you closer, grinding your pussy down on her thigh. “You feel that, baby?” she murmurs against your skin, mouth hot and wet. “You’re soaking through. Qué rico…”

You whimper.

You fucking whimper, and Valeria grins against your chest, all smug and shameless as she bites—bites—down on your tit and groans at the sound you make.

"Go on, keep talking... Shout at me all you want, Mi reina."

You bite your lip, frustrated and borderline angry but your panties are getting wetter and you feel stupid.

Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling, but she just hums and licks over the mark she leaves, smug and hot and mean.

One hand slides between your legs, sliding over the lace of your panties.

You twitch—your whole body jerks—but her fingers are already pushing past the waistband of your shorts. Past your underwear and tracing along your dripping slit.

"Valeria! Stop that—"

She hisses. Because of course she doesn't stop; not that your protests held any real weight anyway.

“You're this wet just from yelling at me?” she grunts, slipping her middle finger between your folds, slow and indulgent inside you.

You try to answer—try—but her fingers find your clit, circle it once, and your brain short-circuits. You rock your hips into her hand, chasing the contact, hating her for how smug she sounds, how cocky her voice is when she chuckles—

“Look at you.”

Then she slides two fingers in, slow, and your head drops to her shoulder with a moan.

“Shhh, I know,” she coos, nuzzling your neck, licking the shell of your ear. “I know you’re mad at me, baby. But please forgive me. You always do when I touch you like this…”

Her thumb rolls over your clit and your legs shake.

Valeria’s fingers are deep inside you now—crooked just right, like she knows exactly where your weakest spot is, and she does, she absolutely does. Every little whimper you make, every twitch of your thighs, as she curls her fingers everytime she pumps her fingers in and out of your dripping cunt. God it sounds so lewd and wet as a pearly, translucent-white ring forms around the base of her fingers.

"That's it..." she mutters, voice thick, lips dragging across the top of your breast.

You don’t even have the strength to fight her on that. Not when she curls her fingers just so, pressing up, rubbing your walls so deliberately it knocks a broken gasp from your throat. You’re already gripping her shoulder, nails digging in, and her thumb hasn’t even gone near your clit again yet.

But she’s teasing—oh, she’s being so evil about it.

One of her hands comes up, thumb brushing over your nipple now, while her mouth sucks on the other. She keeps switching sides, warm tongue swirling, lips tugging, groaning into your skin like you taste better than her favorite cigar.

Your hips buck helplessly, and she finally gives in.

Her thumb slips down, finds your clit again.

Circles once.

Twice.

Then repeatedly.

You gasp—loud—and her voice breaks with laughter. "That's the sound I like to hear, mi vida. Keep makin’ it for me.”

“Fuck—fuck, Valeria, I'm—”

“Mm-hm,” she hums, biting your neck gently. “I know. Don’t hold it back.”

You feel your stomach twist, tightening so hard it’s almost painful.

Her pace doesn’t stop—just steady, insistent, and precise. And her lips are still on you, still kissing and sucking like she needs it.

When you cum, it hits you so your mind blanks with all the frustration. Your body arches, thighs quaking, jaw falling open with a cry you can’t hold back. Valeria's name, again and again.

She groans in your ear. "You’re so good for me. So fuckin' perfect like this."

She holds you through it—rocking her fingers through the aftershocks, until you're twitching from oversensitivity and burying your face in her neck, panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

And she’s still smiling. Smirking.

"Feel better now, mi amor?"

She kisses your cheek.

Then your jaw.

You look at her, your cheeks warm, flushed and red. "Valeria, what the fuck was—"

Then she cuts you off, chin right between your tits, smug as hell.

"Because I do."

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

#valeria cod #IM WET #wlw

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bambiaches · 3 months ago

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HELLLLOOOO MAMA

Made fooooood (I'm ovulating)

#jinx #jinx arcane #LOML #FUCK ME

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bambiaches · 3 months ago

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꩜.𖥔 ˖ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ (ɢɪᴠɪɴ' ᴜᴘ). [ᴇ.ᴡ. & ᴀ.ᴀ.]

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ.

A ROUTINE patrol goes wrong for our friendly neighborhood spider-woman! who can she rely on in this time of need? our favorite human-host and alien-symbiote duo, of course!

pairing: modern!venom!abby anderson x modern!spider-woman!ellie williams tags: frenemies (?) to lovers, comedy, ellie williams is a bad spiderman, abby anderson is a worse venom, physical hurt/comfort, symbiote healing, blood, slight gore. mdni. a/n: um. is this too niche? i used to write for spider-verse... and i am just a girl i fear. I'll probably post this on ao3 as well. have fun! ⸺ℰ word count: 1.4k

Ellie’s desperate, she knows that.

Really, she does.

She's not entirely sure what comes over her. Not sure what possesses her to swing her way to Abby Anderson’s apartment in goddamn Hell’s Kitchen, not sure what has her colliding with the wall unceremoniously because of course she stumbles. Maybe it’s the piece of scrap metal stuck in her side. Honestly, she's not even sure if Abby is home.

So, she knocks.

This really isn’t her best idea. She has a lot of those, but this is definitely one of the worst ones. She thinks she knows what she wants – she wants Abby to force her to go to the hospital and see a doctor.

But she knows what she really wants is for Abby to fix her up herself. She wants Abby to joke around with her, try to make her laugh to distract her from the blood she's losing. That’s all a maybe, though– it’s if she lets herself really yearn.

She stands there in her shredded suit and a stretched-out t-shirt she snatched from a street vendor, waiting for Abby to answer the door. She thinks she looks weird. She knows she looks insane.

She doesn’t have to wait too long– never really does if Abby can help it– but she's not expecting what greets her. She thought Abby would answer the door with that usual Abby Anderson charm – or lack thereof – that lazy smirk on her face because she’s so smug and thinks she’s right all the time. The stormy blue eyes and a sarcastic greeting on her tongue that Ellie wants to kiss her for. She thought she’d be – content, to say the least.

Instead, Abby is standing unnervingly still. Her eyes are dark and her eyebrows are furrowed, her lips are turned down in a frown, and Ellie realizes she has a peep-hole way too late. She's still relieved to see her, just a little bit, anyway. Her lips just barely turn up. “Abby,” she breathes, “I didn’t– Know where to go–”

She's lying. She knew where to go. But she also knew she wouldn’t be able to go out again if Maria and Tommy ever found out that she got beat this bad. Maria would make her life infinitely more difficult than it already is and Tommy would make sure she could never wear the suit again, and she would die, probably, if she spent that much time away from it all.

And fuck, actually, if she wasn’t a little afraid that she could be dying – Abby isn’t a surgeon, can’t possibly take this thing out of her side, but she doesn’t want to go to a hospital, can’t possibly go home on her own. She can’t do anything but feel all this pain, but Abby’s hands are soft where they hold her arms. Abby’s hands are soft and clean and have no blood on them – not yet, anyway, not until Ellie walks into her home. Then the whole place is coated in the stuff – drippy and dark and disgusting– and Ellie just keeps painting the walls with it.

She blinks as she's guided to Abby’s dining table– God, if I don’t die, I gotta remember to hit up IKEA–

“Ellie, what the fuck?” She hears Abby’s frantic voice, low and not at all happy– it makes Ellie nauseous, or maybe it's the blood loss, she's not entirely sure, but blood dribbles out of her mouth anyway.

She groans, letting out half-sobs as Abby gently lays her down. Tears well in her eyes– not because of the pain, no– the care. Abby handles her like she's made of glass, and she's not so sure that she isn’t. She honestly doesn’t know what she's made out of– maybe bits and pieces of everyone she's ever known– maybe nothing in particular.

“What the hell happened?” She's asking, and God, Ellie doesn’t fuckin’ know. Doesn’t know a damn thing except that she webbed up that asshole mugger to the side of the closest NYPD precinct, that the scrap metal in her side knocked the wind out of her, that she had to fumble with her webs and blink the spots out of her eyes to make sure she was swinging in the right direction. She barely thought of where to go, just knew that her dear frenemy Abigail Anderson lived on the corner of 10th Ave and W 49th.

The spots are back, her breath is getting shallow, and she’s a little scared. Her hands clench Abby’s wrists.

“Abs–”

“I’m here,” Abby says, soft and sure above her. Ellie watches her, but Abby’s focused on the wound in her side, on the way the skin keeps trying to heal but then it's ripped open again, a never ending loop of heal, break, heal, break.

“V, help her.”

Help her, not help me, because she doesn’t need it. Abby’s Symbiote to the rescue, and Ellie’s shivering as he coats her skin. Abby’s there, too, underneath it all – embedded into Venom the way he’s embedded into her. They can’t be apart, and the thought of Abby sticking to her skin makes her warm. She shudders.

“Didn’t puncture anything major,” Abby says, and her eyes glaze over white. Venom blinks down at her once, then again, before Abby’s blue-grey eyes come back to comfort her.

Venom doesn’t say much, makes no sound except for the occasional hum. The goo is sticky, cold and then warm, and she feels their heartbeat against her sternum. It’s soothing, but the pain is getting to her. She can feel Venom seep under her skin, can feel him-her-them rummaging and moving around her organs to isolate the area. The worst part is when Abby pulls the fucking metal out of her side. She cries out, breath wobbly from the blinding pain that tears through skin and muscle. Might as well go straight to the bone, too.

She can barely breathe, can’t really think, but Abby looks like she's crying. Ellie just can’t have that.

“Knew you never– fuck–” She coughs, spits blood right into her own shoulder, doesn't want to stain anything else red, “–never liked me.”

It makes Abby laugh, just barely, but it sounds more like she's trying not to choke on her breaths. Her hand rests on Ellie’s chest, where her heart beats, a little too quickly, but it’s fine. At least it’s beating. They sit and breathe and cry— Abby’s hands are still soft on her chest, Ellie’s head is still pounding. When she looks down, both of their hands are covered in blood. It makes her warm for some reason.

“You gonna tell me what happened?” Abby asks after a few minutes, maybe an hour, maybe more. Ellie sighs, coughs again. The wound is tender, but there's no blood in her mouth. It’s the little things.

“Just wanted to finish,” she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut, “Didn't think about getting hurt.”

“Stupid of you,” Abby says quietly, “Almost Venom-stupid.”

“Almost,” she agrees, grins despite herself, would laugh if she could. It hurts too much, though, just like Abby’s eyes on her right now.

“HEY!” Venom barks, tendrils building until his head forms right by Abby’s right arm. He interrupts the moment, and for some reason, she’s a little thankful for it. “I SAVED YOUR LIFE. DID NOT EAT YOU. I COULD. I SHOULD. WE WANT TO.”

Abby shushes him, shoving at his head half-heartedly. Venom responds by digging his teeth into her arm, which does nothing. He chews angrily.

“You’re not eating her. You just had chocolate.”

“CHOCOLATE IS GOOD. I WANT MORE! HER SPLEEN IS RIGHT THERE, I COULD–”

Abby shoves him again as Ellie watches on. Nothing more to do now that she’s healed up, but the wound in her side is held together by her own skin and pieces of Venom. Pieces of Abby and Venom, because it's always two, and never just the one. Not anymore.

Ellie doesn’t say much when Abby preps the pull-out couch, but she does thank Venom when he slithers up out of nowhere to give her a pillow. It’s the softest thing she’s ever held (probably) and she takes note of the way Abby hides a blush that reaches the tips of her ears.

She doesn’t comment, and instead says goodnight when Abby turns the light off in the living room.

#ellabs #spider verse #MY TWO FAVOURITE THINGS #this my MY niche

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