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mewhenimanangel · 4 months ago

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need that, hamzahthefantastic

prev pt 3*

—synopsis. hamzah invites you over to be in their new video

—warnings!: freaky uti, dry humping, undressing

notes 🫧: the fight was so tuff, i’m a die hard noob

—🐞

you parked your car outside hamzah’s house, fixing your lip gloss and zipping up your sweater before going to knock on his door.

him and martin invited you to be in one of their sims videos since mandy was on vacation and they knew you played as well.

it’s been around two weeks since you and hamzah made out in his car. since then, you’d been texting a lot more and you hung out twice with mandy and martin. though, you haven’t done anything to continue what he started.

hamzah answered the door with a grin, “come on in boi, we haven’t started playing yet. martin’s still connecting the camera and the mic” he closed the door behind you.

you felt something brush against your leg, looking down to see his cat rubbing itself on your leg. “awwww he’s so cute” you reached down to see if he’d let you pick him up.

when he did you held him in your arms and rubbed behind its ear. “which one is this?” you asked hamzah. “this is blue. red’s probably upstairs somewhere clawing at something.” he said, reaching over your arm to pet blue.

“i had to put a child lock on my fridge cause they figured out how to open it bruh” he shook his head.

you giggled looking at him with a smile.

“oh hey y/n, didn’t know you were here already. i just finished setting up the camera” martin said. “heyy” you put blue down on the floor, following martin.

“you ready to get your sims on?” he asked. “try freaking born ready” you giggled, hamzah following behind you.

you sat off to the side on the couch in hamzah’s office while they started the video. “hello everynyan-” hamzah interrupted him “dude what” “it’s like a meme like have you ever seen it? it’s like oh my gahhh” martin awkwardly repeated the video, hamzah stifling a laugh. “anyways we’re back and better than frigging ever” martin started off.

“now it has been a while-“ “definitely been a while-“ “right, a while since our regularly scheduled programming” hamzah said. “i hope you guys enjoyed the fight, we worked super hard literally for like six months”

“and you may realize we’re not in our usual spot, wanna tell them why that is?” martin said. “yes we are, we’re in my house this time because mandy’s on vacation and martin, feeling like a sad little lonely boy wanted to come over and play with me”

“yes mandy is gone. she is in spain right now because she doesn’t love me anymore. you know what they say, ‘go to spain when your lover’s a pain’. that’s why she hasn’t proposed to me yet in the big year of twenty twenty-five” martin went on. “literally nobody says that”

“but speaking of mandy, today we’re playing the sims. something we haven’t done in a long time and we need a little bit of a refresher” “yes, the sims is a girl game and since we don’t have mandy, we brought back up” hamzah added.

“yes, we obviously cannot play this game ourselves so we brought in another expert” they looked at each other before counting down from 3 and snapping their fingers. you knew they were gonna put some silly transition effect over this.

hamzah got up to get another chair for you “you good?” he asked you, making sure you were comfortable. and you nod your head before sitting between them. “hellurr. yes i am mandy’s back up today. because obviously, they don’t know what they’re doing so im taking over.”

“dude what is it with girls and the sims. only girls know how to play the sims” martin and hamzah riffed while you logged into your sims account.

“now this is your first time on here y/n, how do you feel in the presence of such greatness” martin asked. “well im honored to be on but i don’t know about ‘greatness’” you joked.

after two hours of creating sims and making them kill, cheat, fornicate, and find love, they ended the video. “banger video alert” hamzah turned the computer off. “uhh yeah that was really good if i do say so myself.” you pat yourself on the back.

the three of you lounged around hamzah’s living room for another hour after that. “are you guys hungry?” hamzah asked “i was gonna order some food” “actually i still have some packing to do for my flight tomorrow” martin sighed while playing with red. “oh shit right, i forgot” hamzah shrugged.

“i’m gonna head out now bro i’ll see you next week” he dapped hamzah up before doing the same to you. hamzah followed him out before closing the door behind him.

“i could eat” you shrugged and hamzah smiled. he pulled his phone out and ordered chick-fil-a, adding in your order.

you sat criss crossed on his couch as blue jumped into your lap, snuggling up against you and purring. “his ass definitely likes you” hamzah chuckled.

“do you want one?” he asked, coming back from his bedroom with a little jar of edibles. “sure” you reached to grab one with your nails.

hamzah grabbed one too and you tapped them together in a ‘cheers’ motion before eating them.

you soured your face and gagged “okay these are nasty oh my god” you laughed. “yeah they taste like butt but they do the job. the food should be here in like twenty minutes” he said, joining you on the couch.

you helped him review the footage from the video before he sent it to their editor. by now the edible was beginning to kick in and you were growing hungrier by the minute. his door bell rung and he got up to answer the door.

he came back holding the bags of food up with a smile on his face and plopped down onto the couch, this time much closer to you, legs and arms touching.

“fuck i’m starving. is that shit kicking in for you yet?” he asked, handing you your sandwich and fries. “oh it is” you grinned.

“have you ever had the mac and cheese?” he asked you. “no i usually go for the fries” “okay here you gotta try it.” he took some on his fork and put it in front of your mouth, paying close attention to the way your lips wrapped around the fork. “right?” he nod his head at your reaction.

“wait here, you’ve got some cheese on your mouth” he said, brushing your lip off with a napkin. “oh..oops” you giggled through your slowed words.

the two of you tore through your food, turning on family guy in the background. “that was so fucking good” you looked at him, eyes low and red.

“right…..i’m stuffed.” you slowly sipped on your milkshake. “do you ever think about what they do with the cut out pieces of fries?” you asked, just chatting. “i always wonder but they probably just throw them away.” he added.

you leaned back into the couch, cross legged, knee resting atop of hamzah’s as he put his arm on the back of the chair behind you.

he slowly rubbed your bare shoulder that peeked from under your hoodie that was falling off. you leaned your head back, resting it on his arm before looking at him.

“so, are we just never gonna talk about it again?” you addressed the elephant in the room. “hm?” he looked at you. “the kiss, are we just gonna act like it didn’t happen?”

“no of course not, i just wasn’t sure if i had made you uncomfortable so i didn’t wanna push anything again” he shrugged. “hamzah i kissed you back for a reason. i wanted it” you reassured. “and i still do” you said, looking away for a second.

he grabbed your chin, turning your face back to his before kissing you. you leaned into the kiss, rubbing your nails at the back of his neck.

the room filled with your mutual satisfied sounds, hamzah pushing his hand up under your sweater. he laid you down against the couch arm, keeping himself steady atop of you.

he slowly pulled the zip down, taking off your sweater off, you willed yourself to follow his lead, wrapping your arms around him. he broke the kiss, “you good, right?” he asked. “yeah, keep going. i want you, hamzah” you reassured. he kissed you again before lining kisses down your jawline and throat. he sucked down on your skin “wait don’t leave any hickeys” you said through a moan.

“too late” he let out a breathy laugh, making you giggle. hamzah let out a soft noise at the feeling of your nails rubbing through his hair. he slowly eased his up under your tank top, reaching up he grabbed a handful of bra. “here, hang on” you sat up, taking off your shirt and throwing it by your sweater. you fiddled with your bra clasp and eased the straps off your shoulders, letting your boobs rest.

hamzah stared at them, mouth agape. “that was a push up bra by the way, so don’t be too disappointed” you joked. “how would i be disappointed. you’re fucking hot” he pulled you atop of him and kissed you, hands firm on your ass.

he kissed down the middle of your chest before his mouth latched on. you sighed in satisfaction when he rolled his tongue.

you subconsciously grinded your hips on his, feeling him grow. “fuck” you winced. you stayed in that position for a while, dry humping each other as he kissed and sucked all over your upper body. you felt yourself getting needier by the minute. “hamzah-“ you started before being interrupted by a knocking on the door. “dude let me in, i forgot my wallet” it was martin.

you looked at hamzah before getting up. he kissed you “go to my bedroom, i’ll be there in a second” he told you and you smirked before leaving the room.

hamzah let him in “ugh thank you, i was worried you fell asleep” martin said, spotting his wallet on the side table.

hamzah looked over his shoulder realizing your shirt and bra were still thrown around on the couch. “imagine i went all the way to spain and forgot this just sitting here” martin chuckled before turning around, hamzah missing the chance to let him not to.

“oou you got chick-fil-a? anything left?” he looked inside a bag before he came face to face with your bra. he turned around, jaw dropped “dude!” he gasped and hamzah grinned.

lvryn

Liked by hamzahthefantasfic, clairedrakee and others

lvryn alright who pressed fast forward on my weekend 😂

mandys_iphone cute

user HELLO? is this a soft launch?????

ynlover omg this and how touchy they were in the sims video last month, they’re definitely dating ?)!(!;$:

— 🐞 the end

#hamzahthefanatasticxreader #hamzah fluff #hamzah fic #hamzah x reader #martin and hamzah #hamzah imagines #hamzahsmut #hamzah x y/n #hamzahthefantastic #thatmartinkid #slushy virus #slushy noobz

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daryltwdixon · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1

series masterlist Summary: In the time between when he took you to now, something changed. His hands grew gentler. Your fear turned quiet. And somewhere in the stillness, love kindled. || angst, trauma, captor!joel, raider!joel, a little bit of dark!joel, kidnapping, dark themes, morally gray comfort, Pre-Boston QZ, slow burn, I know this is different than what I usually write but just hear me out okay, mentions of reader's body being thin / starved, promise she won't hate him forever ||

“Come here.” His voice commands. Though it’s…soft. Not cruel, not mean. Not anymore.

You move without hesitation, the old floorboards warm beneath your skin as you settle in front of him. The fire crackles before you—not roaring, not needed, but kept. For cooking, maybe. For comfort. For the hush it brings. Its glow paints you both in amber and shadow. His old armchair groans when he shifts, knees spread, a hand already reaching.

His fingers are warm and gentle when they gather your hair, no longer forceful or angry. The brush is missing bristles, its wood worn soft with time. He drags it through your hair from scalp to ends in slow, even strokes. It used to make your chest seize. Now, it soothes.

The brush catches slightly on a knot near the base of your skull. Your breath hitches. Slowly, his fingers work to ease it loose, and the fire shifts—another log settling into embers, sending a soft crackle through the room.

Your eyes stay locked on the flames as you exhale. They flicker and split, burning low and orange, lapping up dry pine with bursts of ember. You watch one flare brighter than the rest, then fade back down.

It’s calming, in a way. Destruction that doesn’t scream anymore.

You don’t scream anymore either.

“No!”

“Stop fightin’ me, you stupid girl.” he said, hauling you inside the cabin. Your fingers scrabbled for the frame of the door, nails catching and tearing on splintered wood. It bit into your skin, but you held on anyway, fingertips screaming in equal protest as your lungs.

“Please!”

You thrashed in his grip, every breath a sob.“I’ll be good—I swear—I swear—I won’t tell anybody, just—please—”

He slammed the door shut with his boot, and the sound echoed through the empty house like a warning.

Then he dropped you.

Your knees hit the cold wood with a sharp crack that made you cry out again, but he didn’t flinch. He stepped around you, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the goddamn world. He set down his rifle next to the dusty chair, peeled off his gloves, and sat down. Dust exhaled into the air as he made himself comfortable, knees spreading as he sat forward.

“Come.”

You did no such thing.

“Please–” your voice broke as you cowered away, “please, just take me home. I won’t say anything. No one will come after you.”

His face turned cold, lip curling into a snarl as he reached forward for you, hauling you between his knees.

“No!” you yelped, bracing your hands on his shins. But to your surprise, he turned you around, your back to him as he held you by the hair.

“Stay.” he said, voice deep and rough before releasing you.

He rooted through his bag until he pulled out a battered old hairbrush. You saw it coming and tried to move, but he yanked you back by the collar.

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

That stopped you.

The first pass of the brush was rough—tugging, catching, dragging through the nest of knots like they were punishments. You whimpered, tears falling down your face, but he didn’t pause.

He kept brushing.

“You think they give a rat’s ass where you are, girl?” he grumbled, the brush catching on one especially nasty tangle. He tried to force the knot to loosen, your head snapping with every brush through.

“I saved you from those fuckers,” he growled.The brush yanked again and your breath hitched, a fresh tear tracking down your cheek.

“You took me,” you whispered, voice shaking.

The man didn’t answer right away. Another brutal pass through your hair. Another wince.

“I did what needed doin’.” he said, low and final. “You were already dead there. Damn skin and bones. They just hadn’t finished the job.”

You didn’t understand. Not really. Not then. You were too raw—scared down to your bones. His words were smoke in your ears. Meaningless. All you knew was the pain. The cold floor biting into your knees. The sharp tug of each stroke through your hair.

“You’re hurting me,” you whispered. Small. Barely there.

But he paused.

His hand came to the nape of your neck, and you flinched—but he didn’t grab. Instead, he cupped your hair in his calloused palm, bracing it so he could brush again without jerking your head back anymore. It was still rough, but no longer violent.

Eventually, the brush stopped. You didn’t move besides the trembling in your body, tense in fearful anticipation.

He didn’t say a word. Just took your hair again, fingers scraping the back of your neck as he pulled it together. Goosebumps rippled across your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut.

The only sounds in the room were the pull of your hair being gathered and your own quiet sniffles, the rustling of his pack. He dug for something, muttering low under his breath as he pulled out a strip of some sort of material. He fastened your hair and let it drop back down onto your spine. Without thinking, you reached back to feel it.

Your hair was pulled neatly into a three-plait braid, tied off at the end with some kind of string—maybe leather. Maybe cloth. It didn’t matter. It was tight. Secure.

Your fingers lingered over it, uncertain.

“Look at me.” His voice cut through the stillness—quiet, but sharp. It made your stomach lurch.

You stayed staring at the cold, empty hearth.

“Look at me, girl.” More firm now. A command.

You sniffled again before hesitantly looking over your shoulder.

He was scary. Broad and thick and scarred. His worn, weathered face carved by years of hard living. There was a horizontal scar deep across the bridge of his nose. His jaw was clenched, the muscle twitching with restrained fury. There was a permanent crease between his brows, like the world had never given him a reason to relax.

He looked like violence wrapped in denim and flannel.

But God—He was beautiful.

Not soft, not safe. But striking in a way that made your throat tighten. His features were sharp and grounded, the kind of face you’d see in an old war photograph, kept in someone’s wallet long after the man was gone. There was something ancient in the set of his mouth. Something sad, maybe.

And his eyes. Hazel, a thousand colors flecked in them: gold, green, something earthy. For a moment, you wondered what they’d look like on a summer’s day.

Then he pointed to the floor beneath you.

“This is your home now,” he said, voice cold and sure. “You run, you try anything—I will find you. If you don’t do as I say, there will be consequences. Do you hear me?”

You swallowed, breath shivering as his words soaked into your skin like ice water.

“When I speak, you answer, girl.”

Your lips parted. You couldn’t think. Could barely form sound. The fear was still there—thick, in your lungs—but underneath it, something else was rising. Something wrong.

“Please, sir,” you whispered. “Why are you doing this? Please take me home.”

His face didn’t change. But his eyes—they dimmed a little. Like you’d said something that hurt.Or maybe something he didn’t want to admit was true.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Just looked at you.

And then, quiet and final:

“I saved you.”

The minute he stepped into another room, you ran.

It didn’t matter that your feet were bare, already torn open from the icy ground and jagged underbrush of late winter. It didn’t matter that every root, every thorn, seemed hellbent on keeping you close—slashing, snagging, clawing at your legs like the woods themselves belonged to him.

It didn’t matter that you had no idea where you were.

When he’d taken you, your panic had been so complete, so loud, that he’d had to knock you out just to haul you over his shoulder. You remembered the swing of his elbow. The flash of sky. Then nothing. Just waking up at the edge of this old cornfield, body limp against his back as he brought you here.

But now—now your hands were outstretched, heart slamming in your chest as the tree line formed in front of you.

Freedom.Freedom!

You could almost taste it. Cold air in your lungs. Your braid whipping behind you, your knees buckling but still moving, still flying toward the shadows of the woods, the camouflage it would give you. Even if you got lost. Even if you died of frostbite. You’d take that over this.

But fate had never been that kind to you.

A shadow surged behind you. Too fast. You didn’t even have time to scream before an arm looped tight around your waist, hauling you backward mid-step. Your body crashed against his hard chest, heavy breath, arms like chains locking you in place.

“Let me go!” you shrieked, thrashing in his grip. Your nails clawed at whatever you could reach—his arm, his coat, the skin beneath. “GET OFF ME!”

“Stop it—” his voice was a harsh bark in your ear. “Stop.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You threw your elbow back, aiming for anything that would give. You screamed like an animal, legs kicking, dirt flying beneath you.

Then your momentum shifted and he lost his footing. You both went down hard, bodies hitting the cold ground in a tangle of limbs and breath and fury. He landed on top of you, the weight of him knocking the air from your lungs. You tried to crawl forward, to squirm away, but his hand slammed against the dirt beside your head, pinning you there. His other arm looped under your chest, dragging you back into his body as you bucked and sobbed.

“Get off me!” you sobbed. “Let me GO! You’re a monster—you’re a fucking monster—”

“I told you not to run,” he snarled, face pressed to the side of your head. “I told you.”

You writhed harder, but he held you firm. His grip was bruising. His breath hit your cheek in hot, angry bursts.

“Dammit, girl. I told you not to make me do this.” he growled, and suddenly his weight was off of you, but as you tried to pull yourself up, something hit the back of your head.

And suddenly, there was nothing.

Your head throbbed.

Not just pain—a pressure. Like the inside of your skull was pulsing against your skin, trying to split itself open. A migraine made of lightning. Every breath sent a bolt of nausea down your spine.

You tried to move, to shift onto your side, but something stopped you short. Your arms tugged, and a scraping sound echoed beside you. Your wrists were bound, fabric biting at tender skin, looped through the cold metal bars of the rusted radiator beside you. One good yank and you’d dislocate something—but you tried anyway.

Panic flooded in like water through a crack.

You kicked, scrambled, your back pressing flat to the wall, shoulder blades scraping rough drywall. The room spun too fast, too bright, too loud, and your stomach turned as you realized the weight of the restraint wasn’t going anywhere.

You screamed.

It was a ragged, broken sound, high and wet and animal.

“LET ME GO!”

No one answered.

You screamed again anyway, throat raw, vision doubled, bile creeping into your mouth.

There was a mattress in the corner, no frame, no sheets. A chipped dresser near the boarded window. A dusty mirror leaning against the wall, turned away. This house was dead, abandoned, stripped of anything good.

You curled tighter into the corner, knees drawn up, arms pinned awkwardly by the ties at your wrists. Your breathing was shallow, rapid. You were crying and you barely realized it.

But above the sound of your shallow sobs, you heard something more terrifying. Heavy footfalls on the hardwood, floorboards creaking, and you flinched when the door opened. It creaked on warped hinges and let in a blade of silver light from the hallway.

He saw you curled there, eyes wild, lip trembling, and his mouth twitched—but it didn’t turn cruel. Didn’t even turn cold. It was something else. Weariness, maybe. Or guilt.

You hoped it was guilt.

“I brought food,” he said simply.

You lurched backward into the wall as he moved towards you with a tray in hand. Your legs kicked uselessly at the floorboards, and your voice exploded out of you before you could stop it.

“Don’t touch me!”

He didn’t. Just crouched low by the door, setting down a dented metal cup and a chipped plate. Bread. Dried meat. A few slices of canned peaches still glistening in syrup.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, slow and quiet.

“You did hurt me,” you spat, voice cracking. “You fucking hit me—!”

“I know.” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I’m sorry about your head. I brought some painkillers.”

You didn’t believe a word of his sorries. But your eyes were already on the cup of water. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. You hated him. You hated him. But you were so thirsty it felt like your chest was full of sand.

He picked up the cup, took a long sip, then held it out to you.

“Not poisoned,” he said quietly, holding it toward you.

You didn’t move. Just glared. But your hands were bound, you couldn’t take it. So he inched closer, slow like approaching a scared animal.

“I’m gonna bring it to your mouth. Understand?”

You said nothing, but he moved anyway.

The rim touched your lips. You almost jerked away. But then—your tongue worked before your mind did, poking out to touch the cold of the rim of the cup. You nearly let out a sigh of relief, your mouth opening and throat soothing. The water was lukewarm and a little metallic, but it was clean. You drank, coughing halfway through but gulping it anyway.

When you finished, he set the cup down and picked up a slice of bread.

You clamped your jaw shut.

There was a long pause. He sighed, setting down the food again.

“What’s your name?”

Your head throbbed harder as your teeth clenched. He sighed again.

“I tied you up ‘cause I had to,” he said. “You ran. You wouldn’t listen.”

You didn’t respond. You just rolled your eyes, tears shining there, looking out into the sky that beckoned to you out the windows.

“You can live here,” he continued, voice quieter. “We can live here. It’s quiet. Ground’s good for crops. Don’t think this area gets many Infected. Found a well, too.”

Then his voice hardened slightly, just enough to cut through the quiet.

“But there are rules, girl.”

Your head snapped toward him. Your eyes locked with his in a glare that was wet and burning. His gaze didn’t flinch. There was no cruelty. Just seriousness. Like he was stating the facts of gravity.

“You don’t run. You don’t fight me. And you don’t lie.”

You swallowed dryly, throat raw. Then he started to stand, turning away from you.

Your voice stopped him. Barely a whisper. “Are you going to…”

The words died before they could reach your lips. Your stomach knotted hard, rising with nausea. You knew what you were asking. You just couldn’t say it.

He paused, back still to you.

“I ain’t gonna touch you,” he said. “Not unless you ask.”

And something in you snapped.

Your foot lashed out, catching the plate. It skittered across the floor and slammed against the toe of his boot with a loud, hollow clatter.

“Don’t go counting the days, asshole,” you snarled. “I’m not your fucking pet.”

He sighed. Not angry. Just tired. He crouched to pick up the plate, glancing back at you one last time.

“The name’s Joel,” he said quietly, and then added, “Goodnight.”

You didn’t eat.

Not the first day, or the second. He did move the mattress from the opposite corner to underneath you, though. And brought you a blanket. Small comforts. You still hated him for all of it.

He kept bringing you food—bread, dried fruit, whatever he could find—but you stared at the far wall, your lips tight, your arms limp at your sides. The knot at your wrists chafed worse now. The fabric was stiff with blood. But you didn’t complain. You didn’t speak. You wouldn’t give him that.

You were tired, but not hungry. Not for anything he brought you.

On the third night, he opened the door again. This time, the smell hit you before he even spoke.

Roasted meat. Maybe rabbit or deer.

Your stomach cramped violently, and you hated it. Hated the way your body responded, hated the betrayal of saliva in your mouth. You hated him. More than ever.

Joel crouched beside you, setting down a plate and a tin cup. You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then: “You’re not starvin’ yourself,” he muttered. “Not here.”

You clamped your jaw shut, but your stomach groaned in betrayal.

The scent from the plate was thick and nauseating from your intense hunger. The meat smelled like it was cooked in its own fat, crisp at the edges, seasoned with something smoky and wild. It smelled like life. It smelled like care.

You didn’t move. Then suddenly, the mattress shifted beneath you.

Joel’s hand grabbed your face. And not gently.

His fingers dug into your cheeks, tilting your head back hard enough to make your neck pop. You squirmed, instinct kicking in, but your hands were tied, and his grip was firm.

You snarled, a sound more beast than girl.

Joel’s face was close now. Too close. His voice was rough and low and full of something tight.

“You wanna die here?” he snapped. “You think that’s gonna prove something?”

You tried in vain to shake your head out of his grasp, but he was stronger.

“I ain’t gonna let you waste away ‘cause you’re feelin’ proud. You hear me?”

He grabbed a piece of meat off the plate and God, it looked so juicy, still steaming, and shoved it toward your mouth.

You fought it. Lips closed, jaw locked.

“Open.”

You didn’t.

Then his voice broke, barely above a whisper.

“Don’t make me do this.”

It was the way he said it. Like he wasn’t angry anymore, just tired. Like he was pleading, but didn’t know how.

You went still.

Slowly, shaking and furious, you opened your mouth.

He slid the food between your lips.

You chewed as tears stung your eyes. The flavor hit your tongue and your body melted around it. It was good. It was so good it hurt.

You hated him for it. Hated him for making you want the next bite. But when he offered it, you took it, lips barely grazing the tips of his fingers. He released your face as you accepted more. He fed you in silence, one bite at a time. Like you were something fragile. Like you might break in his hands.

When the food was gone, he lifted the tin cup to your lips. You drank.

Then you leaned back against the wall, chest heaving like you’d outrun something you couldn’t see. The plate was empty, the ache in your belly softer now.

Joel wiped his hands on his jeans and sat back across from you.

He didn’t speak. There was no smirk, no gloating, just those unreadable eyes on you. And for the first time, you felt something in your chest uncoil. It might not have been warmth or safety, but it was a kind of stillness.

Like surrender. Like a storm just passed.

“I’m gonna boil some water for a bath, alright?” he said, voice low, softer than it had any right to be. He stood slowly, the plate now empty between you. He watched you for a beat longer than you liked, then turned toward the door.

Your eyes followed him as he moved, as he reached for the knob. And before you could stop yourself—before you could remind yourself not to care—you spoke.

“Why are you doing this?”

He paused.

Didn’t turn around. Just looked out the small window beside the old door frame, face lost in shadow.

For a moment, you thought he might answer. But then his hand fell to the knob, turned it, and he stepped out without a word. You sat there, silent. Drowsy.

The food in your belly settled heavy and slow, a warmth you despised your body for enjoying. It made your eyelids heavy, your thoughts fogged. You were still tied, still bruised—but your body was full for the first time in days. Maybe weeks, really.

By the time he came back, you couldn’t even summon the energy to fight. The bindings at your wrist tugged gently as he pulled you to your feet, his grip firm around your forearm.

“Come on now,” Joel murmured. “Nice and easy.”

The hallway was dim. The floor cold under your bare feet. He guided you with careful pressure, down a few steps and into a narrow bathroom—walls faded yellow, mirror cracked in the corner, clawfoot tub steaming gently in the center of the room.

That’s when your mind caught up. You realized what this meant.

You stiffened. Began to squirm, breath picking up fast. He caught your movement instantly, hands tightening just enough to still you.

“Hey.” His voice dropped low in warning.

“I’m gonna untie these, alright?” He nodded toward your wrists. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

You opened your mouth—panic sparking again—but he cut you off, though not unkindly.

“I’m leavin’ you in here. Alone. Against my better judgment.”

That made you pause.

Your eyes met his—wide, wary. And again, he looked so much bigger. You thought of how easily he’d thrown you over his shoulder. How quickly he’d knocked you down in the woods. How he could still do it now, even tired, even softened.

You swallowed, but eventually you nodded.

“You’ll be good?” he asked.

Your voice came out small. “I’ll be good.”

His gaze held yours for a second longer, like he was searching for the truth in it.

Then his hands softened and he began to untie you. The rope fell away from your wrists with a soft tug. Your skin stung where it had rubbed raw, but you didn’t look down. You could barely will your body to move.

Joel straightened.

“I’ll be right outside,” he said. “Don’t make me come in after you.”

And then he left.

The door shut behind him, and you stood there, breathing. Still.

Steam curled in the cold air, and the smell of the soap, old, sharp, something like cedar, lingered near the tub. Your fingers ached. Your knees were stiff. But the water…

It looked so inviting.

You stepped in slowly after you undressed, the warmth biting at your skin in the best way. It climbed up your calves, over your thighs, and then you sank into it—sighing before you could stop yourself. Like your body had given in before your heart could.

The soap was just a sliver, set beside the tub in an old chipped dish. You picked it up with shaky fingers and began to scrub—at the dirt, the blood, the sweat from days of fear.

You didn’t cry. You just kept washing. Kept breathing.

Kept wondering why it felt more like being forgiven than being cleaned.

The soap slipped from your fingers and clattered softly against the porcelain edge of the tub. It echoed in the small room like a slap.

That was when your shoulders started to shake.

At first, it was just a breath. A short, sharp inhale that caught in your throat like something you'd forgotten to swallow. Then another. And another. Until your chest was heaving, and the tears were falling before you could stop them.

You pressed your face into your hands. Tried to muffle the sound. But the sob escaped anyway—wet and broken, punched straight from your lungs like a wound torn back open.

You hated him.

God, you hated him.

You hated how he fed you, how he touched you gently like it made any of this okay. Yes, he’d been rough with you at first—grabbed too hard, snapped too fast, yanked you around like you were a problem to solve instead of a person. But that was before. Before you began to understand him better. Before his cruelty dulled into silence, into careful hands and fewer threats. Before the rhythm of the house made space for you. He let you bathe. Gave you warmth. Let you sleep on a mattress like you were some stray dog he’d half-decided to care for.

You hated how your body was starting to believe it was safe here.

You curled tighter into the water, forehead resting against your knees as the tub slowly cooled around you. Steam faded into the air. The silence pressed against your ears.

And in that silence, you made a promise.

The second he leaves you alone again, you’ll go. No plan, no food, no map—just go. Even if it kills you.

Better to die in the trees than stay in this house and forget what the outside felt like.Better to be free for one breath than trapped for the rest of your life.

You wiped at your eyes with the edge of your palm and sat up straighter.

No more crying.

You would play along. You’d dry off, let him lead you back to that corner, let him tie your wrists again if he had to. You’d nod. You’d keep your voice soft.

And the second he trusted you—

You’d run.

#that house in nebraska #tlou #the last of us #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller fic #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfic #tlou joel #joel tlou

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nemo-writes · 2 months ago

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𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter three

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: a terrifyingly familiar presence breaches your last safe space, and now a simple and heartfelt gesture becomes a violation. in the aftermath, fear finally makes you reach out for help.

⤿ warning(s): stalking, panic attacks & unhealthy coping mechanisms.

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2.7k

The day begins the same way the last three have: 05:30, kettle on, one level tablespoon of Assam spooned into the infuser. While the water climbs toward a boil you unlock your phone, already braced for what waits. A fresh number—there is always a fresh number—has delivered its dawn bulletin:

Left at 05:01 yesterday.

Early bird. Porch light flickered twice—loose bulb?

Navy coat looks sharp against the fog, pretty girl.

They never mention the hospital, never a word about ORs or co-worker names. The watcher keeps to the edges of your private life, and somehow that makes the trespass worse. You capture a screenshot, block the number, and delete the thread. The image joins dozens of others in the hidden laptop folder named Archive—date‑stamped, time‑stamped, waiting for the moment you finally believe the police will do more than shrug.

Four‑minutes steep exactly. Mug warmed. First swallow. Routine: a ladder you climb every morning. Eggs scrambled ninety seconds, plate rinsed, shower seven minutes. Before dressing, you check the tiny motion‑sensor camera you mounted inside the apartment entryway two nights ago; its LED blinks a steady red reassurance. The matching camera on the fire‑escape window does the same. No motion alerts overnight. Still, you test the deadbolt twice and angle the hall chair beneath the knob until you return.

The drive is identical to yesterday’s and the day before—same streets, same mirror checks at every light. No car follows twice, but you look anyway. At 06:50 you badge through the employee entrance. Stepping into hospital feels like sliding into armor: fluorescent lights, antiseptic bite, the hum of vents. The messages have never followed you here.

You adjust your usual gray scrubs and square your clipboard. Pre‑op checklist in your left hand, suture cart in your right, you call out “sponge count zero” with the same crisp authority as always. But small hesitations creep in: rereading the cefazolin vial, tapping the clock twice to verify time‑outs.

Margot’s eyes track each pause. She eventually corners you by the blanket warmer.

“Nightmares?” she asks, voice low.

“Just the usual insomnia,” you answer, pinching your lower lip. A nervous habit. Your smile feels brittle, but it holds.

Fin notices too; his jokes grow louder, as though volume can fill the quiet shadow clinging to you. Jules slips extra Hershey Kisses into your scrub pocket. Even Dr. Garcia joins in by firing off sarcasm like covering fire whenever an intern looks as if they might ask why your phone stays face‑down on the desk, silent yet weighty.

Slowly but surely, the afternoon bleeds into evening.

You finish vitals, sign the narcotics log, and at 19:04 bypass the stairwell that leads to the roof—no silhouettes against twilight tonight. Instead you head straight for the lot, head down, keys ready.

The cameras in your apartment greet you with their steady red eyes when you arrive. Door locked, sweep performed—closet, shower, under bed—all clear. Only then do you change into a soft purple T‑shirt and loose pants. You have long since stopped parading around in your underwear.

The phone buzzes the moment the fabric falls over your head. New number:

Purple again. My favorite.

You freeze. Curtains closed, lights low—and still they see. Screenshot. Block. Delete. You drag the dining chair beneath the doorknob and place the kitchen scissors back on the nightstand, steel glinting like a talisman. Then, a mug of valerian tea, strong enough to taste like soil, goes down in three determined gulps.

Lying in bed, you count the protections: two cameras, one chair brace, scissors within reach, every screenshot archived. Routine is armor. Repetition is a prayer. You breathe in for four, out for eight, the same cadence you teach anxious PACU patients, and tell yourself that as long as the messages stay outside the hospital walls, the armor will hold.

Sleep comes in splinters, broken by phantom creaks and imagined footsteps. At 02:47 you wake up, heart sprinting, and check the camera feed: empty hallway, silent fire escape. Dawn is only a few hours away. Soon the kettle will hiss, the tea will steep for exactly four minutes, and another text will arrive—about a porch light or the time you start your car—but never about scalpels, never about sponge counts.

Despite the hour, you’re halfway through wiping down the already‑clean kitchen counter—busywork to quiet the apartment’s hush—when your phone vibrates. For once the screen doesn’t show an unknown number.

It’s Jack.

Haven’t seen you on the roof in a bit. Everything okay?

The text lands like a gentle hand on your chest. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat, thumb hovering. Finally you type back:

I’m alright—just busy. See you tomorrow?

Three dots pulse, then: Works for me. Sunrise tea?

He doesn’t mention anything about the hour or how you should be asleep and not messaging back. You’re grateful.

Sunrise tea, you confirm, and set the phone facedown.

Pacing the kitchen, you notice how full the fridge is: a dozen nearly‑dated eggs, chicken thighs you’d planned to roast, wilting cilantro, limes, onions, and two unopened cans of black beans. You haven’t cooked a proper meal since the messages started; take‑out cartons and tea have been enough to survive. Now the sight of real food sparks something steadier than dread—a need to do, to give.

An apology, you decide, should be edible.

You wash your hands, set the chicken on the board, and fall into the rhythm your muscles remember: trim fat, score skin, rub with salt, cumin, smoked paprika. Onions sizzle in the cast‑iron, releasing a sweetness that chases the apartment’s stale anxiety. Beans simmer with serrano and garlic; rice toasts before absorbing broth. Cilantro stems thunk under the knife; lime zest perfumes the steam fogging the window.

When everything’s done you portion a generous serving into a sturdy glass container, your favourite one: rice pilaf on one side, glossy black beans on the other, two pieces of golden‑skinned chicken nestled on top. Into a tiny jar goes some honey‑lime dressing. You label the lid in block letters—Jack—and slide the meal into one of your spare tote bags.

The apartment smells of cumin and toasted garlic, of normal life. The cameras still blink red, the chair still braces the door, the scissors still gleam, but cooking has threaded warmth through every corner. You finish the last dish, the one’s that’s for you, dry your hands, and stand for a moment in the quiet kitchen, breathing in the proof that you can still create comfort instead of just barricades.

Tomorrow at dawn you’ll climb to the roof, hand Jack the container, and share five minutes of sky. Routine will tighten around you again, one careful knot at a time—but tonight you fall back asleep with the scent of lime and cilantro on your pillow, and relief, thin but real, settles in your chest like steam escaping a cooling pot.

. . .

You arrive at the hospital just past sunrise, thermos in one hand, tote slung over your shoulder, and—for once—a real, living sense of calm beneath your ribs. Not the fragile kind you usually glue together with caffeine and a tight jaw, but something gentler, something earned. You even caught a pocket of golden morning light in the parking lot, the kind that made the hospital look almost soft at the edges.

Dr. Miller catches sight of you just as you pass the nurse’s station. He’s leaning against the counter, coffee in one hand, chatting with a pair of interns, but pauses when he sees you. His eyebrows lift, and he gives a slow, amused smile. “Well, you look dangerously close to content. Should I be worried?”

You huff a laugh, smoothing your coat as you badge in. “Don’t start rumors, Dr. Miller.”

He points at the canvas tote on your shoulder. “Big plans?”

You nod once. “End of shift.”

He doesn’t ask more, just grins, and you take that grin with you like a good omen. The rest of the day moves at a steady clip: vitals to log, meds to verify, a code yellow that resolves without anyone crying. You let yourself coast on the rhythm of it, not in that desperate, overcompensating way you usually do, but in a way that feels like a return to something—like an exhale.

You slip into the lounge at 18:45, already imagining the click of the container’s lid, the familiar smell of the garlic and cumin, the soft weight of it in your hands as you climb the stairwell to the roof. You open as the lights inside flickers to life, cold and blue, attention on the glass container exactly where you left it, lid on, untouched.

Except—no. Something’s wrong.

The lid is snapped shut, perfectly aligned. The container looks full. But it isn’t. You can feel it before you even lift it—something in the tilt, the balance. Your stomach lurches as you peel the lid off and confirm what you already know. The food is gone. Not spilled. Not disturbed. Not even a forkful left to scrape from the edges. Just... empty. Clean. Wiped down.

A rare mix of anger, rare but hot, pulses against your ribcage, but before you can storm out and demand answers, you feel the paper crumpled under the container. Your breath stops. It’s your note—the one you’d carefully taped to the top that morning: NOT FOR GENERAL CONSUMPTION. HANDS OFF GREMLINS, it reads in your blocky caps. But now that line has been crossed out in thick, decisive strokes. And underneath it, slanted and dark and horrifyingly familiar:

That was great, thanks pretty girl.

The world tilts. Your lungs forget how to work. You’ve seen that name before—only in texts, never spoken, never written. Anonymous. Cryptic. Repetitive. A whisper against your spine on nights when the lights were off and your phone lit up with unknown numbers. But this—this isn’t a text. This is here. This is your space, your name, your cooking, your boundary, and someone has walked right through it with ink-stained hands and a stomach full of what you made with care.

A hot flush crawls up your neck, floods your ears. You stagger back a step and catch yourself on the counter. The container slips from your hand and hits the lounge table with a muted thud. The silence in the room turns sharp.

Then, you shove the fridge shut. The door clangs and rattles in its frame. The room feels like it’s shrinking, like the air has gone sour, too full of other people’s breath. You snatch the note and crush it in your hand. Your teeth clench so hard your jaw pops. You don’t remember turning, but you’re already out the door, slamming into the corridor.

Fin is halfway down the hall with a tablet in hand. He startles and drops it when you barrel past. “Boss? Are you okay—?”

You don’t hear him. You don’t answer. The world has narrowed to one screaming thought: Find Gloria. Now. You need the Chief Medical Officer, need her badge, her keys, her authority. She can pull the security feeds. She can call the police. She can make this stop.

You’re moving before you think to move, feet pounding the tile, vision blurring at the edges. You don’t realize you’re shaking until your elbow clips the corner of the nurse’s station and jolts you. Jules tries to intercept you, her mouth forming your name in alarm, but you dodge past. Margot reaches out, grabs your arm, and for a second your momentum dies.

“What happened?” she demands, voice low, sharp, anchoring.

You look at her. You try to speak. Nothing. Just breathless silence. Then, rasping through a throat too tight to breathe, you say, “Need Gloria.”

She gets it instantly. Her eyes go cold. She lets you go. Already calling instructions behind you as you sprint toward the elevators.

Your fingers hurt. You look down and realize the note is still balled in your fist, crushed so tightly your nails have dug half-moons into your skin. The static in your head has turned into a roar. You feel cracked open, like your worst fear has been confirmed and now all your secrets are leaking out of you for the world to see. All this time, you thought if you could just hold on—just stay composed, stay ahead, stay vigilant—you could keep this from touching the parts of your life that mattered. But now it has. Now it’s here. The hospital was supposed to be your safe place, your fortress. But someone breached it.

The elevator doors open. Thankfully, nothing but an empty gurney is inside. You step in without hesitation, eyes fixed forward, spine locked. You don't even blink when the doors slide shut.

You get out the seconds the doors open and round the corner toward Administration so fast the world blurs, shoulders locked, chest heaving, pulse hammering in your ears so loud it drowns out thought. You barely register the sound of a door opening until a figure steps out from the consult room ahead—short but solid, dreadlocks brushing her shoulders, clipboard hugged tight to her chest.

You collide before either of you can brake.

Papers scatter like startled birds. A pen skitters across the tile and bounces under the nearest corner.

“Whoa—hey!” Kiara grabs you, steady hands catching your elbows before you fall.

“Slow down, honey,” she says, trying for lightness. “What—”

Then she sees your face.

Whatever was holding you together unravels in a blink. Your eyes fill, your mouth opens, but nothing coherent makes it past your lips. The crushed note slips from your hand, landing between you. The marker-scrawled name glares up from the paper like a fresh wound.

Kiara’s clipboard hits the floor beside it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she breathes.

Her arms come around you before you can bolt or speak or even breathe. And the second she does, the sob rips out of you—gut-deep, involuntary, raw. You bury your face against her soft sweater and shake, fists twisted in the soft cotton, the fabric quickly going damp with tears. Your legs threaten to give. Kiara cradles the back of your head like she would a grief-stricken mother in a quiet room, voice low and steady in your ear.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay. Breathe with me. In, two, three…that’s it. Out, two, three.”

You try. You try to follow her rhythm even as your chest jerks, lungs refusing to cooperate, every breath full of glass. The hallway seems to narrow around you, fluorescent lights too sharp, voices too distant, the floor too unsteady beneath your feet.

You gasp, trying to speak—Gloria, fridge, note—but your tongue won’t work. The words hit the back of your throat and collapse.

Kiara doesn’t push. She doesn’t ask. Not yet.

She bends, scoops the note up from the floor, her arm never leaving your shoulders. Her eyes flick over the overwritten scrawl. Her expression goes from gentle to granite.

“Okay,” she says, voice gone iron. “We’re taking this to Gloria. Right now.”

It’s almost scary how easily she connects the dots without a single ounce of context. For now, you can only nod, your body still trembling, your mind clawing for control that just isn’t there anymore. But you’re not alone. Kiara keeps an arm firmly around you as she pulls her phone from her pocket, dials with one hand, presses it to her ear.

“Gloria? Yes, it’s Kiara. I have an urgent security issue. Clear your office.”

A pause. Then a quiet “Thanks.” She ends the call, squeezes your arm, and begins steering you gently toward the elevators.

“She’s waiting. Margot’s on her way too,” Kiara tells you as she guides you through the hallway.

You nod again, unable to speak, but this time it’s not empty. The words aren’t caught in panic—they’re being held for you, steadied. And for the first time since the messages started, since the stalking began, since the fear turned chronic and tight and unseen—something inside you loosens.

Not gone. But held.

Held by hands stronger than your own.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #older reader #small age-gap

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thedilfdiaries · 1 year ago

Text

How quickly can you take your clothes off, pop quiz

Joel Miller x reader

Masterlist

Wordcount

Summary: The enemies to lovers/one bed/forced close proximity/light grumpy x sunshine/patrol partner fic no one asked for.

Warnings: 18+, unprotected p in v, grumpy joel, reader is called "the new kid", reader has breasts but no physical description. It's more tension filled fluffy bickering than smut, but I couldn't help adding a little drop of it in.

Notes: I've been so sick this weekend and was strictly supposed to read fic, but this idea came to me anyway, so I queued it up. I hope you like them as much as I loved writing this. Ty @saradika-graphics , what would we all do without you?

Evening, Day 1

As you fasten the straps of your worn-out boots, the reality of your first patrol with Joel Miller, the cornerstone of Jackson's defence, settles in. You've heard stories about his exploits, and you're determined to prove your worth, that you're more than just another mouth to feed.

The morning air is crisp as you meet Joel by the gate. He grunts a greeting, his eyes scanning the perimeter with practiced vigilance. You fall into step beside him, the weight of your rifle a comfort against your shoulder.

"So, where are we headed?" you ask, trying to break the ice.

Joel's response is terse as he nods in front of himself. "Out there."

You nod, swallowing your disappointment and try again. "So, Joel, I've been studying the maps, and I think if we—"

"Save your breath. We'll check the traps, clear any infected, and get back before dark. That's the plan."

You nod, a little deflated but still hopeful. "Got it.” You press your lips together, taking his words to heart.

The rest of the patrol is silent, save for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional direction from Joel. You're vigilant, alert, and when you spot a tripwire, you quickly signal to him, earning a curt nod of approval. But upon returning to Jackson, you go to sign out in the patrol book, and your brows furrow at the entry Joel has already made.

Patrol Log - Jackson Settlement

Date: Indeterminate, Outbreak

Pair: Joel Miller/The New Kid

Entry Signout: All clear minus the constant chatterbox that seems to think their voice is a homing beacon for every clicker in a ten-mile radius. - J

You didn't even talk that much. You roll your eyes and close the book a little too hard.

Evening, Day 2

You meet Joel at the gate once more, you notice a flicker of surprise in his eyes when you simply nod in greeting, foregoing the usual stream of words. He grunts in response. You're determined to show him you're not just the “constant chatterbox" he'd written about. You've spent the day replaying his words in your head, using them as fuel to prove your mettle.

—

"Up ahead, there's a blind spot by that old truck. Cover me while I check it out."

You nod, taking up position without hesitation.

As he disappears behind the rusted vehicle, your heart pounds in your chest. Every sound is amplified in the stillness of the evening—the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves in the wind, and then a low growl that sends a chill down your spine. An infected emerges from the underbrush, its eyes locked onto Joel's last known location. Without missing a beat, you take aim and fire—a clean shot that drops it instantly.

Joel reappears just as quickly as he vanished, his expression one of mild surprise at your swift action. "Nice shot," he grunts begrudgingly before moving on as if nothing happened. A small victory for you; perhaps he's not entirely immune to your efforts after all.

The adrenaline from the encounter with the infected is still coursing through your veins as you and Joel continue your patrol. His rare compliment echoes in your mind, fueling your determination to prove yourself further.

As you make your way back to Jackson, you can't help but feel a sense of accomplishment. You've not only held your own but also protected Joel's back when it counted.

Back at the settlement, you hurry to the patrol book before Joel can beat you to it.

Patrol with Grumpy McGrumpface complete. All infected cleared. Check back in a few days. And for the record, this chatterbox saved our asses tonight. Maybe next time, you'll remember to check your blind spots—and your attitude.

You add a little smiley face next to your entry, a playful jab at his perpetual grumpiness.

As you walk away from the book, you glance back to see Joel reading your entry, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It's a small crack in his tough exterior, and it gives you hope that there's more to Joel Miller than he lets on.

Evening, Day 3

The air is tense as you approach the gate, the familiar silhouette of Joel Miller waiting for you. There's a certain expectation hanging between you two, a silent challenge that has been building since your last patrol. You greet him with a nod, the same flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by his usual stoic expression.

As you set out, the landscape feels different, almost as if it's holding its breath. You're more attuned to the subtle shifts in the wind, the way the light filters through the trees, and the distant sounds that could signal danger. You move with a newfound confidence, your steps sure and quiet, your senses heightened.

We're going to sweep the old high school today," Joel says, breaking the silence. It's the most he's volunteered about the day's plan, and you take it as a sign of trust, however small.

You acknowledge his words with a simple, "Understood," and follow him towards the dilapidated building that looms in the distance. The structure has seen better days, its windows shattered, the playground overtaken by nature, a haunting reminder of a world that once was.

As you approach, you signal for Joel to hold position while you scout ahead. You move with caution, your eyes scanning for any signs of movement. The silence is broken only by the creaking of a swing, swaying gently in the breeze.

You clear the perimeter, finding no immediate threats, and signal Joel to advance. Together, you methodically clear the classrooms, the gymnasium, and the cafeteria.

As the sun begins its descent, casting long shadows across the desolate high school, you and Joel finish securing the premises. The tension between you has simmered down to a low hum. It's eerie how the remnants of childhood laughter still linger among the abandoned desks and faded educational posters. You can't help but wonder what became of the students and teachers who once filled these halls with life.

"All clear," you report, as you finish sweeping the last room, your voice echoing through the empty halls.

Joel grunts in agreement, his eyes lingering on the swing set outside, its melancholic creaking a stark contrast to the silence that now fills the school. "Let's head back. It's getting dark."

You nod, but as you turn to leave, a sudden storm rolls in, the sky turning an ominous shade of grey. The wind howls through the broken windows, whipping up leaves and debris in a frenzied dance. Within moments, the heavens open up, unleashing a torrential downpour that shows no signs of letting up.

"Damn it," Joel mutters under his breath, his gaze fixed on the rapidly deteriorating weather outside. "We ain't makin it back to Jackson in this."

Your heart sinks at his words. The high school isn't equipped for an overnight stay—at least not comfortably—and sharing close quarters with Joel Miller is an entirely different kind of danger than what you've faced so far today. But there's no other choice; safety comes first. You follow him to the least damaged classroom and start gathering materials to make it through the night: some old mats from the gym for bedding; whatever dry wood helps you start a small fire, and some canned food from what remains of the cafeteria's supplies.

As night falls and darkness envelops your makeshift shelter, you can feel Joel's unease mirroring your own—two predators forced into an uneasy truce by circumstance. You both know that despite your differences and his gruff exterior, survival often requires uncomfortable compromises... like sharing body heat when temperatures plummet during stormy nights like these... like sharing a “bed” when there's only one dry spot left in an abandoned high school turned refuge from infected monsters lurking outside.

—

The storm outside rages on, its fury unabated, as the match from your hand hisses out against the wet concrete floor. The darkness inside seems to thicken and you can feel the cold creeping in, the dampness seeping through the layers of your clothing, chilling you to the bone.

Joel's silhouette is barely visible across the room, his frustration palpable in the heavy silence that follows the failed attempt to reignite the fire. The tension that had momentarily subsided now returns with a vengeance, amplified by the primal need for warmth and the instinctual fear of the unknown dangers lurking in the darkness.

Joel rummages through his bag, the sound of items being shuffled around punctuating the silence. He pulls out a small waterproof match case, flipping it open to reveal just three matches left inside. His fingers, roughened by years of survival and hardship, gingerly pick up the first match. The strike against the side of the box is sharp and swift, but the wind howling through the broken windows extinguishes it before it can catch. A second attempt meets with the same fate, and Joel's jaw clenches in frustration. "Damn it," he mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible over the storm. He looks at the final match with a mix of resignation and determination. "You know, if you were more careful, we'd have more to work with," Joel grumbles.

"Oh, so now you're worried about being more careful?" you retort, unable to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. "A little too late for that now ain't it Miller?”

Joel glares at you, his eyes narrowing in the dim light. "I've been careful," he growls. He strikes the last match, shielding it from the wind with his hand. But again it fails, leaving you with no heat.

You can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at seeing Joel struggle. "Yeah, well, maybe you should've thought about that before we ended up in this situation," you say.

Joel shakes his head. "You think this is fun for me?" he asks. "Stuck in this godforsaken place with someone who can't stop talkin?”

You glare at Joel, his silhouette a dark shadow in the dim light. "You think I wanted this?" you snap back, frustration seeping into your words. "I'm here because I have to be, just like you."

Joel grunts in response, his gaze fixed on the remnants of the failed fire. "We don't have time for this," he says gruffly, standing up and brushing off his pants. "We need to conserve body heat."

Reluctantly, you both make your way to the makeshift bed, nothing more than a pile of old gym mats and whatever dry fabric you could scavenge and a small emergency blanket meant for one person. The thought of sharing such close quarters with Joel is unsettling, but survival trumps discomfort every time.

You lie down first, turning your back to him as he settles in behind you. The awkwardness of the situation is not lost on either of you. You can feel the heat radiating off his body despite the layers between you. As minutes pass in silence, save for the howling wind and rain lashing out, Joel shifts slightly behind you. His arm drapes over your side as he tries to find a comfortable position—and then his hand accidentally brushes against your breast. You stiffen instantly; it's an intimate contact that neither of you expected nor wanted under these circumstances.

"Whoa! Watch it!" you exclaim indignantly, trying to wriggle away from his touch while still maintaining contact for warmth's sake—a delicate balance indeed under these cramped conditions.

Joel recoils as if he's been stung by a wasp. The tension in the room spikes, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Joel's breath hitches, and you can feel his body tense up behind you. The accidental touch has set off a chain reaction of awkwardness, and you're both acutely aware of the other's presence. "Sorry," Joel mumbles, his voice rough with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to..." His sentence trails off, lost in the sound of the rain pounding against the roof.

You nod, acknowledging his apology, but the damage is done. The line between survival and intimacy has been blurred, and the close proximity is playing tricks on your mind. You can't ignore the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, or the fact that you're both very much alone in this abandoned high school.

Minutes tick by, and despite your best efforts to keep a respectful distance, the reality of your situation becomes increasingly apparent. The cold is seeping in, and the need for warmth can't be denied. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you find yourself leaning back into Joel, seeking the heat that his body is so eager to provide. He stiffens at the contact, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he cautiously wraps his arm back around you, pulling you closer.

It's been a long time since either of you has felt the touch of another person, the comfort of human contact that goes beyond mere companionship.

Joel's breath is warm against your neck, and you can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against you. It's a startling realization, but it's met with an unexpected surge of desire that you can't quite suppress. The knowledge that he's affected by your closeness is thrilling, and you can't help but wonder if he can sense the effect he's having on you as well.

The line between necessity and want is blurred, and in the end, it's the human need for connection that wins out. With the storm as your only witness, you turn to face Joel, your eyes meeting in the dim light. There's a silent question hanging between you, one that's answered with a soft, almost hesitant kiss. The kiss is an exploration, a rediscovery of a basic human need that has been long neglected. It's a slow burn, fueled by days of tension and the shared experiences that have brought you closer than either of you could have anticipated. Joel's hands find their way to your face, cradling it gently as he deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing the contours of your lips before slipping inside to meet yours in a dance that is both familiar and new.

The cold is forgotten as warmth spreads through your body, ignited by the friction between you. You find yourself pressing against him, seeking more contact, more heat. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. The sensation sends shivers down your spine, and a soft moan escapes your lips as Joel's fingers deftly undo the buttons of your shirt, revealing skin that is hungry for his touch.

There's an urgency building between you now—a primal need that cannot be ignored or denied any longer. Clothes are shed hastily; each piece removed reveals another patch of warm skin eager for exploration and connection

As the last of your clothes fall away, the cool air of the high school classroom is a stark contrast to the heat that radiates between you and Joel. His hands trace a path down your sides, exploring the curves of your body. The rough pads of his fingers leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and you can't help but arch into his touch, seeking more.

Joel's gaze meets yours, and there's a vulnerability in his eyes that you've never seen before. It's as if the walls he's built around himself are crumbling down, brick by brick, revealing the man beneath the hardened survivor. You reach up to cup his face, feeling the stubble scratch against your palms, grounding you in this moment—a moment that feels both surreal and more real than anything you've experienced in a long time.

With a tenderness that surprises you both, Joel lowers his lips to yours once more, kissing you deeply as he positions himself between your legs. The anticipation is palpable; every nerve in your body is attuned to his presence. As he enters you, there's a brief moment of discomfort followed by an overwhelming sense of fullness—a completion that transcends physicality. You move together in rhythm; each thrust is punctuated by gasps and moans that echo off the walls of the abandoned classroom. The world outside has ceased to exist; all that matters is this connection—this desperate need for closeness in a world gone mad.

Joel's pace quickens; his breath comes in ragged gasps against your neck as he drives into you with an urgency born of months—if not years—of pent-up desire and longing. You meet him thrust for thrust, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back as waves of pleasure crash over you both.

The tension builds within you like a storm gathering strength—a tempest that threatens to sweep away everything in its path until there's nothing left but raw sensation and pure ecstasy coursing through every fiber of your being until finally - release washes over you both in a rush of heat and sensation that leaves you gasping for air. The world around you fades away, replaced by the pulsating rhythm of your shared climax. It's a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

As the aftershocks subside, you find yourselves entwined in each other's arms, your head resting on his chest and the steady beat of Joel's heart is a comforting sound against the backdrop of the relentless storm outside. The cold is kept at bay by the warmth generated by your bodies, and for the first time since this ordeal began, you feel truly at peace.

Eventually Joel's breath evens out as he falls into a deep sleep, his body relaxed and sated in a way you've never seen before. You take a moment to study his face—the lines etched by years of hardship softened in slumber, revealing a hint of the man he might have been under different circumstances. With gentle care, you extricate yourself from his embrace and pull on your clothes, intending to keep watch over the sleeping giant beside you.

The hours pass slowly; dawn is still a distant promise when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of movement outside your refuge. Your senses immediately go on high alert; adrenaline courses through your veins as you cautiously approach one of the broken windows, rifle at the ready. The storm has lessened but not enough to obscure the shapes moving in the pre-dawn gloom. Infected? Or something worse?

You glance back at Joel, still lost in sleep, and make a split-second decision. You won't let whatever danger lurks outside reach him while he's vulnerable. Steeling yourself, you slip out into the storm-ravaged landscape. The rain pelts against your skin, a relentless barrage that does little to dampen your resolve. You move with purpose, your eyes scanning the darkness for any signs of movement.

The high school grounds are eerily quiet, save for the occasional clap of thunder echoing in the distance. You keep low, using the remnants of the playground equipment as cover as you make your way towards the source of the disturbance. The last thing you want is to lead any potential threats back to Joel.

As you approach the perimeter of the school, you catch sight of a small group of infected, their grotesque forms illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning. They seem disoriented, their movements erratic as they struggle against the wind and rain. It's clear they're not here for you; they're simply passing through, driven by some primal instinct to seek shelter from the storm.

You take a deep breath, steadying your aim as you prepare to engage. The first shot rings out, echoing through the deserted schoolyard. One of the infected drops to the ground, its body convulsing before falling still. The others turn towards the sound, their milky eyes searching for the source of the threat.

You fire again, and then again, each shot carefully placed to conserve ammunition. The infected fall one by one, their bodies piling up in the mud as you advance, keeping the upper hand through sheer determination and skill. But as the last one drops, you hear a new sound—a low growl that sends a chill down your spine.

You turn just in time to see another infected emerging from the shadows, its jaws snapping hungrily as it charges towards you. You raise your rifle, but the mud beneath your feet gives way, sending you sprawling to the ground. The infected is on you in an instant, its weight pinning you down as it tries to bite through your rain-soaked jacket.

With a surge of adrenaline, you manage to free one arm and reach for the knife strapped to your belt. You drive the blade upwards, aiming for the infected's exposed throat. The creature gurgles in pain, its grip loosening just enough for you to wriggle free and deliver the killing blow.

Panting heavily, you push the infected's lifeless body off of you and take a moment to assess the situation. The immediate threat has been neutralized, but you're acutely aware that more could be drawn by the sound of the struggle. With no time to lose, you make your way back to the school, your heart pounding in your chest.

You slip back inside and secure the door as best you can. You turn around and see Joel is already awake, his eyes scanning the room as he reaches for his weapon. The sight of you, unharmed, brings a look of relief to his face, quickly replaced by a scowl. "Where the hell were you?" he demands, his voice rough with sleep and worry.

"I heard something outside," you explain, keeping your tone even. "I went to check it out."

Joel's expression darkens. "You should've woken me up, you could have gotten killed out there," he grumbles, his concern for your safety masked by his usual gruff demeanor.

"I didn't and you needed the rest," you reply, meeting his gaze. "Besides, I can handle myself.”

Joel's jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he's going to argue. But then he just nods, acknowledging your capability even as his protective instincts chafe at the thought of you facing danger alone. "Next time, wake me," he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You can't help but smirk at the gruff concern in Joel's voice. There's a part of you that enjoys getting under his skin, challenging the walls he's built around himself. "You know, Joel," you say, your voice light but your eyes serious, "I think you might actually care about what happens to me."

Joel's scowl deepens, but there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—something that looks a lot like vulnerability. "Don't get the wrong idea," he grumbles, looking away. "I just can't afford to break in a new partner."

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. "Sure, Miller. Keep telling yourself that." You walk over to where he's now sitting and nudge him playfully with your foot. "Admit it. You like having me around.”

Joel rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitch upwards in a reluctant smile. "You're alright," he concedes, his voice gruff. "But don't let it go to your head.”

You can't resist the urge to tease Joel a little more. "I think you protest too much, Joel Miller," you say with a playful grin. "I mean, first you can't stop complaining about my chatter, and now you're almost starting to sound... affectionate."

Joel's eyes narrow, but the ghost of a smile still lingers on his lips. "Don't push your luckp," he warns, his voice carrying a note of fondness that he's unable to fully conceal.

You lean in closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, for someone who pretends not to care, you sure were... attentive last night," you say with a sly grin, your eyes dancing with mischief.

A flush creeps up Joel's neck, and for a moment, you think you might have pushed him too far. But then he chuckles—a low, rumbling sound that you feel more than hear. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" he says, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

You beam at him, feeling a sense of triumph. "Maybe," you admit, "but you like me anyway.”

—

As the first light breaks through the retreating storm, you and Joel prepare to leave the high school behind. You gather your belongings, exchanging quiet glances with Joel as you both acknowledge the shift in your relationship.

The journey back to Jackson is uneventful, the aftermath of the storm leaving the world outside quiet. You walk side by side, your boots crunching on the wet gravel. Joel seems more at ease, his usual stoic demeanor softened.

Upon your return to the settlement, the familiar sight of the gates brings a sense of relief. The guards nod in recognition as you pass.

You make your way to the patrol book, your fingers brushing against the worn pages as you prepare to document the latest entry. Joel watches you, his expression unreadable, as you pick up the pen and begin to write.

Patrol Log - Jackson Settlement

Date: Indeterminate, Post-Outbreak

Pair: Joel Miller/The New Kid

Entry Signout: Patrol complete. High school secured. Infected cleared. Storm provided unexpected overnight stay. No serious injuries to report.

You pause for a moment, considering your next words carefully. With a small smile, you add a final note

Casualties: Zero. Zilch. Nada. Unless you count the ego of a certain grumpy individual who may or may not have been out-shot by yours truly.

You cap the pen and step back, allowing Joel to read your entry. His eyes scan the page, and you see the ghost of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth as he reads your postscript. He doesn't say anything, but the look he gives you speaks volumes.

As you turn to leave, Joel's hand catches yours, his grip firm yet gentle.

Hey," Joel says as he pulls you closer. "I, uh... I don't know how to do this," he admits, his gaze dropping to where your hands are joined.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze, offering him a small, encouraging smile. "Do what, Joel?"

He takes a deep breath, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. "This," he repeats, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "The... talking about feelings stuff."

You can't help but chuckle at his attempt to articulate his feelings, the corners of your mouth curling up into a smile. "Is this the part where you tell me that despite your better judgement, you've grown fond of me?" you tease, squeezing his hand in return.

Joel rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of amusement in his expression. "Somethin like that," he admits gruffly, releasing your hand to run a hand through his disheveled hair. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. And maybe... maybe I don't mind the chatter as much as I let on.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the gruff admission meaning more to you than any grand declaration of love ever could "Well then," you say, stepping closer to him, "I guess this means we're stuck with each other."

Joel's response is a low chuckle. "Yeah," he agrees, his hand finding its way to the small of your back in a gesture that feels both new and familiar all at once. "I suppose it does.”

#joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller #joel miller fluff

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sleepy-fiction · 5 months ago

Text

Fists In The Backline pt.2

lin lie x f!reader SMUT 2k esti

syn: After a voyeuristic rendezvous during mission capture, you can't stop thinking about your risky sex with the enemy Iron Fist. So you send an even riskier pic to get his attention. To your surprise, he shares one back.

tgs: e-sex, video calling, sexting, nudes, masturbation

an: omg a sequel!! BARELY PROOFREAD

read part one here

Your life wasn't the same after that fuckening Iron Fist gave you. He was so friendly and respectful to you since that match, always checking up on you when you were in the same room, and texting you how your day went in the evenings. Although he was so friendly and sweet, you were boiling alive every night.

He had changed your for the worst that day. You knew you had freakier desires, and being a super hero now, you couldn't easy access that outlet the way you would before. Going back to all of your old sex partners could end up compromising things. To be frank, you didn't want to go back to them anyways, you desperately wanted to fuck on by Lin only.

He handled you so rough but took great care of your body. Fuck, even the circumstances of it all were so erotic they kept you up at night, recreating it in your dorm. That cock of his... It was one of a kind.

It got worse when Iron Fist had a mission, he couldn't text you for weeks. And you couldn't stop thinking about him every waking second. No way you'd let yourself fester into madness restricting this.

Iron Fist returns in one day. The mission updates went well.

You swallow so thickly.

You've got to do something.

---

🐰Bunny Girl

bunny: hey lin

Lin watches the notification pop up on his screen. He had just escaped the shower, washing off the day's hard work to prepare for the long flight back to HQ. He grins at the next, watching as another notification for an attachment pops up. One locked photo. He hops on the bed and opens up the chat log.

___

🐰Bunny Girl

bunny: hey

[ 1 attachment ]

ironfist: heyyy :))

ironfist: it's midnight over there right? it's 6pm here

ironfist: hruuu :))

bunny: god dammit lin open the damn image first

He cackles viciously. God you were too cute when you were mad. He clicks on the image, and it unblurs itself revealing--

What the fuck.

He sits up sharply in bed, his breath catching in his lungs. The photo was none other than you, his bunny girl, wearing nothing but a beautiful jade green lace set, sexy arm length yellow gloves on as you seductively hold yourself. The photo is a selfie. You're laying down on your plush sheets, but it cuts off at your chin, but in response, he can see your thighs and crotch.

What the fuck.

He hardens immediately, a shaky grunt flying out his lips.

Was that supposed to be his super suit? The green lacey bra and panties with yellow gloves?

He groans again, dropping his head back on the hotel bed, clenching his eyes close with a long string of curses.

Truth be told, you weren't the only one who couldn't stop thinking about that day. He was so damn embarrassed after that. He couldn't figure out what possessed him. God, maybe it was you. But it was the best sex he had ever had in his life, couldn't get it out of his head for a second. He blew out so many loads to your hero interviews, modelshoots, and Instagram pictures. It was his biggest shame, so of course he was trying to lighten things up by being extra friendly. He didn't ask more of you. In fact, he told you that he wasn't anything, that you didn't have to feel obligated to him, and even wished well on your career.

She choked up, but who wouldn't? He fucked her in public! Hela saw it and scolded him into the ground!! He thought she wanted it as a one time thing, but she always texted him back so quickly so. So. So he was confused.

I guess he got it all wrong then!

His cock was more than hard by now, it was desperately trying to free itself from the towel he had wrapped around him.

bunny: lin

bunny: dude

ironfist: sorry sorry sorry

ironfist: taking it all in

ironfist: you're so beautiful bunny

ironfist: that my super suit?

You were shitting bricks waiting for his response. It had been over 3 minutes or so since you sent that hella risky text!! You were losing your mind. You knew he liked you, so you had nothing to worry about. But that didn't stop your brain from running 70 million possible negative outcomes. After letting them chew you away for a bit, you snapped!

But holy fucking hell!!! He loved it!!!!!!

You were still on the bed in that lace set, the gloves off and on your chest as you texted away, giggling.

bunny: hehe

bunny: the one and only

ironfist: haha

ironfist: fuck i love it too much

ironfist: ill be back home soon

ironfist: can I see you :))

ironfist: if ur ok w/ it ofc ofc

ironfist: you just looked so good

bunny: calm doownn

ironfist: right right

bunny: mmh come see me lin

ironfist: :))))))))))

ironfist: I'm hard

You burst out laughing, slapping an embarrassed hand on your face. Despite it all, your thighs grinded together. A refreshing, budding feel emptying your bones. You had plans to get fucked again!!!!

---

bunny: i can teeeelll

ironfist: mmh

[ ironfist send 1 blurred attachment. tap to unblur! ]

You jolt upright, almost sending your phone flying. You shakily reach and press it, and gloriousness fills your eyes.

It's a picture of some hotel room. You can see lin laying on white sheets, but the selfie is angled so you can only see him from the abs down. He's in a white towel, but your eyes flock to the monstrous bulge hidden beneath the linen.

You grunt, your eyes lidding with a terrifying whimper.

God you need that thing sososo bad.

It's been wrecking up your sleep schedule for weeks.

bunny: so wonderfulll

bunny: tmrw needs to come fasterr

ironfist: cum faster

bunny: looooollllll

Although it's not spoken, you can tell exactly what Lin's doing.

Lin, on the other line, whipped out his cock already, stroking it with one hand and texting with the other. He's aching in his hold, squeezing his head tight for every stroke. None of it can replacate the warm of you, or the kiss of your pretty cervix. He bucks into his hand at the thought.

Meanwhile, your hands are diving to where they don't belong. Fingers rubbing circles under your panties. Staring like a maniac at the photo he sent.

Fuck tomorrow. You need it now!! You immediately shoot a text.

___

ironfist: r u still wearing it? :)

bunny: what're u doing rn

bunny: oh

ironfist: omg

ironfist: :))

bunny: same idea ig

ironfist: m strking myself

You shiver at the thought.

ironfist: its not as good as u

ironfist: i miss u

bunny: godd

bunny: so njce

bunny: sexy

For some reason he's blushing like a schoolgirl. Breath hitching for every text.

bunny: yes I'm still wearing it

bunny: i just took the photo when I sent it 2 u

ironfist: ffs

ironfist: god

bunny: what

bunny: want more pics? hmm? lin

ironfist: bunny

[ ironfist is calling you ]

---

You scream immediately, shooting up to your feet. Your face is fuming red, nerves having your knees to shake. He wants to video call? You quickly turn on a lamp, throw on your gloves and super mask, and then dropping back on the bed and meticulously laying out so every part of you looks damn good, and every hair is in place. You answer it. The screen buffers for a second before finally, you can see Lin's dashing face, his mask sloppily put on.

You giggle.

He speaks first, "You look even better on video!" His tone is bright and breathy, but it still carries his excitement. It only makes you smile worse, your face getting impossibly warmer. You're so damn nervous. It's not like you haven't done it before with him. It's just. Your heart won't calm itself.

You laugh and try to segway, but he carries it first. "Look what you've done to me," he hushes out. Your walls clench. The camera flips, and there you see it. His delicious cock.

It's hard, held upright by his hand alone. "See," he mutters. He drops it, and it slams against his belly, his tip red and drooling. His veins are enlarged and intense, he's pulsating. You totally forget that he too can see you, as your jaw silently falls slack, eyes lidding and glossing over. You bite your lip intensely, a stressed and needy sigh rupturing your lips.

"Fuck, I miss it," you sigh.

He laughs on the other end. He's just playing with it now, bringing the camera close to his cock, squeezing the head and playing with it like a natural. He's recording it all, the camera's slightly shaky, but all the angles are right and you can see him perfectly. You forgot how thick he was, how his 8 in cock was thicker towards the center, how his head was same color as his lips and nose. How his dick was more thick and burly than on the skinny side.

Such a brutal thing.

Your walls pulsate in memory of it.

He watch as your eyes glossy over more, your jaw dropping all the way before clamping down and biting into your lips. You moan, it makes him grunt. You're so cute, with those sweet eyes.

He's putting on quite the show, grinning devilishly all the while he does it. But as he's performing for you, what he doesn't expect was for you to pan the camera down your body as well. He sees down your barely clothed breasts, your nipples poking out from behind opaque jade lace. He grunts and strokes himself pacedly.

Your camera finally pans down to your crotch, as he sees your hand down there, vigorous movement happening, as your yellow gloves hand circles your clit.

He groans and laughs, "Ugh I'd eat that."

You laugh abruptly, a childish smile on your face. "Have you no shame, Lin," you giggle.

"Noneee at all," he sings. "I fucked you out in the open, bunny," he huffs.

You gasp and whimper. "Aah, Lin," you moan, picking up the pace. You pull your hands out your underwear, and he moans when he sees two drenched fingers on your glove. You bite them off, slipping your hand back down.

"W-Wait," he sighs, his breath heavy as he strokes himself, "Mm take it off, bunny." His strokes are fast, his camera starting to shake.

You purr in delight, briefly setting down the phone to slip off your panties. And when you do, you grab the phone again, spreading your legs to show him your bare pussy. At the new angle, he can see your folds, your breasts, and a bit of your face. But he's deadly entranced by the way you slip two fingers into yourself.

"O-ooh," he groans, bucking into his hand.

You moan, "F-Fuck." He only sets you off more. He knows how needy you get, and drowning in the video of his delicious dick being stroked, you're begin to lose all senses, too. "L-Linnn," you whine, as you thrust harshly into your poor pussy, copying the speed you see himself stroke with.

"Shit-shit," he mutters, his groans growing louder, his thrusts into his hands more uncoordinated. He was going to cum.

Electricity sparked up ur body, as u thumbed your clit for every thrust, your toes beginning to curl, your moans high pitched.

It's a miracle when the too of you cum shortly after eachother, the sounds of your orgasm causing his to come early, as the two of you watch eachother spasm and breath heavy.

When you came from your highs, you lazily pulled the camera back to your face, resting your arm down on your breast. And as he grows soft, he flips the camera to his face, laying his hand down on the bed, facing you from the side.

"That was amazing," he sighs out as if his soul is being taken from him. There was no denying his affection towards you, always so kind and friendly. The sexual chemistry was intense too, it were as if your body's were made to handle eachother’s. Even the smell of his sweat didn't stench the way others did, it set off fireworks down to your toes.

But you're both deadly busy with this superhero gig so.

Maybe fucking every now and again, nothing serious. Just casual.

"Lin, come home already," you tease.

He smirks, "Yes ma'am, I will."

#marvel rivals #marvel mcu #marvel cinematic universe #marvel rivals ironfist #iron fist #lin lie #lin lie x reader #iron fist x reader #sword master lin lie

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senseichaos · 1 year ago

Text

IMAGINE...

FULL LENGTH IMAGINE!!

Alastor is low-key a psychopathic sadist in this so you've been warned

un-edited

Alastor predator / prey play.

In episode 3 you can see his room which half of is a forest-swamp-like interior. But what if it was a forest?

"Alright dear.. I'm going to ask you to run into this forest," he begins, teeth so largely grinning you can see his gums poking in it. His eyes glow darkly and he leans in slightly closer "And I'll chase after you, and when I catch you.."

His scleras turn a black and his horns begin to grow. You shiver, shirnking away from him as he speaks. His words come out distorted, a thin crackling accompanying them:

"I'll delight in your body, no matter if you scream and cry.. I'll tear every piece of innocence from your pliant figure many times until you admit that I own every piece of you.." he trails a single claw down my chin, causing you to gulp. His eyes send you into a sort of trance, their deep red shine making your knees weak.

"Sound good, my fawn?" He asks, eyes softening as he brushes his hands through your locks.

You nod. You shouldn't have. But you did.

And then he lets go of you, smiling manically as you shiver under his gaze. Alastor licks his lips, black tongue poking from his lips. You cry beneath your breath, already feeling a sort of terror go though your body even though he hasn't commanded you yet.

And then he does

"Run" he growls, and you're off.

You run despite your shaky legs and aching feet. You jump over logs and rake yourself through bushes. You don't once look behind you, and Alastor doesn't seem close by, anyway. So you take a sharp turn, almost tripping in the process as you run in that direction; I hope that this decision means that he'll be far behind. Perhaps you could even find a place to hide.

A sudden rustling comes from a bush to your left, and this stupidity causes you to look towards it as you run; with this uncaring look comes a consequence: you trip over a root on the swampy forest floor, making your body shoot forward and fall into the grass. You cough rather loudly, shaking your face as you attempt to get up.

Ouch.

Fuck. Your ankle is twisted to shit. How are you supposed to run? You look around wearily, dragging yourself across the ground by your arms to try to find any sort of hiding place in this barren wasteland of trees and small bushes.

Then your ears catch a noise.

It's stomping. You hear stomping.

"Little fawn? Come out for daddy.." Alastor says, walking nearby.

You feel a terror shoot from my body, and you shuffle away as fast as you can. To get behind anything. You see his silhouette to your left, so with a determination you crawl (or rather shimmy) behind the nearby bush.

Fuck, the bush rustles as your body passes by it, and Alastor is now looking in your direction completely. From his silhouette you can see that he isn't in his regular form. No. He has those large deer horns poking from his head, and his upper body is larger as is the rest of his body.

And there's that glow. That glow of his red irises and Yellow smile as he looks. As he looks in your direction. As he looks in your eyes.

You are suddenly appreciative that Alastor isn't in his full demon form. Or he may rip you shreds by his claws. He doesn't stalk towards you yet. He just smiles wider, not breaking his eye contact whatsoever as he just stands.

But before you could even pry yourself from his gaze, he's running.

You scream, trying to stand but your ankle buckles beneath you; this makes you fall on your chest as you glance wearily backwards. Just as you glance backwards, he's on top of you.

You scream rips through the air again, feeling searing pain go through you as he rips your clothes up to shreds. He doesn't care for the fact his claws leave scratches and marks against your back, all he cares for is ruining that innocence you harbour. When you whimper he aggressively pushes you down so your face hits the ground and your arms lay splayed next to you, laughing to himself as he tears your panties off of your mound harshly. He flips you over again, wanting to see your dirty face after it's been shoved into the ground.

"Little fawn.. how drenched you are~" Alastor purrs, dragging a clawed finger through your wetness. The sharpness of it just barely stimulates your clit, causing you to moan as you attempt to close your legs. Alastor doesn't like that. As soon as he sees you attempt this he forces his hands around your thighs, pushing them open until you cry out in pain from the force.

"Don't test me, little fawn.." He growls, his gums showing from his manic smile. It makes you aroused in a way you can't describe. For a moment he looks at your ankle, which is bruised from the fall you took. What you didn't expect is for him to grin at this, before shifting his eyes back to your own teary ones.

"you seemed to have twisted your ankle my dear!" He leans down his nose barely brushing against your own as his claws dig into your plush thighs. "That means you can't run away.. how convenient for me," Alastor growls, finally moving one of his hands from your thigh so he can wrap his hands around your neck, forcing you to tilt your head backwards. This gives him the opportunity to bite into the area where your neck meets your shoulder.

First he just licked the area with his black tongue, causing you to shiver at the way his gaunt body leans over you. Then he barely nibbles the area, making you squirm in a way that Alastor doesn't like. He digs his claws further into your thigh as a punishment.

And then without warning, he bites down, his teeth sinking completely into your shoulder. You scream out, tears falling down your cheeks as you shake from the sheer pain of it all. When he starts to withdraw his teeth you scream again, sobbing loudly as the pain shoots through your entire body.

When he fully withdraws, he just smiles, admiring his work. Blood pours from the wound quickly, and you could feel yourself losing a lot of blood.

Thankfully, Alastor loves you enough to not kill you. So he withdraws his hands from your neck and clicks his fingers, the blood moving back into your body before a bandage appears on it.

"Can't have my fawn bleed out, can i? What would Charlie say!?" He laughs, his black sclera darkening as he wipes away your tears. You whimper like a dog, lower lip wobbling as you open your eyes. You and Alastor just stare into each other's eyes for a moment, taking in each other and each other's flaws. He is smiling, you are crying.

What you fail to notice in this moment is Alastor unbuckling his pants, pulling his cock from the confines of his boxers and pants so his tip barely kisses against your entrance. When you notice this you whimper, trying to draw yourself away from him. Though Alastor just pulls you back by your twisted ankle, causing you to gasp in pain from the way he does it.

"Little fawn, there is no use in running away from me," he tilts his head, licking his lips as he presses the tip of his cock flush at your entrance. "You've been caught already, my dear!" He laughs, and without warning plunging his cock into your entrance.

You scream his name, moving your hands to cover your mouth. Alastor laughs, his black tentacles appearing from the ground to pry your hands from your mouth, holding them down. "It's much more fun when I can hear you scream for me, isn't it dear?" He laughs, drawing his hips back before thrusting harshly into your core again. You moan, teary eyes rolling backwards with a sort of agonizing pleasure.

"How tight you are, Little fawn," He says, pushing your thighs into your chest so he has better access to your holes. Each thrust he gives you makes you moan loudly, though Alastor doesn't even so much as grunt. He just grins as he watches your innocence leave you with a prideful gaze.

"S'too much! Fuck!" You yell, feeling his tip brush against your cervix painfully. Though Alastor only laughs, closing his eyes and laughing as he speeds up his thrusts. The tentacles around your arms tighten as you attempt to move them, Alastor's brows furrowing with his laughter.

You couldn't even understand his motive anymore. Is he enjoying having you beneath him? To the point where he humors it?

"Oh, how funny you are my little fawn," He says, moving one of his left hand from your thigh to wipe away a tear of laughter. As he puts his hand back on your thigh he tilts his head, speaking: "But I already said I don't care if you want to stop,"

"You already agreed to this, didn't you?" He says, and you scream with a painful pleasure.

"You wanted this."

His thrusts become manic in pace and you can't help but give up on moving. He's in complete control of you now. He's in control of your feelings, he's in control of your thoughts, he's in control of your body, he's in control of your pleasure. He owns you now. And there's nothing you can do but take it.

You'd take anything he'd give you.

With a whimper and a sob you cum on his cock, walls clamping around his length as he bites his lip. He watches your face the entire time, a snarky and prideful look on his features as you come loose around him.

Once you finish, here comes that horrible overstimulation that makes you gasp for air. How has he not came yet? You had no answer.

"My little fawn, too bad I cannot breed you. I guess this will just have to do.." he says, serving you one last harsh thrust as he empties his load inside of you. And he cums a lot, like- a lot a lot. You can feel your stomach bulging every so slightly with his cum as he leans down, kissing your cheek.

"Oh thank God," you sigh, happy that the sex is finally over.

"God!? Ha!" He laughs pulling out of you.

You begin to sit up, but Alastor's tentacles hold you down. He tuts, grinning as he presses his cock head against your anus.

"Who said we were done, Little Fawn?

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

#proship #senseichaos #antishippers dni #senseichaosdrabbles #proship fanfiction #alastor x reader smut #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor #alastor smut #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin hotel smut

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epiphainie · 3 months ago

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have this very clear image of bucktommy in the morning of their first sleepover where buck wakes up trapped against tommy's chest as the little spoon and he freaks out for a moment because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do in this situation? he squirms a little bit, expecting tommy to wake up but tommy sleeps like a log on the morning of his off days, dead to the world if he doesn't have to be up. his arms are dead weight locked around buck torso and his face is buried in his nape and buck, who's never learned how to stay still for longer than a minute and has never woken up restrained by a guy his size with his fucking dick jabbing into his ass, goes through the embarrassing ordeal of trying to free himself a little but not disturb tommy but also not wanting to leave because what would tommy think but also feeling ants crawling up his neck just telling him to move. anyway, a month into their relationship he's used to it and plays candy crush on tommy's phone in the circle of his arms till he feels bored and wakes tommy up by yanking on his dick

#mimi.txt #bucktommy #911

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cece693 · 28 days ago

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hihi! i luvv ur hannigram work, i rlly need to start reading some of ur other work! especially now that I know u write for twilight!!

can I please request hannigram x reader who has really bad trauma and it gives them awful nightmares? like reader wakes up after a nightmare and cannot fall back asleep, or be alone, so they just lay in bed beside them. or they go to the living room and stay with one of the dogs. when I was little I went through a lot of things and they caused rlly bad nightmares that I still have, and ive read fics abt reader dealing with nightmares but they all feel so wrong for some reason.

NIGHT MANAGEMENT PROTOCOL

pairing: hannigram x gender neutral reader With this being a sensitive topic, I didn't fully disclose the trauma reader went through and from the deepest part of myself, I tried to be as respectful in writing such a thing. However, I'm still human so please (politely) inform me if anything is incorrect or offensive in any manner. Thank You!

You surface hard from the nightmare—lungs dragging for air as though someone turned gravity off while you slept. Sweat sticks the sheet to your back; the cotton feels like gauze in a wound. At first you don’t even open your eyes. The darkness behind your lids is an echo of where the dream left you: concrete overhead, fluorescence buzzing, bleach biting your nose. Somewhere, metal ticked like coins in a dryer. You concentrate on identifying a single sound in the real bedroom—anything familiar enough to prove you’re home.

There.

The radiator ticks once. Wooden house, Wolf Trap, January. If the heat’s running it’s past two-thirty in the morning; Will always lowers the thermostat before he goes to bed. You catalogue the detail like a field note and shuffle for another: faint dog snores, different pitches. Buster’s warble; Winston’s whistling exhale; Max’s occasional “hmmph” when his feet twitch. No echo. No metal.

That should be enough—but the snapshot of the dream has burned afterimages across your vision. A length of chain swings in bright, vicious loops. You taste copper and realize your jaw’s locked so tight it’s bruising the inside of your cheek.

Next to you, Will and Hannibal breathe in opposite cadences—Will a coastal tide, Hannibal an old cathedral organ. You could stay. You want to stay. But your skin is buzzing, every nerve ending convinced you’re still horizontal on that metal.…If you lie down you’ll flinch and wake them both, and that would feel like losing the small victory of silence you’ve practiced for months.

You open your eyes and ease upright, peeling the damp tee from your chest. The room’s temperature feels Antarctic on your skin, a shock that breaks the dream’s static. You slip out from under the duvet, feet searching the braided wool rug. At the foot of the bed, Winston’s ear flips. He’s on early-warning duty—he perks whenever anyone leaves the bed after midnight. You stretch a hand, scratch behind the ear in apology.

“Stay,” you whisper, though your voice cracks on the single syllable.

You cross the hallway by touch, refusing to switch on lamps—light this early triggers headaches. The house creaks. Nothing predatory, just timber shrinking in the cold. But your chest tightens anyway. Your therapist calls the sensation “echo fear”—when the body acts like time hasn’t passed. You rub the heel of your palm under your ribs, convincing yourself it’s bone, not chain, pressing there.

The living-room hearth throws faint glow; embers from the dinner fire still pulse behind the grate. You squat, prod a charred log until sparks jump. Fire, dogs, blankets: the recipe printed on Will’s fridge under a magnet shaped like a stag’s head, labeled “Night Management Protocol.” You almost laugh—Will, emperor of insomnia, reduced the worst parts of your life to a checklist. But the pragmatism works.

You tug an Afghan throw from the sofa back and sink onto the rug. Ellie ambles over, claws clicking; she thumps her head into your chest and collapses half across your lap, deadweight of a dog who knows practice rounds by heart. You bury both hands in her coat—live warmth, dusk-sweet scent of cedar chips and dog shampoo.

Grounding: five things you can touch (fur, wool, hardwood under one knee, the knuckle ridge of your own hand, the tackiness of old sweat). Four you can see (embers, fireplace grate, Ellie's mismatched eyes, the crooked picture frame over the mantel). Three you can hear (wind through the eaves, Ellie's breathing, the fridge cycling). Two you can smell (burned oak, dog). One you can taste (copper on your tongue, real, not memory).

Heart rate lowers; you feel it like a gear downshifting. You stroke Ellie’s side until your fingers stop shaking.

A floorboard moans behind you. You don’t jolt—Will never calls your name abruptly if he senses you’re raw. He pads into the firelight wearing one of Hannibal’s robes, silk pooling at the cuffs, drawstring of Will’s sweatpants peeking underneath. Bed hair collapses over his eyes. He eyes the hearth, then Ellie, and finally you.

“Chasing ghosts again?” he asks roughly. He doesn’t mean the phrase as flippant; it’s the label you gave the nightmares in group therapy.

“They didn’t want to stop running tonight,” you admit.

Will sits cross-legged opposite you, mirroring posture. He waits until Ellie shifts enough to rest her head in Will’s lap, then drapes a palm over yours. Your pulse drums beneath tendon; Will doesn’t comment, just lets the warmth drain from him into you. He studied polygraph biofeedback in Quantico—he can sync breathing like a metronome.

“Want company or quiet?” he murmurs after a moment.

“Both,” you say, embarrassed by the contradiction.

Will’s mouth curves. “We can manage both.” He scoots closer until knees bump, then simply sits, eyes half-closed, breathing a steady 4-7-8 pattern. You follow—inhale four, hold seven, exhale eight—and the edges of the living room sharpen; no more tunnel vision.

A soft flick of a switch: the lamp on the sideboard glows amber. Hannibal stands in the threshold, one hand still on the toggle, head inclined as though he’s observing a nocturnal species newly discovered. Where Will looks half-drowned in sleep, Hannibal is maddeningly composed—robe cinched, hair smooth, expression neutrally concerned.

“I woke and found the bed missing two occupants,” he explains, voice pitched quiet enough not to break the hush. “I feared the dogs had stolen you both for their own.”

“We are communing with the pack,” Will answers, tone affectionate but wry.

Hannibal steps onto the rug, kneels with a surgeon’s elegance, and settles behind you so your backs touch. The contact is slight—linen brushing your skin—but it chains you to the present more effectively than any grounding trick. You feel the rise of his breath against your spine like a slow tide.

“What remained when you woke?” he asks. Hannibal never says “tell me the nightmare”; that frames it as narrative, something he could pick apart intellectually. Instead he focuses on residuals—scent, sound, body memory. Easier to translate without reliving.

“Bleach,” you say after a swallow. “Cold metal table. Chain on tile. And…fluorescent hum. I hate that buzz.”

“Which sense feels safest to load first?” he prompts.

“Smell, maybe.”

Hannibal reaches, plucks a half-burned cedar log from the basket, nudges it onto the embers. Turpentine-sweet smoke unfurls. “Cedar counters bleach,” he says. “A softer antiseptic, one humanity has used for preservation, not erasure.”

You breathe in until lungs ache pleasantly. Ellie sneezes once in protest, then settles.

“Sound?” Will offers, glancing up. He reaches to the bookshelf under the window, retrieves an old wind-up metronome. He sets it to sixty beats per minute—average resting heart rate—and starts the pendulum. A gentle tick-tock over the fire’s crackle replaces the fluorescent drone in your head.

“Touch,” you murmur. Hannibal’s hand comes round, palm flat to your sternum, thumb stroking the dip above the xiphoid process. Will covers your hands where they drum a nervous tattoo on your thigh. Two points of warmth—front and back—like brackets sewn around a wound.

“Anything left?” Will asks, gaze steady.

You hesitate—taste of copper still lingers. Hannibal’s eyes narrow imperceptibly—he smells blood when no one else can. You lift your thumb to your mouth, wipe the inner cheek, show the faint red. “Bit myself.”

Hannibal rises, returns with the small first-aid tin kept on the mantel. Instead of antiseptic swabs he produces a square of dark chocolate—the emergency stash he pretends is for low blood sugar, though you know it’s for nights exactly like this. “Let us replace the flavor.”

You accept, let the chocolate soften on your tongue until bitter gives way to caramel notes. The tension between your shoulders loosens another centimeter. Will glances at the clock—3:07 a.m. “We could stay up,” he offers. “Hot milk, scrambled eggs, bore ourselves back to sleep.”

“Or,” Hannibal counters, voice the verbal equivalent of a down pillow, “we could attempt rest again, now that the worst has been named.”

A month ago you’d have chosen wakefulness, afraid the second sleep would reopen the wound. Tonight the room feels survivable. You nod. Hannibal’s fingers squeeze once in acknowledgment; Will stands, joints popping, and whistles for Ellie to go back to her bed.

The walk back to the bedroom is still a corridor of potential darkness, but Will’s shoulder brushes yours every other step, Hannibal’s palm rests between your shoulder blades, guiding. When you pause at the doorway, lungs hitching, Hannibal flips the hall light off himself—removing the choice that paralyzed you. Inside the room, moonlight paints silver stripes across the foot of the bed. Normal. Familiar.

Will crawls in first; you slide after him, and Hannibal takes the outermost edge, creating a human enclosure. Will tugs the duvet over your hips, then threads his fingers through yours and settles them on his chest so you can feel respiration without needing to check visually. Hannibal curls against your back, knees bracketing yours, his breath a warm tide at the nape of your neck.

“Five senses,” Hannibal murmurs against your skin, a reminder rather than instruction. You breathe in cedar, chocolate, clean cotton, dog. Will’s heartbeat thrums under your ear. The metal table dissolves.

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