theonvy

[theonvy]

#meanwhile jackie...

[theonvy]

[theonvy]

frozen in time

[theonvy]

𝔖𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: Accidentally inhaling aphrodisiac spores when on patrol with Joel Miller

Tags: Set between The Last of Us Part I and II. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Friends to lovers. Lots of science rambling that can be skipped. Sex pollen. Aphrodisiac spores. Age gap. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Bottom male reader. Handjob. Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 7000 words

Your horse’s hooves crunched rhythmically through the icy crust, breaking apart the layer that had hardened atop the road since dawn. You sat astride it with a loose posture, the reins slack in your gloves, not out of laziness but from quiet trust in the beast beneath you. Its coarse winter coat was dusted in pale flakes, which you brushed gently from its mane as it snorted softly, exhaling warm breath that curled through the air like smoke.

You murmured nonsense to it under your breath, fingertips carding through its thick mane, thumb trailing along the ridge of its strong neck.

Ahead of you, Joel’s figure broke the horizon in long, steady strides of his horse. The worn brown coat he wore was dark against the snow, spotted with white. His rifle hung across his back and the familiar hunch of his shoulders gave away the fact he was already scanning for any promising structures that might yield a can of soup or an untouched medicine cabinet.

His horse moved at a sure pace, faster than yours and he never looked back once.

You bit your lower lip, teeth digging in enough that you felt the faint sting. The silence was a weight between you, thick and unwelcoming for most of the patrol.

You leaned forward slightly in your saddle, clearing your throat.

“Hey, uh…” You hesitated. Shit. Too many ways to ask this, and none of them sounded good in your head. You went with the one that had been festering in your brain since Maria handed you the new schedule this morning. “Do you have any idea why Ellie asked to switch patrol partners this week?”

The second you said it, you winced. It sounded accusatory, like you were prying into something you weren’t supposed to know.

Joel didn’t stop but his head turned, and he looked back at you over his shoulder.

Snowflakes clung to the scruff lining his jaw, tangled in the silvered strands of his beard. Hazel leaning to amber eyes met yours, brow drawn like usual.

Fuck, he was so handsome.

That gaze held you frozen for a second and then he turned back forward without saying anything.

You scrambled to patch it. “I just meant, y’know—hope she’s alright.”

“She’s fine.” A faint mutter back as the only answer you got. Didn’t address what you really asked.

You sat back in your saddle, exhaling slowly, watching your breath curl away like smoke from a dying fire.

The horses continued forward in tandem, hooves crunching the snow in that steady rhythm again until Joel’s horse let out a low nicker and Joel gave a grunt as he pulled on the reins.

“Hold up,” he called and you tugged your horse to a stop beside him, coming close enough to see ta descent hidden under a treacherous quilt of white.

The snow dipped fast here, sliding down into a basin where the large roof of a house poked up barely above the surface. You could only see the tip of its peak, the chimney like a crooked finger reaching up from the grave.

“Jesus,” you breathed, shifting in your saddle.

Joel dismounted with practiced ease, boots sinking into the snow with a muted thump. He walked toward you, glancing over your horse’s bridle.

You started moving to do the same, grabbing the rope from your saddle to find somewhere to hitch the animal but Joel reached out and took the rope from your hands, his gloves brushing against yours just briefly. “I got it.”

You blinked. “Oh—I mean, I can—”

“I said I got it,” he muttered, turning before you could answer, tone gruff and clipped with no real edge to it.

You watched him walk away with both ropes, tying the horses down near the base of a bare tree, checking the knots twice. Then he turned back and started walking toward you again, shooting you a quick glance before his eyes dropped back to the snow and he trudged forward, jaw tight, gloved hands flexing.

You didn’t say anything as he passed you, just turned to follow him as he stepped carefully into the snow toward the house that lay buried beneath the frost.

The descent looked steep and slick, but there was a stupid itch that crawled right up your spine.

You’d ridden the tension of Joel’s quiet for long enough and now that you were finally off the horse, boots sinking ankle-deep into snow that practically swallowed your ankles, the temptation was too good to pass up.

You crouched before throwing yourself backward and let your weight carry you down. Soon the snow greeted your ass with a soft, satisfying crunch before you slipped down fast. Cold stung your cheeks and the wind clawed at your face in the most fun way possible.

Behind you now that you surpassed him, you heard Joel’s voice carry through the crisp air.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?!”

It made you laugh harder, the sound catching in your throat and blooming outward until you collided with the incline of the buried roof. A flurry of snow rained down from the eaves above, thumping into your hood, spilling down your back. You choked out a gasp from the coldness but even as you shoved the snow off your head and shoulders, you couldn’t stop grinning.

Dusting yourself completely, the flush of exhilaration was still warm under your skin, fighting back the bite of frost.

Then Joel appeared from the top of the hill, trudging down with that big, square frame. You barked out another laugh at the look on his face.

He looked beyond pissed, jaw locked tight, mouth set in that signature scowl, eyes that held fury, surprise, and a glint of reluctant amusement hiding behind his scowl that he’d be damned if he ever let you see it.

You pull that kinda stupid shit again,” he growled once he was close enough to loom over you, “I’ll leave your goddamn body out here for the infected to find, see how long you last.”

The low rumble of his voice dragged down your spine, no sarcasm or laughter in his tone.

“Worth it.” Your grin only widened and he groaned in annoyance and turned sharply, trudging toward the side of the partially buried chalet without giving you another glance.

You went to the other side with a spring in your step, gun free while eyes scanned the snow-sunken facade. On the far end, hidden beneath a white curtain of ice-glossed ivy, was a tall window pane, mostly unbroken, though the glass was filmed with frost and streaked by old melt marks.

You approached it carefully and leaned in, using your gloved fingers to rub a circle of visibility through the foggy layer.

The room inside was a full-blown lab. Makeshift but organized, a mess inside only science could make. Metal tables lined with test tubes, vials filled with preserved samples of unknown and apparently rotten liquids.

You half-whispered, half-called over your shoulder, “Joel.”

You heard his footsteps crunch toward you just a few seconds later, fast and heavy. He stepped up behind you, his body close enough that you could feel the heat from him through all that damn flannel and denim and leather. His left hand braced against the side of the window as he leaned forward to peer in.

Your eyes flicked to his arm bent at the elbow, flexed from the slight lean, thick under the tight sleeve of his shirt where his jacket had pulled back. Veins like cords twisted along his forearm, disappearing into the glove at his wrist.

You forced your attention back to the lab. “Looks pretty clean in there. Not too dusty. Might be medicine and supplies.”

He gave a soft grunt in response while his eyes stayed on the room for another second, narrowed slightly.

Without a word, he stepped back, shifted the rifle off his shoulder, gripped it at the barrel and with one quick motion, raised the butt of it.

The glass exploded in a clean fracture under the weight of his swing. Shards burst outward and you flinched on instinct.

The remaining edges of the window splintered inward. Joel gave them a quick once-over before stepping in, boots crunching as they touched down on the dark wood floor inside.

“You comin’ in or what?” He turned back, giving you a look. His brow lifted before he added, “Figured if nobody came runnin’ when your dumb ass rolled down that slope, place’s probably empty.”

You climbed in after him, boots thudding against the floorboards and exhaled a quiet breath. The air inside was cold but untouched. Your gun stayed low, loose in your grip but ready.

You went left, he went right. The place wasn’t huge, just one main room, everything scattered but oddly preserved. Your eyes caught on a stash in the corner and you knelt, rifling through what looked like a first aid kit still sealed. Antibiotics, gauze, alcohol, a cache of painkillers, labeled and bagged, bottles still full and expiry date a few years out. Your heart jumped at the treasure found.

There were coins there as well. Metal, worn but intact. Circular, silver with a black enamel inlay. The firefly logo etched across the surface, an insect with outstretched wings, speared through by a vertical line.

There was a whole open floor empty beyond your position and, at the far end, wooden stairs led down. You walked toward them, cautious, gun still at the ready.

As you reached the stairs, particles floated in the shaft of faint light that fell from above.

Spores.

You crouched quickly, unshouldering your pack, flipping it open and digging through the supplies. Fingers fumbling until they closed around the mask. You yanked it free, pulled the straps around your head and started to seal it tight.

Joel was still across the room, his broad back to you, opening drawers and scavenging the place while his hand remained loose over the handle of his revolver, head slightly tilted downward in focus.

Your eyes roamed shamelessly, every inch of him was weathered in the most painfully attractive way and you lingered too long.

Your foot shifted slightly, the floor groaned.

You opened your mouth, his name halfway up your throat when the wood beneath your boots gave out with a snap, splintering down the center.

Your back and shoulders scraped down jagged beams, the slap of gravity pulling you through the tight shaft until you slammed into the floor below, shoulder-first, the impact blooming pain across your collarbone and upper back.

A strangled sound ripped from your throat that was half curse, half gasp. You bounced, rolled to your side, landing hard on your ribs and hip, the floor beneath you unforgiving and damp.

Your breath punched out of your lungs, and for a second, all you could do was lay there, curled slightly, jaw clenched as a long, dry groan dragged from your throat.

The air was wrong. Thick, wet and almost syrupy, like you’ve dropped into the lungs of something alive. Humidity clinging to your skin through the cracks in your jacket.

The smell is a layered, sickening mélange of rot that’s gone sweet with time, earthy decay soaked in moisture.

Your eyes start watering, it feels like your lungs have been lined with spider silk soaked in vinegar. A burn blooms in your throat, sharp and sudden at the first breath, like the air is slicing on the way down.

Your body bucked on instinct. A wheeze tore up your throat, nostrils flared and instantly recoiled.

You shoved yourself upright, coughing dryly, mouth open but refusing to inhale again.

You pulled the mask down with a rough tug, fingers scrambling at the small button of the purifier unit and pressed hard.

The machine vibrated against your cheek, a dull, mechanical hum that began to work.

Your lungs begged for oxygen, ribs now clenching in panic, diaphragm spasming as you waited.

The air filtered through the mask started to feel cooler.

You pulled in a small breath. It didn’t burn this time, the air now feeling artificial.

The pressure in your chest loosened. You swallowed hard, heart pounding like a fist behind your sternum and sagged forward against the wall behind you.

You breathed deep and the filtered air fed your lungs, staving off the panic.

Joel’s voice tore down through the ruined floor as he called your name, tone gravel-thick and thunderous, sharp with panic. You could hear his boots scuffling above, wood groaning dangerously under his weight. You looked up through the splintered opening, all the ceiling was covered in those pinkish walls made of fungus, hence why it was so weak to your weight and gave away.

His face appeared, the muscles in his neck were taut, jaw tight and eyes wide.

“I’m fine!” you shouted, voice muffled behind the plastic and filters of your respirator. You lifted your arm slightly, wincing. “Don’t come close, the floor’s fuckin’ rotten!”

His jaw flexed, eyes tracking the layout quickly before he cursed again before he disappeared rom view as he backed away from the rim of the hole. Even then, you could still hear him pacing, booths thudding in short, frustrated steps.

Finally, you had the breath to look around. The chamber below was far larger than you expected, a full-blown Firefly lab. The quality of what was left here, even if buried under spores and decay, screamed intent.

Fluorescent lights still clung to the ceiling in long, unbroken bars, cracked but intact. A metal gurney with padded restraints sat center-stage and trays of unused surgical instruments glinted on a shelf.

It was organized, intact and completely drowned in spores.

You turned slowly, lifting your flashlight. The beam cut across thick plumes of particulate matter—pinkish, soft as down, thick as fog. You couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead without seeing spores shift in your beam. They clung to the ceilings, ballooning in dense patches—fungal colonies like pulsing lungs latched to the beams above.

There was nothing here. No clickers, corpses or even bones.

How the hell had all these spores flooded the place without anything ever dying here?

Something touched your arm and you recoiled violently, breath choking in your throat, a muffled, startled “FUCK!” bursting past your respirator. Your gun raised on instinct, heart skidding into panic.

It was Joel.

He had dropped down through the stares you were also supposed to take and his boots were now planted solid beside yours. Snow crusted his shoulders, mask was on tight. The lenses fogged slightly from his breath and his gloved hand gripped your bicep hard enough to anchor you in place.

He said your name low, voice slightly distorted behind the mask’s filter unit.

“You hurt?” he asked, tone rough and steady, eyes scanning you, flicking over your chest and arms for any injury. “Talk to me.”

His grip on your arm didn’t loosen, fingers clamped just above your elbow, firm and grounding and the way his sharp gaze was fixed on you sent a tight shiver up your spine.

You swallowed hard, tried to answer, but something in your tongue tangled. Your voice stuck. Maybe it was the mask or the pain still radiating in your shoulder.

You could feel the thick line of muscle under his coat, his forearm flexed just slightly with the hold. His glove had slipped back a little and you could see the veins in his wrist, raised over sinew and tanned skin.

You blinked fast, heat slid into your cheeks, a slowness curled through your stomach, a strange pressure behind your eyes, like your blood was moving differently all of a sudden.

Joel’s fingers squeezed your arm harder.

“You gonna answer me or not?” His voice was gruffer this time and sharper, but the edge was concerned, cloaked in impatience.

You cleared your throat. “I’m—fuck, I’m fine. Landed hard on my arm, that’s all. Just a bit numb. Didn’t break.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, those rich hazel irises locked to yours, searching for any lie, the tension around his brow eased enough and let go of your arm. Slowly and reluctantly.

Then he pulled out his pistol, the metal glinting slightly in the artificial light as he stepped past you, solid and silent. He didn’t glance back as he muttered, “Don’t fuck around in here.”

He moved half a step ahead of you, as if shielding you, checking corners, vents, behind ruined tables.

“I made a lot of noise when I fell,” you said after a moment, eyes still flicking toward darkened corners. “If anyone was down here, infected or not, they would’ve jumped me already.”

You moved slowly, your boots gliding across the damp concrete floor. Your heart was still hammering, but it wasn’t the same tight spike in your ribs or shortness of breath. It was different slower now and heavier. Like your body was trying to tell you something it hadn’t figured out how to say yet.

You reached the edge of a workstation mottled now with patches of thick, fleshy mold that bloomed in pinkish tendrils across its surface like bruised coral. A few black strands of mycelium threaded through it like veins, pulsing faintly under the dim overhead light, their edges glistening wet.

The sight turned your stomach slightly, but you kept your gloved fingers steady as you reached toward a paper half-submerged in that wall of gross, spongy matter. It stuck a little when you tugged, tore faintly at one corner, but you coaxed it free, holding it up to the beam of your flashlight.

The ink had bled in places, the middle of the page warped by whatever moisture or rot had saturated the mold. But the text was still legible. You squinted at the heading:

[PAGE 7 – Entry 3.2a] (Corner torn, middle stuck together with green mold latticework)

…first success with fungal/plant hybridization observed at 09:34. Spore culture 7G-Alpha2 successfully integrated plasmid DNA from Panax quinquefolius via Agrobacterium-mediated transformation. Fusion strain exhibited marked increase in alkaloid production, unusual for a fungal host.

No fruiting body yet, but the lab humidity chamber has sustained active mycelial growth for 72 hours. Odor profile altered, slight pheromone volatility.

It was hard to wrap your head around at first, bioengineering, spore cultures, DNA fusion with plant-based alkaloids.

You blinked. The print started to blur slightly from your own eyes. A warmth started to crawl under your skin, like standing too close to a fire.

The paper shook slightly in your grip.

Blood serum from rat trials (Group C) shows a significant spike in dopamine and oxytocin levels post-aerosol exposure.

(Handwriting changes. More urgent and slightly uneven.)

Repeat: Respiratory intake is the only variable. Sample B221 designated as viable for further study.

IMPORTANT: pathogen is non-contagious, inert outside of air-saturated chamber. Transmissibility halts without direct spore inhalation. Gene-editing safeguards remain intact. Replication cascade requires >95% humidity and nutrient gel base to activate.

NOTE: Confirm sterilization thresholds before storage.

You let the page drop onto the table, breath pushing out in a soft huff through your mask. Your chest rose and fell slowly, like your lungs were pressing out against something thick. Not hard to breathe, just heavy. Your eyes stung again, not with tears this time, but a strange sort of pressure behind them, as if a headache was blooming there.

You rubbed a gloved hand against your forehead, then turned and that’s when you saw a tank in the corner of the lab, half-shrouded in the drifting cloud of spores. Glass, large and thick but with one entire side cracked. The inner wall was fogged over with old condensation, now streaked with pinkish residue.

Inside, two small skeletons, rodent-sized. One lay curled in the corner, partially buried under a pile of decomposed straw bedding. The other closer to the cracked glass, lay on its side, bones bleached by exposure and time, ribs cracked inward. No visible growth or spores clinging to the bones and yet, this had to be where it started.

One of them, maybe spooked or altered by the hybrid strain, must have panicked. Slammed against the glass, broke the seal and the spores released, flooding the lab.

Your fingers reached for the small stack of papers next to the base of the tank, corners browned, text visible under fungal smudges. You flipped through them, heart thudding harder now.

The first few lines jumped out at you:

“Strain B221 is no longer Cordyceps. Its host behavior is driven not by neural hijack, but chemical amplification. Sexual arousal is observed as byproduct of pheromone analogs stimulating limbic regions directly…”

Subject 15 (male, 32. Accidentally inhaled spores when mask malfunctioned) self-reported lucid state. Vitals spiked: pulse at 158 bpm, skin temp +3.6°F, erection maintained for 37 minutes post-exposure with no physical contact.

Subject did not lose speech or identity.

(Sticky zone begins. It’s smudged, brownish-gold mold—scraped text legible in places)

Increased tactile sensitivity begins 10-15 minutes post-exposure. Subdermal flush around neck, thighs, lower abdomen. Shivering, full-body muscle tension. Erection onset within 10 mins of phase start, resistant to manual suppression.

Increase in tear production, ocular surface wetness. Scleral micro-discoloration: red flush forming at medial corners of eyes, growing outward, associated with burst capillary dilation + fungal metabolite buildup.

STRONG HYPOTHESIS: Fungus aims for propagation via sexual fluid exchange but lacks vector. Safety threshold remains: not contagious via skin, saliva, or semen. Only active in the direct inhalation zone.

You lowered the papers, heartbeat thudding faster in your ears now. Your neck felt damp, pulse fluttered under the skin, and your fingers, shaky now, flexed against the notes.

This is just panic. That’s what you told yourself. Residual adrenaline, shock and pain. Chemicals fucking with your head.

You turned your head, mouth slightly open behind the mask, lips now wet.

The page you held trembled in your grip again. Your arms felt a little like jelly, spine pulled into a slow arch as you inhaled deeper than you meant to. It felt too good.

You dropped the stack to the filthy floor without thought, boots crunching lightly over a smear of dried spores and dust and held the last page tight between trembling fingers.

[PAGE 4 – Entry 6.3: Flare-Up Termination Response]

You could barely focus. The words were fuzzy at the edges, letters bleeding in and out like water-smeared ink, but you forced yourself to trace them, each line landing like a hammer against your spine:

Activation of neurochemical effects now appears governed by host endocrine cycles.

Initial hypothesis of random arousal episodes disproven. Host hormone panels show pattern: recurring surge in fungal expression linked to pulsatile testosterone and cortisol rhythms approx. every 29–32 days.

Strain lies dormant within lymphatic and pulmonary tissue during inactive periods. Reactivation corresponds with small but measurable hormonal fluctuations, suggesting fungal intelligence keyed to endocrine shifts.

Symptoms remain until sexual climax occurs. Neurochemical scan reveals drop-off in fungal signaling immediately following orgasm.

Spike in dopamine, prolactin and oxytocin likely flood receptor sites, disrupting fungal influence and causing symptoms to alleviate over time.

A single bead of sweat rolled down your temple, slipping under the edge of your mask. The inside of your collar was soaked. Your breath hissed in and out of your filter system, loud and uneven, each inhale tighter than the last.

You felt it a presence behind you

Joel was standing behind you. You didn’t know how long he’d been watching. Had he read over your shoulder the whole time? Had he seen the way your knees had started to tremble?

He huffed. A single breath, deep and thick through his mask.

“What the fuck were these people on.” He muttered, voice flat and gruff through the static distortion of the respirator.

“Buncha freaks,” he added, head tilting slightly as he scanned the tank again. “All this damn science talk to explain the fungus makin’ folks horny once a month.” His tone is bitter and blunt.

A hum started in your ears, a pulsing buzz that crackled at the base of your skull, like someone had pressed your head against an old generator. Your heart was racing too fast. The corners of your vision flickered faintly and your cock gave a twitch in your pants.

You sucked in a breath, fast. Your chest burned under the pressure of your shirt. Fuck, the mask was too tight, too hot. You stumbled a step sideways and the page in your hand fluttered from your grip like ash.

Joel shifted behind you in sudden awareness.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice low, rougher now. Still trying to sound like he didn’t care too much. But you knew that tone. You’d heard it before when Ellie was missing too long from patrols.

You turned, your mouth opening, but nothing came out. You were panting, full lips parted behind the glass of the mask, leaving the inside fogged over. It smeared with each breath, your own condensation clouding your vision. You saw Joel’s outline, dark and solid, but the details were gone. Only the shape of him remained.

Your hands dropped to the table’s edge, knuckles white, the cool steel hissing against your palms through your gloves. You were burning.

The heat pooled low in your belly, pulsing and tightening. Your cock twitched again, harder this time, thickening in your pants. No friction, arousal bloomed in your nerves like static.

Joel called your name again, louder and sharper this time, but you didn’t answer.

His hand gripped your arm hard, pulling you halfway up off the table with one sharp motion.

It felt so good. The pressure of his hand on you, fingers wrapping around your bicep through your jacket and glove, anchoring you in place, his whole body solid beside yours. You turned your head toward him, lips parting on reflex, throat working with something you couldn’t swallow down.

It was instinct more than anything that made you jerk away. His touch felt like it was melting you and the mask became unbearable. Your muscles tensed as you tore out of his grip, stumbling toward the stairs.

Your boots pounded the steps, feet nearly slipping once as your equilibrium gave a pulse. You slammed your palm against the wall and caught yourself, everything felt like it was breathing.

Upstairs was colder, but it didn’t help, you staggered toward the broken window, the one Joel had smashed earlier and leaned against the wall beside it, fingers fumbling at the straps.

You ripped the mask off your face with one wild pull and it dropped, still connected by the dangling strap and hung from your wrist as your other hand clawed at your jacket. The zipper stuck and you swore loudly, yanked it down hard. Peeled it off like a second skin, undershirt now drenched with sweat.

You collapsed back against the cold wood of the wall, head hitting it with a dull thunk, eyes fluttering half-shut as your hands cupped your face.

Joel’s boots hit the wooden floor with short, hard thuds as he marched across the room, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched in his cheek. He reached you in three long strides and without hesitation, he reached up and tore the mask off his face. The hiss of the release valves and the scrape of straps broke the silence.

The look on your face near broke something deep inside him. Your skin was flushed high with heat, brow slick with sweat and your lips hung parted, breathing ragged and short, the muscles in your chest heaving like you’d been running uphill for miles.

“Joel—” you started, voice catching in your dry throat.

You could barely get the words out, barely keep your legs beneath you, but still, somehow, you tried. You reached for anything that didn’t lead to this. “It’s just the heat down there,” you muttered hoarsely, trying to keep your voice level.

Joel’s jaw ticked, the twitch in his cheek gave it away first. His shoulders pulled tight, lips parted, the words ground out between teeth so clenched it was a miracle they even made it into the air.

“Don’t lie to me.” He took one slow step closer threatening, he wasn’t gonna let you squirm out from under it with soft words or shaky logic.

“Don’t stand there tellin’ me lies to my goddamn face when your eyes’re goin’ red.” he snapped.

That caught you off guard. You stared back at him, heartbeat thudding like a war drum in your throat. With trembling fingers, you raised the mask still dangling from your wrist and pulled it up toward your face.

Your reflection stared back, twisted and blurred by the warping curve of the mask but the color still shone clear.

Your sclerae were no longer white. Laced with thin filaments of vascular pink that curled out from your irises.

The mask slipped as your grip failed and it clattered to the floor, your knees began to give and Joel’s hand shot out instinctively, callused fingers curled firm around your muscle, grounding you instantly grabbing your arm, hard and fast, gripping you just beneath the bicep.

The heat from his touch flared sharp beneath your skin, like a wire running directly to your core. Your chest jerked and you let out a sound that resembled half a pant and half a gasp.

You leaned into his touch before you even knew you were doing it and he felt the full weight of you press against his side. Joel guided you quickly, rougher than he meant to, toward a pair of dusty chairs behind a table.

You sagged into the seat with a rough, graceless thud, pulled down more by the arm than lowered carefully. He was bad, he knew, but you didn’t complain. You folded over yourself instead, elbows planted on your knees, head dropping into your hands. The chill of the room clashing with the inferno unspooling in your belly. It was impossible to ignore the tent in your pants, painful and throbbing.

Joel exhaled through his nose before taking a seat beside you, silent at first.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “You…you probably shouldn’t be this close to me.”

Joel turned toward you, that line between anger and worry had worn thin over the last hour, and now it just looked like exhaustion and guilt.

“I might not know shit about that science crap,” he mumbled. “But even I caught the part where it ain’t contagious.” His voice was flat, throat working visibly when he swallowed.

He didn’t have anything else to say because his throat was a thick knot of worry, his brain couldn’t prioritize what to yell at first about how stupid it was to come down here, how he should’ve been watching you like a hawk or about how goddamn helpless he felt now, with nothing to shoot, nothing to kill, no way to stop what was burning you up from the inside out.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.

Christ, you looked wrecked.

Expression ached with something hot and helpless, lips twitching as if trying to form a word you didn’t know how to say. You were burning up in front of him with need and not once had you begged or pleaded or lashed out.

You were just taking it, shaking through it strong, even while falling apart.

And hell if you didn’t still look—

He cut the thought off before it finished. Wasn’t right. Not now.

The heat from you bled into his clothes and skin. He felt it in his ribs, in his neck and in his gut. Every inch of him screamed to get you somewhere safe, but nowhere was safe now. Not from this.

So he gave you what he could.

Joel shifted beside you for the chair to creak and the scent of him to wash over you, sweat and cedar. You hadn’t even realized you’d learned so far into him.

His hand came to rest on your waist, firm and grounding. You twitched at the contact, and yet didn’t pull away. His fingers flexed once against your side, thick and calloused and warm, and then you were being pulled closer into him.

The ugly squeal of your chair legs scraped across the floor.

Your hands gripped his shoulder, hard, desperate. You buried your face in the curve between his neck and shoulder, trying to hide the groan that clawed its way up your throat. His flannel scratched your cheek but you didn’t care.

“Shoulda kept my fuckin’ eyes on you,” he muttered into your hair, voice low and tight. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t…This’s on me.”

You shook your head against his collarbone and tried to talk to express how it wasn’t his fault, that it was all yours, but the words collapsed into a guttural hiss as his hand moved, gliding downward with terrible slowness.

Your whole body jolted when warm, thick and firm fingers cupped the bulge in your pants.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip until you tasted blood, your breath hitching into ragged whimpers. You couldn’t look at him.

“Joel—” you gasped, unsure what you were about to beg for.

But he didn’t stop, his thumb moved in a slow circle over the wet spot you’d soaked through your pants, so gentle it felt like cruelty.

He turned his face into your hair, breathed in slow.

“I’m gonna help you,” he said, voice gone hoarse, just a whisper now, like he hated himself for every syllable. “Ain’t right lettin’ you sit here like this when I can stop it.”

Your heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else, fingers tightening in his shirt, hips lifting to meet the slow pressure of his hand. Shame made your face flush to the roots.

His hand moved again, undoing your belt and working your zipper down. Every movement broadcast how much he didn’t want to scare you. There was a subtle catch in his breath when your cock sprang free, hard and leaking against your abdomen.

“You’re burnin’ up bad.” He breathed, low and reverent.

You nodded against his neck, eyes screwed shut. “Please.”

That one word broke something in him. His fingers wrapped around your shaft and you let out a ragged moan as your hips bucked into the heat of his grip. Your forehead pressed tighter to his neck.

“I got you,” he whispered, hands starting to work, twisting near the tip, pulling tight at the base and sending sparks up your spine each time.

He nuzzled the side of your face, beard scraping your cheek. “Ain’t right how pretty you look like this.”

You whimpered pathetically and his thumb circled your slit with the lightest pressure, smearing your precum.

Your hips rolled helplessly up into his fist, every stroke pulling the orgasm closer but never letting you fall over the edge and he kept going, whispering into your hair, murmuring gruff, sweet nonsense that shouldn’t have worked but made you shudder every time.

His forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his hand pumping faster now, breath now shakier. His other free hand brushed your stomach, fingers splayed flat across your abdomen, grounding you and keeping you in place.

You cursed and sobbed his name over and over. Each time more broken and desperate as your cock throbbed wildly, precum soaking his fingers and your abdomen.

You shouted his name, hips jerking wildly into his hand as thick ribbons of cum splattered your shirt and his hand. You gasped and broke apart in his arms, the high so sharp it bordered on pain.

Joel held you the whole way through as your frame sagged into him, breath in ragged gasps. His hand finally let go of your twitching cock, cupping the back of your head instead and pulling you tighter into his neck.

The second the last spasm of your orgasm passed, a new wave of pain slithered its way up, that burning ache hadn’t left as your dick throbbed angrily.

Your breath caught again, this time not from pain, but the sting of need ripping through your belly.

Every inch of his exhale soaked into your skin, warm condensation painting the side of your throat, followed by the gentle, maddening scrape of his beard. A dry rasp that danced across the oversensitized line of your jaw and shoulder, each bristle dragged across the flesh.

Your brain was a fogged glass window, heat smeared across it in trembling streaks and you groaned as you pulled back only to climb him.

Your knees hit the outside of his thighs and you straddled him, planting yourself in his lap with a desperate moan, the shape of his big bulge now grinding flush against your ass through both of your pants.

A huff of shocked air left his lungs, half a grunt, half a curse.

No words escaped him as your mouth crushed his, your hands dove into the heavy bristle of his beard, fingers cupping the rough cut of his jaw as you forced your mouth against his while grinding hard against the thick bulge in his pants.

A grunt was ripped from his chest, rumbling up his throat from the sudden kiss, lips parting beneath yours before he even thought to resist. That first second he froze but the time to recover and he kissed you back like he was starved.

His hands came up hard, wide palms slamming against your back to pull you into him as chapped and rough lips moved with your own. There was a hunger in the way he tilted his head, letting your mouth press deeper into his, groaning again when your tongue slid along his.

He hadn’t expected this, didn’t think he’d get to touch you ever. Now you were straddling and kissing him like it might undo the agony inside you.

You moaned into him and he gasped again, pulling back to breathe but your lips chased him, eyes hazy and lost. You made a quiet, broken noise when he didn’t meet you right away, a whimper that cracked in the back of your throat.

He hated every piece of how this happened. This wasn’t how he wanted to earn you.

He wanted you to choose him because you saw him for who he was and wanted him anyway.

You kissed him again, this time down his throat. Your lips fastened to the rough column of his neck, soft and open-mouthed, tongue licking a trembling path to the notch of his collarbone, lavishing the path ahead.

The outline of his cock throbbed thick against your ass, and your body ground down even harder, seeking the friction with a rhythm that made you gasp while looping your arms around his shoulders to keep steady.

With a low growl, Joel’s hand slid down and hooked beneath your thigh, gripping tight to help you grind deeper against him. His voice rasped out near your ear, breath shaking.

“Y’keep movin’ like that and I ain’t gonna be able to hold back.” He murmured, lips brushing your jaw.

Your hands flew down, fumbling with his belt and he watched you with wide, dark eyes, chest heaving as your fingers yanked open the buckle and fought the button free.

He groaned the second your hand pulled him free, thick, hot and heavy. He was bigger than you’d even imagined in the loneliest of nights.

Joel’ broad palms dropped to your ass sliding inward with a warm smear of spit as he circled your rim with maddening slowness, then pushed one thick finger in without warning.

The stretch burned, but not enough to make you stop or even slow down. You rocked back onto him instinctively, greedy, grinding down to take him deeper.

His other hand came up to stroke your lower back, grounding you as he added a second finger. This time he slowed, watched your face, lips parted and trembling as the stretch widened and your nails dug into the flannel on his chest. The ache rode a razor’s edge with pleasure.

Joel twisted his fingers as he fucked them in and out of you, wrist flexing just so to press against that hot, shivering bundle of nerves inside.

You pulled back, his fingers sliding free with a wet sound that made your cheeks flush and when he reached for you again, you were already rising onto your knees, lining yourself up. One hand gripped the base of his thick and hot cock before slamming yourself down on it.

“Ah—fuck—” Joel choked out, his head snapping forward to bury in your neck, voice breaking against your skin as your tight heat swallowed him whole in a single motion.

Your hole stretched around him with brutal urgency. The burn was immediate, the ache sharp, your body seized again as you came with no warning, just an explosion that tore through your nerves. Your cock twitched where it was trapped between your abdomens, painting streaks of cum across Joel’s stomach and your shirt, your chest heaving as your walls clamped down hard, milking him with pulsing aftershocks of your sudden orgasm and he cursed into your neck.

“Goddamn—you came?” His voice was hoarse, near disbelief while his hands grabbed your hips so hard you thought he’d bruise you, holding you flush against him, buried to the hilt.

Your hole spasmed again, fluttering around him and drawing another groan from his throat as you cockwarmed him. He was panting now, breath hot and erratic against your skin.

Joel felt your still hard cock poking against his stomach, leaking slick again even though you’d just come.

One thick arm snaked down beneath your ass, the other sliding up to your waist, and with one solid motion, he stood.

“J–Joel?” you gasped, voice wrecked.

“Shhh,” he growled while holding you so tight and close that the angle didn’t change, you whimpered when he adjusted you higher against his chest.

Glass shattered, metal clanged, paper flew as Joel’s hand swept across the table near the center of the room, knocking everything to the floor in one vicious sweep of his arm.

It was impossible to care for any of those things when he dropped you down onto the now-cleared tabletop and pushed your thighs open wider, stepped between them, and rammed himself back in with the full force of his body behind it.

“F–fuck!” Your arms snapped tight around his neck, legs locking around his waist. You clung to him, body shaking as he bottomed out again with no warning or pause.

He pulled back and slammed back in again.

Your head fell back with a cracked moan, neck exposed, chest arched. His name poured out of you like a prayer. Joel grunted with every thrust, sweat dripping down the sides of his face, neck corded tight with strain.

You were gone for the feel of him fucking you, claiming and filling you up so completely you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The table shook beneath you with each savage thrust, the wood groaning in protest under Joel’s strength.

Your cock rubbed between you again, hard and wet and pressed to his abs. Each slam of his hips rocked it up your abdomen, drawing gasps and broken noises from your throat, dragging your insides with every inch it claimed and then retreated from.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, beard rasping against your pulse, breath hot and heavy as it stuttered into your skin.

His voice cracked against your throat. “Still wonderin’ why Ellie swapped patrols with you?”

It was surreal hearing his voice cut through the fog now. You hadn’t even realized the fungus haze had thinned. Not gone, but faltering.

“I—yea—mmmf—” You tried to respond but it broke halfway into a moan when his cock sank back in to the base and stayed there.

“She Saw the way I was watchin’ you. Knew I was askin’ too many goddamn questions ‘bout how you were.” He said with a raw voice as he grounded into you.

“Kid gave me this week. Told me to stop bein’ a stubborn, miserable bastard and just make a move.”

You shivered, breath punching out of you with every thrust.

“Joel—” you moaned.

“Didn’t want this to happen this way but I ain’t lettin’ you suffer alone.” He groaned again, biting into your shoulder briefly.

Your mouth opened but only more gasps came out. Finally, between broken breaths: “I’d’ve said somethin’, Joel…if I’d known… I—I—fuck—I wanted you…”

That did something to him. His thrusts grew rougher and faster. The rhythm shattered and replaced by raw instinct.

Your lips crashed together, his tongue plunged into your mouth, devouring you as his hips slammed forward one final time as he came.

The heat erupted inside you, his cock pulsing thick spurts coming deep in your abdomen, his entire body shuddering against yours. He groaned into your mouth, voice wrecked, lost, the sound of a man giving up every defense he ever had.

Your cock jerked between you, untouched, and splattered hot release all across his abdomen and yours.

The air between your bodies steamed, heavy and thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Your face was buried against Joel’s shoulder, every breath a sharp drag of oxygen through your teeth, his beard scratching against your temple with each slight twitch of his jaw.

Joel let out a breath that landed heavy against the skin of your throat.

This fucked-up fungus was now fused to you now. Living in your system. You didn’t know when it would happen again but all you had clue of was what it meant it will do.

You felt your throat tighten from dread.

“I’ve got it in me,” you whispered. “I—fuck, Joel. I’ll have to live with this.”

“You ain’t alone in it,” he murmured. “I’m here. You hear me?” Voice softer and lower now.

He gave you a moment before handing you your wrinkled shirt. You slipped it over your head slowly, wincing with each movement before doing the same with your pants.

You both moved slowly through the same broken window.

The air outside was colder but clean and you paused near the horses.

“We ain’t tellin’ no one,” He said, tone flat and quiet, “when we get back to Jackson,” he continued, low and firm, “this stays between us. That lab, the spores, what it did to you.” A beat. “Ain’t nobody else’s business.”

He looked at you like you were already his to protect.

He stepped back, mounting his horse in one practiced motion, tone now taking a lower, husky edge to it as he spoke again. “Next time it starts again, you come find me. I don’t care what time it is, where we are. You don’t go through that by yourself, y’hear me?”

[theonvy]

Jackieshauna as the Blade Runner 2049 drawing trend from like 2 years ago

[theonvy]

idk man like the mistynat tether is lowkey crazy

[theonvy]

learned some fanon about shauna's mom that's been marinating in my brain since yesterday and i just idk guys, i just can't get behind it. that girl does NOT have an absent but well meaning mother who is beloved by the team to me

in my mind that woman is without a doubt shauna's first bully and there's no way s3 shauna isn't just an unmasked extension of her mother on a fucked family tree, like you can't tell me she didn't learn how to manipulate and tear down/intimidate people from her imo, not to mention hiding it until yknow. *gestures vaguely at the wilderness*

idk if i'm just projecting based on the absolute terrors my mom and most of the moms of my peers could be (was also raised in the 90s), but shauna's demeanor in the pilot reads to me like someone who's made herself small and while some can be attributed to jackie, idk there's some parental fuckery going on to me

while i wish all the best to fanon deb who seems delightful, the mrs. shipman i know is someone i'd fistfight in a 24hrs denny's parking lot

[theonvy]

Thinking about Natalie “Something Catholic” Scatorccio’s religious upbringing coming out when she’s in a state of fear and desperation, reverting back to the only comfort she had as a child by pleading with a God she stopped believing in years ago.

[theonvy]

shauna & lottie’s reactions to something “gruesome” in 1x01 vs. 3x07

[theonvy]

yellowjackets... final destination au.... nat as the visionary.... she saves them from the plane crash on the way to nationals... same amount of cannibalism as the show...

[theonvy]

Friendly reminder that fan-made content (fanart, fanfic, fanvids, etc) are:

extremely time consuming. Remember someone actually took time out of their life to create that, time they could’ve used to, idk, sleep, for example

entertainment you’re consuming for free. I can’t stress this enough: you’re enjoying someone else’s craft for free. You paid exactly zero money to look at/read/watch it.

S H A R E D  with you, not made for you. This is the most important point: someone created that, put it online and you found it. No one forced you to consume that fanwork, you C H O S E  to do it. 

Whenever you feel like leaving a mean comment, anonymous hate or make a ~clever post about how ‘lol look at all of these overused tropes every fic writer crams into their fics’ remember you’re being a dick to someone who shared their work with you. You’re not being funny, you’re not being edgy, you’re not being brave for calling something out - you’re being a dick.

[theonvy]

isn’t this the plot of s3

[theonvy]

[theonvy]

the de-strapification of shauna shipman…

a case that never sat right with me

[theonvy]

hey if it's alright, can i ask for sum soft male reader n arthur? if that's alright w u ofc!

yes! ofc my friend. here is this 4 you.

—

Arthur’s father had done his best to whoop the gentleness out of Arthur as a boy. Boyhood dreams turned dark in the shadow of a drunken man, and vanished in each whip of leather and punch of knuckle against skin.

By the time the bastard died, Arthur didn’t feel anything. Or rather, wouldn’t. He was a boy then, and his time with Dutch had done nothing to soften the angry shell around his heart and mind.

He met you in Valentine, half-drunk and grumbling some nonsense about someone named Lenny. He had accidentally shouldered you out of his way, and rather than rear in aggression, you barked out a laugh — and the sound brought Arthur to cold stop just outside the swinging doors of the saloon.

“Somewhere to be, cowpoke?” You asked with a grin. The hat you wore deepened the night’s shadows on your face, and Arthur squinted to make out your features.

“M’need to find Lenny.” He ground out, though he didn’t sound so sure.

You smiled again, shaking your head. “C’mon then. Let’s help you out before you kill yourself.”

After that, Arthur had returned to Valentine without any reason at all, just to get a glimpse of your smile. The way kindness radiated off of you in a way that he had never seen in any man before, the way you’d shyly catch his eye and flush with an embarrassment that did nothing but confuse him.

The first time he’d come close enough to smell the scent of summer in your hair, he had nearly choked. There was a sweetness to you that almost made him feel ashamed of his callousness. There was a temptation about you that threatened to undo his carefully built wall.

His love for you was silent, but undeniable. During rides along the bluebells he would keep an even pace with you. When your boots were on the ground his hand found yours with a firm, yet quiet possessiveness. Not that you minded — it seemed you figured him right out.

And sometimes you frightened him. You confronted his fears and heartache by simply laughing along beside him, and threatened his strength by rolling over and throwing your arm across him in the night when you slept together. How could softness allow him to survive? How could softness allow him to remain whole?

[theonvy]

Stupid / Arthur Morgan x GN Reader

Summary: Arthur patches up your wounds and y’all have a little cutesy moment between snarky words and smarting pain. Tags: Gender neutral reader as requested! Bits of talk about wounds, a little bloodiness, a mention of needles but it’s quick. A little mixture of cute and sexual tension. Word count: 1,084. Author’s Note: This was a request from a sweet Anon! Thank you for your request, dear, I loved writing this! I used a pic of Horseshoe bc it's cute okay I know the Murfree brood hang about Beaver Hollow but I don't careee they suck xo Ao3 Link. All photos above are sourced from Pinterest.

“Wha’d I tell you ‘bout walkin’ through Murfree country alone?”

The sting of Arthur so gently pulling the fabric of your shirt from within the gashes on your shoulder pinches your features into a wince. “Barely told me anythin’, actua–”

“I told you enough. You ain’t got no right to snark at me when you’re lookin’ a bloody mess.” He grits out firmly over you as he cleans out the wound with an alcohol saturated cloth.

“It ain’t that bad, Arth–” your muttering cuts off into a gasp before you groan loudly, gritting your teeth, your spine locking up as smarting pain bleeds through your muscle. Your watering eyes flit down to the sight of Arthur pushing a needle through your skin and he’s quick to shove your face away with his forearm, averting your gaze and shuffling closer to you on his knees, forcing his torso between your legs. The graze of his belt against your inner thighs spurls a heady shudder up from your seat and through to your aching shoulder, cutting the edge of the pain with a confusing pleasure. Arthur’s hands work steadily unlike your hammering heart as your thoughts swing between the sizzling split in your skin and the heavy press of his chest to yours. A scoff puffs against your neck and you smell the rum he had been nursing before you’d stumbled into his tent, beaten and bloody, almost tearing the flap of his tent in order to keep yourself upright. You squeeze your eyes closed, dragging a breath in through your nose.

“Ain’t that bad, is it? I hadn’t started sewin’ you up yet,” Arthur glares up at you briefly, the bristly hairs of his brow shadowing his enlarged pupils in which reflects the flickering lamplight, “idiot, drink the damn whiskey.” He nods toward the bottle of whiskey grasped in your better hand, your knuckles lightening with the force. The liquid sloshes as you shakily take a large swig, your throat constricting and trying to fight the burn. You cough hoarsely. Arthur tuts, a sound you’re all too familiar with, and he continues his ministrations. He takes his time, keeping his focus and, despite your shaking and panting, you find your own focus drifting to him. You watch the sweat on his flushed neck glimmer as his throat undulates with a gentle swallow, and you notice the barbs of stubble poking through his skin around his jaw.

Feeling your eyes cross slightly due to his close proximity, you trail your gaze upwards, over the stretching scars on his chin as he presses his lips together in concentration. Over the peek of his pink lips. Over the warm light that forms a glowing edge to the silhouette of his pointed nose. “You’re lucky he only had his knife.” He mutters close to your ear, and you curl your toes, shifting your grip on the whiskey bottle to clutch the neck. You don’t respond, feeling the thick pads of his fingers pressing against your fresh stitches, testing their tightness. A dull throb waves through your shoulder, making you take a clumsy gulp of whiskey, it spilling in a small dribble down your chin as your eyes remain fixed on Arthur’s face. On the beauty marks peppering his sun kissed cheek. On his tired eyes, so slowly blinking as your own meet them. His expression is open, curious, a silent question. What’re you lookin’ at me for?

You tense slightly, having thought he had been still examining your injury. The spasming muscle beneath your wound makes your brow pinch and Arthur’s own brow follows suit, though it’s soft, concerned. His hand drops to your arm, lingering before dropping to your thigh. If your blood were not desperately fighting to repair your wounds and turn your stomach, your face would be as flushed as your shoulder, blooming with cerise and plum. His other hand, he wipes on his shirt before moving to thumb at the driblet of whiskey coalescing at your chin. A shaky breath leaves you, and Arthur breathes it in subtly, his hand lowering to rest against the side of your neck. Calluses graze over the soft skin and the hair at your nape. You feel the whiskey bottle slip from your fingers as he takes it and places it on the floor whilst keeping the hair-prickling nearness.

“You should rest,” Arthur whispers, and the feeling of your laboured breathing against his chest brings forth a twitch at the corners of his mouth. He rubs circles into your lower neck with his fingers, urging you to relax, which your body understands. Your shoulders sink slightly.

“Okay,” you return his tone to him, and you hear his breath mirror the shake in yours. You keep your hands where they are, worried the alcohol and dizzying pain is tempting you into the realm of fools. Your fingers wriggle languidly with the itch to feel the sheen coating his skin. His eyes flit between yours, the blue of them incandescing like the setting sun reflecting upon the shimmering seas. You swallow the spit dumbly pooling in your mouth.

“I’ll check on you in the night, make sure you’re not seizin’ or feverin’.”

“You will?”

“‘Course I will–” His gaze flits to your mouth, then your shoulder, now cleansed and stitched, he shakes his head, “stupid.

“Now, c’mon. Getch’your ass up.” Arthur begins to stand with a grunt, and as he does, he pulls you up with him. You groan at the pressure of his burly arm hooking beneath yours, lifting your bad shoulder up, his other holding your waist carefully. Letting him drag your stumbling and exhausted body out of his tent and through camp, you whimper and huff with each step to which he responds with low, calming hums, trying to gentle you. He pushes the flap of your tent open with his hip, guiding you in and laying you down on your cot in a messy heap of torn clothes, which he helps you strip off before settling a blanket over you.

“Hey, wait–! I ain’t stupid–” You croak, your offence to his earlier words sluggishly making itself aware. Arthur chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, now you’re real stupid,” He pats your knee before making his way out of your tent, “Night. Try not t’roll outta bed this time, saves me the back ache.” You grunt, slurring your words,

“Night, Arthur.” The heaviness of slumber sweeps through your limbs, and soon enough, your mind, ridding you temporarily of discomfort.

Tags for my sweethearts: @thundermartini @zae-heeyyy @pinescent-and-gingerbread @frillydolle @arthurmorganist @thesweetestapplepie @thoughts-of-bear @kayyqua @thedilfdiaries - Apologies if I miss anyone, just dm me or comment below to have me tag you <3

[theonvy]

People are talking about “Can straight people play gay characters”

Meanwhile Yellowjackets has gay people playing gay people, straight people playing gay people, gay people playing straight people

And there’s also whatever Sophie N has going on