littlemillersbaby

Latest Posts by littlemillersbaby

request: Hi I have another ask for Joel x reader ! if it’s not to much, kinda got inspired by the song ‘Nothing you can take from me’ - Rachel Zegler -The Hunger Games: The Ballad of the song birds & snakes. Reader being the singer of Jackson trying to bring comfort and a bigger sense of normalcy to the town. Joel sees reader performance and just thinks they’re the damnedest sweetest thing that he’s gotta have ;) Please make my visions come true HDJA ty in advance also soz for the double request <3 word count: 1,2k warnings: cursing!

it’s the third night this week you’ve been handed a mic and was told to “sing somethin’ pretty, sweetheart,” and tonight, you don’t mind it one bit. the bar’s got that soft golden glow around it—the kind that comes after a couple hard days working patrol, long sleeves rolled up, and good drinks already halfway downed before you’ve even picked your song. people here know you, know your voice, and most of the time, it’s just background noise.

but tonight you feel something new in the air. the little thrill when someone glances up from their glass. the warmth that rolls through your chest when a few heads sway, soft and slow, like they can’t help it.

and then—you see him.

he’s leaning against the wall near the bar, boots planted, arms crossed, like he’s still deciding whether or not this was a mistake. worn jeans, a flannel shirt, and pretty, solid, quiet eyes that linger too long but don’t look away when you meet them. he’s older. not in a bad way. just—a couple.. no, a lot years older than you, but that only makes you more attracted.

you don’t recognize him, which means he’s not a regular. and there aren’t many of those left.

you finish your song, and noticed that he’s still watching you. you pass off the mic, thank the bartender, and head toward the counter, a little grin already tugging at your mouth before your shoes even hit the floor. you slide up next to him like you do every night. your elbow brushes his, and he doesn’t pull away.

“haven’t seen you around here before,” you say, reaching for the glass the bartender’s already poured for you. “jackson’s not that big, y’know.”

he huffs something close to a laugh, and it’s so sexy. “guess that’s true.” he looks at you, direct now. “tommy finally wore me down.”

you raise your eyebrows, take a sip.“you’re tommy’s brother?”

he nods. “joel.”

“huh.” you lean your back against the bar, facing him now. “figured you’d be taller.”

he chuckles, this time for real, and it sounds like gravel and something rougher underneath. “you always this mouthy with strangers?”

“only the ones who stare at me for a full song and don’t clap.”

he looks down, like he’s been caught, and lifts one shoulder in a half-apology. “didn’t mean nothin’ by it. you were…real good.”

you tilt your head at him, grin a little. “that sounded like it hurt to say.”

“nah.” he shrugs. “just not used to talkin’ to people who aren’t tommy or my dog or my er—daughter ellie.”

you decide not to question the daughter part and tap your glass against his, a quiet little toast. “well...here’s to expanding your circle.”

he clinks it without hesitation, eyes not leaving yours.

for a while, it’s just back and forth questions. he asks how long you’ve been singing here, you tell him since the walls went up. he asks what kind of songs you like best, you say the sad ones, because it brings out a persons true emotion. just getting to know each other.

“you don’t talk much,” you say after a beat. “but somehow you say the right things.”

“didn’t realize there was a test.”

“you passin’ or failin’?”

“jury’s still out.” you grin into your glass.

the night stretches. neither of you leave the bar, even though the room gets quieter and the last few bartenders are wiping down tables. your legs were pressed to his now, knees brushing every time you shift. it’s so comfortable and electric. you don’t want the night to end, and you can tell he doesn’t either.

so when you stand, a little slow, finishing the last sip of your drink, you glance at him from under your lashes. “you walkin’ me home, joel?”

he sets his glass down, stands too. “was hopin’ you’d ask.”

the night’s crisp when you step out, the wind brushing your skin in cool little kisses. your shoulders touch as you walk. his hand hovers near yours but never quite closes the gap. you make it to your door too fast.

you turn toward him, lean against the frame. he’s standing close now, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes steady on yours. quiet, always. like he’s thinking a dozen things and only says the ones that matter.

“i liked talkin’ to you,” you say. soft. real.

“me too.”

you smile. can’t help it. “are you really gonna make me ask for it?”

he blinks, then takes a small step forward. he lifts one hand, brushes a knuckle along your cheek, gently like you might get startled. his eyes flick from your lips back to your eyes, looking at you like you're the sweetest thing this earth has ever been graced with. “can i kiss you?”

you breathe out, already leaning in. “if you don’t, i’m gonna have to sing about it tomorrow.”

he chuckles against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you, it's warm and sweet, the kind that makes you forget there’s a world outside this porch.

you don’t say anything when you pull away; you just smile, open the door, and let him follow you in.

Hi I have another ask for Joel x reader ! if it’s not to much, kinda got inspired by the song ‘Nothing you can take from me’ - Rachel Zegler -The Hunger Games: The Ballad of the song birds & snakes

Reader being the singer of Jackson trying to bring comfort and a bigger sense of normalcy to the town. Joel sees reader performance and just thinks they’re the damnedest sweetest thing that he’s gotta have ;)

Please make my visions come true HDJA ty in advance also soz for the double request <3

a/n: no, it's fine! send as many as you want! it's posted here!

"shower punishment" reupload from littlesoulshine

that puppy, ugh...you're going to have to chain him up, because does he really think the water will hide him?

does he thinks the steam curling off the mosaic tiles and the hiss of the showerhead will muffle the soft whimpers in his thick throat, the slap of skin on skin as he fists his big cock like a filthy little secret. his forehead’s pressed to the wall, panting. he’s quiet, he’s trying—he’s so fucking desperate. he hasn’t come in a week, and your rules are eating him alive.

but your rules are rules, and for some reason, he breaks them.

you open the bathroom door like you own it, and you hear it the second you walk in. the low moan, all the slick, rhythmic sounds of a man touching what doesn’t belong to him. you’re on him before he even notices. the glass door yanked open, and he jolts, mouth dropping open, eyes wild.

his hand freezes on his cock. “did i say you could do that?”

he stutters, no words, just the look of a dog who knows the leash is coming out.

you reach in and grab him by the wrist, yanking him out of the water like trash. the cold air slaps him in the face. he almost slips on the mat, barely catching himself, hard dick so big it's bouncing on its own and leaking as the rest of him trembles.

“i asked you a question.”

“n-no, baby” he whispers, head down, water droplets sliding off his body. you shove him against the wall, hard enough to make him gasp. you look down at his cock, swollen and twitching. it's disgusting and shameful. he’s lucky you haven’t slapped it yet (even though it will make him cum).

“what do we do to sweet boys who don’t follow rules?” you murmur, leaning in close, lips brushing his ear.

“we…we punish them.” his voice is so small it barely counts as sound.

you cup his balls, firm and unforgiving. his knees bucking as you squeeze—not the sweet 'making him cum squeeze' but a mean squeeze. just enough to make his eyes snap wide, breath hitch. “that’s right. and do you think i’m going to let you cum tonight?”

he whimpers. “please—please, i was just—I needed—”

smack. your palm slaps the tip of his cock. he screams into his own shoulder, teeth bared, and body curling in. it jerks so hard you think he might cum untouched just from that. but he doesn’t. not yet, because he knows you won't let him. “you needed permission. and you didn’t have it.”

he’s nodding, frantic, lips bitten raw.

you drag him to the bedroom by the ear like a child. he doesn’t resist, he just follows, wet footprints on hardwood, and the sound of his shame echoing behind him. you push him down to his knees at the foot of the bed. still dripping and humiliated.

“hands behind your back, baby.” he obeys. “and open your mouth.” he obeys that faster.

you settle into the mattress like a queen preparing for a foot rub. and that’s exactly what he becomes. not a husband or a man. just a warm mouth and a lesson waiting to be learned. you slip one heel off. press your bare foot against his lips.

“you want to touch your cock again?” he nods, eyes wet. you smile, cruel and soft. “then you’re going to earn it. with your tongue. and if you cum without permission?”

your toes slide along his cheek, his breath catches. “i’ll edge you for a month.” he whimpers at your response. you press your foot harder, making him moan. his tongue is out before you even ask.

on his knees, he's soaking wet, hair dripping into his lashes, cheeks red, and mouth open around your foot like it’s his last meal. his cock’s flushed dark and bobbing helplessly, twitching with every breath, leaking like it knows it’s in trouble.

his tongue moves in slow, strokes. “mhm,” you murmur, watching him through lazy lashes, heel tucked under your thigh. “look at you. just a stupid little mutt who can’t go a day without needing to hump something.”

he whines around your toes. mouth wet, eyes glimmering.

you lean forward, spit in your hand, and start stroking him—so slow he sobs. long, cruel pulls from base to tip. not even for him. just to watch him fall apart.

“ma’am—fuck, mommie, i-i’m gonna—i can’t—”

smack. your palm hits his thigh. he jerks, hips lurching, mouth still kissing your foot like it’s sacred.

“you can’t until i say,” you snap, voice low and sharp. “you even think about coming again without permission, i’ll shove your cock in the freezer.”

his head drops, forehead hitting your knee. “i’m sorry—please—please i’ll be good—i swear—”

you push him back, flat on his back like the pathetic mess he is. you climb over him slowly, knees on either side of his face, your bare cunt glistening inches from his mouth.

his breath hitches and his eyes go wide.

“you want to make it up to me? make it to your wife?” he nods so fast it looks painful. “then you’ll keep that mouth busy. and if you even look like you’re getting close?” you glance at his cock, throbbing in the air. “i’ll ruin you so bad you’ll cry every time you get hard.”

you sit, full weight, right on his face.

his moan is muffled under your cunt. tongue eager, sloppy now, desperation leaking out of every pore. you grind down slowly, letting him breathe through your slick, using his nose like a toy. you don’t hold back. because why would you? he doesn’t deserve soft. he deserves to be used. your thighs clamp around his head. you reach down and slap his cock. not too hard though, just enough to remind him it’s yours.

he bucks. his moan is so loud your clit pulses. he begins to cry, tongue trembling, hands still behind his back like you told him. he’s trying so hard to focus on your pleasure, to not think about his own, but he can’t, it’s too good.

you ride his face harder, letting yourself enjoy it, hips rolling, grinding down until your thighs are soaked and his lips are red and raw. you lean forward, panting. “you close, baby?”

he nods frantically, muffled under your cunt.

“don’t you dare.” he whimpers into you as his cock twitches, pulsing, begging to let go. you grab it—tight—and hold it at the base. he thrashes. you don’t let him come yet.

you keep riding his face while you ruin him. stroking him too light, too slow, until he’s trembling, sweating sliding down the sides his temples, lubing the inner parts of your thighs.

you clench around his tongue and cum—grinding down, back arching, moaning loud enough to drown out his begging.

he’s moaning under you, sobbing, cock bobbing helplessly in the air. you let him edge there, cock twitching, balls tight, muscles locked. you reach down again, fingers wrapping around his shaft.

he gasps. “you want to cum, my love?” he nods, eyes wide, wet, desperate. you start stroking him quickly.

“then cum,” you whisper. “but don’t you dare enjoy it.”

he explodes. spilling over your hand, sobbing like it hurts. his whole body spasms—hips bucking, mouth still lapping at you like a good boy while tears spill down his cheeks.

you ride his tongue until he’s done whimpering. you climb off him slowly, standing over his ruined body, watching the way his cum drips down his belly. you wipe your hand on his chest.“next time?” you say, voice like ice. “ask.” he nods, broken, blissed-out. you peck his red lips, and step into the shower. he crawls after you without a word.

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa @tinythebunni

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

"pretty little provider" reupload from littlesoulshine

he comes home super nervous. you see it in the way he holds the box—tucked tight under one arm, like he’s scared you’ll tell him it’s too much. scared he’s too much. his other hand fiddles with his watch, knuckles pale. lily’s upstairs, the house is quiet, and your wine glass already half-full.

he crosses the threshold and you look up from the couch. silk robe, with bare legs crossed and with your lashes heavy. you don’t smile at him, just watching to see why his anxious energy has filled the room.

“hi, baby,” he murmurs, eyes hopeful. “i, uh…i got you something.”

you arch a brow, sipping your wine slow, then pating your lap. “come show me.”

his ears turn pink. you know he was hoping for approval first, a kiss maybe, a thank-you. he walks over fast, obedient, and when you uncross your legs and lean back as he comes closer to place the gift on your lap.

the box trembles slightly in his hand as you take it, nails grazing his wrist. a necklace, gaudy yet rare and seems imported. carrying disgusting price tag—you don’t even look surprised.

your free hand drags slowly up his spine, beneath the fabric of his button-up. he shudders, arching slightly. the heat of his back presses into your palm like he’s starving for it.

you lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “my pretty little provider,” you whisper, voice low, syrupy.

he moans. God, that delicious moan.

your nails rake down his back, slow and sharp. his breath catches, his hands shifting to your lap. leaning over to his crotch, you feel the way he’s already getting hard, straining against his slacks.

“you like buying things for me?” you ask, words a little rougher now. your nails drag again. deeper. he gasps.

“yes—yes, princess. i love it. i want to—i just want to take care of you—”

“you do.” your hand cups the back of his neck, thumb stroking just under the hairline. “but you know what that makes you, don’t you?”

his lips part. “your…your provider?”

you smile against his jaw. “no, baby. that makes you mine.”

he melts. his head drops onto your shoulder, breath ragged. you feel him leaking through his pants already. your palm slides over his chest, fingers toying with the buttons.

you tug one open, and then another.

your lips brush his temple.

“how long were you hard in the store, hm?” you murmur, undoing each button like it’s a reward. “walking around all polite with your wallet in one hand and my name in your head, cock aching because you knew i’d call you good when you handed this to me?”

his hands clench on your thighs. his voice breaks.

“i was…i was throbbing. the whole time, i kept thinking about your voice.”

“and what voice is that?” you slide your hand down, palm resting right over his cock. he bucks against it.

“that voice,” he pants. “when you call me yours.” your fingers curl around the wet patch, displaying his thick bulge, slow pressure.

“say it again.”

“i’m yours. i’m yours, my love. i belong to you. i—i earn for you. i spend for you. i ache for you.”

your fingers tighten, making him whimper.

you unzip him, slow and deliberate. pulling his cock out without a word and let it sit against his belly, hard, flushed, and twitching. your other hand trails down his stomach, light touches, teasing.

“you want me to fuck you for it?” you ask. “or should i edge you all night while i wear your little gift and moan for someone else?”

he whimpers. “i want you to fuck me for it, baby.”

you nod, grabbing his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks, yanking his face back to yours.“next time, get the earrings too.” before kissing him deeply, and climbing on him.

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

girly we need mike faist fluff or smut even… the lack of mike fics and blurbs on tumblr is insane

I KNOW what kinda stuff do you want to see??

"good boy!" reupload from littlesoulshine

for being a good boy, you decided to give arty a little treat. you set the table—linen, crystal, and a single candle lit, flickering low; around it roast chicken, green beans, and a perfect glass of red wine, his favorite. you wear something sheer with no bra or panties on. art walks in, wearing his gym clothes, and freezes like a deer in headlights.

“shorts off,” you say, without looking up. he obeys instantly, dropping like he’s allergic to disobedience. you tilt your head just slightly, pointing to the chair at the head of the table. “sit.”

he moves fast, you straddle him before he’s fully settled, one slow grind of your hips as you guide his cock inside you—bare, of course. no prep or foreplay. he gasps, hands flying to your thighs like he might hold on—

“no,” you say, catching his wrists. “hands in your lap. or i stop.”

he obeys, trembling already. you can feel every twitch of him deep inside you, stuffed full, throbbing against your walls. 

you pick up a bite of steaming hot chicken, blow on it, and bring it to his mouth. “open, baby.”

he does—lips parting, tongue just barely peeking out. you feed him. as you stare at him, he chews slow and swallows hard (moaning as you softly tighten around him.)

you moan low in your throat—not from pleasure, but from power he’s giving you. he’s shaking under you, hips pressed against the chair, your cunt keeping his cock soaked and tight. he wants to thrust, wants to fuck up into you. but he knows he can’t (only on his birthday, new years, or any time you tell him to).

he gets a bite of green beans next. his lips brush your fingertips and he moans.

“you love this, don’t you?” you murmur, picking up your own fork. “sitting still like a good boy, stuffed full of my cunt, while i feed you like the dumb little pet you are.”

“yes, ma’am,” he breathes. “i love it. love being inside you—so warm—so tight—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can.” your voice cuts sharp. “and you will.”

he bites his lip. his cock twitches inside you. you feel it—so fucking desperate, pulsing with every heartbeat. you take a sip of wine. press the glass to his lips next. he drinks, soft whimpers caught in his throat, neck flushed and glossy with sweat.

the sight makes you clench and he choke from the pleasure. “mommy—please—please just let me move, just once, just a little, i’ll beg—i’ll do anything—”

you cut a piece of meat. feed it to him. “no.”

his eyes flutter, while he continues to pant with his cheeks red and balls tightening.

you lean in, lips brushing his ear, giving him little kisses. he makes a incoherent sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan. his hands tremble in his lap, making him cry all soft and wet, with pretty glassy eyes.

you press your hips down just a little. his hips jerk up and you instantly slap his thigh. “sit still, baby.”

he nods as you feed him again, but he’s so far gone by the time you’ve finished your meal, his cock was soaked, balls super heavy and lips shining with spit, wine, and your praise.

you set down your fork and look down at him. “you want to come?”

“God—yes—please—i’ve been so good—”

you rise off his pretty cock before slamming down again, and lifting up again that being his breaking point. he screams, high-pitched and all. his cum spurts painting his belly, chest, even his chin. he jerks, sobs, full-body trembles, hands still clasped in his lap. you bend down, scooping a little with your fingers, feeding it to him while trying it for yourself, moaning at how good he tastes. “mhm, this is good.”

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

just one bite omfg 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

3, 2, 1, ACTION . ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

based on this ask | masterlist | 2.8k words | 📹 | having sex and recording it, kissing, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv sex, switch povs, m!masturbating, edging | i had sm fun w/ this tysm for requesting! |

summary: you found an old but working camera while out on patrol. instead of thinking about take pictures and creating memories something else completely took over your mind…

You found it buried in the snow just past the perimeter—half-dead, lens cracked on one side, but the battery still blinked when you thumbed it on. A camera. God knows who dropped it, or when, or what it had seen before it landed in your hands. It didn’t matter.

You carried it home like it meant something. Like it had a purpose.

Joel sat on the couch in his flannel and jeans, working a knot out of his boot lace, fingers slow, tired. You watched him from the doorway a second too long, camera heavy in your jacket pocket. He looked up.

“What?” he asked, soft but suspicious.

You swallowed your nerves. “I brought us somethin’.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Unless it’s dinner, I ain’t in the mood.”

You walked over, pulled it out like it was a damn wedding ring. Set it gently on the coffee table between you. “It’s a camera.”

Joel glanced at it, uninterested. “Yeah. And?”

“And it works.”

He blinked. “Okay.”

You sat next to him, thigh brushing his thigh. “I was thinkin’… maybe we could use it.”

A pause.

He turned slowly to face you. “Use it how?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. You hadn’t meant to say it so soon, but the way he was looking at you—all stern and unreadable—made you want to push. Made you want to crawl in his lap and ask for things you shouldn’t.

“I wanna record us,” you said. Quiet. Honest. “Just once.”

His jaw tensed. “What do you mean—us?”

“You know what I mean.”

Joel stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Sweetheart…”

You got to your knees in front of him before he could keep talking. Looked up at him, palms splayed on his thighs.

“I just wanna see it,” you said, desperate now. “Wanna see how you touch me. How you—fuck, Joel, how you look when you’re inside me.”

His hands hovered like he didn’t know where to put them. “That’s not—baby, that’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“You really want somethin’ like that lyin’ around? It could be dangerous.”

“I’ll keep it safe. No one’ll ever see it but me.” Your fingers curled around his belt. “Please, Joel. Just once. For me.”

He exhaled hard. Looked down at you, torn and twitchy and so close to giving in. His hand finally dropped, touching your cheek.

“You don’t need a camera,” he said, voice low. “You got me right here.”

You leaned into his hand. “But I wanna keep you forever.”

That did it. You felt it in the way his thighs shifted under your palms. In the soft groan he tried to swallow. In the way his thumb dragged across your lips like he was already picturing it.

He closed his eyes.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Once. But you stay close. You do exactly what I say.”

Your smile was slow. “Always do.”

Joel cursed under his breath.

And when you got up, went to set the camera just right on the nightstand, you didn’t miss the way his hands were already undoing his belt.

You can hear the soft, static click of the record button, and that’s it. No beeping. No countdown. Just that tiny blink of red in the corner of the room, steady and quiet like it’s watching you breathe.

Joel’s sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, shirt already off, that strong, tired body on full display—his chest dusted with gray hair, thighs flexing as he watches you set up the frame. His jeans are undone, waistband tugged low, the bulge in his boxers thick and heavy, straining.

He’s already half-hard.

“You’re sure?” he asks again, voice low and rough.

You nod, stepping toward him slowly. You crawl between his legs and place your hands on his thighs, the denim warm under your palms. “It’s already recording.”

Joel drags a hand down his face like he’s regretting every decision he’s ever made—but when you kiss the inside of his knee and trail your mouth up the inseam, you feel him twitch under the fabric.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“You don’t even have to look at it,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to his brown ones. “Just look at me.”

And when you lean up to kiss him, he grabs your face with both hands and kisses you back so hard your breath catches in your throat. The kind of kiss that makes your knees weak. Tongue slow, patient, possessive. Like he’s trying to brand the shape of you into his mouth.

By the time he pulls away, you’re gasping.

“Clothes off,” he says hoarsely. “C’mon. Let me see you.”

You undress for him—slow, tugging your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra, slipping your pants down one leg at a time. He watches every second. Not the camera. You.

When you’re bare in front of him, he lets out a low breath. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing the skin just above your knees.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re already wet.”

You nod, dizzy. “Joel—please.”

“Lay back.”

You do. Back hitting the mattress, legs spreading for him automatically. He crawls over you, bigger than the bed, arms braced on either side of your head. His mouth brushes your ear.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at the fuckin’ camera. I want you to feel this.”

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His tongue drags slowly and heavy over one nipple, then the other, before he kisses down your belly and sinks between your thighs like he belongs there.

And when his mouth finds you—warm, wet, perfect—you arch with a soft cry. His tongue is patient. Flat, dragging circles over your clit, then flicking faster, lips sucking it until you’re whimpering, twitching, trying not to close your eyes.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let it show.”

You’re already shaking when he finally rises to his knees and strokes himself—slow and hard, leaking at the tip. You watch the way he fists it, how red and thick it looks in his hand, and you whimper.

“I want it,” you breathe. “Inside.”

Joel groans low in his throat. He lines up, runs the head of his cock through your slick folds, and just barely pushes in.

The stretch burns—thick, aching, perfect—and your mouth falls open on a gasp.

“Oh my God— Joel—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let the camera hear how good I fuck you.”

He thrusts deeper, watching your face twist, jaw slack, your breath catching. He moves slow—so slow—until he’s buried to the base, hips flush against yours.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he grits. “Always so good for me.”

He pulls out almost all the way and pushes in again, groaning as your cunt clenches around him. One hand slips under your thigh and hooks it higher around his waist, opening you more, making room.

Each thrust drags the air from your lungs.

He keeps it steady, rhythm deep and deliberate, hips rocking into yours as your body trembles. Your moans are high and desperate, choked off by the sheer pressure of him inside you.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. But it just comes out as noise.

Joel chuckles darkly, voice fucked-out. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to see how I ruin you?”

You nod helplessly, eyes wet.

“Look at how easy you come apart,” he mutters, fucking into you a little harder now. “You’ll watch this back with your hand between your thighs, won’t you? Pretending' it’s me.”

You moan louder, body jolting.

“Say it.”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer. “I—fuck, Joel—I will.”

And then it happens—

He changes.

The moment your voice breaks, something flickers in him. His hips snap harder. His breath hitches. His hand grips your jaw tight enough to keep you still as he fucks you like he’s gone feral.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Every fuckin’ inch of you. Look at how you take me. Like you were made for it.”

The camera is forgotten.

Now it’s just skin and sweat and the wet sound of you taking him again and again, your cunt sucking him in so greedily it makes him groan every time he bottoms out.

He lifts your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half. Fucking deeper. Harder.

“Gonna come all over this cock,” he mutters, voice hot against your neck. “Wanna show you what you do to me. Look at me, baby. Eyes on me.”

“I— I’m close— Joel— I—”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know.”

His hand flies to your clit, thumb rubbing tight and fast, and your whole body clenches, legs trembling as your orgasm hits like a wave.

You cry out, loud and wrecked, and Joel’s hips stutter.

“Fuuuuck—that’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He comes inside you with a long, broken sound, cock twitching deep, filling you until it spills out slow and warm between your thighs.

And when he finally collapses over you, your legs still draped over his shoulders, you both lay there for a long, breathless moment.

The red light blinks once.

Still recording.

Joel’s voice is a rasp against your skin.

“You really gonna keep that forever?”

You smile, dazed. “Every second of it.”

It’s late.

The house creaks now and then with the wind, but nothing stirs. Not even the fire—burnt down to its glowing bones.

And Joel? Joel’s sitting still in that damn chair like something’s wound tight in his chest and won’t let go. You’ve been gone since morning—long patrol east, won’t be back until tomorrow—and the silence left behind has teeth.

He’s already two buttons down, belt unbuckled, pants shoved low on his hips.

In front of him, the old camcorder sits steady on the wooden table. The one you found on patrol, grinning and breathless when you handed it to him. Said it was still functional—still had some battery left, even. He’d grunted at the time, tossed it on the dresser like it didn’t mean anything.

It means something now.

The little screen flips open with a soft click, a flicker of blue light humming to life, and then—

There you are.

The video’s grainy, but Joel doesn’t care. He can see you just fine. Better than fine. You’re spread out on his bed, legs open, body moving beneath him, a haze of sweat glowing on your skin. His body, rough and broad, takes up half the frame. The camera had been set on the nightstand, just a little off-center, so it catches everything.

You had begged him for this.

On your knees, mouth swollen, voice wrecked: “Just once. I wanna see it. I wanna keep it with me forever.”

He hadn’t said yes right away. He never did. But the way you’d looked at him—wanting, soft and wicked at once—he’d given in. You always got what you wanted from him when you looked like that.

And now he gets this.

Joel strokes himself once, slow, thick fingers dragging from base to tip. His cock twitches, already wet at the head, leaking for you like a goddamn teenager. It’s not even shameful—he’s too far gone for shame.

On the screen, your back arches. His hand wraps around your throat. Your moan crackles through the built-in speaker, quiet and sweet and soaked in pleasure.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, mouth parting.

He strokes again, slow, tight around the base. Watches as his on-screen self pushes into you—deep, hips flexing as he buries himself to the hilt. You take him like you were made for it. The wet drag of his cock inside you, the sound of your cunt clenching down on him, all of it plays through the camcorder’s tiny speaker like a prayer.

Joel swallows hard. His hand leaves his cock, resting against his thigh. He’s not ready to come. Not yet.

He watches you pant, watches your fingers grip the sheets. Onscreen, he grabs your leg and pushes it up—opens you even wider. The camera shakes slightly as the bed rocks beneath you. The sound of your moan—high, breathless, needy—makes Joel groan in real time.

He presses a hand to his belly. His cock twitches against it, hot and heavy and needy.

Then he hears it—his voice, low and rough: “That’s it, baby. Take all of it.”

His own voice ruins him.

He fists his cock again and strokes, just once. Once. The sensation is almost too much already.

He breathes through his nose, sharp and shallow. The tape keeps going. He watches himself roll his hips into you slowly, watches your eyes flutter shut, your thighs shaking. Then, you say it—his favorite part—whimpering, desperate: “Joel, I can feel you in my stomach—oh my god—”

“Shit,” he mutters aloud, hand tightening. His hips jerk up into his fist involuntarily, needing more pressure, more friction, but he slows himself. He won’t come. Not yet.

He shifts, wide legs bracing him in the chair, the tension winding him up like a coil. The camcorder’s screen catches the moment he presses your legs up and leans in, burying his face in your neck as he pounds into you. Your body bounces from the force of it, your tits moving with every thrust, mouth open in a silent scream.

He hears himself on the recording again, low and cocky now: “Fuckin’ made for me, huh? Look how good you take it.”

Joel groans, stroking himself harder now. His hand glides slick with spit and precum. He’s dripping everywhere—his belly, his fist, the arm of the chair. He wants to finish, but he needs to draw it out.

The tape plays on. He watches you start to come, sees the exact second it hits you—your mouth drops open, legs shaking around his waist, that tight clench that he knows so well rippling through your body. You’re crying out for him. His name—“Joel, Joel, Joel—” Like a goddamn melody.

And he’s right there on-screen, watching himself fuck you through it, muttering filth in your ear. He feels that phantom tightness, the way your cunt always pulses when you come, and he has to stop again, squeezing the base of his cock to hold it off.

“God damn,” he grits out. “You feel so good. I fuckin’ ruin you every time, huh?”

He doesn’t even realize he’s talking aloud. The camcorder repeats the moment of his own orgasm—hips stuttering, body locking up, face buried in your shoulder as he spills inside you. It’s raw. It’s real. No performance. Just pleasure.

Joel can see the aftermath, too—his cum dripping down your thigh, your body boneless and twitching beneath him, both of you panting like you’ve just survived a bloater in the woods. The way you pull him close, even when it’s over. The way he kisses your hair. The way he worships you even when he doesn’t say it out loud.

He strokes again, slower now. More reverent.

The screen goes dark for a second as the footage loops.

Then it starts over.

You again. Lying back. Welcoming him in. Your voice: “Please, Joel—want you so bad—”

Joel clenches his jaw.

He edges himself through the whole damn tape again, sweat slicking his chest and temples, cum threatening to boil over. But he holds it. Every time. Over and over.

By the time he finally lets himself finish, he’s groaning so loud he has to shove his fist in his mouth to muffle it. His thighs shake. His hips jerk up off the seat. His release is hot and heavy, spilling over his knuckles in thick ropes, coating his hand, his belly, his shirt.

“Fuck,” he chokes, spent and trembling.

The camcorder plays on. Your voice is soft now. Laughing. Telling him you love how wrecked he looks after.

Joel leans forward, presses the pause button with a shaking finger. The screen freezes on your smiling face, sweat-slick and beautiful.

He sits back.

Breathless. Heart pounding. Cock twitching even after he’s come.

He doesn’t rewind it. Doesn’t delete it.

He just closes the screen with a soft click, tucks it away, and wipes his hand on the hem of his shirt.

He’ll watch it again tomorrow.

Maybe the day after that.

And if you’re gone too long, maybe he’ll hit record again the next time he fucks you—just to remember how good you feel.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr

Hi lovely person ! Could I request an angst to fluff piece with Joel miller? So I was thinking.. we always see Dbf! Joel smut, but I would really like something angsty with that trope. Maybe something along the lines of the reader and Joel being together in secret because you know being scared of judgment because of the age gap and stuff and not the father finding out. But then there's this woman, more to Joel's age coming into the picture, making reader insecure thinking she's not enough and too young and naive but in the end all turns out good? I'm a sucker for angst loll"

a/n: hi! it's posted here! i hope you like it 💗

request: Hi lovely person ! Could I request an angst to fluff piece with Joel miller? So I was thinking.. we always see Dbf! Joel smut, but I would really like something angsty with that trope. Maybe something along the lines of the reader and Joel being together in secret because you know being scared of judgment because of the age gap and stuff and not the father finding out. But then there's this woman, more to Joel's age coming into the picture, making reader insecure thinking she's not enough and too young and naive but in the end all turns out good? I'm a sucker for angst loll" word count: 1,2k warnings: cursing!

you were supposed to be past this by now. the self-doubt. the little pinpricks of anxiety you never used to feel before joel. the kind that bloom right in your chest; it hadn’t always been this bad. at the start, it had been electric—hiding, sneaking, the way his hands used to shake the first time he touched you like he couldn’t believe what he was doing. what you were letting him do.

but that was when it was new. now it’s just uncertain.

you came home early. you tell yourself you’re doing it to surprise him, but deep down, it’s selfish. you missed him, wanted to see him and hear that voice all rough and possessive. you were gonna kiss his neck and make him groan like he always does when you wrap your arms around his middle from behind.

but, once you get there, the front door’s already open. maybe he forgot to close it all the way? no way not joel.

within that small moment of you questioning why the door was open, you hear his sweet laugh and a woman’s voice.

you freeze in the entryway, sneakers still on, keys tight in your hand. you see them before they see you.

he was in the kitchen, leaning on the island like he lives here. it’s an image you always love—him comfortable in your house. like it’s his too. but next to him is her. she’s got one elbow on the counter, her whole body tilted toward him, her legs crossed while she’s laughing at something he just said, flipping her shiny brown hair off her shoulder with practiced ease.

your throat goes dry seeing him grin widely at her..he was yours for fucks sake.

your feet move before your brain decides where to go. you make a little too much noise, keys clattering on the hallway table, and the door clicks harder behind you than it should. you know you should smile. a joke, maybe? just say something.

joel turns around fast at the sound.

“hey, baby,” he says, but it’s careful, like he’s trying to read your mood before you’ve even said a word. he straightens up, steps away from the island.

the woman turns to you too. she’s prettier up close, older too. just right..like if he wasn’t with you, she’d be the natural fit. not your frayed little heart that’s too young to have any right wanting something this serious.

“hi,” you say, and it’s clipped and fake.

you try not to look at him. because you know if you do, it’ll all show. how suddenly, irrationally fucking insane your brain’s gotten.

joel must see it anyway, because his eyes narrow, not angry. just—watching, somewhat worried. the older woman pushes off the counter, smoothly. “i should head out,” she says, glancing at joel. “thanks for the help. you’re a lifesaver.”

joel nods, kind of tight-lipped now. “no problem. let me know if it doesn’t start again.” she smiles at you on the way past. you can’t bring yourself to return it. your face feels frozen in place.

joel waits until the door clicks behind her before he speaks.

“you good?” you’re still standing by the entryway, arms crossed like you were cold.

“who was that?” you ask, and it comes out cooler than you meant.

he runs a hand through his hair, sighs, steps toward you, rushing out the words. “her name’s elena. neighbor’s cousin. she’s in town for a bit; had some car trouble.”

you blink at his simple explanation. “oh.”

he studies you. “okay darlin', what’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

you almost laugh—but it’s bitter and sharp in your throat.

you walk past him toward the living room, not sure what you’re doing. you feel stupid, childish, pathetic. and still—you can’t stop. it’s gnawing at you. inside your chest, inside your bones.

you don’t sit down, just turn to face him.

“nothing. just…she’s pretty and normal. and probably not some big secret.”

he flinches. “what the hell does that mean?”

you wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “you know what it means. i’m the one you sneak around with. the one you don’t talk about. and then i walk in and you’re laughing with her like..like you’re not ashamed to be seen with her.”

his jaw works, tightens, then softens again.

“ashamed?” he echoes, incredulous. “is that what you think this is?”

you don’t answer. you just keep going because now that you’ve started it, it’s like you can’t stop. every thought you’ve shoved down in the last few months starts rising like bile in your throat.

“sometimes i just wonder how long this’ll last, you know? how long before you realize i’m too much or not enough. that this is all some dumb phase and you’re just waiting for a reason to bail. like maybe you wake up one day and look at me and wonder what the fuck you’re doing wasting time with some girl barely out of college who still calls her dad to ask how to fix her tires.”

joel walks to you, leans over you in an endearing manner. “hey..hey..look at me.”

you don’t want to. your eyes are wet and you feel like an idiot. but he cups your face in both hands, rough thumbs brushing your cheeks, and you have no choice.

he leans down, rests his forehead against yours.

“i love you,” he says. “i’m not goin’ anywhere. and don’t you ever—ever—talk about yourself like that again.”

your lip trembles as his grip tightens.

“you think i don’t wish i could take you everywhere? shout it from the rooftops that you’re mine? i do, baby. every fuckin’ day. i just…” he sighs, jaw clenching again. “i worry, alright? i know how people see me. old enough to know better. and you? you’re this bright, gotdamn beautiful thing, and i don’t wanna drag you down into all my mess.”

you shake your head, fast, angry now. “you don’t get to decide that for me, joel.”

he smiles fondly, even with the tension thick between you.

“i know. you keep remindin’ me. but this? this ain’t a fling. you’re not some secret i’m ashamed of. you’re the best thing in my life, i swear.”

you swallow. “then why does it feel like you’re always waiting for it to fall apart?”

he pulls you in—both arms around you, holding you so tight it aches. his lips press to your hair.

“’cause i don’t deserve you. but i’m selfish enough to keep you anyway.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, burying your face in his chest.

his voice rumbles in your ear. “you’re not too young. you’re not too much. you’re not anything but exactly what i want. every second. every day.”

you’re quiet a long time. his hand strokes your back comforting you.

“you smiled at her,” you whisper. “like it was easy to do.”

he leans back, just enough to look at you. “and you smile at bartenders when they spell your name right on your smoothies. doesn’t mean you wanna fuck ‘em.”

you snort against your will.

he grins. “see? there she is.”

you wrap your arms around his waist and hold on tight.

“i hate how much i love you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“nah,” he mutters, kissing your temple. “you love how much you love me.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t let go. and never will.

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @lowrisemiller

“ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴍᴇɴ ᴅɪᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ, ꜱᴏ ɪ’ᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʙᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜ”

one - shot is inspired by ethel cain’s song “crush”

smuggler!joel miller x fem!reader

you're the last friendly checkpoint before the edge of the Boston QZ. a safehouse disguised as a run-down gas station turned supply pit-stop. you’re not a Firefly, not FEDRA, not quite neutral either. you're your own authority, and people respect that. smugglers pass through, barter, rest. joel is one of them. comes and goes like a storm—gruff, practical, unreadable. you assume he’s only here because it’s convenient. you try not to care. but every time he returns, it gets harder not to.

masterlist | 5k words | YEARNING, reader falls hard and Joel falls harder, pov switches, mentions of blood and patching wounds, violence!!, neglecting wounds (they're horny stfu) kissing, PRAISE, riding, unprotected sex & aftercare

The day begins like it always does—with the light bleeding in through the dusty blinds, soft and warm against the wooden floorboards. You wake up slow. There’s no rush, not this early. Outside, the sun hasn’t even fully broken over the ruins yet, but the faint gold smear across the sky means it’s close.

The safehouse is cold in the mornings. You pull your old knit sweater on before your boots, feet brushing the cold floor as you shuffle to the kitchen. There’s a rhythm to it now: water from the barrel, fire from the coals you banked last night, the small stove coming back to life with a crackle and puff of smoke. If there’s any power that day, the fridge might hum back to life. If not, you’ve still got your root cellar, and enough dried things to last the week.

You move quietly, out of habit. The safehouse isn’t a bustling place, not unless someone’s bleeding.

You’ve had all types—smugglers, couriers, FEDRA deserters, even one terrified kid who didn’t say a word and only stayed the night. Most people don’t linger. That’s the unspoken rule: get patched up, get fed, keep your head down, and move on. You’re not a hero. Just a warm bed, a stitched wound, maybe a few cans of food tucked into a knapsack before they disappear again.

But they remember you. Tess, especially.

She’s the one who first showed up with her face split open and a bullet graze along her ribs. That was two winters ago, and now she drops in whenever the city gets too hot or the tunnels start to flood. You’re used to the sound of her boots on your porch, the sharp knock, the muttered “It’s me.”

Others are more fleeting—Marcy with her burn scars, Lyle with his limp, the girl with the broken radio who swore she could fix your generator (she couldn’t). You keep records in your head. Some people don’t give real names.

You move through the morning like a ghost, pouring boiling water over stale tea leaves, slicing into bread that’s harder than you’d like. There’s a satisfaction in the stillness, but also something else—loneliness, maybe. Or restlessness. Like the quiet’s stretching too long lately. Like something’s due to change.

You scrub the floor. You mend a ripped sleeve. You step out onto the porch and sit with your tea, watching the horizon.

And then, around midday, someone comes.

You hear the crunch of boots before you see them—three people, two you recognize. Smugglers. The third is new. Skinny, wild-eyed. He’s limping, gripping his side like he’s holding something in. You already know before they speak.

“Shot in the hip,” one of them says. “Clean through, but he’s losing blood.”

You don’t ask names. Just step aside.

They carry him in, and the air fills with noise again—muttered curses, clinking metal, the smell of sweat and blood. You boil water. Tear sheets into bandages. The others hover, pacing or leaning against your walls, until you send them outside.

It’s just you and the boy now.

He’s younger than you thought, and his eyes dart around like a cornered animal. “You gonna kill me?” he whispers.

You shake your head.

He winces as you work, flinching from the needle. “I got no caps,” he says.

“You’re bleeding out. Worry about caps later.”

He doesn’t speak after that. Just breathes heavy and clutches the edge of the cot. You work quietly, humming under your breath—a song from before, something your mother might’ve played on a Sunday morning. You hum it when you’re scared, or when someone else is.

When it’s done, you give him water, painkillers. “Rest,” you say, and he does.

By dusk, he’s sleeping.

The others left a ration packet as payment. You heat half of it and eat on the porch. The sun’s dropping low now, sky bleeding into orange and gray. The wind rattles the door once, then settles.

You think of Tess.

She hasn’t been by in weeks. Last time, she was tired in a way you couldn’t fix. Said she was pulling in a new runner, someone dangerous. Someone she wasn’t sure about yet.

“He’s good, though,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Keeps quiet. Scares the hell outta half the guys we run with, but he doesn’t waste time.”

You asked his name. She just smirked. “You’ll meet him eventually.”

You hadn’t thought much of it. You get all kinds through here—angry ones, broken ones, ones that drink too much or talk too little. They pass through, you patch them up, and they leave. Simple.

But tonight, as you sit on the porch with your tea cooling in your hands and the wind whispering against your bones, you wonder about him. The runner. The quiet one.

You wonder if he’ll come.

It’s been a month since Tess stopped by, and Boston has settled back into its usual uneasy rhythm.

Gray skies. Wind through broken glass. Blood stains that won’t scrub out of old wood. The safehouse breathes quietly again, but her visit lingers like smoke in your clothes.

She hasn’t returned. No one has mentioned her. But she’s in your head. Or maybe it’s not her—it’s him. The man she didn’t name.

You start noticing shadows more. Listening harder. Wondering if each pair of boots might be his. You don’t even know what he looks like. But you picture him anyway. Dark hair. Stern mouth. A scowl molded by grief. The kind of man who kills without flinching, then washes his hands in your sink.

You should know better. But still.

The nights stretch longer in November. The cold settles into your bones even when the fire’s high. You patch up a runner with a bad shoulder. A kid who doesn’t speak, just nods and stares. You share your last can of peaches with an old woman who gives you an extra box of ammo out of pity.

You clean. You rearrange. You listen to the wind.

And then—one night, long after the lanterns are out, there’s a knock.

Three, spaced out. Not urgent. Not begging. But deliberate.

You pause in the hallway, heart kicking against your ribs. You haven’t had visitors this late in weeks.

The knock comes again.

You open the door with the pistol raised, just a little. And then you see him.

He’s taller than you expected. Broad shoulders. Blood on his shirt. His hand clutching his side. Not dying, but not good. His face was unreadable. Weathered and silent and sharp like a cut stone.

He looks at you like he already knows what you’ll do.

“Tess said this place was quiet.”

His voice is gravel soaked in whiskey and bad sleep.

You nod once. “She was right.”

You don’t ask his name. You don’t need to.

He steps in and takes up the whole room without trying. Doesn’t look around much. Doesn’t ask questions.

You get the feeling this man only speaks when he has to. He doesn’t sit—he leans against the counter like he’s waiting for someone to shoot at him.

You reach for the med kit. “You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

He shrugs off his jacket, stiff, and pulls up his shirt just enough to show the gash along his side. It’s not deep, but it’s dirty. Long. Like a knife meant to scare, not kill.

He watches your hands while you clean him up, silent. You try not to shake under the weight of his stare.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breath and the soft tear of gauze. He smells like sweat and metal. Like the road. Like something ruined and sacred all at once.

You want to ask him if Tess is okay. You want to ask if he’s Joel.

But you already knew the answers.

So instead, you say, “You’ll need to stay off it for a few days.”

He grunts. “Ain’t got a few days.”

You press harder on the bandage than you need to. “You want it to get infected?”

His mouth twitches—barely. Like the ghost of a smirk or something close to it.

“I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t offer to trade. Just pulls his shirt back down and winces as it sticks to the wound.

“I can give you antibiotics,” you say, softer now.

He nods once. “Tess said you don’t ask questions.”

You meet his eyes.

They’re dark. Heavy. Tired in a way that no sleep could fix. He doesn’t look at you like a person. 

Not yet.

Just someone doing a job. Someone useful.

That should make it easier.

But something about him—his stillness, the way he’s holding everything back like a dam about to break—makes your stomach twist.

You hand him the pills in a folded napkin.

He pockets them without a word.

He leaves just before dawn. No goodbye.

You stand at the door after he’s gone, heart still racing.

The space he took up feels colder now. You clean the blood off the counter, but not all of it. You leave the faint smudge on the edge of the sink.

You sit with it like it’s a secret.

For the next week, you think about him constantly. It’s not even his face. It’s the way he didn’t look at you. Like you were air. Or a wall. Or a bedpost.

You imagine what his hands would feel like if he weren’t trying to hold himself together.

You touch the sink where the blood stain still is, and wonder if he ever thinks about you.

You know he doesn’t. You’re just a stop. A patch. A soft place in a hard world.

But you still watch the road. Every dusk. Every dawn.

Waiting.

You don’t talk about it to anyone, but the air feels different now.

Joel’s visit was like lightning splitting the sky once and then disappearing, leaving you in the crackle.

You didn’t realize how silent your life was until he filled it for five minutes and walked out.

Now everything is louder. The wind. The squeak of the back door. The creak of your bed frame when you turn at night, restless and annoyed with your own thoughts.

You find yourself moving slower. Listening harder.

You rearrange the shelves—again. The second-aid kit, the ammo drawer, the canned food pantry that never has enough. Everything feels cluttered, like it might bother him if he ever came back.

You don’t even know why that matters. He didn’t comment. Barely even looked around.

But still.

A man stops in, asking for water and a patch for his busted palm. You help him.

You do what you always do.

But he stares at your mouth when you talk and leans too close, and all you can think about is how he isn’t Joel.

How he barely looked at you. Barely breathed in your direction.

And how, for some reason, that felt worse. Felt real.

You send the man off with a mumbled goodbye and your pistol half-raised until he’s out of sight.

That night, you try to remember Joel’s voice. You thought it was rough. But there was something quiet in it, too. Something steady.

You play it back in your head, every word. Tess said this place was quiet.

You should’ve said more. Should’ve asked him to stay, even just for another hour. Should’ve found a reason to matter to him.

But you didn’t.

You just let him go.

A week later, you find yourself watching the treeline longer.

You hear every snap of a branch, every shuffle of boots in the dark, and your heart lifts at every sound.

And drops just as fast.

You dreamt about him, once. He didn’t say anything. Just stood in the kitchen, bleeding again. Same cut. Same shirt. But this time, he looked at you. Really looked.

You wake up drenched in sweat, embarrassed by yourself.

You make coffee even though you’ve run out of sugar. Sit by the window with your feet tucked under your knees. Eyes on the dirt road.

You used to sit there because it made you feel safe. Like you were guarding something.

Now, it feels like you’re just waiting.

Waiting for someone who maybe only needed you once.

Someone who doesn’t know what he left behind.

On the third Sunday since he showed up, you take out the blood-stained rag you used to clean his side. It’s still in the laundry bin, forgotten.

You press it flat. Fold it once, then again. Put it in the drawer next to your bed.

You don’t know why.

Maybe it’s stupid.

But it’s the only proof you have that he was ever here.

The roads outside the safehouse tracked into mud overnight, rain washing away any clear footprints—except his. Joel Miller drags his boots through the slush, heart loud in his ears. It’s been four weeks. Four weeks since he bled out across the threshold, four weeks since she stitched him up and sent him off without a backward glance.

He tells himself he’s here for the job. For Tess. “Just checking the perimeter,” he says, over and over. He’s a professional now. He’s got business beyond blood and bandages. But his steps—stubborn as a hound’s—lead him straight back to her door at dusk.

He pauses on the porch, breath misting in the cool evening air. Through the cracked window, he sees her silhouette—lean and sure—moving from counter to shelf, humming under her breath. He swears he can almost hear it.

“Can you read my mind? I’ve been watching you…”

He’s been watching her for days. Watching her load gun shells into a box, watching her wipe down the chipped sink, watching her finger the blood-smear rag. 

 When she opens the door, it’s no different than last time. She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t bat an eyelash at the dried blood on his shirt. He steps inside and the warmth hits him like a punch. Not just the stove, not just the shelter. Her.

He clears his throat. “Evenin.” His voice is low, ragged.

“Joel,” she says, as if he should’ve warned her but didn’t. Then: “Was expecting Tess.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I came instead.”

She shrugs and steps aside. “Come in.”

Inside, the lamplight pools gold and orange. He watches how her hair catches it—same as last time, but she stands taller now, more worn around the edges. He’d have said she looked safe then; now he only trusts himself to keep her that way.

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the same counter he bled on, hands braced on the wood. It’s scarred with tiny grooves. He’s carved his name there once, a half-remembered dare. Now he presses his fingers into the dents, letting the moment anchor him.

“Coffee?” she asks. Quiet question, offered like an olive branch.

He nods. She turns away. He watches the curve of her spine, the way her sweater dips at her waist. He swallows. 

She places the steaming mug in front of him. The rich smell pulls him back—a glimpse of who he was before the scars and the secrets. He lifts it in a thankful grunt.

“You’ve been here a lot, lately,” she says. Her tone’s flat, but the question is there. Taut.

He looks down at the mug. “Makin sure it’s still standing.” He wants her to push. He wants her to ask—why he really came back.

She studies him a moment, then turns to the window. He catches the flicker in her eyes. Worry? Curiosity? Something else.

“Right,” she says, as if she half-believes him.

He knows she doesn’t.

She moves to the shelf and brings down a jar of peaches—the same brand he stole once from a corner store, back when he thought he was invincible. She passes him a slice on a chipped plate. “For the road,” she says.

He bites. Sweet, sticky. Everything tastes too sharp in his mouth.

“I should ask,” she says then, very quietly.

He bristles. “Ask what?”

Her shoulders tighten. “Why do you keep coming back.”

He looks at her—really looks, for the first time since he arrived. She’s waiting. He hates that she makes him feel small or needy or exposed.

Instead he turns away. “Things to handle.”

She turns too. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

The words hit him like a shot. He’s spent years telling himself he’s alone, that care means weakness. But there’s something in her voice—steady, patient—that threads into his gut.

He clears his throat. “Why do you keep this place running?” He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks. She arches her brow.

“You know why.”

He blinks. “I don’t.”

She steps closer, eyes even with him. “Because somebody has to.”

His pulse jumps. She’s always been courageous—patched up strangers and sent them on their way. But him? He lingers in her mind like a bruise she can’t press away.

He swallows hard. 

“Good men die too, oh, I’d rather be with you, you, you…” 

He grips the edge of the counter. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a voice rougher than he intended.

Her mouth softens. For a heartbeat, he sees her as someone who cares as much as he does—then the moment breaks and she steps back.

“It’s late,” she says, turning toward the stairs. “You can take the cot in the back.”

He nods, but the room throbs with unsaid words. He watches her climb the stairs, the line of her neck… and he almost follows. Almost says he can’t let her go up alone.

But he doesn’t. He stays.

Late that night, he slips outside and circles the perimeter—just like he told himself. He crouches in the long grass, peering through the trees. She’s safe. For now.

He waits. Breath steamy in the chill. His thoughts spiral: What if she’s gone when I wake? What if she hates me? What if she forgets me?

He knows he needs her, but he can’t admit it.

He kneels. Hands on his knees. The world feels too loud.

He whispers into the dark: “I could do whatever I want to you…”

He doesn’t know if he means it.

But he will come back. He already knows.

He leaves before dawn. Her door closes quietly behind him, and he steps into the gray morning, alone again—haunted by her silhouette in the window, by the taste of peach and coffee and half-finished apologies.

His heart hammers. He chalks it up to the cold—but he knows better. There’s a crack in his armor now, and it runs straight to her.

He walks the muddy road, promising himself: Not for long.

And as he fades into the mist, her last words echo in his mind: “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He doesn’t knock anymore.

He stays in the trees.

The safehouse looks the same—half-swallowed by overgrowth, rust curling along the tin roof, a soft plume of smoke trailing from the chimney. Her light’s on in the back room. That same amber hue, low and flickering. He sees her shadow move across the curtain. A brush of her hand. A cup lifted. A head tilt and he’s memorized.

It’s been three days since he left. He was going to stay away this time.

But something about the silence made him restless. Boston’s noise couldn’t drown it out. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sit still. He caught himself staring at the bottle she gave him on his last visit—some ointment in a mason jar, tied with twine. He didn’t need it anymore, but he wouldn’t throw it out.

So he left again. Didn’t tell Tess. Didn’t leave a note.

Now he’s crouched behind a birch tree, hours deep into watching the same window. He counts her steps. Times how long she’s gone when she disappears into the back. Notes the new placement of her rifle—moved closer to the door. Good. Smart girl.

And still—he doesn’t feel peace.

He’s told himself over and over:

It ain’t ‘cause of her.

You’re just making sure she’s safe.

You owe her that much.

But his stomach knots when she opens the door to take out the trash. When she pulls her sleeves up. When some old trader comes by and she smiles that smile—the one Joel barely got for himself.

He digs his fingers into the bark. Stares harder.

“Something's been feeling weird lately

There's just something about you, baby (there's just something about you, baby)

Maybe I'll just be crazy (I'll be crazy)”

It’s a curse. Every time he sees her, something in him stirs that shouldn’t. Not this way. Not this loud.

She’s just a girl.

But he remembers the way she looked at him when he flinched in pain. The way she pressed her palm to his ribs. The way her breath caught. The way she said his name, not like a warning—but like a prayer.

Joel.

She’s in his dreams now.

On the fifth day, he hears them.

Three men. Stomping through the brush too loud to be animals. Laughing the kind of laugh that always meant trouble back in Austin. He ducks behind a fallen log and narrows his eyes.

They’ve got old rifles. One’s got a bloodied bat. Another carries rope. They don’t look like locals.

He’s already shifting forward, close enough to catch their muttered words.

“—heard she lives alone.”

“Quiet one. Doesn’t let anyone stay past dark.”

“She’s cute. Maybe we won't kill her.”

“Could keep her alive. Sell her, even. Good trade in the QZ for girls like that.”

The rope guy snickers.

Something in Joel goes ice cold.

And then red hot.

He doesn’t remember moving.

Doesn’t remember unsheathing the knife.

He’s just there—on them—before the last word even finishes.

The first guy doesn’t even see him. Knife to throat. Dead weight in seconds.

The second pulls the bat. Too slow. Joel crushes his knee and drives the blade up into his chest, fast and furious, grunting through gritted teeth. Blood splashes his shirt.

The third runs. Joel follows. His lungs burn. His side stings—scar tissue tugging where she sewed him shut—but he doesn’t stop.

He tackles the guy by the stream. The fight’s sloppy. Fists. Mud. A kick to Joel’s stomach that makes him roar.

He pulls his gun and fires once—close-range, just below the chin. The shot echoes like thunder.

Then there’s silence.

He’s panting. Covered in mud and blood. He wipes a shaking hand down his face and realizes it comes away wet.

Not sweat.

His blood.

One of them got a hit in—a lucky swipe of the knife across his lower abdomen. It’s deep. His hand clamps down, and he stumbles.

But he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t go back to Boston.

He goes to her.

The porch creaks under his boots.

His vision’s going dark at the edges, his hearing warped. The wind howls. Or maybe that’s just in his ears. He slams his hand against the door once. Twice.

It swings open.

She’s standing there in a robe, barefoot, eyes wide.

The smell of herbs and pine and cinnamon hits him like a kiss.

And he drops to his knees.

“Joel?!”

She catches him as he falls.

Her voice comes through in waves—high and panicked, tugging at him from the edge of unconsciousness.

“What happened?”

“Oh my God—Joel, stay awake!”

“You’re bleeding out—stay with me!”

He mumbles her name. She’s real. She’s warm. Her hands are under his shoulders, dragging him in, across the wood floor.

He hears her voice crack. He thinks she’s crying. But maybe that’s just the wind again.

“Good men die too—but I’d rather be with you…”

He lets go.

Because he’s finally home.

The door crashes open like he couldn’t bear to knock.

You barely register the noise before you see him—Joel, stumbling in, blood dripping from the side of his face, a deep cut over his brow, and darker stains soaking the side of his jacket. Your stomach drops.

“Joel—Joel,” you gasp, rushing to him as the door slams behind him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, even as he leans heavy into the wall. “Just—fuck—just need a minute.”

He’s not fine. Not even close.

You press your hands to his chest, guiding him down before he topples. He collapses onto the patched-up couch with a grunt, one hand instinctively reaching for your wrist like he needs to anchor himself.

“What happened?”

“Raiders,” he mutters. “They were talkin’… about you.”

Your chest tightens. “About me?”

“They knew you were helpin’ smugglers. Knew you were alone.” His jaw clenches. “I followed ‘em. Took care of it.”

The weight of that sinks in like cold water in your lungs. He didn’t just stumble into a fight. He went into one—because of you.

You kneel in front of him, fingers trembling as they search for more wounds. His shirt is soaked down one side. You lift the fabric carefully, wincing when he hisses.

“Hold still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at you like he’s memorizing something. Like it’s the last time he’ll see it.

“You could’ve died,” you whisper, unable to look him in the eye.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Silence drapes over the room like a thick curtain. His voice breaks it, low and rough.

“Yeah, I did.”

Your hands stop moving.

He drags a breath in, jaw twitching. “I keep tellin’ myself to stay away. That it’s better if I just… come and go. Not get involved. Not care.” His eyes bore into yours. “But I do.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I care, sweetheart. More than I should. It ain’t safe. It ain’t smart. But fuck if I can stop.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. The room feels too small for the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re something precious. Like he’s scared of what you’ll do with what he’s just given you.

“I thought you didn’t,” you whisper. “I thought you were just… here because of Tess. Because it was convenient.”

Joel flinches like you slapped him.

“That what you think of me?”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Your voice cracks. “You never stayed. You never looked at me like—like this.”

“I stayed away because I’m already too far gone.” His hand lifts to cup your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek. “You let me rest here. You patch me up, smile at me like I’m worth somethin’. I—I don’t know how to be around that without wantin’ it all the time.”

You press into his touch, eyes burning.

“I want you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not just your bed or your supplies. I want you. And when I heard them talkin’ about takin’ this place from you, takin’ you—I saw red.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He leans forward, wincing as he moves, and presses his forehead to yours. “Say somethin’, baby. Please.”

You take a shuddering breath. “You could’ve told me all this… before you bled on my couch.”

Joel chuckles, hoarse and tired. “Had to make it dramatic.”

You kiss him.

It’s not delicate or soft. It’s messy, desperate. He groans into your mouth, one hand tangling in your shirt, the other anchoring around your waist. You crawl into his lap without thinking, straddling him carefully so you don’t press on his injured side.

“You’re hurt,” you murmur between kisses, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“I don’t give a shit,” he growls, chasing your lips again. “Just wanna feel you. Been starvin’ for it.”

You kiss him again.

It’s messy, breathless, and tastes like copper and desperation. Joel groans into your mouth, his hands rough on your waist, tugging you closer like he can’t stand another inch between you.

You straddle him without thinking, careful of the wound on his side but needing to be on him, against him, now. Your thighs bracket his hips, and the heat between your legs pulses with each shaky breath you take.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your mouth, “you feel so good, baby—been wantin’ this. You don’t even know.”

You gasp when he cups your ass, grinding you down against the hard line of him. There’s no teasing—he’s already thick and aching beneath you, straining against the denim. You rock your hips once, twice, and his head falls back with a low growl.

“Get these off,” you mutter, tugging at his jeans. “Joel—please.”

“Yeah,” he pants, lifting his hips to help you. “C’mon, sweetheart, take what you need.”

You fumble his belt open, push his jeans down just far enough, and his cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. You moan softly at the sight, wrapping your hand around the base to stroke him once. He twitches in your grip, his stomach flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You tryna kill me?”

“I want you,” you whisper, lining him up with where you’re already dripping. “I want this.”

Joel cups your face, his thumb brushing your lip. “You sure, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, and then sink down onto him in one slow, shaking motion.

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as he stretches you, inch by inch. He’s thick, the kind of full that makes your eyes roll back, makes your body tremble from the inside out.

“Goddamn,” Joel grits, hands gripping your hips so tight it might bruise. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You start to move—slow at first, adjusting, then faster, grinding down to take him deeper. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your pace, his eyes fixed on where you’re joined like he can’t believe it’s real.

“Fuck—you’re takin’ me so good, baby. So tight. So warm.”

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and roll your hips faster, chasing the friction, the pressure building low in your belly. The slick sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room, and Joel’s breath goes ragged.

His thumb slips between your legs, circling your clit in tight, perfect circles. You cry out, hips bucking, and he shushes you gently, kissing your jaw, your throat, your shoulder.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my good girl.”

You clench around him hard.

“Yeah, you like that?” he breathes. “My sweet girl, fallin’ apart on my cock.”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but useless. Your climax hits hard—sweeping through you in waves, stealing your breath, and Joel holds you through it, groaning when you spasm around him.

“Fuck, baby—just like that. You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

He’s close. You can feel it—the way his thrusts grow more erratic, the low growl in his throat, the way his hands tremble on your waist.

“Inside,” you whisper, not even thinking. “I want it, Joel. Please—inside me.”

Joel curses, loud and broken, and then he’s spilling deep inside you with a strangled groan, his hips grinding up as he throbs and pulses and presses your body tight against his.

You both go still, panting, shaking.

His arms wrap around you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You rest your head on his shoulder, your skin damp with sweat, your heart still racing. He strokes your back with one hand, the other sliding down to squeeze your thigh gently.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, lips against your hairline.

“Yeah.” You press a soft kiss to his neck. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, breathless. “Took down three raiders and then got ridden within an inch of my life. Feelin’ real fuckin’ lucky, actually.”

You smile against his skin, lifting your head to meet his eyes. They’re softer now. Warmer.

“I meant what I said,” Joel whispers. “I’m yours.”

You kiss him again, slow this time. Like you’re promising something back.

And this time, neither of you pulls away.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

“You didn’t.” His voice is rough but certain. “I’m right here.”

You curl into his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his shoulder as his hand strokes your spine.

“You’re not sleepin’ on the couch anymore,” you murmur.

Joel huffs. “Was gettin’ real sick of it anyway.”

You smile, the kind that hurts a little. He tilts your face up and kisses you again—slow and sure and full of everything he didn’t say before.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetheart,” he promises. “You got me now.”

And you believe him.

You’re still tangled together, skin to skin, when the air finally settles.

Joel’s chest rises and falls beneath you, a deep, steady rhythm that lulls your racing heart into something softer. You shift gently, brushing your lips across the curve of his shoulder, and he hums in response, one hand stroking lazy circles on your back.

The tension’s gone now. Or maybe it’s just changed—melted into something heavy and warm. Something real.

“C’mere,” he says, voice hoarse but gentle.

He guides you to lie beside him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s still afraid someone might try to take you away.

You run your fingers lightly over his ribs, careful near the bandage. “Hurts?”

“Nothin’ compared to earlier.” He huffs a soft laugh. “Pretty sure I forgot the pain the second you climbed on top of me.”

“Mm. I was very motivated.”

“Yeah, you were,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You good, sweetheart? I didn’t go too rough?”

You shake your head, tracing a fingertip over the fresh stubble on his jaw. “You were perfect.”

Joel’s eyes close like he’s trying to soak in the moment, memorize every detail. You stay like that for a while, quiet. Breathing each other in. Until you shift, rest your chin on his chest, and give him a crooked little smile.

“I owe you a black eye and two kisses.”

He blinks. “Do what now?”

You grin. “You scared the hell outta me, Miller. Showed up bleeding, collapsed on my porch like some western outlaw, and then you told me you were mine.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I am.”

“I know. That’s why you’re only getting one black eye.”

Joel laughs—deep and rough and real—and the sound wraps around your heart like a blanket.

“Alright,” he says. “Guess I deserve that.”

You lean in, kiss the edge of his mouth, slow and sure.

“Tell me when you wanna come and get ’em,” you whisper against his lips. “The other kiss too. It’s waitin’ on you.”

He flips you gently onto your back, careful with his weight, hovering just above you now. That soft look in his eyes is back—like he’s never seen anything as precious as your face.

“I want it now,” he murmurs.

So you kiss him again, deep and slow. And this time, it feels like healing. Like a promise.

When you finally break apart, you tuck yourself into his side again, and Joel pulls the blanket up over your bare skin. His thumb strokes your shoulder, and his other arm stays tight around your waist, protective even in rest.

You fall asleep like that—warm, safe, claimed.

And Joel doesn’t let go.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlemillersbaby @midwest-goth-lesbian @lokis-right-femur @whimsicalangel111 @grayandthyme @littledes1re @monicasblues @amyispxnk @penguinz0s-no1simp @justsarahbella @eri-maull @uncassettodiricordi @fairylights-throughthemist @catch1ngmoths @mystickittytaco @cocobear18 @millersdoll @serruten @dearstcupid @saturnyo @boscogirlsworld @valentineispunk @spookyfunhottub @sage-babydoll @aj0elap0l0gist @plsilovedilfs @grayandthyme @ivuravix @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @alyhull @alidiggory92 @cokewithcameron @killmesweet

divider by @cursed-carmine

۶ৎ dbf!joel miller’s sweetheart 🍓🍥

moodboard made by me 🍓

۶ৎ special tags: @littlemillersbaby @lowrisemiller @cherrygirlfriend @travismrrtinez @heyyitscate

"late!" reupload from littlesoulshine

oh, you told him. just once. just one rule. don’t be late.

you weren’t asking much. he could fuck up a dish, forget the grocery list, make lily’s sandwich wrong—fine. but he is not allowed to be late. not for you. you told him in that sweet posionous voice of yours, over the sink while rinsing strawberries. "if you’re ever late for me, art, i’ll act like you don’t exist."

and today, he was late.

five minutes. maybe less. but five minutes past the time you told him to be home for lunch, five minutes of you sitting on the couch in silence, untouched wine glass in your hand, one stiletto crossed over the other while your pasta went cold. he walked in breathless, hair tousled, and tie askew.

“baby, i’m so—” you stood up without looking at him. you walked past like he was air. you didn’t slam the glass down. you didn’t yell. you just didn’t speak to him.

⋱

he followed you from room to room like a kicked dog. you folded laundry with perfect creases while he lingered by the door, hands in his pockets, waiting for you talk to his sad self. you adjusted the pillows on the couch he wasn’t allowed to sit on. you smiled at lily like your heart was full and art wasn’t dying two feet away.

he tried again. during dinner. “that’s a nice dress, my love” he murmured. like you might throw him a scrap of affection. you didn’t even blink.

⋱

he doesn’t make it to bedtime. you’re brushing your hair in the mirror when you hear him behind you—shuffling feet and shallow breath. you don’t look at him directly. your wrist flicks the brush through untamed strands, lazy and indifferent. your perfume clings to the air, soft and sharp at once.

and then—thump. he drops to his knees. “please, baby.”

his voice is low, cracked. you still don’t look. you glide your brush slower, watching yourself instead.

“baby, please. i’m—i fucked up. i know. i know i did.” his voice shakes. “ but i can't take this, i hate it. i hate when you won’t even look at me.”

your silence is the loudest thing in the room.

you hear him crawl. the shuffle of pj pants over hardwood. his hands touch the hem of your robe like it might burn him.

“please punish me, yell, hit me, use me. anything, i’ll take anything. just look at me.”

you pause, letting the brush hang mid-stroke. the corner of your mouth lifts. not quite a smile….more of an encouraging him to go on.

“i said i was sorry, princess” he breathes, forehead pressed to your thigh. “please. don’t shut me out. i’ll do anything. i’ll lick the floor clean if that’s what you want. just—don’t ignore me.”

you finally look down. slowly, your eyes meet his and he flinches, like it hurts. God, he’s beautiful when he begs.

“anything?” you say, voice like silk drawn tight.

he nods too fast. “yes. yes, anything.”

you drag your fingers through his hair, curling them in until you’ve got a grip. he whimpers. “strip.”

he obeys, very clumsy and frantic. shirt buttons pop open, and his pj pants drop quickly. his cock’s already hard, leaking at the tip, humiliated and desperate.

“on your back.” he scrambles. you press your heel to his chest, pinning him to the floor. he gasps as your robe slides open just enough to show your bare thigh. he stares like a starving man.

“my time isn’t free, art.” your voice drips disdain. “you want my attention?” he nods, choked. “earn it.”

you step onto him, one heel digging in, just above his heart. his hips twitch. he’s moaning like a bitch in heat. “start by apologizing with your mouth.” you lift your foot and turn away, robe swaying.

you don’t look back as you settle into the armchair. and behind you, you hear him crawl again. lips pressed to your ankles. kisses soft, reverent, and ashamed.

he’s not allowed inside you tonight. but you let him cry between your thighs, whispering "i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m yours," until he’s soaked in his own sweat, face shining with your slick, begging to be used. and tomorrow? you’ll decide if he gets to cum. maybe, but only if he’s not late again.

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

inspiration ➳ my lovey @rafesplaymate

— « he looks like he works with his hands and smells like Marlboro reds. »

joel miller cum in my mouth

meet art's new wife જ⁀➴ reupload from littlesoulshine

𖠁   housewife!reader who wears sheer satin robes, kitten heels, and a constant look of disapproval. art trails behind you like an obedient puppy, always trying to earn your praise. you never raise your voice—you don’t need to....all it takes is a disappointed sigh and he’s on his knees, begging for another chance to make you happy.

𖠁   housewife!reader who gives art the cold shoulder when he forgets something small, like taking the trash out or fluffing your pillows right. he sulks around the house, trailing you, murmuring “i’m sorry, baby” like a prayer. you finally give in and let him crawl between your legs with a smug little, “are you ready to be useful again?” and his eyes get all glassy.

𖠁   housewife!reader who makes art sit in on your weekly girl lunches just so he can carry your purse and refill your wine. the other wives giggle behind their glasses, whispering about how “whipped” he is—but he doesn’t care. you let him rest his head on your thigh under the table and stroke his hair while talking over him. you’re his whole world. he just likes being near.

𖠁   housewife!reader who dresses like a dream and argues like a demon. pink nails tapping on the counter, voice like poisoned honey. art doesn’t even flinch—he thrives in the submission. you call him an idiot, and he smiles. you roll your eyes at his affection, and he kisses your cheek anyway. he likes being your punching bag, especially when he knows you’ll reward him after.

𖠁   housewife!reader who makes art wait at the door like a sad little puppy when he comes home late. you don’t even yell. you just raise an eyebrow, fold your arms, and he immediately starts rambling—“i swear, baby, traffic was—please don’t be mad—i missed you—i love you—” and you just hum, already walking away. he follows like the lovesick fool he is.

𖠁   housewife!reader who loves him, but refuses to let him forget who’s in charge. and he doesn’t want to. he likes being reminded. he likes the leash. likes how you tug it gently with your tone, your look, your hands in his hair. tashi made him feel small in the wrong ways. you make him feel small in the right ones. safe. loved. and completely yours.

𖠁   housewife!reader who lets lily paint her nails and put curlers in her hair while art makes you both lunch. she babbles about school, and when she says, “i wanna be a wife just like you,” you glance at art—who’s smiling like he’s won the lottery—and say, “then pick someone who knows how to serve a woman, honey.”

retags: @inbred-eater @faiszt @cherrygirlfriend @nemesyaaa

notes: thank you to my baby @rafesplaymate for inspiring me to write this!

anyone else came/cried?????

𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓸𝓷 '𝓰𝓱𝓸𝓼𝓽' 𝓻𝓲𝓵𝓮𝔂 smut = ❤︎ request = 𝜗𝜚

𝓳𝓸𝓮𝓵 𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓻 smut = ❤︎ request = 𝜗𝜚

well hello 𝜗𝜚 ❤︎

sweet treat 𝜗𝜚 ❤︎

insecure 𝜗𝜚

bad girls get punished ❤︎

accidents ❤︎

𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

oc!readers

pedro pascal

joel miller

jensen ackles

mike faist

art donaldson

simon 'ghost' riley

𝓪𝓹𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓵𝔂𝓹𝓼𝓮'𝓼 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽

𝓪𝓻𝓽'𝓼 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮

meet her

late

good boy

pretty little provider

shower punishment

𝓶𝔂 𝓸𝓬!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼

housewife

birdie

hiiii!! saw ur baker fic & loved it

was wondering if you could write teacher!fem!reader?

like she’s one of the teachers in Jackson and ofc ellie’s in her class and ellie LOVES HER talks about her nonstop and bothers joel

one day at pick up he finally sees her and he definitely understands what all the hype’s about now.

It can lead to smut or not whatever you want I love ur writing <333

a/n: hi, my anonie! i hope you enjoy it!!

posted here!

"well hello"

request: hiiii!! saw ur baker fic & loved it was wondering if you could write teacher!fem!reader? like she’s one of the teachers in Jackson and ofc ellie’s in her class and ellie LOVES HER talks about her nonstop and bothers joel. one day at pick up he finally sees her and he definitely understands what all the hype’s about now. It can lead to smut or not whatever you want I love ur writing <333 word count: 1,3k warnings: +18 minors dni, too lazy to write more but there's smut and language!

it’s just past three, and your classroom still smelled faintly of chalk dust and damp wood. ellie was long gone, already bolted with a bounce in her step and a grin that cracked sideways when you reminded her that her essay on pre-fall governance systems still needed citations. you really liked her. she was smart-mouthed, whip-quick, a little feral in that lovable way if there was one.

you were gathering up worksheets into one neat stack when there’s a knock—barely even that, more like a hesitant tap. you look up, and there he is.

joel miller.

you’ve heard of him in bits and pieces, mostly ellie’s flippant mentions. "my old man," she says, or "joel says if you give me homework on a friday he’ll riot." the usual teenager noise. but you’d pictured someone rough, maybe grizzled, but the real thing? no one warned you about those bedroom eyes.

he’s leaning halfway into your doorframe, one hand braced against it like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to come in. you couldn't help but take him in; worn flannel, heavy shoulders. his gaze cuts across the room until it lands on you, then lingers like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

“hey,” he says. voice like gravel, but still warm and apologetic. “uh..i’m here to pick up ellie.”

you blink, “oh, she left ten minutes ago. said she was heading home.”

joel blinks right back, slowly this time. you watch his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, more a grimace of regret. “of course she did.”

“she told me you’d come late,” you add, something about the way he stands there makes you want to offer him anything. a chair, coffee maybe.

he huffs out a breath, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, fingers catching in graying curls. “figures...guess she figured i’d just find my way here anyway.”

“and she was right,” you smile, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear, tilting your head. “she’s clever like that.”

his eyes—brown, kind—settle on you again. longer this time. like maybe he’s taking his time to memorize you. your cardigan’s too big, sleeves pushed to your elbows and there’s a bit of pink and orange chalk on your fingers. he sees it all, catalogues it.

“you’re her teacher,” he says, not a question.

you nod, with a small smile. “mhm.. history.”

he nods too, but it’s faint, the air feels weirdly full all of a sudden. he shifts, and you catch the faint creak of leather from his belt. the man is solid. not just physically, though, lord, yeah, that too—but there’s something rooted in him.

“she talks about you,” he says, breaking the silence.“a lot.”

you swallow, “i hope it’s all good things.”

his mouth twitches again, and this time it’s definitely a smile, a crooked one but a smile nonetheless. “she says you’re smart. don’t take her shit. and that you swear sometimes when you’re grading papers.”

you laugh, nodding at the ellie's silliness. “that’s true.”

“she likes you.”

something about the way he says it makes your stomach do a little flip. the way his eyes don’t leave yours. how his voice drops on that last word—like he’s testing the water.

you could say something flirty here..something coy. but instead—

“do you want to get a drink sometime?” you blurt, then immediately feel heat crawl up your neck. “i mean, just, if you’re free..and want to.”

joel doesn’t blink, he just stares for a second at you; you could tell he was wondering if he heard you right.

“yes,” he says, so fast. “yes, i would love to.”

it was now saturday night at 7:00pm, and you were second-guessing all off it, thinking that you should've canceled.

you tell yourself it’s because of the cold—there’s a chill in the air but not threatening enough to cancel. it’s because you haven’t dated since coming to jackson.

but you show up to the bar anyway. it’s small, just off the main road. the smokey firewood smell clings to the ceiling beams, and old pre-fall songs hum low through restaurant speakers. joel was already there when you walked in, sitting at a corner table, hands curled around a glass of brown.

he stands when he sees you. such a gentleman.

“you came,” he says, and he looks so sincere about it your chest hurts.

“of course i did,” you say, sliding into the seat across from him.

he orders you a drink, and for the first few minutes it’s causal talk: ellie, school, the town, then it starts to slip into something else.

“you always this quiet?” you ask, teasing.

he raises a brow. “you always this bold?”

“bold? please...you should see me on parent-teacher night. i’m a badass.”

he chuckles and it’s soft and full of sweetness. it makes his whole face change. you sip your drink and watch the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“what about you?” you ask. “always this broody?”

joel leans back, one arm slung over the back of the booth. “only when i’m tryin’ to impress someone.”

“you think it's working?”

his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.

“yeah,” he says. “think it is.”

later, when the drinks are gone and the once big fire is now burning low, he walks you home. the streets are too quiet while snow comes down in soft flakes. his hand brushes yours once. then again, finally on the third, you just take it.

your fingers tangle easily, like they’ve been doing it forever. at your door, there’s a pause. his breath plumes in the cold. his eyes search yours, asking without words.

you don’t make him ask.

“you want to come in?”

“yeah,” he says again, that same voice, full and sure. “i’d love to.”

the door closes behind him, and it’s like the air shifts with warmth.

neither of you says anything for a second. his eyes are still on you, dark and lustful. you can feel the beat of your heart, too loud in your chest. his fingers twitch like he wants to touch you, but he's too hesitant.

so you take his hand again, lead him inside, past the coat hooks, into the living room. you turn to face him, suddenly unsure. “joel, i—”

he cuts you off by kissing you deeply. you open your mouth under his, and the kiss deepens even more. one of his hands cradles your face, the other grips your waist. he pulls you in as you moan into his mouth.

he groans low. “fuck,” he mutters against your lips. “you feel good.”

you thread your hands into his salt and pepper hair, dragging his mouth back to yours. you break for some air and he chases your mouth, kisses down your jaw, and your throat. his beard scrapes against your skin, making you wetter than before.

“bedroom,” you say.

he lifts his head, eyes blown wide. “you sure?”

“yes,” you breathe. “joel, yes, please.”

you don’t remember the walk to the room. it’s a complete blur, hands under shirts, skin on skin, maybe a bit of grinding.

he undresses you slow, like he’s afraid to rush it. and when he’s finally bare before you—he’s so large, scarred, and beautiful—you pull him down onto the bed.

“look at me,” you say.

he does as he slides into you, slowly and unhurried, one hand pressed to your cheek. the rhythm starts off slow. his breath catching on every thrust as your nails claw at his back. he kisses you and talks you through it. over and over.

“been thinkin’ about you,” he says, voice ragged. “since the first moment..couldn’t stop.”

“me too,” you whisper. “joel—don’t stop..please don’t stop.”

he fucks you so well and lovingly. God, you can't remember the last time you felt so good. and when you both cum, shaking and holding on to each other. you think to yourself, maybe jackson was a good move.

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @lowrisemiller

who do i write for? pedro pascal.  the last of us.  jensen ackles.  art donaldson. patrick zwieg. challengers. dodge mason. panic.  mike faist. harry castillo. the materialists jon bernthal. shane walsh. mikey berzatto. frank castle. hayden christensen. anakin skywalker. clay beresford.

So um WTH UR JOEL FIC WAS SO GOOD!! It was. A great mix of serious and smut oml- anyways I wanted to request for him again I see alot of Joel x baker reader ? Gathered this is when they’re in Jackson but you could spin it to where reader was a baker and they meet outside of Jackson etc IDK I just need another fic I beg ty ty

a/n: hi, my love! i hope you like it; i chose to do it when they are already dating in Jackson!

posted here!

"sweet treat"

request: so um WTH UR JOEL FIC WAS SO GOOD!! It was. A great mix of serious and smut oml- anyways I wanted to request for him again I see alot of Joel x baker reader ? Gathered this is when they’re in Jackson but you could spin it to where reader was a baker and they meet outside of Jackson etc IDK I just need another fic I beg ty ty word count: ? warnings: +18 minors dni, really sweet sex, joel being flirty and grumpy. please let me know if i have missed anything!

even after the many years you've spent here, jackson still smells like rain-soaked wood and smoke this time of year. you’d been pacing the bakery’s wide-plank floors for ten minutes now, tracing little loops in the flour dust, waiting for him. and he’s late, of course. because joel doesn’t rush for anybody, especially not for something as "unserious" as baking, as he likes to say.

you glance at the tray of eggs you cracked, the mountain of sugar, the softened butter, and the dog-eared recipe cards you scrounged from behind the counter. miss shelley, the older woman who usually runs the place, trusted you to lock up for the night. “just don’t burn the place down, sweetheart,” she said with a wink, and gave you a key.

you weren’t going to do it alone. not for the town’s spring celebration tomorrow. you’d begged him for this—him of all people—joel miller, resident brooder, secretly gifted with his hands in ways most people never got to see, but you had. *wink wink*

“there’s nothin’ complicated about cookies,” he’d grumbled that morning, folding his arms.

“i want them to taste like something, joel,” you’d insisted, poking a finger into his chest. “not like regret and disgust.”

he’d snorted, mouth twitching at the corners, and after a minute, like it physically hurt him, he agreed.

breaking you out of your thoughts, the door creaks open, and you don’t even have to turn. the sound of his boots on wood is enough to make your spine straighten, a ripple of awareness climbing up your back.

“you bakin’ or throwin’ a damn science fair?” he mutters, already peeling off his jacket. his eyes move over the counter, then to you. you pretend not to notice the way they stick to your legs, the hem of the dress barely grazing mid-thigh.

“just tryin’ to impress the town,” you say sweetly. “or you. which ever’s harder.”

his brow arches. “you ain’t got to dress like that to impress me.”

you flash him a fake innocent look. “like what?”

“like trouble,” he says, low, making you glance away with flustered cheeks.

he rolls his sleeves up, exposing those forearms that should to be illegal. thick-veined, tan, dusted with salt and pepper hair.

you hand him the bowl. “start creamin’ the butter and sugar. use the wooden spoon.”

“bossy tonight, huh?” he grumbles, but he does it.

you watch the muscles flex as he works, the way his wrist moves in slow circles.

“did you ever bake with sarah?” you ask, casually. you two have spoken briefly about his relationship with sarah. he was very hesitant to tell you how she died, but after a couple of beers, he poured his heart out.

his jaw tenses, but it’s a soft thing, not offense or sadness.

“yeah...when she was little. she’d make a fuckin’ mess of it, but.... thankfully made the place smell like cake for a week.”

you don’t answer, just let the silence sit between you. it was kinda nice working in silence with his comfortable presence.

he looks at you after a moment. “you know what you’re doin’?”

“not really, it's a new recipe,” you say cheerfully. “that’s why you’re here, to try it with me.”

“should’ve known this was a trap,” he mutters.

you laugh, and you’re leaning over to grab the flour, one foot off the ground, hips tilted just enough that the dress pulls up—and you feel a smack.

a puff of white explodes against your ass cheek. you yelp and whirl around. joel’s holding a fistful of flour, smug as sin.

“did you just—”

“you bent over like that in front of me, ‘course i did.” he shrugs, not even sorry.

you grab your own handful, lob it at his chest. “you’re such a child.”

he lunges, making you squeal and dart around the island, heaving a laugh that feels good echoing in the high ceiling of the bakery.

“you think you’re fast, huh?” he growls.

“i know i’m faster than you, old man.”

“fuckin’—”

he catches you by the waist, spins you, lifts you onto the counter. your thighs part around his hips automatically, your breath caught in your throat. his eyes burn into yours, all the humor gone.

“shouldn’t tease me like that, darlin’,” he says. his voice is grainy and mean.

you stare up at him, pupils blown wide. you whisper, “do something about it, then”

his lips crash into yours too quickly to even comprehend. the kiss was completely savage. no sweet build-up or gentle asking, his hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threaded through your hair, tugging until your mouth opens wider under his. his tongue licks into you like he’s starved for it, like the taste of you is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want in years.

your legs hook around his waist, heels digging into the meat of his ass. he grunts into your mouth, grinding forward, and you feel the thick, heavy line of him through his jeans.

“fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice thick with gravel. “you planned this, didn’t you? struttin’ around in that little thing—bendin’ over like you wanted my goddamn hands all over you.”

you nod, panting, lips kiss-bitten and tingling.

“yeah?” he hisses, gripping your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the counter. “then you’re gettin’ what you asked for.”

his mouth dips to your neck, licking and biting. his salt and pepper beard scrapes the sensitive skin as he drags his lips lower, working open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your collarbones, the tops of your breasts.

“take it off,” he growls, tugging at the hem of your dress.

you lift your arms, and he peels it off slowly, but the second it’s over your head, his control breaks.

“jesus,” he mutters, staring at you in nothing but a lacy bra and matching panties, flour dusted across your hips. “fuckin’ look at you.”

he sinks to his knees.

that's a sight to see, joel miller on his knees.

your hands scramble for something to hold onto as he spreads your thighs, dragging you forward until your ass is barely balanced on the edge of the counter. he kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other.

“you know what’s the best part of bakin’?” he asks, voice dark and close.

you shake your head, too breathless to answer.

“gettin’ to taste what you made.”

his mouth presses against the damp cotton of your panties, tongue laving up the center, making your hips jerk.

“you..fuck—joel—”

he hums against you, fingers digging into your hips to hold you still. then he hooks a finger into the waistband and peels your panties down, dragging them over your knees, off your ankles.

he looks up at you from between your legs, eyes firey, lips already wet with you.

“keep your fuckin’ eyes on me.” his tongue slides between your folds, slow at first, savoring you; he licks broad and flat, then teasing, flicking over your clit just to hear you whimper.

your thighs begin to shake.

“more,” you beg, voice breaking.

he gives it to you. sucks your clit into his mouth, rolls his tongue around it like he’s drawing circles on your spine. his fingers join the party—one thick finger sliding into you, crooking just right, then a second stretching you open.

his beard is slick with your arousal. he groans like he needs the taste, like your pussy is the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you claw at his hair, hips bucking wildly against his mouth.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” he asks, tongue fucking back in before you can answer.

you cum with a choked cry, thighs clamped around his head, heels drumming against his back.

he doesn’t stop. just continues to lick you through it, makes you ride it out until you’re twitching and whimpering his name like a chant.

he finally stands, face soaked and shining with you. he drags the back of his hand across his mouth, but doesn’t wipe all of it away.

“never tasted anything sweeter,” he mutters.

then his hands are on his belt. the worn leather creaks, and the somewhat rusted zipper hisses. he pulls his cock free and it’s thick, long and heavy with a flushed red tip.

“joel—”

he shoves your knees up, crowding in between them, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock.

“look at this mess,” he growls, dragging the head through your folds. “so fuckin’ wet for me. you wanted it, now take it.”

he pushes in, instantly. his cock splits you slow, and wide continuing to drag along walls already swollen from his mouth.

you grip his shoulders hard, fingertips digging into muscle. he’s not even all the way in and your pussy’s already fluttering, already trying to squeeze around him like it’s too much—like he built it for you and you’re still not ready.

“joel,” you gasp, voice strangled, “fuck—fuck me—”

he stills, deep enough that your breath catches in your throat.

“you feel that?” he growls, hand cupping your jaw, angling your face up so you have to look him in the eye. “how tight you are around me? like you’re tryin’ to keep me in.”

you whimper as his cock pulses inside you.

“this what you wanted, sugar?” he grits through his teeth. “havin’ me take you right here? bent over flour and cookie dough?”

“yes,” you whine. “wanted it all day, wanted you—”

he starts to move. slow grind, hips rolling, his cock dragging against every single hypersensitive nerve like he’s trying to reprogram your body from the inside out.

“say it again.”

“wanted you,” you cry, fingers fisting in his shirt. “wanted your hands, your mouth—your cock, joel—”

he groans and slams into you, the counter creaking, your breath punched from your lungs.

“that’s it,” he growls, picking up the pace, fucking you deeper now, hard and mean and perfect. “you know how long i been thinkin’ about this? thinkin’ about takin’ this sweet little body—watchin’ that mouth beg me for more while you come all over my fuckin’ face?”

you can’t even answer him. you’re a complete mess, legs trembling, mouth open, just a mess.

he leans down, forehead to yours, panting against your lips.

“you don’t even know, do you?” he says. “how fuckin’ crazy you make me. God, the way you look at me, the way you talk—all that smartass mouth—and i been wantin’ to shut it with my dick since the day you showed up.”

“then do it,” you whimper, dazed and desperate. “joel, please—please—”

he pulls out and grabs your throat. not choking you—just slightly guiding. his cock taps your lips, stil wet with your arousal.

“open up.”

you moan around him as soon as he pushes in, filling your mouth.

“gotdamn,” he groans, head tipped back. “that’s it, baby...suck it like you mean it.”

you swirl your tongue around the tip, lips stretched wide. your hands grip his thighs, your throat working as he fucks your mouth slow.

“look so fuckin’ good like this,” he mutters. “slobberin’ all over me.”

you pull off with a wet pop. “want you back inside me,” you whisper, spit and precome slick on your chin. “please—want you to ruin me, joel.”

his hands are on you in a second—turning you, bending you over the counter, yanking your ass up. he slaps it once, the crack loud in the quiet bakery.

“ask me nice.”

“joel, please—fuck me. hard.... don’t stop till i’m cryin’.”

he drives into you in one savage thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

“you asked for it,” he growls, and starts pounding into you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise you. the counter shakes beneath you. something falls off the shelf, shatters on the floor. yet neither of you care.

his balls slap your clit on every thrust, your juices loud and wet and obscene.

“you hear that?” he snarls. “that’s how wet you are for me. so desperate, so fuckin’ needy.” you can't help crying at the immense pleasure—tears dripping off your chin, mouth open on a moan that never ends.

“you gonna come for me again?”

“yes, yes—joel, i’m—fuck—i’m gonna—”

he reaches around, finds your clit, rubs it in tight messy circles. “then do it....cum pretty,”

your whole body spasms, toes curling, back arching, choking on a scream as your pussy clenches tight around him, milking his cock.

joel snarls, fingers digging deeper, hips jerking once, twice—then he comes. spilling inside you with a guttural moan.

you feel the heat of it, dripping out as he keeps fucking into you slow, like he doesn’t want to stop.

you both sag over the counter, chests heaving.

“...still think bakin’s for suckers?” you rasp, voice shot.

he huffs a laugh against your shoulder.

“depends what i’m bakin’ in.”

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @555aturn

Shades Of Cool

Rick Grimes x Fem Reader

Warnings: age gap (reader is in her 20s), dry humping, fingering, oral (m receiving), face fucking, a bit of cum eating, intercourse and a bit of a breeding kink. let me know if I missed anything!

A/n: so this fic is inspired by this pic and there’s no walkers nothing just regular shmegular Rick Grimes because I just had to make a fic for this picture!!!

You and Carl were friends. The two of you actually met on your 21st birthday and you two had been inseparable ever since; but that’s all you were, friends. Carl wasn’t really your type, but you know who was? His father. Rick Grimes.

The first day Carl brought you over and his father was home, you weren’t expecting your knees to wobble at the sight of him. From that day onward, anytime you would come over, you’d steal little glances at Rick when he wasn’t looking and you thought he hadn’t noticed but each and every time you stared at him, practically undressing him with your eyes, he felt it, and it made him smile every damn time.

You had begun dressing in the skimpiest of clothing every time you went over to the Grimes household; one time you were dragging Carl with you to a festival and you came to pick him up. You had a bikini top on that barely fit, a bit of under-boob peeking out, paired with your favourite low-waisted jeans. You knocked on their door expecting Carl to answer since you had texted him that you were here but to your surprise, Rick had answered the door. His eyes almost popped out of their sockets that day as he looked at you, his eyes quickly looking down at your chest and back up to your face. He invited you in and you couldn’t stop smiling to yourself as you waited for Carl, as that little look Rick took of you had not gone unnoticed by you.

You were currently on your way to their house right now. Carl had asked his father if he could invite you to the little vacation they had planned and Rick said yes.

You arrived at the house and spotted Rick at his car, loading some bags into the trunk. You had parked your car into their garage and soon moved to the back of your car to get your bags. You were just about to grab them and bring them over to Rick when he took them from your hands.

“I’ve got em.” He said as he looked at you, raking his eyes over your figure before giving you a smile and making his way over to his car.

“Thanks Mr. Grimes.” You said as you made your way to him, handing him a bag that was on the ground to put into the car.

“You can call me Rick ya know?”

“I know, I just like teasing you.” You said as you smiled at him, your attention moving to the figure behind him.

“Hey stink!” You said as Carl came into your view, handing his father the last bag before making his way to you.

“Out of all the names you call me, that’s gotta be my least favourite.” He said as he brought you in for a hug.

You pulled away from Carl and crouched down to the little girl next to him, hugging her before lifting her into your arms.

“Hey Judith.” You said as you smiled at her, handing her a lollipop you brought specially for her.

“So we all packed in?” Rick said as he looked to you and Carl. Both of you nodded your heads before you all made your way to the front of the car.

You lowered Judith into her car seat before looking back at Carl.

“So where ya gonna sit?”

“I’ll sit at the back with Judith, you can sit in the front.” He said as he slid into the back seat.

You smiled to yourself at the thought of sitting in the passenger seat with Rick, blush creeping onto your cheeks. You quickly calmed yourself down before opening the passenger side door and sliding in.

Rick looked at you and let out a little laugh to himself before looking back at his son.

This was going to be a long ride.

****

The four of you soon arrived at the holiday house you’d be staying at. You grabbed your bags and made your way to the room you picked, you picked this one because it was really pretty and it had a great view (it was right next to Rick’s room).

You were just about to start unpacking when Carl barged into your room, plopping down onto the bed.

“We’re all going to the beach so get dressed. ”

You gave him a thumbs up before shoving him out of your room to get dressed in your bikini, placing a crocheted skirt over.

You grabbed your beach bag and made your way outside, waiting for the rest of them to come.

Rick was the first to come through the door, his eyes moving straight to your ass in the bikini you were wearing, that left little to the imagination.

You turned to face the door as it closed, eyes landing on Rick as he held a surf board and placed it against the wall.

“You can surf?” You said as you turned to face him, your eyes raking over his body. God he was hot.

“Yeah, I learnt when I was younger.”

“Cool. Maybe you could teach me one day.” You said before the door opened again, revealing Judith and Carl.

“Well don’t you look pretty.” You said to Judith as she made her way over to you, grabbing your hand. Rick smiled at the little interaction before the four of you started making your way down to the beach.

You and Carl had found a great spot on the beach and set your things down on the blanket you brought with. You handed Judith a slice of watermelon before removing the crocheted skirt. As the skirt slipped down your legs, Rick couldn’t take his eyes off of you, moving his gaze along your legs as the skirt slipped off.

He quickly cleared his throat as you looked at him, rolling your eyes before settling back down onto the blanket.

“I’m gonna head in, watch Judith okay Carl?” Rick said as he made his way to the water, giving you a once over before getting into the water.

You watched as he surfed a few waves, your eyes never leaving his figure.

Carl passed you a bag of chips, taking one out before popping it into your mouth.

“Dude you need a haircut, right Judith?” You said looking towards the younger girl. She nodded before looking at Carl, smiling as she placed herself down onto your lap.

“Woww, so you’re not going to be siding with your brother Judy?” Carl said as he looked at his sister.

She shook her head before Carl grabbed her and began tickling his sister, causing her to burst into a fit of giggles. You smiled as you watched her writhing around as she laughed.

You looked back up and saw Rick coming out of the water. His hair was wet and the second skin clung to his toned body as he walked towards you with the board under his arm.

God he looks amazing, you thought.

Rick immediately caught you staring before smiling at you, causing your cheeks to heat up.

“I want ice cream.” You heard Judith say as she looked at her brother.

“I’m gonna get her some, just let my dad know where we went when he gets here yeah?” He said as looked at you before grabbing his sisters hand and walking off.

Rick soon got to the little spot you guys had, looking at Carl and Judith as they walked off to find an ice cream truck.

“Where they headed to?” He said as he looked down at you, grabbing a towel and drying his face off.

“Judith wanted ice cream.” You said as he sat down next you.

“Hey uh do you mind helping me with sunscreen, I can’t get my back.” You said as you held the sunscreen out. Rick looked at you before smirking, grabbing the sunscreen from you as you turned around, sitting on your knees in front of him.

You loosened your bikini top strings, bringing your hands to your front to keep the fabric on your breasts.

Rick spurted some sunscreen on his hands before placing them on your back. You immediately jerked at the touch, causing Rick to laugh.

“Relax, it’s just me.” He said as he moved his large hands all along your back, massaging along your neck.

His hands moved down to your lower back, spreading the lotion all over before moving back up to your neck, applying pressure in all the tense areas. This caused you to relax against him, letting out a barely audible moan that went straight to Rick’s dick.

He wondered what other sounds you could make.

He tapped your shoulder once he was done, tying your straps for you too.

“Thanks Rick.” You said as he gave the sunscreen back.

All he did was nod his head towards you, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth as you got up and made your way to the water. Rick threw his head back against the blanket, groaning and muttering a quiet, ‘fuck’ under his breath.

He immediately sat up as he heard his daughters voice, straightening himself as he looked at Carl and Judith.

“Where is she?” Carl asked his father, looking towards you as Rick pointed your way.

“I’m gonna join her.” Carl said as he rushed off towards you, almost knocking you to the ground as he ran to you.

Rick watched the two of you mess around in the water, mainly just watching you and your gorgeous body. His attention was quickly pulled to a guy approaching the two of you.

You and Carl stopped messing around once the guy said hi, mainly looking at you.

“So you’re really pretty and I was just wondering if I could get-”

“Nope.” You said as you grabbed Carl’s arm and the two of you went running back, laughing at the previous interaction.

The both of you plopped down onto the blanket, clutching your stomachs as you were laughing.

“What was that about?” Rick asked as he watched the guy walk past you all.

“This dude tried hitting on her and all she said was nope, she didn’t even let him finish!” Carl said as he continued laughing.

“Well he wasn’t my type we all know that.” You said as you looked at Rick, slowly calming down.

“Yeah she’s into the old dude’s.” Carl said, causing you to shove him against the shoulder.

All Rick did was smile at this revelation, looking at you as you brought a water bottle to your lips.

****

You were all currently back at the holiday house, you changed into something more comfortable as the four of you had just gotten back from dinner.

You made your way into the kitchen, grabbing some fruit you had bought earlier on.

You began cutting them up into smaller pieces and placing them into a bowl when your attention was pulled to footsteps approaching the kitchen.

It was Rick.

He made his way to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and drinking some of it as he leaned against the counter opposite you.

You could feel him watching you, turning around as you held an uncut strawberry in your hand.

“I can feel you staring, so do you want one? They do taste really sweet.” You said as you approached him, lifting the strawberry to his mouth. He took the sweet fruit between his lips, his beautiful eyes piercing yours as he took a bite.

You lowered your hand and placed the stem of the strawberry into the trash.

Turning back to Rick, you watched as he swiped some juice that was left on the side of his mouth to bring to his lips but you quickly stopped him, bringing his index finger to your lips and taking the digit into your mouth.

Rick was stunned at your bold action, watching you closely as you sucked on his finger. The filthy images that came to mind went straight to his crotch, the fabric of his shorts tightening as his cock got hard.

You lowered his hand once again, moving back to the fruit you were previously cutting and cleaning up the mess.

You were about to leave when you felt Rick behind you, pressing his hard on against your ass and using his arms to cage you in.

You turned around in his hold, looking up at him as he shoved your legs apart with his, moving his thigh against your core and smashing his lips against yours.

You immediately deepened the kiss, letting his tongue invade your mouth as his hands roamed your body.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.” He said against your lips.

His kisses slowly moved along your jaw, going down your neck and reaching your collar bone. You unknowingly began grinding your hot core against his thigh, throwing your head back to give him more room.

You were both quickly pulled back to reality when you heard another set of footsteps, Rick moving to the opposite side of the kitchen where he was previously standing and you pretending to continue cleaning up.

Carl made his way to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water before moving to you and stealing a piece of fruit from your bowl, causing you to smack him against the head.

“G’night.” He said to the two of you as he made his way back to his room.

Just as he left, Rick was on you again, attaching his lips to yours before you pushed him away.

“Come find me later, preferably when he’s asleep. I’ll probably be in the shower.” You hinted as you grabbed your bowl of fruit and left the kitchen.

Rick ran his hands over his face. You were going to be the death of him.

****

You set your underwear and an oversized shirt on the bed before moving to the bathroom. You climbed into the large shower once the water was warm, running your hands through your hair as you tilted your head back to let the warm water cascade down your face.

You were about to reach for your body wash when there was a knock on the bathroom door, followed by the sound of the door opening.

You opened the tinted shower door, peeking out and seeing Rick, a white towel hanging low on his hips as he made his way to you. The towel dropped as he got closer to the shower, your eyes immediately bulging at his size.

You took your bottom lip between your teeth, watching him as he got into the shower with you, placing his body right under the stream of water and letting out a barely audible moan as the water hit his back.

He reached out towards you, grabbing you by your waist and pulling you flush against him.

“You’re so beautiful.” He said as he looked down at you. You connected your lips to his, deepening the kiss as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

He once again let his kisses trail down your neck, the roughness of his beard sending shivers through your body as he trailed his kisses down your body towards your chest, taking one of your stiff peaks into his mouth. Sucking harshly onto the bud, he looked up at you as you moaned out in ecstasy.

Moving his hands down your body and towards your core, ghosting his fingertips over the area where you needed him most.

“Please..” You said as you moved closer to him, trying to get him to bring his hand where you wanted it, needed it.

“Please what baby?” He said as he looked at you, a smirk spreading over his features.

“Please just- just touch me please.” You begged.

“Where do you need me sweetheart?” He said as he held you, a faux sympathetic look on his face.

You grabbed ahold of his hand, leading it towards your core. Rick wasted no time, applying pressure on your clit.

You moaned out, your head hitting the wall behind you as you let the pleasure consume you.

Your breaths were getting heavy and you let out a particularly loud moan once he sunk two fingers into your dripping pussy.

“Fuck, feels so good.” You said as you closed your eyes, the pleasure combined with the steam from the hot water becoming all too much for you.

“Yeah, it feels good baby?” He said as he sunk down onto his knees, his mouth latching into your clit.

Your knees buckled at the feeling, looking down at the man between your thighs as his free hand moved to your hips to steady you.

“I’m so close.” You breathed out as you grabbed onto your left breast.

Rick quickened his fingers inside you, reaching a special spot your own fingers could never reach. This combined with his hot mouth on your clit sent you over the edge.

You let out multiple short breaths as you came, your body feeling hot to the touch as Rick rose back up, his fingers sinking into his mouth.

Moaning at the taste of you on his tongue, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing his lips to yours before pulling back.

“You taste better than I imagined.” He said, causing you to bury your head into his neck.

“Now don’t get all shy on me baby, you were just moaning my name like a whore and now you’re all shy.” He said as he grabbed ahold of your chin, tilting your head up and pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Want you in my-” You said against his lips, stopping as you were unable to get the filthy words out.

“What do you want baby?” He said, his grip on your chin not letting up.

“Want you in my mouth please.”

“Oh do you now?” Rick said, a smile tugging at his lips.

You nodded your head before sinking down onto your knees. Taking his cock into your hand, you pressed his tip to your lips, taking it into your mouth, the salty taste of pre-cum hitting your tongue.

You moaned around his tip, looking up at him as you took more and more of him into your mouth. You started bobbing your head, savouring the taste of his cock on your tongue.

Rick was losing his mind, his hands leaning against the shower wall behind you, loving the sight of you kneeling in front of him.

You tapped his thigh, causing him to look down at you. You quickly reached for his hand, placing it at the back of your head.

Rick immediately caught on, wrapping your hair around his hand to create a sort of makeshift ponytail.

He began fucking your face at an ungodly pace, your nose hitting his pubic bone.

The most sinful noises left his lips, his hips staggering as he got closer to his high.

You could feel him in your throat, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes due to the shear force of his thrusts.

“Fuck.” He moaned out, his load shooting onto your tongue.

“Swallow it.” He said as you nodded your head, swallowing his seed as you stood up.

He brought you back in for a kiss, swiping his tongue across your lips. You allowed him to enter, his tongue dancing with yours as he claimed your mouth as his.

He tapped your thigh as he kissed you, causing you to jump up and wrap your legs around him.

Wasting no time he slipped his cock into your pussy, both of you moaning out at the feeling of him inside you.

With your back pressed against the wall, Rick’s one arm supporting your body and the other next to your head against the wall. His hips snapped against yours, desperate to get you to cum again.

You were a moaning mess, your mind occupied with Rick and only Rick. You grabbed onto his face and brought it from out of the crook of your neck, desperate to feel his lips on yours again.

The kiss was rough and needy, teeth clashing, the feel of his beard rough on your lips; your hips meeting his thrusts as your tongue explored his mouth.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” You said against his lips, causing Rick to slip out of you for a split second, turning you around and pressing your chest to the cold tiles. He slipped back into you, his thrusts speeding up as your pussy clenched around him, sucking him in even deeper if it was possible.

Pornographic like moans left your lips as you came, the pleasure making your body tingle all over. Your body went limp as Rick continued thrusting into you, chasing his own orgasm.

“Where do you want it?” He asked as his hips snapped against yours.

“Inside me please.” You begged, your body needing everything he had to offer.

You could sense his smirk at your words, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he was nearing his orgasm.

“Want me to fill you up huh?” He said between thrusts, his hot cum spilling into you as his thrusts slowed down.

He slipped out of you, turning you around to face him and placing a chaste kiss to your lips.

You smiled into the kiss but quickly gasped when you felt his fingers entering you again, shoving his cum deeper inside of you, making sure none of it dared to slip out.

“Too much Rick.” You whined as you grabbed onto his wrist.

“ ‘m sorry baby.” He muttered, wrapping his arms around you.

The two of you cleaned up, Rick washing your hair for you and washing your body too.

You both stepped out of the shower, brushing your teeth before you got dressed.

He slipped under the covers with you, wrapping his arms around you as he placed a kiss to the top of your head.

You knew this moment wasn’t going to last forever but for now you’d pretend it was.

Leaning up, you pressed a kiss to Rick’s lips before sinking back down into his arms.

****

@catt-leya

let me know if anyone would like to be added to this taglist as I’ll have a separate taglist for any rick grimes fics I write :)

requests are always open!

I hope everyone enjoyed lol!