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ray ✧ pedro pascal dwells within my thoughts ✧ 1997 ↪︎twitter ↪︎pinterest

[mustachepascal]

Bigger Ring | Pedro Pascal

warnings: none, fluff and jelous behavior; f!reader; established relationship.

Pedro could not believe his eyes. It hadn’t even been five minutes since you told him you were going to grab some drinks for both of you before your flight, and then, out of nowhere, a guy shows up by your side — a little too close, a little too comfortable for Pedro’s liking — smiling at you like you didn’t already belong to someone else.

When you came back — with two drinks in your hands — after politely turning the man down, he says “Guess I’ll have to buy you a bigger ring.”

You look at him, giggling, amused by his jealous behavior, and say, “As if people these days care about that kind of thing. People throw themselves at you even though they know you’re committed to me.”

You say it playfully. Pedro gives a nervous laugh and then replies “And here I was thinking I was the jealous one.”

He kisses your hair just as you sit beside him, getting comfortable in his embrace.

a/n: this is my first-ever fic, so please be kind to me. Also english is not my first language...sorry if I made any mistakes. I saw this picture the other day and got ispired lol.

divider by @delidelicate

[goldustghost]

[wolfstarispunk]

look after you

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Your boss is a pain in the ass, thank God Joel is there looking after you.

Warnings: No outbreak, age gap not mentioned, fluff, soft joel.

Word count: 444 words

Note: Hello there! This is my first time writing in English, so please be understanding hahahaha anyways hope you enjoy it!

Thank God it’s Friday. It had been a hard day. Your boss was being a pain in the ass, always criticizing your work and letting you know how much better your co-workers were. Except for your boss, everyone in the office was nice; they had already told you to ignore this man and focus on your excellent work; but it was very difficult for you.  At least you had Joel, your husband.

You arrive home at 7:00 PM. You usually have dinner at work, but this time you weren't in the mood to stand up and walk in front of your boss to reach the office’s kitchen so you waited until home to eat with Joel. 

“Hey,” Joel says when you walk through the door “How was your day?”

You drop your bag, dejected. “Terrible,” you say with a shaky voice. 

Joel gets up from his seat and reaches for you. “That dumbshit boss again?” You nod while he wraps his arms around you “Why don’t you go take a bath? I’ll join you in a minute,” he whispers in your ear. The brush of his beard against your ear makes you shiver, in that moment you are at home. He’d begun to feel like home.  

You go to the bathroom and turn on the hot water while undressing. By the time the tub is full and you’re in, Joel knocks on the door and he comes in with your pajamas. He takes off his shirt and he gets into the tub, right behind you. 

Joel starts to leave soft kisses on your back, not in a sexual way —­ ­he knows you’re not in the mood, but in a soft one. The only thing you can do is close your eyes and melt into his touch, letting him loop his arms around your shoulders. “Relax, baby. I’ve got you” 

You can feel how your shoulders relax automatically the combination of Joel’s kisses and hot water stuns you after the long day. He reaches the shower head and dampens your hair, then you can notice how Joel puts some shampoo on your scalp and starts massaging all your head. You lean your head back, letting him rinse the soap away. Now that you feel completely safe, the boss problem seems very far away. 

“Thank you,” you mutter. 

Joel seems surprised “For what?”

“For this.”

“Looking after you?” he asks, with a soft laugh.

You smirk and think. You don’t really know why you are so thankful but being here, with your husband, after a crappy week makes you feel very loved and comfortable. So you just sigh and answer: “Yeah, just for that”

[pressure-machine]

TEN YEARS OF MAD MAX: FURY ROAD dir. George Miller, released 15th May 2015

[heylolita00]

[mynorthernattitude]

Missionary cuz his eyes pretty and his face handsome✨

[bergamote-catsandbooks]

[remanence-of-love]

[mustachepascal]

been missing joel so bad lately :(((

pleaseee send me some fluffy fics 😢🙏

[siriuslylantsov]

idk everyone imagines Joel as kinda dom daddy but I think he’s actually very gentle, he hints at it with the gun scene in S1 and throughout the show and game he’s very careful and gentle with things he loves ( the guitar, tess, ellie ) so i think that translates to sex too, he’s ultimately a protector anyways yaaas need dat

a little nsfw | wc: 557

something about a big burly man being incredibly gentle with you, it's sickening (in a good way).

rough, work-worn hands that hold you like you're something fragile. guitar calloused fingertips that drag over your skin impossibly soft, tracing your body. the length of your arm, the dip of your waist revealed where your shirt had ridden up during the night. his arm wraps around you from behind, pulling you closer to him. you're convinced that he’d meld your bodies together if he could but alas he can't so he compensates by never taking his hands off you. you're not complaining.

his hand slips under the faded flannel you wear to sleep, courtesy of him of course, cupping your boob and kneading the flesh in his hand. you hum into your pillow as his thumb skims over your nipple, sleep still clinging to the corners of your eyes, limbs still in need of stretching. you can't move with the mass of him attached to you, grounding you in place, and quite frankly you don't want to. 

joel can get very touchy in the morning. not that he isn’t throughout the day, you're never without a possessive, protective hand at the small of your back when you take walks around town. but something about the just risen sun and the warm blankets has you looking extra holdable. who could blame him?

he buries his nose into the crook of your neck, his breath coming in warm puffs. the coarse greying hair of his beard scratches against your skin, you relish in the sensation. what's even more is the soft plush of his lips that press against your shoulder, gently kissing you awake. 

“mornin’ sweetheart,” he says, a low, raspy tone only reserved for you in the early hours.

you don’t say anything in response, simply reaching behind you to hold the nape of his neck, fingers slipping into his hair and scratching the scalp there. he hums, still low and riddled by sleep, pleased. the sound sends a shiver down your spine, the line of vertebrae fitted perfectly to his chest. 

he continues to idly touch you, absentminded passes of his hand over the expanse of your stomach, while your fingers stay threaded in the strands of his thick hair. it's been longer in recent months but you have no qualms, you like the way it falls into his face and gives you the opportunity to push it back–as well as the way he blushes furiously when you do so. 

you turn your head to the best of your abilities to look at him. morning light makes his eyes glitter, you try to ignore the unfiltered adoration in them, in fear of rolling over and never being able to look at him again. you’ve never been with anyone who loves as strongly as joel does, and makes it evident in everything, spoken or (mostly) unspoken. it's debilitating–in the best way. 

“beautiful boy,” you coo, scratching behind his ear. he leans into your touch.

“i’m neither a’those things,” he scoffs roughly, eyelids fluttering shut when your nails pass over that particular spot he loves.

“dont make me fight you, miller.” you tuck your face in the pillow again, snuggling back into him. his arms tighten around your middle in response. “its too early.”

“alright, hun.”

[mustachepascal]

awww🥹😭

[jinxispunk]

congrats on 500! how about 'one person seeing the ugliest parts of the other and staying anyways' with joel miller? angstyy

this prompt??? evil actually. joel miller and “seeing the ugliest parts of someone and staying anyway” is such a nasty combo in the BEST way. this one’s definitely gonna hurt a little. thank you angel <3

sharp edges

Joel Miller x reader

Summary: Joel thinks loving him means eventually seeing something ugly enough to leave over. That is until the worst parts of him finally surface, and you stay anyway.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, angst, hurt/comfort, post-apocalyptic violence,graphic injury, trauma, grief, survivor’s guilt, panic disguised as anger, emotionally constipated joel miller, arguments (lmk if i missed anything)

W/C: 3.2k

A/N: i fear i got a little carried away with this one pahah, i havent written for joel miller in like a year and got overexcited

Joel comes home late.

Later than he should.

You know before the door even opens that something is wrong, because he pauses on the other side of it for too long. The house is quiet apart from the low crackle of the fire and the wind pressing snow hard against the windows, but you hear him anyway. The scrape of his boots on the porch. The muffled shift of weight. That long, heavy silence before his hand finally closes around the door handle.

When he steps inside, winter follows him. Cold air. Snow melting off his jacket. The metallic tang of blood beneath damp wool and old leather.

Your mug stills halfway to your mouth.

Joel doesn’t look at you at first. He shuts the door behind him, slower than usual, then reaches back to slide the bolt across like it takes more concentration than it should.

“Joel?”

“M’fine.”

Too quick. Too sharp.

You set the mug down.

He keeps his back to you while he strips off his gloves, one finger at a time. His shoulders are rigid beneath his coat. There’s snow caught in the greying curls at the nape of his neck, already melting into the collar of his shirt.

Then you see his hand.

His knuckles are split.

Not badly enough to be an emergency, but enough that dried blood sits dark in the cracks of his skin.

You stand slowly from the kitchen table. “You’re bleeding.”

“Ain’t mine.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Joel exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite anything.

He drops his gloves onto the sideboard and shrugs out of his coat with more force than necessary. The movement pulls a faint wince out of him before he can swallow it down.

You catch it.

Of course you do.

He knows you catch it too, because his jaw shifts immediately.

You take one step closer. “You hurt?”

“I said I’m fine.”

The room goes still. Not because he raises his voice. He doesn’t. That’s almost worse.

Joel has a way of making quiet feel like a closed door when he wants it to.

You stop where you are, halfway between the table and him, hands loose at your sides. For a second, neither of you says anything. The fire cracks softly behind you.

Joel looks at you then, finally, and something in his expression flickers. Regret, maybe. Too fast to catch properly.

Then it’s gone.

He turns away first. “I’m gonna clean up.”

You swallow. “Okay.”

He disappears down the hall, leaving wet boot prints on the floorboards behind him.

You don’t follow.

Not yet.

You just stand there in the kitchen, staring at the blood on the sideboard where his gloves touched the wood.

Joel is good at pain.

Not handling it, exactly. That implies something healthier than what he does.

Joel is good at putting pain somewhere nobody can reach it. Locking it behind his ribs. Burying it beneath silence. Turning it into something useful before it can become something honest.

You’ve seen him do it after patrols. After nightmares. After Ellie says something too close to the bone without realising, Joel goes quiet for the rest of the night.

He doesn’t fall apart.

He calcifies.

That’s what scares you.

By the time you find him in the bathroom, he’s standing over the sink with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, one hand braced hard against the porcelain while the other runs under the tap. The water is pink.

His head is bowed.

The mirror above him is fogged slightly at the edges, catching the yellow bathroom light and blurring his reflection into something tired and brutal.

You lean against the doorway. “Let me see.”

Joel’s shoulders tense. “No need.”

“Joel.”

“I got it.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

That finally makes him look down. There’s a dark patch spreading slowly near his side, just beneath his ribs.

His expression doesn’t change.

Like seeing his own blood means nothing to him. Like his body is just another inconvenience he hasn’t got time for.

You step into the bathroom carefully. “Sit down.”

“I said I got it.”

“And I heard you.”

His eyes flick up to yours. Dangerous. Tired.

“Then why you still standin’ there?”

You go still.

There it is. The thing he does when somebody gets too close. Turns sharp. Makes himself harder to hold.

The old version of you might have left then. Not permanently. Just retreated. Given him space. Let him suffer privately because it felt safer than asking to be let in.

But you know Joel now.

You know the difference between leave me alone and I don’t know how to let you stay.

So you don’t move.

His jaw tightens. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re tryin’ to fix me.”

The words land colder than you expect.

You take a slow breath. “I’m trying to clean your side.”

Joel huffs, bitter and humourless. “Same thing to you, ain’t it?”

You stare at him. There’s blood drying beneath one fingernail. A bruise already darkening along his cheekbone. His hair is still damp from snow, curling slightly at the ends.

He looks exhausted.

He looks mean with it.

You hate that you understand why.

“Something happened,” you say softly.

Joel’s mouth hardens. “That why you’re hoverin’?”

“I’m not hovering.”

“Feels like it.”

“Because you’re bleeding.”

“Christ.” He turns away sharply, gripping the sink with both hands now. “You don’t gotta do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, angrily, at you. At the room. At the space between you. “Stand there with that look on your face like there’s still somethin’ worth savin’ here.”

Silence.

It hits clean. Straight through the ribs.

For a second, you genuinely don’t know what to say.

Joel seems to realise it too. His anger falters almost instantly. Not all the way. But enough.

Your throat tightens, though you refuse to let the hurt show too much. Not because he doesn’t deserve to see it. Because if he does, he’ll hate himself more.

And you are so tired of loving a man who thinks every cruel thing he does confirms something rotten inside him.

You speak carefully. “I know you’re hurting.”

His eyes shut briefly.

“But you don’t get to cut me open every time you are.”

Joel goes very still.

The words sit between you, heavier than the winter pressing against the windows. When he opens his eyes again, he doesn’t look at you.

His voice is rougher now. Lower.

“You don’t know what I did.”

“No,” you say quietly. “I don’t.”

He laughs once. Hollow. “You should.”

“Then tell me.”

His knuckles whiten against the sink.

You wait.

Joel breathes once. Twice.

Then finally says, “Patrol found a group out past the ridge.”

Your stomach tightens. “Raiders?”

“Something like that.”

He won’t look at you.

“They had supplies. Weapons. Horses. Took out one of ours last week, near the creek.”

You remember. A boy. Barely older than twenty. Came back to Jackson wrapped in a sheet with his mother walking silently behind the men carrying him.

Joel’s voice goes flatter. “We tracked ’em. Found where they were holed up.”

You don’t interrupt.

His throat works once.

“There was a girl with ’em.”

Your breath catches quietly.

Joel hears it. His jaw tightens.

“Fourteen, maybe. Fifteen. Had a rifle on Tommy before I even saw her proper.”

His hand flexes against the porcelain.

“I didn’t think.”

He stops.

The bathroom feels suddenly smaller. Too warm despite the cold outside.

You understand before he says it.

You wish you didn’t.

Joel’s voice drops to almost nothing. “I just shot.”

The silence afterwards is terrible.

Not because you don’t know what to feel. Because you feel too much at once. Horror. Grief. Understanding. The sick reality of the world you all live in, where children hold guns and good people do unforgivable things because the alternative is dying.

Joel finally looks at you.

And there it is.

The worst part.

Not the blood. Not the anger.

The fear.

Raw and ugly and half-buried beneath shame.

He’s waiting. For disgust. For retreat. For you to finally see whatever he’s been seeing in himself for years.

“You should go,” he says quietly.

Your chest aches. “No.”

His face twists. “You didn’t hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Then you’re stupid.”

There’s no heat behind it this time. Only desperation.

“Maybe.”

“Don’t.”

“Joel-”

“No.” His voice cracks hard around the edge of it, and the sound seems to frighten him as much as it does you. “No, you don’t get it. You keep standin’ there like- like if you just love me hard enough, I’ll turn into somethin’ else.”

You shake your head slowly. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Ain’t it?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

The question tears out of him. Not angry now. Pleading.

You step closer.

Joel doesn’t move away.

“I’m staying.”

His expression breaks.

Barely.

Just enough.

“You think if I see the ugly parts, I’ll leave,” you say quietly.

Joel swallows.

You stop in front of him, close enough now to see the tiny cut split through his lower lip. The blood caught at the edge of his thumb. The trembling he’s trying so hard to hide.

“Joel,” you whisper, “I saw them months ago.”

His eyes search your face.

You hold his gaze.

“I stayed anyway.”

For a moment, he looks like he hates you for saying it.

Then like he might fall apart because you did.

His face twists away before the emotion can fully surface. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe not.”

That makes him look at you again.

You shrug faintly, though your own eyes sting now. “But I did.”

Joel’s breath leaves him in a rough, uneven exhale.

You reach slowly for his hand.

He lets you take it.

That feels like a miracle in itself.

His knuckles are rough and bloodied beneath your fingers, the skin split where bone met teeth or brick or God knows what else. You guide him carefully towards the closed toilet seat.

“Sit.”

This time, he does.

No argument.

No sharp reply.

Just a quiet, exhausted surrender.

Joel sits with his elbows on his knees while you clean his hands.

The bathroom is small enough that your legs brush his whenever you shift between him and the sink. Neither of you mentions it.

Outside, the storm gets worse. Snow batters softly against the window. The old house creaks around you, settling into the dark.

You wet a cloth under warm water and wring it out before reaching for his hand again. “This’ll sting.”

“Done worse.”

“I know.”

That shuts him up.

You clean the blood from his knuckles carefully, patient around the broken skin. Joel watches your hands instead of your face.

He always does that when he’s ashamed. Looks at the work, not the care.

You let him.

For now.

The first time the cloth catches a split knuckle, his fingers twitch.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

“Ain’t your fault.”

You almost laugh.

Not because it’s funny.

Because him saying that after everything nearly hurts.

“No,” you say softly. “It’s not.”

Joel looks up then. His eyes are dark in the low light. Tired. So tired.

Your hand stills around his. “I’m not angry at you for being hurt,” you say quietly.

Something flickers across his face.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He looks away.

There it is.

You dip the cloth back into the water, now pink at the edges, and keep going. For a while, neither of you speaks.

It’s easier like this, sometimes. To care for each other through action first.

Words come too jagged for people like you. People who survived long enough to forget tenderness was supposed to be simple.

When his hands are clean, you reach for antiseptic.

Joel eyes the bottle.

You almost smile. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

“You’ve been stabbed.”

“Don’t mean I gotta enjoy that.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. Small. Tired. But real.

Joel’s gaze flicks up at the sound.

And there’s something so painfully relieved in his face that your chest tightens all over again.

You clean his knuckles. Bandage them. Then gesture carefully to his shirt. “Side.”

He exhales.

But he lifts the hem.

The cut is shallow, thankfully. Messy, but not deep. A graze more than a stab wound, probably from catching himself on something sharp in the dark.

Still, bruising blooms ugly and purple around his ribs.

You crouch a little lower between his knees to clean it.

Joel goes rigid instantly.

Not from pain.

From closeness.

You feel it before you see it. His breath catches. His hand grips the edge of the seat. His whole body locks like he doesn’t know what to do with being touched gently when he feels like this.

You pause. “Okay?”

He nods once. Too quickly.

“Joel.”

His eyes close.

“Keep goin’.”

You do.

Slowly. Carefully. One hand resting lightly against his side to steady him while the other cleans around the cut. His skin is warm beneath your palm. Scarred. Tense. Human in a way he tries so hard not to be.

The longer you touch him, the quieter he gets.

Not withdrawn.

Something else.

Like all that anger has finally run out, leaving only the exhaustion underneath.

When you finish, you set the cloth aside.

“There.”

Joel doesn’t move.

You’re still between his knees. His shirt is still bunched in one hand. The bathroom light hums softly above you.

Then he says, so quietly you almost miss it, “Don’t know how to let somebody see me like this.”

Your throat tightens.

You look up at him.

He’s staring past you, jaw working like he regrets saying it already.

You reach for his bandaged hand and hold it gently between both of yours.

“I know.”

His laugh is faint. Broken around the edges.

“Course you do.”

Not cruel.

Not this time.

Just tired.

You brush your thumb once over his wrist.

“You’re not hard to love, Joel.”

His face changes so fast it hurts.

Like you’ve put a hand straight through his chest and touched the most damaged thing in there.

He pulls in a breath that doesn’t quite work.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

“’Cause it ain’t true.”

“It is.”

“It ain’t.”

“It is to me.”

His eyes meet yours then.

Something raw and almost frightened moves through them.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Maybe not,” you say softly. “But I know I love you.”

Joel goes still.

Completely still.

You hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not here. Not crouched on the bathroom floor with blood cooling in the sink and his hands bandaged between yours.

But maybe that’s the only place it could happen.

No softness dressed up pretty.

No perfect moment.

Just this.

All the ugly things.

All the sharp edges.

You staying anyway.

Joel looks at you like you’ve ruined him.

Maybe you have.

His hand shifts in yours, fingers curling weakly around yours.

“You shouldn’t.”

You smile sadly. “I know.”

His face crumples slightly at that. Barely visible. But you see it.

You always see it.

Then he leans forward. Not all the way. Just enough for his forehead to rest against your shoulder.

The weight of it nearly breaks you.

You freeze for half a second, then lift one hand carefully to the back of his head. His hair is still damp from snow.

You thread your fingers into it gently.

Joel’s breath leaves him slowly against your shirt. Shaking. Silent.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

You just hold him there on the bathroom floor while the storm presses against the walls and the fire burns low in the room down the hall.

His arms come around you eventually. Slow. Careful. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

You shift closer immediately.

Showing him that he is.

Joel’s hand grips the back of your jumper. Not tight enough to hurt. Just enough to keep you there.

As if you were going anywhere.

Later, you get him to bed.

It takes longer than it should because Joel is still Joel, and Joel refuses to be easy about anything for more than ten consecutive minutes.

He mutters that he can sleep on the couch. You ignore him.

He says he doesn’t want blood on your sheets. You tell him you’ll survive laundry.

He says your bed’s too soft anyway. You threaten to reopen his side on purpose.

That shuts him up.

Barely.

By the time he finally sits on the edge of the mattress, the fight’s gone out of him again. Not all at once. Just softened by pain and exhaustion and whatever cracked open between you in the bathroom.

You help him out of his shirt.

He lets you.

That alone feels like another confession.

The room is dark except for the lamp on your bedside table and the faint glow of firelight sneaking in from the hall. Snow taps against the window, quieter now.

Joel lies down stiffly, like his body doesn’t know how to accept comfort without bracing for the cost.

You pull the blanket over him.

His eyes follow you the whole time.

When you move to switch off the lamp, his hand catches your wrist.

You stop.

He looks almost embarrassed by his own reflex.

“Stay?”

One word. Rough. Barely there.

Your heart aches.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m staying.”

You turn off the lamp and climb into bed beside him.

For a while, you lie close without touching too much. Giving him room. Letting him decide what he can bear.

Then, slowly, Joel shifts.

His hand finds your waist beneath the blanket. Careful. Questioning.

You move closer immediately.

His breath catches.

Then releases.

You settle against him gently, mindful of his side, your hand resting over his chest where his heart beats slow and heavy beneath your palm.

He’s quiet for so long you think he might have fallen asleep.

Then, “She was just a kid.”

Your eyes close.

“I know.”

“I see her face when I close my eyes.”

You swallow hard. “I know.”

His hand tightens slightly at your waist.

“I’m tired.”

The words are so quiet they barely exist.

But you hear them.

You hear everything he isn’t saying too.

I’m tired of surviving.

I’m tired of losing.

I’m tired of being this.

You press your forehead gently against his shoulder.

“Then rest.”

Joel’s laugh is almost nothing. “Just like that?”

“Just like this.”

He doesn’t answer.

But his body shifts, slowly, almost unwillingly, into yours.

The tension doesn’t leave completely.

Maybe it never does.

But some of it loosens.

Enough.

You brush your thumb slowly across his chest. Once. Twice. A quiet rhythm for him to follow if he needs one.

After a while, Joel’s breathing evens out.

Not sleep.

Not yet.

But close.

You think maybe that’s the best either of you can ask for tonight.

Then he murmurs, almost too low to hear, “You stayed.”

You look at him in the dark. His eyes are closed. His face turned slightly towards yours. Still waiting, maybe. Still expecting the world to take back anything gentle it gives him.

You press a kiss very softly against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I did.”

Joel’s hand covers yours against his chest. Holds it there.

And for the first time all night, he stops trying to pull away.

dividers: saradika-graphics

[mustachepascal]

🥹❤️

[t8i72]

tg: t8i72

[1osingdog]

every time the air gets warm and the sun is out and i’m driving with my windows down wren calls to me like the green goblin mask

[mustachepascal]

my fav joel miller fic is coming back,,,, and I don’t know how to act normal about ittt 🤧🤧

[capuccinodoll]

Well I don’t get it, if you don’t have time to write then just don’t write. It doesn’t make sense to go from posting one chapter a week to one a month. Honestly it makes me not want to read anymore. We’re all busy and no one is forcing you to write.you should make the chapters shorter and post more often or if you don’t feel like it just don’t do it at all.

Wow, is this for real? Or are you joking?

[dilf-docs]

you honestly don't view fanfic writers as people

this is not only because u touched my girl but also i'm so tired of fandoms rn. ever since normies invaded our spaces, fandom etiquette is DEAD

because in what world you feel compelled to demand for content that is FREE and done with care like you're asking a machine to churn out shit because oh no! you're not going to read anymore as if the victim here is you ☹️

TWIN there are NO victims here !!!! this is a fandom space, where we share things out of love that take our times as we pour hours of dedication into writing and giving this content for the love of the artist, fandom, of writing, all of the above, etc.

content creators are pillars on the fandom. everyone has a role, and yours is as simple as to enjoy, especially if you don't contribute with nothing but your participation in these curated media pieces by us. we love to see reviews, comments, reblogs, likes, yadayada because it gives a sense of purpose and fulfillment that someone can enjoy what you do! (can be editing or just posting in general, you do you!)

we don't want this. it does nothing. it only causes the contrary, btw. what exactly do you win upsetting someone over them not fulfilling your update quota? again, we're not machines: we're people with lives, jobs and classes. families and friends.

if you feel compelled to post a passive agressive ass bs on anon like this, i'm just going to assume you have none of the above and are jealous someone is vulnerable enough to share a part of themselves and be loved by strangers that it touches online. is it the truth? maybe not, but idc―you sound miserable, anyway.

[capuccinodoll]

Thank you for this, baby 🤍 I agree with everything you said.

Fic writers are not typing machines. We have lives and things that affect us and sometimes our minds just aren’t in the right place to write. I’ve been seeing this kind of entitled behavior more and more, and honestly, it needs to stop.

Two years ago things weren’t like this. when I started writing here on tumblr (not even two years ago actually) it wasn’t like this at all. This fandom felt so different, there was so much mutual support and communication. And I don’t want to be misunderstood, that still exists and there are so many sweet kind people who support us in every fic we write and I’m really grateful for that. But at the same time I can’t help but notice a certain hostility from some readers toward writers.

The way some people consume fics lately like they’re products is exhausting. I’ve seen a lot of fellow writers feel drained and disconnected from what they do because of this. the support isn’t what it used to be; many people don’t comment, support, or reblog anymore, they just take and take and ask for more.

I’ve received a few nasty messages these past months and I’ve never given them any attention or a response that would feed into it, but this time I genuinely couldn’t believe it. The fact that they felt entitled to tell me how and how often I should write is… fucked up.

Anyway, I really hope you can understand where I’m coming from. And if you’re one of the people treating writers like this, then please, just leave.

And to the rest of you, thank you for being so sweet and kind and nice to us. 🤍

[barnesdreamcatcher]

Ribbon 'round my neck, cherry coloured

joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel has sworn to protect you and keep you safe—but when the line between care and desire blurs, both of you are forced to confront what you really want.  based on this request

cw: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, unprotected p in v, use of nicknames (kiddo ‘cause I like it icky, sweet girl, baby, pretty girl, darlin’, sweetpea), oral (f rec), breathplay (not previously talked about, heat of the moment, be better in real life), implied legal age difference, girly!reader, but the girl can shoot, too

wc: 5k

a/n: if lana releases a new song, I write a joel fic! that’s just how it works

now playing: White Feather Hawk Tail Deer Hunter – Lana Del Rey

It’s the bow in your hair that gets Joel thinking. Dark red satin adorns the crown of your head, beckoning him in. 

He watches as you read your book, the sun warming your skin. It’s the first truly nice day of the year—warm enough that you can sit on the porch of Joel’s cabin, only wearing one of his flannels over your cotton dress. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and a slight crease forms between your brows as your eyes scan the pages.  The sight alone is enough to send Joel’s blood further south than it should be.

He knows it’s wrong—all of it is. The two of you, tucked away in a cabin just a few miles west of Jackson, together from dusk until dawn and dusk again. Joel tells himself it’s to keep you safe. Right by his side, where nothing can happen to you. The only bad man that might get you is himself, and he’s sworn to God that he’d never let it get that far. 

But then you started sleeping in his bed. Nightmares used to plague your rest, causing you to wake up with sweat drenching your hairline and tears staining your cheeks. You didn’t find peace again until his arms held you tight against his chest, his soft mutters reaching your ears. 

I’ll take care of you, kiddo. Don’t you worry. Go back to sleep, I got you. 

And he took care of you. Kept you fed, clothed, and safe. Made sure you were happy, eager, and bright-eyed. 

You were no fool either. A smart girl, more than willing to learn. He taught you to shoot, even though it made his heart race when he saw you holding a shotgun for the first time. The longer you stayed with him, the more he realized that you were far from helpless. While you hesitated to even point your gun at a deer, you were more than capable of shooting an infected from a good fifty yards away. 

The more sunrises you saw together, the more Joel grew to think of you as an equal. He didn’t keep you like a miniature housewife, destined to press his shirts and keep his shoes by the fire—no, you were every bit as tough as he was. 

Still, seeing you sitting in the sun reminds him of your innocence and how much he hates that you had to sacrifice it at times for your survival.  He would do anything to keep the light in your eyes lit for as long as possible. Even treat you like a kid from time to time when you’re so much more.

By the time the moon had taken the sun’s spot, Joel had been left with his own thoughts for too long.  You’re sitting opposite him at the dinner table, picking up four peas with your fork, one on each prong, and telling him about the ladybugs you found today.

“They were much more orange than red,” you recall eagerly, “And I don’t think they were the seven-spot kind—I counted at least nine.”

“Mhm,” he mumbles some kind of acknowledgement while his eyes find the ribbon in your hair again. 

“Like, I mean, of course they were still ladybugs,” you go on, oblivious to his feeble attention, “But, like, they looked real different than the ones we had last summer.”

He’s noticed before that his way of speaking has bled into your vocabulary. You never used to say those kinds of things back when the walls of Jackson still surrounded you. It makes his teeth hurt to see the influence he has over you. 

“They were pretty, right?” he grumbles. 

You roll your eyes, a half-grin tugging at your mouth corners.

“’Course they were,” you reply.

“Then it don’t matter, kiddo.”

Dismay turns your face sour, and you huff softly. “Guess it don’t.”

“Doesn’t,” he corrects. 

“You just said ‘don’t!” 

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he does anyway. “Yeah, well, I’m grown, I can say whatever I want.” 

Your eyebrows furrow angrily. “What’s with you today?” you mutter. 

His eyes snap to yours. “Nothin’,” he replies gruffly, “Now, eat your peas. And quit playin’ with ‘em.”

You stare at him for a few seconds before you grab your fork and go back to piercing your peas one by one.

“Christ,” he mumbles to himself, then rubs a hand across his face. The dinner continues in silence, lingering uncomfortably thick. When he’s in a bad mood, you can usually cheer him up, but once you start sulking, the day might as well be over.  He knows it’s his fault—he approached the whole thing wrong. 

It takes you forever to finish your plate—you’re too busy frowning—so Joel is half tempted to send you to bed to sleep it off. Knowing that it would only make things worse, and frankly, it’s not his place, he holds off on that. 

Your chair squeaks loudly as you push it back, empty plate in hand, and make your way to the sink. Your footsteps fall heavily when you walk to your room without saying goodnight. 

Joel knows you want him to follow you—you’re waiting for an apology, one that you deserve but won’t get. Instead of indulging you, he starts rinsing the dishes, then wipes the counters clean. He hears the sink in the bathroom run, then two doors shut within seconds of each other. At least, you’re not slamming them. He takes that as a good sign. 

Once there’s nothing left for him to clean, he sighs to himself, then leaves the kitchen. He stands in front of your door longer than he likes. You painted it a couple of weeks ago, colorful flowers and berries decorating the frame. He had worked his ass off to find you paint that was still somewhat usable, then even managed to find some thinner so that the acrylic wouldn’t be so thick. 

He traces one of the flowers for a few seconds, following the delicate line that you had drawn, before he rolls his hand into a fist and knocks.  There’s a soft shuffle behind the door, then your voice follows. “What?”

Sometimes, Joel has to admit to himself that he misses the shy you. The one that didn’t talk back. 

“It’s me,” he calls out. 

“Yeah, I figured.” You and your sass. 

He rubs his eye once, twice, then sighs.  “Can I come in?”

Silence stretches for a few moments, and his heart drops. You couldn’t be that mad. Could you? But then your reply echoes through the oak wood. “Yeah.”

His fingers press against the door handle, and it swings open with ease. You’re sitting on your bed, bedsheets pulled up to your navel. The shirt you’re sporting belongs to him—old and worn, but soft to the touch. Its neckline is so stretched that he catches a glimpse of your collarbones. It’s a comfort to him that you’re at least still wearing that, despite the disgruntled expression etched into your face as you look at him.  The red piece of silk is still tied in your hair, sitting there like a warning sign. He ignores it. 

Joel flicks his hand, signaling you to scoot over, and you do. When he sinks down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaks softly.  It’s quiet as neither one of you speaks for a moment. Then Joel clears his throat.

“So…” he mumbles, “Ladybugs, hm?”

He can tell that you don’t want to smile, but the corners of your mouth twitch. 

“Tell me ‘bout ‘em,” he encourages quietly. 

“Thought it don’t—doesn’t matter,” you argue. The disappointment in your voice makes his old heart ache. 

“It does,” he murmurs. His hand rests on your knee, the blanket disconnecting you. “If it matters to you, it matters to me.” He tilts his head to catch your eyes and sees them softening in real time. 

“A whole bunch of ‘em were down by the creek,” you say, “On that one tree stump, you know?” 

He nods. You continue.

“Do ladybugs have families?”

The question is so tender—so you—he has to close his eyes for a few seconds.

“Mhm,” he muses, “Dunno much about bugs, but I figure they do. They all gotta come from somewhere, and where you come from, that’s your family, right?”

You shrug softly.  “Then I guess I don’t have one,” you say blankly.  Joel shakes his head instantly. 

“That ain’t true, darlin’,” he disagrees, then rubs his jaw.

“Guess I didn’t explain that one right,” he mutters to himself, then goes on, “There ain’t just one type of family. Sometimes, it’s the place and people where ya come from, and then other times, it’s the people who wish ya came from the same place as them, you know? The ones who wish they had known ya all your life.”

“So you wish you’d known me all my life?” you ask tentatively.

He winces.

“Sometimes,” he replies cautiously, “But it’s good that I didn’t.”

“Why?”

He should’ve expected this. This is why he never explained the heavy stuff. 

“You know, sweetpea, it’s real late, don’t you think?” he states, looking out the window. His joints groan as he stands up, but he doesn’t get far. Your hand finds his biceps and holds him back. 

“Wait,” you plead, “You can’t just… please, what do you mean? Why only sometimes?”

Joel feels himself growing grayer by the second. As the words get stuck in his throat, he gestures vaguely between him and you. 

“This whole thing… it’d be—it’d be bad if I’d known ya since you were a little girl.”

“Because…?” you prompt quietly. 

“’Cause I’d be—people would think…,” he drifts off, muttering under his breath, “Goddammit.” 

Joel struggles to meet your eyes; he grabs your hands, both of them, and slowly brings them up to his lips. The kiss on your knuckles is soft as a feather, like a butterfly’s wings.  He doesn’t look up as he continues, “Knowin’ you back then would mean I wouldn’t be allowed to like ya the way I do now.”

The sweet look of confusion on your face makes space for realization. 

“Oh,” you say softly. 

He nods, still not reciprocating your gaze.  “Yeah.”

“Well, then I’m glad you didn’t know me then. ‘Cause I like that you like me that way now.”

Finally, he drags his eyes up to meet yours. Honesty twists your expression into one he’d love to bottle up and keep for bad days—tenderness.

“What am I doin’ here?” Joel asks quietly, then brushes his knuckles across your cheek. You can’t help but melt into his touch, lashes fluttering shut.  It’s always like this. One of you pushes, the other pulls away, then you find your way back into the shadows of that grey area neither one of you wants to leave. No one’s done anything wrong yet. 

Joel’s hand moves to smooth down your headband.

“Shouldn’t be wearin’ that when ya go to sleep,” he mumbles, “Don’t want ya chokin’ on it if it slips down.”

“I’d wake up before that,” you reason.  He disagrees quietly, then undoes the bow and knot until it slips from your hair. The flimsy material stands out against his sun-kissed hands—his skin freckled and wrinkled, the silk smooth.

“You don’t know anything,” he says. It’s not intended as critique, so you don’t take it that way.

“I know enough.”

Joel wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you understand just how wrong you are. Instead, he lets the piece of fabric dance around his fingers, wrapping and unravelling it consistently. 

“You should be runnin’ for the hills,” he remarks, “And I should be cuttin’ my hands off for thinkin’ ‘bout the things I wanna do to ya with ‘em.”

There it is—your breath hitches, and Joel is left to wonder whether that was one step too far, the one that just secured his place in hell. But you’re moving before he has time to take it back. You push away your blanket, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs, before you sit back on your heels in front of him. He forces himself to look you in the eye.

“Is it that bad that I want you to do whatever you’re imagining?” you ask. 

“Yes.” His voice trembles with restraint. He knows he should leave before he does something he can’t undo. But he stays—frozen in place, your knee almost touching his. 

Your bottom lip quivers.   “Then I don’t care about being good,” you reply. 

Joel has been holding back the flood for months now—and you just cracked the dam with one sentence. The ribbon slips from his fingers and falls to the floor. 

His hands cup your face and pull you in before his lips crash against yours. The soft give of your lips beneath his own draws him in deeper, chasing your tongue with his own. He tastes the remnants of toothpaste on your teeth, then something that is just you.  The guilt lingers deep in his chest as he kisses you, but something about the way your breath changes drowns out his doubts long enough. 

He’s the one to pull away first. With his chest heaving and his pupils blown, his gaze finds yours. He expects to see regret, or worse, disgust on your face. Instead, he sees pure, quiet, unfiltered adoration. 

“Goddammit,” he grumbles. 

A flustered grin lights up your face. 

“Again?” you whisper.

“God, no,” he mutters, “You kiss me like that again, and I ain’t stoppin’.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking you to stop.”

Before he knows it, your mouth finds his again. The vibration of your giggle against his lips sends shivers down his spine, and he should know better—but he doesn’t—when his hands come to rest on your waist. 

It starts with the slip of his fingers—brushing against your knee, then higher. Joel curses himself for continuing until you rock your hips, just a couple of inches, but it’s enough to snap away the last of his restraint. 

He leans forward, slowly guiding you back until your head hits the pillows, without your lips ever leaving his.  Situated between your thighs, he peppers soft pecks down your neck, then drops his forehead against your collarbone. 

“Tell me to stop,” he pleads, “Now.”

You shake your head. “I want to keep going.”

A sliver of awareness spreads across Joel’s face. “Sweetheart,” he starts, “This is a big thing. Like… a really big thing. And we’re—I’m already doin’ enough damage just by kissin’ ya.”

Joel has spent more than enough time thinking about it: you undressed in his sheets, him kneeling between your thighs—the slow ruin of the thing either one of you called familiarity.  Everything feels as wrong as it feels right.

“I want this, Joel,” you insist quietly. His frown lines deepen. 

“You shouldn’t—”

“But I do.”

Joel wonders if this is a test from God Himself—he hadn’t paid that much attention to the man in the sky in the last few years. 

“You don’t understand how hard you’re making it f’me, darlin’.”

You sit up slightly, then reach for him. Your fingers interlock on the back of his neck, your grip tight and determined. 

“Do you want me?” you ask.

“You know that’s not the issue,” he responds. 

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you want me.”

He takes a deep breath, then nods. “You know I do.”

“Then trust me when I say you can have me.”

“You’ll be the death of me.” Joel curses himself before he kisses you again. This time, he lets his hands dip under your shirt. His calloused fingers trace your smooth skin until they reach your ribcage, settling there. The kiss is clumsy; you grin as your teeth hit his, wild fervor evaporating from your every pore. 

Goosebumps spread across your body when Joel pulls away to meet your eyes. 

“I’ll do it right,” he declares, “I promise.”

Then his fingers find the hem of your shirt and pull it off of you. He discards the piece of clothing carelessly, too hypnotized by the sight in front of him. You hold your breath as his eyes wander, taking in every inch of skin laid bare. 

“Got the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen beggin’ for some old man right in front of me,” he murmurs. The nerves in your chest ease a little, and you shake your head at him. 

“Not just some old man,” you correct, then cup his cheek. His weathered skin is rough against your touch. 

He doesn’t reply, and you know he disagrees; instead, he presses his lips to your forehead before they wander further down. As he trails kisses from your breasts down to your belly button, his fingers find your nipples. He tugs and twists gently, eliciting gasps from you as warmth spreads through your body. 

You bite the inside of your cheek to stifle the noises, embarrassment flushing your cheeks. Joel notices and kisses your stiffened bud, then looks up at you. 

“Don’t hide those sounds, sweet girl,” he rumbles, “Wanna hear ya. If ya want me to fuck you, ya gotta meet my demands. First one is: You don’t get to hide.”

“What are the others?” Your voice grows more breathless as Joel’s fingers dig into the waistband of your panties. 

“Second one,” he begins, simultaneously tugging at the fabric that covers your core, “You tell me what you want me to do. And that’s all I’ll do.”

As soon as your panties meet the floor, he sits back on his heels. His eyes wander, taking in every bit of you. You look away, trying to escape his stare.

“And the third one,” he says, then catches your chin to tilt your face upwards, “Your eyes stay on me.”

With that, he settles between your legs, breathing in the scent of your arousal. His lips brush against your inner thigh, slowly inching towards where you want him.  You grip the sheets like your life depends on it and force yourself to watch. When he kisses the space where your thigh meets your hips, it makes you shiver. 

Your hands find their way into his curls, just tugging softly, hoping that it will lead him right where you want him. But Joel takes his time—his tongue drags over your sensitive skin, kissing one lip, then the other. He looks up at you and nods in approval when he finds your gaze already on him. 

“Don’t look away,” he reminds you before he spreads your legs even further and licks a broad stripe across your clit. Your grip on his hair tightens as pleasure sparks throughout your body. 

He is gentle at first, spending time exploring your body. Joel listens to the kind of movements that make your breath hitch, watches for the ones that make your thighs shake. When his lips encircle your clit, sucking slightly, and your entire body jerks, he chuckles in satisfaction. The vibration travels up your spine, causing you to tilt your hips.  Joel’s hands rest on your hips, encouraging you to lock him in between your legs.

Soft gasps tumble from you, growing more and more desperate as he laps at your core, his spit and your slick mixing.  You feel your chest heaving as his tongue draws figure eights on your throbbing clit. 

Lost in pleasure and the promise of him, you dip your head back into the pillows, moaning freely. You pull a little harder on his hair until he groans into your cunt. 

You feel yourself stumbling closer to the edge, a second heartbeat coming to life between your legs. Warmth pools in your lower belly, and you almost taste the sweetness of relief until Joel pulls away suddenly. 

“Hey—” his voice echoes through the room, “Where are those eyes, darlin’?”

You almost complain—your entire body is on fire when you force your gaze to snap back to him. The corners of his mouth twitch, and his tongue parts your folds again. 

“Joel,” you moan, so close to tasting the letters that make up his name. His grip on your hips tighten, firm enough that it’ll surely leave you a reminder in the morning. 

“I got you, baby,” he whispers before he goes back to circling your clit with the tip of his tongue. The sounds that filled the room were downright sacrilegious—his deep growls and your breathless whines mixing. 

Stars explode behind your eyes as you come on his lips, your arousal slickening his chin. He laps relentlessly, working you through your release until he’s drawn out every aftershock he can get. 

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praises softly, “Lookin’ so pretty f’me when you cum.” Every part of you still pulses, oxytocin traveling through your bloodstream, as Joel pulls away. 

His hands travel up to your stomach, holding you down gently before he leans in to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lips, the sweetly tangy flavor blooming across your tongue. 

Joel lets you catch your breath and tenderly kneads the flesh on your hip as you come down. Seeing you rendered speechless, Joel prompts, “How’re ya feelin’, sweetpea?”

You look for words to describe the cocktail of emotions coursing through your mind and end up with the weak recollection, “Great.”

He chuckles, rather smug about himself. “Yeah?”

You nod, then blink through the heavy haze of release still clouding your mind. “Yeah,” you reply.

“Good,” he mumbles.

The mattress squeaks underneath you as he shifts his weight, and this time around, it’s your turn to stare. The bulge in Joel’s pants causes the saliva to collect in your mouth.  You reach blindly, fingers finding the edge of his jeans, but he stops you before you can pop the button. 

“Hey, easy does it,” he says, “We don’t gotta do any more today if you don’t want to.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. “I wouldn’t be trying to get your pants off if I didn’t want to keep going, would I?”

“Smartass.”

“Rule number two, I tell you what I want, and you do it, right?” you tease, looking up at him hopefully. 

“Well, I haven’t heard you say what you want yet,” he counters. 

You bite your bottom lip. 

“I… I want you,” you stammer. 

Joel raises his eyebrows, then cups your face between his rough hands. “You got me, don’t you?”

You glance at him pleadingly, but he shakes his head.  “Words, sweetpea. If you can’t say it, you don’t want it enough.”

You swallow your embarrassment and sit up. Slowly, your eyes find his before you say, “I want you to- to fuck me.”

He chuckles self-contentedly, then nods. “There you go, darlin’. If that’s what you truly want, I’ll do it.”

Then he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one. You feel the nerves prickling in your stomach, and you grow more restless with every sliver of skin he exposes. His jeans follow his shirt to the floor. Your mouth goes dry when his boxers drop—Joel is more than well-endowed. 

He feels your stare and meets your eyes, the cockiness on his face making space for a much gentler expression. “You’ll be fine,” he promises, “We’ll go slow.”

When your back hits the mattress, and you spread your legs to make space for Joel, he doesn’t immediately follow. Instead, his eyes drift to the cherry-colored ribbon on the floor. A mischievous sparkle in his eyes, so unlike Joel, makes the butterflies in your stomach jump. 

He reaches for it, then holds it up for you to see.

“You got any idea how pretty this looked in your hair today?” he asks. “Drove me damn near insane.”

A bashful smile steals itself onto your face. “I found it in the sewing kit.”

“You don’t say,” he mutters. His eyes dart between you and the ribbon until his face grows almost apologetic. “Would ya wanna wear it? Now? It’s been like a damn light signal, calling me in all day. Might as well have it with ya at the finish line.”

You nod slowly. As you lean forward, you expect Joel to fasten it at your hairline, but instead, he threads the headband under the lengths of your hair and then ties it around your neck. Not too tight—you can breathe easily. You almost feel like a present wrapped to be unpacked. 

Joel nods approvingly, his fingers resting at your collarbone, while he admires his handiwork. “Real pretty,” he murmurs. 

With light pressure, he guides you back into the pillows, then chases your lips with his own. The kiss steals the breath right from your lungs, and you barely even notice it when his palm finds its place on your upper thigh. With his other hand, he fists his aching cock and guides himself through your soft folds, collecting your arousal. The pressure makes you squeal slightly, but Joel swallows any sound instantly, his lips never leaving yours. Then his bulbous tip nudges against your hole. 

“Deep breath,” he instructs, right against your mouth, “And big stretch.”

You feel as if you’re being impaled—in a good way. The unfamiliar sensation of him splitting you open has your eyes rolling back, your fingers snapping up to wrap around his biceps tightly. Joel feels your breath ghost over his face as you gasp. 

“Easy, kid,” he mumbles, “That’s it. You’re okay. Want me to rip off the band-aid?”

You shake your head instantaneously and say, “You said we’d go slow. You said—” 

“Mhm, yeah, I know, darlin’, I know.” 

His jaw ticks with restraint as he rolls his hips just a little, advancing further into your warmth. You feel every vein decorating his cock; you’re sure he’ll mold your walls to his exact shape in no time. The burn aches and stings, but the pressure underneath makes you want more. Your eyes find Joel’s—yours pleading and needy, his cool and collected. A certain degree of smugness etches itself into his face as the hunger surfaces in your expression. 

“Ya ready?” he asks. 

“Yes, yes, please, I—”

The first real thrust knocks the air out of your chest. Your fingernails dig into his arms, leaving red, half-moon-shaped marks on his skin as you feel the coarse hairs at Joel’s base meet your pelvis. You’ve never felt so full, stretched, and fed at the same time. 

When he pulls back, his cock drags along the gummy spot on your ceiling, making you gasp as pleasure sparks and runs up your spine. 

“How’s that, pretty girl?”  Joel holds your chin with his free hand, forcing your eyes to meet his own. 

You can only nod, feeling the faint pain dissipate and turn into desire as he pushes back into you.  He chuckles and eases his grip on your chin. 

“How ‘bout some words, sweetheart?” he asks. 

“It’s good, Joel, it’s… it’s so good. Please, I need more,” you answer, almost frantic in your desperation. Your hips buck up all on their own, pushing to meet his. 

“So you don’t want it slow no longer?” he teases, still keeping still even as you writhe and pout. 

“Joel,” you whine, “C’mon, please.”

He snorts softly, then nods. “We’ll work on those manners, darlin’. But for now, you’re gettin’ off easy.”

While Joel finds his rhythm, listening for the spots that make your breath catch and your eyebrows knit together in pleasure, you feel the warmth begin to collect in your lower tummy. Even with your lips clamped together, you can’t help the sounds that make their way out of you—soft moans turn wilder, more eager, more uninhibited.

“That’s it,” Joel praises, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, “Wanna hear you, pretty girl. Don’t you dare hide any of those sweet sounds.”

He fucks you deeper, the wet sounds of your cunt echoing sinfully through the room. Joel’s entire body is tight, running on pure adrenaline and need as his cock kisses your cervix. His deep grunts fill your ears, growing darker and more animalistic with every thrust. 

He drags his fingers through your folds and finds your clit. The first circle he draws feels like pure energy, pulsing throughout your entire body from your core to your toes. His other hand surprises you. At first, you think he means to cup the back of your neck with his big palm, but instead, he threads his fingers between the red ribbon and your skin. The added pressure on your throat makes your head swim. 

“That okay?” he rasps, his eyes searching yours. 

You nod almost instantly, feeling your walls flutter around him as the room grows quieter from the lack of oxygen. Joel’s eyes are glued to you—he makes sure not to overdo it. He takes in every micro-expression as his fingers adjust the pressure on the satin—a little more, then a little less. He decides when you breathe and how much. And you love it. 

 You’re not sure what pushes you over the edge at the end: maybe it’s the constant pressure on your clit, or the way his cock fills you up until you feel him in your guts. Or maybe it’s the delightful sensation of your airway being controlled by him. Or maybe it’s the praise.

“Look so sweet, baby, lettin’ me ruin you like this,” he groans, “God ain’t forgivin’ me for this, but I bet ya will.”

❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆

[mustachepascal]

this SO good i want to screammmm🫦🫦🫦

[foxtrology]

missing velvet horseshoe like hell 😭😭 are u planing on updating it any time soon?

love u💞

i miss velvet horseshoe so bad too 😭 it’s actually the next fic i’m updating, i promise it’s coming soon

love you right back

[sweeetestcurse]

Joel Miller 61/??

[mustachepascal]

he’s so big 🫦🫦🫦

[penvisions]

for the record {a joel miller oneshot}

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader, brief F!Reader x F!OC

Summary: The longer, more dangerous patrol routes around Jackson are designated to you and one Joel Miller. You both have an understanding with each other, talking wasn’t the biggest concern for either of you, but being confident in each other was. He wasn’t a bad friend in your scavenged life, but then again you were beginning to think you didn’t want to be just his friend…and that’s got you more than a little sexually frustrated. 

Word Count: 6.3k (idk what happened, y’all)

Warnings: oh lord, okay: implied f/f attraction, implied f/f smut, use of sex toys, masturbation, language, pet names, p in v smut, sexual frustration, pining, mutual pining, reader is a hot mess, no use of y/n

A/N: okay, so this took a wildly different route than i anticipated? but i kinda like the way it turned out. I’m sure some scenes seem disconnected or the characterization doesn’t flow throughout but i got tired of reading and re-reading the entire thing and said ‘eh, it’s as good as it’ll get’. please let me know what y’all think?

Your hands released the hold they had on the lapels of his shirt, moving lower to rip open the snap buttons on his shirt to expose the top of his chest. He didn’t give you the chance to explore as he took your hands in his own and guided them to feel the hard length of him through his jeans. “This what you wanted, what had you so goddamn irritable all those weeks before?” He taunted in your ear, his warm breath on the side of your neck sending shivers down your spine. He twitched underneath your hands, and you felt your underwear dampen even more.

ao3 link || main masterlist 

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