I will be here waiting for a peccatum update, dw about when, we can wait 🤭 I hope everything is going good for you 🩷✨
Hey! I'll be honest it's been hectic... had to take a massive hiatus and still struggling with inspiration/motivation for the fic. Whenever I can I will, but I won't force it whatever I do because I just know it'll come out like hot garbage.
Thank you for your interest and I'll make sure to tag you when I'm doing/done it!! 💞
Hey guys! So I've been dipping in and out of fandoms, finding my way through things. Of course, I've sunk into the Baldurs Gate 3 fandom hard, and that seems to be where I'm settled for now. So, keep an eye out for content around that.
Life update: I still haven't moved out, but I'm trying to work towards it, slowly but surely. My mental health is well... not great. However, I have a lovely support system who look out for me, and I appreciate them a lot. I'm going to try to motivate myself to do more things as it'll hopefully keep me occupied from the impending doom of my life 🤭 (don't worry, I am fine despite my silliness)
Anyways, lots of love, my sweeties, feel free to send me any BG3 requests!
I will be here waiting for a peccatum update, dw about when, we can wait 🤭 I hope everything is going good for you 🩷✨
Hey! I'll be honest it's been hectic... had to take a massive hiatus and still struggling with inspiration/motivation for the fic. Whenever I can I will, but I won't force it whatever I do because I just know it'll come out like hot garbage.
Thank you for your interest and I'll make sure to tag you when I'm doing/done it!! 💞
It has been awhile, apologies. It's been so so chaotic and still trying to get a place, I cannot wait to get back to it but at the moment I just can't seem to do it. I will eventually, though for now I cannot.
Thanks for sticking by me!! Idk how many of you will see this but I'm glad you're here 🩵
Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader
Rating: Explicit, 18+
Word Count: 4k
Content Warnings: anal, ass play, rimming and oral (f-receiving), spit as lube, threatened violence against the reader (not by Joel), canon-typical violence
Notes: Endless gratitude to both @frannyzooey and @oscarseyebrow for the help, literally would not have finished this without you two gems xx
He wants it—has wanted it.
He wants the claim. The utter possession.
Whenever he puts you on your hands and knees, Joel settles a splayed hand on your lower back, and it always slips down, his rough palm sliding further and further the more he loses himself in the pleasure. It drops along with the register of his groans and the steady slap of his hips. He lets his hand shift until his thumb is tucked between your cheeks. And when he’s grunting low and deep, about to pull out so he can come—so he can paint himself in warm streaks across your skin—he’ll press the pad of that finger firmly against your asshole.
Not inside, not yet. He doesn’t go further than that.
He’s waiting for you to say it. He wants to hear those words, begged so pretty and desperate in your breathy whine. He wants you to plead for it when you can’t wait any more.
He wants you to tell him to fill you in the way he can’t—won’t—risk with your pussy.
He wants you to ask him to make you his.
He dreams about it.
Please, Joel.
***
You’ve been waiting for him to say something—to act on it. You know he wants it.
You’re used to Joel taking what he wants. Never forcefully, not with you. You revel in the privilege of being a singular exception in that way—in being the one type of relationship left for him that isn’t ruled by violence. When he wants something from you, he doesn’t hesitate or hedge or waver. He just says it, lays it out.
Like that first time so many months ago when he fixed those serious brown eyes on you—on you—and said, “Come home with me.”
A statement, not a question. An invitation for you to take or leave.
Take.
This, for some reason, seems different though.
He’s waiting on you to ask for it.
It’s not some groundbreaking thing that precipitates it. What happens is wearily commonplace in the QZ.
A stupid kid, some nineteen year old with the power trip of a pistol in his hand, gets the jump on you. You’re alone, and he sneaks up behind you in an alley.
The cold barrel is pressed to your temple before you can react.
“Stay quiet,” he breathes, his hot breath reeking of alcohol next to your ear. It has the heady bite of too much ethanol, something he made cheap and easy.
You do mental calculations as he walks you to a brick wall, crowding you up against it until your cheek is pressed to the cool, rough surface. A groping hand reaches into your jacket pocket. He just wants your ration cards, and it’s probably easiest to let him take them and turn tail.
But then he steps back, the steel of the gun moving to press between your shoulder blades, and you can feel the rake of his eyes down your body.
“Well, you’re pretty, aren’t you?”
Your gut fills with lead. The air in your lungs tightens as his intentions shift. You’re about to move, to reach for the switchblade in your inner pocket when there’s a yelp—the pressure of the gun disappearing from your back—the scuffling feet on asphalt and a low grunt—
You turn, and Joel has the guy hauled up against a half-collapsed chain-link fence, his cheek pressed into a tangled coil of barbed wire. He disarmed him in the same movement, the butt of the pistol visible over the waistband of Joel’s jeans, holstered at his lower back.
Joel, who had come looking for you when you ran late.
He seems perfectly calm when he meets your gaze, but you know the tightness in his shoulders, that muted threat in his blown pupils. He’s agitated. Uneasy. Mad at himself that you were alone. You catch it when his eyes flick down and up again, surveying your body for injury.
“Yes or no?” he asks.
You consider for a moment, appreciating the raw fear in the young guy’s eyes—how quickly Joel turned him from a predator to a shifty-eyed, skittery little rabbit. His breathing is a shallow, frantic pant.
“No,” you decide.
Joel nods and shoves him away, and the kid stumbles. When he glances back over his shoulder, you can see fat tears of blood oozing from the shallow cuts below his eye. He’s too shocked to speak, to do anything. He just staggers into a run and disappears.
Your eyes slide back to Joel, and something clicks into place as you watch each other—you realize just how utterly and completely he has you. That he’d burn the world for you if you asked. And you’d do the same for him.
He approaches you with quiet steps. A warm hand settles on your waist.
“Alright?” he asks, looking down at you, his thumb stroking the cotton of your shirt.
Tension is a precarious, taut thing between you, like a spring-loaded trap ready to bite.
You nod and say, “Take me home.”
***
His apartment is flooded with afternoon sun. Golden beams of light streaming in between the half-closed curtains are shot with suspended motes of dust. Everything always feels still within these walls, like he really can shut out the rest of the world when he closes the heavy door behind him.
He’s on you as soon as he does, his hand coming up to cup your cheek and his mouth on yours as he guides you backward toward the bed.
You both need the reassurance of touch.
You need more than that: you want him to accept the control you're offering with willing hands and take.
As you move together, you let the lingering hum of adrenaline in your bloodstream pull the words—the ones that might have otherwise gotten stuck in your throat—out of your mouth.
You whisper against his lips: “I want you to fuck my ass.”
He goes rigid for a moment, his breath a pant against your lips, and then he dips his head to your ear.
His voice is something else entirely now—no more veiled fear behind his rasp, just a honeyed growl of pure desire: “Say it again.”
You bury your face against the hollow of his throat and smile.
“Go on, I want to hear it.”
You squirm and slip a hand into the back pocket of his jeans.
“Be a good girl and say it for me,” he prods, dragging the tip of his nose up your cheek. He slips his hand down your back and over the swell of your ass, pulling your hips forward into his, and squeezes.
You give him what he wants, what you both want: “I want you to fuck my ass.”
He hums his approval and takes a long, slow inhale to savor the thought of it. He’s just as pleased as you’d hoped he’d be. More, maybe.
He moves his hand inward, tracing the middle seam of your jeans with a light touch.
“That right? You gonna let me in here?”
His voice is smug, a cocky drawl, but when you look up into his eyes, there’s a hint of desperation skulking behind his dilated pupils, like he’s not quite sure what he’d do if you said no. Like he needs you to want it.
“I know you want it,” he says, his breath hitching. He tries to convince you, even though you are already won—were won, long ago. “I feel the way you press back against me, just begging for it—I see how quick you come on my cock when I touch you right here.”
You press a kiss to the taut lines of his neck. He’s right.
He slips his hand down the back of your thigh and hitches your leg up, rolling his hips against you. Once.
“You gonna let me come inside your tight little ass?”
Twice.
You lean away to brush a hand over his crotch, over his fly where you can feel the thick roll of him straining against the denim, and nod up at him. Joel’s gaze is barbed with desire, with a heat so tangible it burns.
***
He lays you out on his bed, strips you bare, and kneels over you. His shirt is quickly discarded on the floor, his belt buckle left open. His lips pull to the side in a casual smile as he looks down at you—surveying the luxurious lines of your body on display for him—but there’s a feral glint of need in his dark eyes as he settles into a familiar position over you, his hips caught between your spread thighs.
You reach up to run a hand through his silver-flecked hair.
Joel sucks two of his fingers into his mouth, and when he pulls them out, he leans down to kiss you just as he slips those two shiny, spit-soaked fingers down between your thighs, past where he usually settles them, until he finds that tight ring of muscle. He groans at first contact, pressing lightly, testing the resistance.
He’s eager. Getting right to it. Your body is tense with the newness of it—with anticipation, with want—but you know he won’t rush it. You trust him to set the pace.
“Relax for me, honey,” he murmurs against your lips.
The low, husky twang in his command is like a sedative. In and outside his bedroom. It’s easy to surrender to someone who never lets you down—to someone who protects you with bared teeth, white knuckles, and no quarter.
His mouth claims yours again, his tongue dipping past your teeth. Joel asks for a lot when he kisses you—always has. He takes a lot. It’s deep and needy. Possessive. The scratch of his facial hair against your skin is familiar, the smell of him overwhelming when he’s so close.
Clean laundry, warm sun, a light hint of sweat from working outside. Joel.
He kisses down your neck with an open mouth, cloying and distracting, as he massages his wet fingers over your asshole.
He teases. Pets. Coaxes. All the while, his mouth does the same—on your throat, your chest, your breasts. Hungry and wanting. Joel moves at a leisurely pace, dropping himself down to nip at your ear lobe, pinching and rolling your nipple with his other fingers.
He’s working you up, making you ask for it, and it’s effective.
When you start to writhe and whine, he finally shuffles down your body and takes up his rightful place with his head between your splayed thighs.
Joel watches you when he goes down on you, his eyes flicking up to your face and back down to where you’re aching for him—constantly. Always assessing. Studying. Devouring. Gauging how hard or how easy to push you.
He spreads you open and dips his head to lick your clit with the broad sweep of his tongue, taking you apart as he works you open. He’s well-practiced in the art of dismantling you.
He gradually increases the pressure—of his tongue and his finger—ratcheting up the pleasure, until your legs are shaking around his ears. Until one of your hands is fisted in his short, thick hair. Until you’re canting your hips up and up and up to fuck yourself against his face.
You drag your arm over your eyes, overcome—
Joel looks up—his hot mouth leaving you cold—and tsks, pulling your arm away from your face. “Let me see you.”
His lips shine with your arousal.
Your stalled pleasure has your mouth dropped open, but Joel resumes the steady sweep of his tongue and the firm press of his nose against your mound right away, catching you midair and dragging you right back to the brink of an orgasm. Your heels slip down the sheets, your head pressing back into the pillow as you moan and ride it out.
Joel grunts when he feels it, when it spreads through your veins like lightning.
You meet his eyes as you pant through the aftermath—his brow is creased deeply, his lips parted just a little when he pulls away, his breath barely audible—and while you’re mellow and unwound, he presses his finger inside. He squeezes his eyes shut against the pleasure, reveling in the warm pull of your body, and you arch. A heavy hand settles on your chest.
“Easy,” he says, his voice low, “easy now.”
He waits for your muscles to relax, for you to give him an encouraging nod, and he works that finger a little deeper in your ass, thrusting it shallowly. He can feel your body responding to it—acclimating to, asking for it.
“Turn over for me,” he says, his voice even gruffer than normal. “Get on your hands and knees so I can see it.”
You flip for him, situating yourself on your elbows. The bed creaks as he slips off it behind you. There’s the metal sound of a zipper and the rustle of denim, and then the mattress dips again as he settles behind you.
He leans down to purse his lips and spit. It drips, warm and wet as it slides between your cheeks, and he catches it with two fingers, smearing it over where he’s started working you open, where you feel warm and ready for him, inviting—where you glisten with it. You expect him to press one inside you again, but instead, he leans down and his tongue takes it place.
Your hips jerk forward reflexively at the foreign feeling, at the press of the wet muscle against sensitive skin, but as soon as your mind catches up, you shift back to chase the sensation, that warm, slick slide—the welcoming heat of his mouth. A series of sloppy kisses, wet and open.
Joel’s hands spread you as he tastes you. He licks and laps, his tongue exploring every inch of your puckered rim, and the feeling unfurls over your skin slowly—hot and syrupy and decadent—dispatching a delayed shiver down your spine. The pleasure crackles and spits, your nerves a circuit of live wires.
You moan into the feeling, letting your body arch, and shove yourself against the fervor of his mouth. You wonder why you didn’t ask him—beg him—for this sooner.
It’s brief. He wants to stay there—you can tell by the low sound he makes against your body, the sound that deepens when you push back against his mouth, so deep it vibrates—but he’s impatient.
Impatient to be inside you.
He spits again, another rush of warmth, and pulls away to say: “Touch yourself, honey.”
You obey, settling a cheek on his pillow, one hand between your legs. His first finger returns. A second one joins it, and you whine at the stretch when he edges them inside.
“I know—I know it’s tight, baby.”
He soothes you with a heavy hand on your back, rubbing it up and down your spine reassuringly.
“I got you.”
He spits one more time, a generous, wet lubricant for his thrusting fingers. He collects the moisture and presses them deep.
You can feel his lips on the back of your thigh, his tongue and the scrape of his teeth. He moves up, working his mouth gently over the curve of your cheek. His hand smooths over your hip, the other working his fingers deeper in a slow rhythm, the movements careful and fluid. He won’t give you more than you can handle.
You feel full with just his fingers moving inside you, but when you start to move your own fingers over your clit, you find that the fullness feels good.
He answers your pleased sounds: curling and stroking you from the inside out. His fingers scissor and stretch.
His other hand leaves your body, and you can hear him fisting his cock behind you—pausing to spit into his waiting palm and slick it over himself. You know exactly what that looks like, the storm of desire brewing in his dark eyes and the roll of his muscular shoulder as he pumps himself. A pearl of precum likely glistens along his slit, disappearing as his shaft is swallowed by the circle of his fist.
The image of him, one you’ve seen countless times, never fails to arouse you.
The command, the intention—the intoxicating need.
In the beginning, you had to look away from it. It was too naked, too vulnerable—it was the only time Joel would drop the front and let himself be more than just leashed rage. The only time he’d cut the tether and let himself want what he wants—let it show on his face, stark as day.
Now, you live for it. You recognize it for the rare, precious gift it is.
You can’t help but peer over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of that furrowed brow and taut neck. That is the Joel who loves with his whole chest. Who loves with teeth.
He looks up from where his hand is moving to meet your gaze. He eases those two fingers out of you, and you whimper at the loss.
He moves closer behind you, his broad frame looming tall over you, and settles. Your legs are spread as wide as they go in this position, his bracketed between them.
“I’ll go slow, yeah?”
You press your cheek back into the pillow and breathe.
You can feel the fat head of him notched against you, the heat and the slickness, where you’re drenched and shiny. He drops his hips and rubs the tip up and down, once and again. The anticipation—the knowledge of his size—has you tensing, but he pets your hips and talks you through it.
“Relax and let me in.”
Joel eases his hips forward, and as much as he’s prepared you, as much as he’s coaxed your body open to accommodate his fingers, the stretch of him still burns. He’s been so careful, taken such good care of you, but the size of him aches. You can’t help but squirm, a whine spilling from your lips, as he enters you.
He reacts to your hesitation right away.
“Drop your hips for me,” he says, a heavy hand on your lower back.
He guides you down, and you all but collapse, almost prone on the mattress. He blankets your body with his own, his warm chest and the softness of his belly flush against your back, and reaches around you, snaking a hand into the few inches of space between your hips and the bed, to massage your clit with the pacifying rock of one finger—to where your hand had been a second ago, before it dropped away to fist in the sheets.
He’s heavy draped over you, his body a grounding weight. If it weren’t him—if you didn’t have that steel-cast trust between you, it might feel smothering. This prostrate position, vulnerable.
Instead, safe.
He breathes hot and slow down the side of your neck then sets his teeth against your shoulder, a blunt bite—not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to mute all other sensation, just a little.
He’s giving you something to hold on to.
He murmurs praise between light, plush kisses and little nips, as the blunt tip of his cock slowly—so slowly—breaches the tight ring of your ass.
You key into the words—honey, baby, sweetheart—and the hot trail of his mouth. And breathe, slow and steady, to let your body welcome him deep.
When his hips are cradling your cheeks, he stills.
You’re full; you’re so fucking full.
It’s almost unbearable in sensation. The thick, rigid length of him is throbbing inside you. You need—you need something—
Your thoughts are slow, eddying and pinwheeling like curls of smoke that refuse to coalesce into something tangible.
His finger is still pressed tight to your clit, and as you settle together, you adjust. A realization creeps up the back of your neck, shy. Move, you think, the link between your brain and your mouth suddenly faulty. You need him to move.
You arch and start to shift back into him, to encourage him to fuck you.
Joel growls in your ear, the hand between your legs jumping to your throat. “Stay still for me. Just—stay still, alright? Let me—”
You tense with the effort of it, all of your muscles tightening, contracting around the thick intrusion of him, and his words are cut short by a low groan and the subtle flex of his hips forward. The movement draws a whimper from your throat—a pleased sound.
It’s taking all his control not to move, not to thrust into the tight, molten clench of your body.
“Let me—let me just feel you like this for a minute,” he finishes. His voice cracks with the effort of staying still. The hand caught around your throat trembles and tightens.
He’s savoring it. Savoring you.
And trying not to let the exquisite grip of your body undo him too soon. It’s dizzying, knowing that.
He shifts back a bit, braced on a locked elbow by your side, so he can see where he’s splitting you open, and runs a reverent hand along your curves, up your thigh and over your hip—a rough, calloused palm turned tender in the moment. His breathing is labored.
You peer at him over your shoulder, your neck straining. His mouth is dropped open, his tongue peeking out between his lips, and his eyes are hooded. They flick down to meet yours.
Understanding passes between you.
He drops himself over you again, and his hand finds a home on your shoulder, holding fast. Then he eases his hips back, gently withdrawing before starting up a slow cadence. Testing.
You moan when he thrusts forward, and his own low sound matches yours. His hips start to move faster, his thighs colliding with the backs of yours.
“You gonna come with my cock in your ass?”
You nod against the fabric of his pillow case, your hand returning to the apex of your thighs. It doesn’t take much—a few moments of gentle fingers passing over your aching clit, and all of your muscles are tightening.
“Fuck, yes,” he growls. “Let me feel it.”
His rhythm kicks up to a rapid slap slap slap of skin against skin, as you spasm and quiver against the bed, your open, panting mouth leaving a wet spot on the cotton. You clench around the crowded feeling of him until your brain is fuzzy with a haze of pleasure. Until your limbs go completely slack.
“You’re taking it so good for me. So fuckin’ tight.”
You feel sated and warm in the aftermath, your body fucked out and sluggish. You can tell Joel is close by the uneven staccato of his thrusts and the tightness in his voice.
“Oh fuck, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna make me come—make me fill this tight little ass.”
You moan—waiting for it, wanting it.
But he wants to hear it first.
“Is that what you want? Hmm? Say it,” he demands, his words punctuated by the surge of his hips and the press of his thighs. “Tell me where you want me to come.”
You barely manage to get the words out, twisted in your raw throat—
“Please, Joel—inside.”
—before he does.
The sound he makes is low and feral, a gasp and a growl clawing their way out of his chest. He grinds himself deep into the tight heat of your body, his hips stuttering in sheer relief, and his cock twitches as he spills inside you. A flood of warmth, pulses of pearly cum fucked deep.
Again and again, until he’s spent.
He pulls out, leaving you empty. You know he wants to see it.
Sure enough, he thumbs between your cheeks, admiring the place where he’s marked you—feeling the sticky warmth of himself in your body. Like he’s always wanted to.
After a long moment, he collapses next to you on the bed and pulls you into his side.
“Come here,” he says, gathering you up in his arms. He presses a kiss to your forehead and swipes soft fingers over your cheek. You’re boneless in his hands.
yes I always use this image of him. it's my favorite and if you say anything about it I'll cry
cw: afab reader who has a period, fluff and a little bit of smut, mostly fluff, I need to be held by him my tummy hurts
probably remembers your cycle better than you do. good at picking up little quips and queues from you so when they suddenly start to change or you get more irritable he's preemptively buying your favorite snacks and extra tampons
the one thing he can never remember is what brand of tampons you use. his brain sees colors not labels so he tries to remember that way. always has to refer to your texts to be certain
simon has negative shame btw. he's seen people piss themselves from pain or fear so anything you've got going on during your period is water under the bridge.
bleed on the sheets? they needed to be washed anyway. grouchy from the pain? he doesn't blame you. he would be too. doesn't take any grumpy behavior as personal.
secretly your period is a guilty pleasure for him. there's an abundance of junk food he can snack on and the best part is you're so clingy
he loves how you crawl into his arms, asking for his warm hands to rest on the cramps in your back
loves how drowsy you are, just wanting to cuddle up and fall asleep against him as he watches TV or reads.
but he really craves those nights where your small hands run over his chest, down his arms, slowly coaxing him from sleep. you whimper about your cramps, and kiss his jaw asking for his help to fix it
and boy does he fix it
puts a towel down, but a little blood never hurt anybody, least of all Simon. just helps him slip between your needy walls that much easier.
he has slow, lazy thrusts if he's woken up to help fix your cramps. but the lazy rock of his hips is just enough to help soothe your pains. he circles your clit slowly to not overstimulate you.
"feel good, pretty?"
'yes... yesyesyes"
if you get a little too eager, lifting your hips to meet his, he'll rub your hips with his thumbs and gently push them back down into the mattress
"take it slow sweetheart. m' not goin' anywhere."
"com'on 'nd relax for me.. that's it"
hh tummy kisses after you've both cum but before he's nudging you both off to the shower
that "you don't want to get involved with me" as he takes off your clothes simon
the "im dangerous. I could get you hurt" when he's kissing your neck simon
the "I shouldn't need coming here so often" Simon. the one that sticks around even longer after you've fallen asleep. despite all of his "I can't and I mustn't" he falls for you every time he walks through your door.
