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kiwisbell · 3 days

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helen ; chapter five

be seeing you

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the choice.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship, sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tess cameo, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, bamf miller bros, smut, fingering, joel is an emotional munch, shower sex, unprotected PIV, handjob, male whimpering, conflicting emotions, orgasms aplenty, Big Angst and Big Sad but also Big Epiphanies, ambiguous ending, i'm getting emotional writing these tags, it feels so final, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9.3k a/n: hi, friends. i can't believe we're already at the end of the main story, and tbh if i think about it too much i'll probably cry. i want to thank @cavillscurls for beta reading this chapter as always and giving me the guidance and support i need. we'll have an epilogue after this chapter, so there's still more to look forward to, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy and thank you so so much for reading. xoxo prev | next

Her eyes are so sad, you think, stepping back to take in the full scope of the canvas. It’s doused in paint from corner to corner, still wet to the touch, the woman and her lover intertwined so thoroughly that it’s difficult to tell where they both end. It’s in shades of glum blue and flecks of angry red and brown where his eye watches you. But it’s her eyes that cannot lift to meet yours. It’s her lashes that fan across her cheeks as she casts her gaze toward the bottom edge where the canvas is wrapped taut around the wood.

The sun will soon rise, but you haven’t slept. The contours of the sky are washed in a haze of greys and pale blues and light pink and the air smells warm, heavy—a storm about to roll in. The clouds on the horizon are thick with a blackening rage. You sit in the alcove by the window and put your temple to the cool glass. You yawn. Joel does not come back.

“Do you think it's true,” you asked him one night, your head on his chest, hand on his heart, “that art makes nothing happen?”

Joel, drawing shapes on your back, dozing off in the golden light of the sunrise, frowned. “Someone tell you that?”

“It's something my art teacher used to say,” you told him. “No matter how much it moves people, it doesn't do anything.”

“Your art teacher sounds like a fuckin’ downer.”

You laughed, hiking your thigh up over his hip and playfully biting his jaw. “So it's bullshit?”

“I think,” said Joel, tucking his chin to kiss the top of your head, “that your art makes people feel. It brings ‘em together. It's important because it's yours.”

You propped your head up on his chest and threaded your fingers through his too-long hair, overdue for a trim. A curl draped over his forehead, his beard patchy and soft under the pads of your fingers. “Sometimes I wonder why you chose me,” you said. “I wonder why the universe brought you to me.”

Joel shook his head, guiding his rough, callused fingers up your arm, curling them around your wrist, gently prodding your veins. “Wasn't the universe,” he said quietly. “Wasn’t a choice. I was yours the second I saw you. So, I guess it's your fault.”

You just rolled your eyes and kissed him, mouth to smiling mouth.

Your paintings may be yours, made with life and energy and colour, but when they are finished, they don’t move. They are stagnant as a heavy rock beneath a cliffside, washed over and over again by the cresting waves, its salt stolen for the water, eternal damnation to a fate of non-movement. And sometimes an artist will walk under the cliff, shove their easel into the fleshy ground the way a man erects his country’s flag in the earth he has stolen, and paint the rock. The artist is moved by the breathtaking colours of the shore and the way the wind flutters through the grass. But the rock does not budge. It never will.

Your art will never erupt from the boundaries of the canvas and tell you what it means. The lovers in your painting will not tear open their mouths like the seams holding a wound together. They will not tell you what they want, need, crave. They are you, and that is what you hate—because dimpled flesh and lustful fingers and the press of his mouth to her throat cannot tell you what you’re supposed to do.

You had become complacent in his love for you. You had let him press his worn hands to your body and pull your soul out through his mouth and you had been a wife, while all the time there was a stranger who occupied his heart, a spirit in an abandoned body. All the time, he'd been haunted. And although you had loved him, your love had not been enough to exorcise the guilt and trauma, pecking at him, an eagle at his liver.

Crossing the room and sitting back down in front of the easel, you press your fingers to the corner of the canvas. The paint is cool to the touch, and you leave behind fingerprints where your signature should be. Pulling your hand back, you examine the accumulation of colour, the blues and reds swirling into the deep purple of a bruise, the bodies on a canvas that may only ever mean something to you, and you wonder, Is this all I am? A cautionary tale, a love lost? A fucking footnote at the end of a clause that reads: “See, for example, the one who never loved deeply enough to make it count”?

You bring your hand to your face to wipe away the tears beneath your eyes and blink hard at the sting, realising you’ve smeared paint across your cheekbones.

In the bathroom, you scrub furiously, the cloying scent of it clinging to your throat and your tear ducts, washing away the evidence of their entwined bodies, their love, your pain.

Once, you tried to get Joel to paint. You sat behind him on your bench, your legs bracketing his hips, your paintbrush in his hand.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said.

Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. “There’s no rulebook.”

He tried to turn his head and kiss you, but you nipped his ear in reproach. “Remember when you took me out driving at the airstrip because you wanted me to feel the road? Think of this like feeling the canvas. Go on, cowboy. Make nothing happen.”

Joel’s painting still hangs over your shared bed. The intruders never found it, or never cared enough to destroy it. It’s a candle, just a candle, its lines imprecise, the paint unevenly applied in places, the shine of the flame more orange than yellow. But it’s a painting, so the candle always burns. He titled it Love.

The pain still sits low in your chest, pulling down your heart as if tied to it by a string. But Joel is still out there, fighting his way back to you, the way he always has, always will. You look down at your left hand, clutching the edge of the marble vanity, and decide to clean your wedding ring.

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” growls Joel, struggling against his bonds. The clip rattles faintly in his brother’s hand as a tremor courses through him.

“He’s following my orders,” says Cabrera, clapping his hand down on Tommy’s shoulder. “Fascinating what a man will do when he must consider his family’s well-being.”

Joel sucks on his teeth, his eyes not once leaving his brother.

“It's my son,” Tommy says through his teeth. “It's Maria. If I don't do this—”

“Yeah? You gonna kill me, Tommy? Is that why your hand’s shakin’?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” his brother snaps. “You think I want to do this? I gotta save my family, Joel. You know what that's like.”

“All I’ve done for you,” says Joel, his hands curling into fists behind his back, “and you put a bullet in my head?”

“Not just your head, Joel,” says Cabrera. “When we're done with you, we’ll take your pretty girl as payment for my son’s life.”

Joel growls like a dog, blood roaring in his ears. “Kill me yourself, you goddamned coward. Kill me yourself and don’t you mention my wife again, or I swear to Christ—”

“You take His name in vain a lot for a nonbeliever,” says Cabrera, pulling his sleeves through his coat and setting his teeth as he looks toward Tommy once more. “Do it.”

“Yeah, brother,” Joel says darkly, “do it.”

Tommy nods once, planting his foot and pivoting. Five distinct sounds of handguns cocking echo throughout the warehouse as Tommy points the barrel between Manuel Cabrera’s eyes.

“Now that I’ve got a gun to your head,” he says evenly, “you can go ahead and pull that contract.”

Joel at last twists his wrists free of the ropes that bind them and shucks down the sleeves of his jacket to rub the raw skin. Not one soul does a goddamn thing to stop him as he rises to his feet. His chest heaves, his open lungs coarse and wet with a brittle rage, his exposed heart throbbing red, transparent as the stained glass windows of the church.

God does not tolerate anger, said the Sisters, again and again, bringing down the whip across his back. Sinew and bone and skin peeling back to lay bare some tender part of him they sought to rot out. Put your energy into His worship.

Slowly, Cabrera lifts his hands, sneering. “Your wife,” he warns, “and your unborn son—”

“Are family,” says Tommy. “Just like my brother. Now tell your guys to put down their guns and I won't kill you where you stand.”

Joel joins Tommy at his side. “Took you long enough,” he says under his breath.

“Got held up,” he says. “Your wife’s a good artist.”

“Yeah, whatever. You bring me a gun?”

“I’m sure you can find one yourself.”

“Jesus, Tommy. I’m too old for this.” Joel turns to Cabrera and glares at the same stubborn arrogance that once gleamed in his son’s eye. “You pull the contract, and I’ll leave for good.”

Cabrera’s laugh weans out in the air like rings of smoke. “You think you can really leave, Joel? You think that there won't be consequences for what you've done to my son?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“And you?” Cabrera’s lip curls up at Tommy, whose gun no longer wavers in his grasp. “I promised your wife and child security. You’re willing to throw that away?”

“My wife and child are safe because I don’t take deals from men like you,” says Tommy. “You trusted a Miller to turn on his own blood, Manuel. That was stupid. Now pull the contract.”

“So this is your great suicide mission.” Cabrera smiles, a man who knows he has lost or a man who still expects not to. “A man who has seen Hell does not willingly descend back into its depths—not unless he likes the taste.”

Joel feels the corner of his mouth twitch, a wound on his cheek reopening. “Maybe I do,” he says plainly. “Maybe it’ll taste even better when I take you down with me.”

The gleam in Cabrera’s eye shifts as his gaze flickers behind Tommy. Night has since descended, and yet the predator’s eye glints in anticipation of the hunt. Joel turns and shoves his brother out of the way—just as the shot rings out.

He hears Tommy’s breath punch out of him as they both hit the concrete hard. Joel tears the handgun from his brother’s grasp and puts a bullet between each of the two men behind them. He rolls behind one of the hulking bodies and holds up his weight as a shield against the incoming bullets. Tommy takes the dead man’s gun and fires at the remaining three assailants. Only one shot misses, but Joel sends his brother a look anyway and finishes the job.

“Rusty,” grunts Tommy, pushing himself to his feet.

Joel grimaces as he accepts his brother’s outstretched hand, his wrists bleeding from the relentless rub of the ropes. “He ran,” he says, grinding his teeth. “Goddamn coward. Just like his son.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, by the way,” says Tommy, giving Joel the dead man’s gun and snatching back his own. “Saved your ass.”

“And he got away.” Joel kicks his chair, and the clattering echo of metal reverberates like a choir off the cavernous walls. His hands flex, open, closed, open, closed, until they make tight fists and he can see nothing but red and the silver moon mocking him through the broken windows high above.

“Joel…”

For a moment, he hears the young boy his brother once was, whispering across their shared bedroom to him in the middle of the night when they were both meant to be asleep.

Joel… Are we going to be okay?

“I gotta finish it, Tommy,” he says quietly, his hands shaking loose. Parts of him bite and sting, touched by new and old wounds alike, and he wants to come crawling home to you. He wants to curl into your side and wash away the blood in your cleansing pool, daisy and honeysuckle, some faraway field where you are the warden, where he knocks on the door to be let in, to be gathered, covered in white, buried, unearthed.

“Was he right?” asks Tommy. “Do you… enjoy this?”

Joel casts his eyes toward the ground, his trembling hand, the gleaming band on his ring finger, his skin speckled with blood but the metal pristine. “I don’t know,” he says.

This is who you are, Cabrera would tell him. The Sisters: Your place is here, under God, under His word. And God Himself, silent as the air, the ringing in his ears only ever quieted by the soft brush of your knuckle across his cheek, the whisper of My Joel in his ear.

“Think hard on it,” says Tommy, “because you may like it, but you’ve gotta consider if your revenge is worth more than what you’ve already got. And if you choose wrong, Joel, you’re gonna lose no matter what.”

A figure leans stone-still against the wall by the hotel room door, the gleam of a blade in the soft light the only indication that it is not a mere shadow.

“Hey, kid,” says the apparition.

Joel nods in greeting. “Tess. Could get in trouble with that knife out in the open.”

“You expect me to keep your girl safe with just my fists?”

“You make it sound like you couldn’t.” Tess snorts, and Joel places fifteen gold coins in her waiting palm. “I appreciate you doing this.”

Tess peels away from the wall. “You and your brother are paying me good money to babysit a door. I think I can live without the thanks.”

“Still,” he says, “you did us a solid.”

Tess, who itches at the prospect of gratitude as much as any other gun-for-hire, shrugs. “Everyone’s saying you’re coming back. That true?”

“Just visiting,” says Joel. “On my way out soon.”

Tess flips one of the coins and turns it over and over across her knuckles, evidence of a restless energy that’s always made Joel’s eye twitch. “One way or another, huh?” she says.

“One way or another.” He shakes her hand and watches her retreat down the hall, still twirling the godforsaken coin, before he turns toward the door. Joel presses his forehead briefly to the cool wood and turns the key to seek the field that awaits him.

A key rustles in the door and Joel steps through, closing it gently behind him. Judging by the quiet click of the lock, he expects you to be asleep, but you jolt upright from your seat in the alcove and cross the room toward him.

He meets you halfway, his right hand flexing at his side. You inspect him: the gash on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, the blood splattered on his white shirt. He makes no footfalls as he walks but you can hear every stride like thunder between your ears. You feel his hand at the back of your neck, cool from the night air, rough as the underside of a shark’s belly.

The moment coils taut between you as your hand reaches up to grab the lapel of his jacket, and he smells of iron, cologne, Joel, some paint. Maybe that smell is you, stuck underneath your fingernails, embedded in your blood. Maybe this is a mistake, maybe you could never help but fall, maybe it never mattered anyway, and you’re already snipping the final thread, unwinding the spool, and kissing Joel Miller like it’s the first time.

He let out a small groan, tasting the first drop of water in a drought, steadying you with his arm around your waist, his hand cradling your head. He’s gentle, exploratory, careful not to jostle, to shock you out of it. You feel his heartbeat thud, strong, calm, steady behind his clothing and skin and muscle, and your body caves.

It’s coming home, you realise, your arms snaking around his neck, fingers tousling the messy curls on his head. It's the warm press of his hand to your spine where it begins to curve inward. It's a soft mouth, a plush lower lip, made for slow mornings and black coffee, for the aching release of a thumb pressing deep into a muscle knot, a wound. Old aches soothed in the space where bodies meet, beginning to colour the slate-grey world.

It’s the exchange of gasping breaths when you pull apart, his mouth still vaguely chasing yours, opposite charge.

You hold him tighter, swallowing the lump in your throat, your hands squeezing his shoulders. "Are you…"

Joel inclines his head. "Yeah."

"Did he..."

"Yeah."

Need pulses. Supernova. Bright as the moment of obliteration. "Can you—"

He nods vigorously. "Yeah."

Joel’s kisses are like raindrops: velvet-soft to the touch—his hands bringing the hem of your shirt up over your head, his fingertips scorching, branding, grazing the supple swells of your breasts—before the crescendo roars in your ears and he loses himself to the storm. He always does.

There is nothing reserved about the way he shows his love. Lightning crackles across your skin where he touches you, baring you to him, his lips making a map of you, mouthing at your jaw, your throat. You hear yourself hum at the press of his lips to the spot beneath your ear, detaching from your own body, absconding with the pleasure of being close to him and leaving the fucking world behind.

Joel staggers forward so he can press you to the wall and begins to sink to his knees. Your breath catches as he pulls down your ratty bottoms, your cotton panties, his mouth burning into your hips and your belly and the ring on your finger.

“Joel,” you say brokenly as he clutches your fingers. Tears prickle, pressure building behind your nose, and he shakes his head, unfurling your palm like a bud in bloom and kissing its heel. Wordlessly, you watch him, your eyes shuttering, blood singing.

Don't hurt me again.

He understands even though the words cannot come alive on your tongue. He squeezes your hips, his thumbs dumpling your flesh, his forehead falling to your belly.

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’m whatever you want.”

Your legs haven't forgotten the way they part so easily for him, one thigh on his shoulder, opening the core of you to his waiting mouth. His lips part, his tongue wetting them, glistening, and your stomach tightens at the sight of his eyes so black.

You could easily cower. His hands are stained with blood. His knuckles are split. But your terror has become an arid thing, no kindling to burn, no oil to ignite. Watching him now, as eager to please as he always has been or maybe more so, on his knees like a supplicant, the hairs on your arms do not rise in apprehension. Your body does not squirm in fear. You see a broad horizon, the sun outside spilling its golden blood over the city, and you see all of him in a way you never did before.

He’s Joel, who grew up in darkness, lashed and beaten for not believing in a false god. He’s a man who has lied and killed and yet he is no liar, no killer. He holds you as he always has, your body liquid in his hands, your mouth proclaiming the word he will follow. You're the truth he's always told.

It still unsettles you to see the dark eclipse that warm brown, to watch his desire consume the hypnotic shapes in his irises, and wonder if that cavernous black was the last thing so many men saw before he snuffed out their lives. But there's nothing of the death shudder in the way you guide your fingers through his hair and beg him—

“Please.”

He brings his mouth to your core and parts your folds with his thumbs, slowly gliding his warm, wet tongue through your slit. You die a hundred little deaths in the split-second of that first touch, that first agony.

You sigh, your head thudding against the wall as he licks through you, his hands holding your hips in place, keeping you from writhing. Joel flicks his tongue over the sensitive pearl of your clit, the pleasure searing, and you tug at his curls to push him away even as you cry out, More, please, please. God, I need more.

He obeys you as easily as breathing, though you suspect he can barely hear your pleas, opening his mouth and flattening his hot tongue to your clit. You gasp, your core pulling taut, your eyes locking with his as the muscle undulates over, over, and over again.

“Oh,” you whimper, your hips bucking to meet his face. He groans, his mouth working your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking. You cry out, your leg kicking, the sounds of the world muffled in his stifling closeness. Your thighs begin to ache, tensing and relaxing a hundred times over in the throes of his attention.

And his fingers are gliding across your hip, seeking the warmth between your legs. You gasp his name, your hips flexing, as he collects your wetness on two fingers.

“Let me in, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your puffy clit. It relaxes you enough to welcome the press of his fingers inside you, sinking to the knuckle, curling up against the spot he would know in his sleep.

You whine, your body keening toward him, tugging his face back toward your pussy. He obliges with a quiet moan, and you think he needs this just as badly.

The obscene squelch of his fingers inside you rings in your ears as he licks and sucks at your clit, his free hand grabbing desperately at your ass to keep you fixed to him. You’re crying, “Yesyesyes, Joel, please—fuck, that's it,” the pleasure stuck in the grooves of your brain. Absentmindedly, you reach for his hand and clasp it tight, your engagement ring digging into his palm. He holds you with the same fervour as he coaxes you higher, his face buried in your pussy. He grunts and groans like it's his own pleasure he seeks, his battered knuckles stinging.

“Joel… Joel, oh, I’m…”

He knows, of course, from the telltale squeeze of your thighs around his head, the relentless crushing of his fingers in your own, your body tightening for him, cavitating, unwinding—

You come with a shout, your throat raw, writhing in his grasp as he keeps sucking, keeps licking, rubbing, pressing. You're dizzy by the time your head lolls to the side, your muscles twitching, eyes glazed, and Joel is there, pulling his fingers out just to place them on his tongue and swallow you down.

Your breath rattles through your lungs. Joel presses his lips to your inner thigh, beard soaked in your arousal, moustache glistening. His mouth soothes your sore muscles and your eyes begin to droop.

“You need a shower,” you say, your tongue like lead in your mouth. You gently pass your thumb over a cut on his cheek and frown. “You're all bloody.”

He nuzzles his face against your thigh, inhaling you. “I know.”

“You were gone so long.” Your voice quivers, pressure prickling behind the bridge of your nose. “I thought…”

Joel rises to his feet, his hands cradling your face. “I’m all right,” he says. “I’m here, and I’m safe, and I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You shake your head, pressing your lips together so the sob will not escape. Tracing his face with your fingers, broken in places, healing in others, you see the echo of a boy who didn't know his place in the world. You see the haunt of days gone by. A ghost still occupies the cage of his ribs.

“I think you should tell the little boy that still lives here,” you say, putting your hand on his chest. “Tell him he’s alive. Tell him that he made it.”

Joel lowers his head, watching the way your fingers splay over his heart. He puts his hand on yours and pushes, and you feel the strong thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat.

“He knows.”

You lean forward and put your mouth to his temple. “Shower, Joel,” comes your whisper in his ear.

He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist and guiding you into the bathroom. The water hits you both true, scalding, the drain circled with red. He’s naked, his back to you as he sets his hair and lets his wounds bleed what they need to.

You lift your hands and trail them down his broad shoulders, your forehead dropping between his shoulder blades where your name is inked into his back. Joel’s muscles idly flex, his palm flat against the shower wall. His body shudders when you press your lips to the name on his back.

Wordlessly, you bring your arms around him, caressing his side, careful of the new bruises. Your other hand drops to his steel-hard cock and you begin to slowly stroke him. The noise that wrenches free from his throat is half pleasure, half agony, his hips bucking into your fist. You bump your nose against his back, your years-old sign to Just relax, and Joel hides his face in his bicep as you work your hand over him.

“G—fuck,” he grunts. “Goddamn… honey, I—”

You squeeze him at the base and twist your hand up and down the length of him, the weight warm and heavy, your thumb coaxing out a bead of precum. Your cheek is warm on his back, your arm struggling to reach around the width of him, your chest humming at the sound of his gruff moans.

“Let me…” He cuts himself off as you speed up your strokes, and you can feel his abdomen tense. “Fuck, let me make you feel good. Shit… let me…”

“Joel,” you say, “for once, stop trying to be my hero.”

His head falls back and you press your lips to his throat, nibbling the sensitive spot behind his ear: the old scar, that tiny circle, that hairless patch. He groans your name, and you’re smiling despite yourself, your mouth curling against his warm, tender skin.

“Inside me,” you whisper, the pace of your fingers over his length slowing to a crawl. “Remind me how it feels.”

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his lashes dewy, blinking hard to flick away the water, brow furrowed. His moustache bristles as his lips part in a question he does not (or maybe cannot) articulate, and you’re fractured into pieces by the intricate curve of his nose, the freckles on his jaw, the silver strands in his beard. A rough hand cups the back of your neck and another takes you by the waist, and you’re flattened to the wall, your hand braced on the glass next to you as he kisses you deeply.

Consuming, heady, warm—you give in, your hands avoiding the delicate skin of his wrists where he’s been bound, helpless. Sighing softly into his mouth, you let his kiss humble the part of you that still needs the walls you’ve built from the marrow of your anger. It circles the drain, lead-filled paint, as you remember under his hands how it feels to live.

You reach between your bodies, your leg wrapping around his waist, and slide the head of his cock through your weeping slit. Joel sucks in air through his teeth, the water lashing his back like a whip, and he surges forward, grasping you by the waist and sinking his cock into your tight hole.

You cry out his name, burying your face in his throat and baring your teeth. Your name leaves his mouth in kind, an apparition, sounds you barely recognise anymore. As you take him inside you, the memory of who you were with him pounds at your ribcage, begging to be let out. And you covet them, selfish as you are now for fucking him this way, needy and impatient, your fingers tugging his wet locks.

You see no point in scooping out the marrow; there is still sweetness stuck to the bones of your old life with him. Instead, you coat your teeth in this, the slow drag of his cock, the depths he reaches so easily, so knowingly. His fingers prod the bruised flesh of your hurt and yet you still guide him inside. You still pull his hair and kiss his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs and you still let him hold you close enough to splinter.

He’s grabbing fistfuls of your ass and sucking on your throat, his thrusts sloppy as he tries to hold back, to make you come first, but you tighten, clenching down on him, making his groans pitch up into whines.

“Joel,” you gasp, your needy fingers prickling his scalp where you pull his hair. His teeth graze your throat and you want him to bite, you want him to sink in deep, you want his jaws to latch onto your skin. You want him never to leave again.

He comes hard. His hips buck, pushing so deep he disappears into your body, and you see the blues, browns, reds of your painting as he empties all he has left inside you.

Panting, he drops his head to your breast, his open mouth still scattering weak, worn kisses over your skin. Your lungs expand under his palms, fingers stuck in the grooves between your ribs, his body an offshoot of yours, not the other way around. In the ringing afterlife of your pleasure, you vaguely feel him mouthing words you cannot hear. You run your fingers through his hair and enjoy the battering of the scorching water as it melts you both into one.

Later, in the sticky, humid silence of the bathroom, steam still swirling around your heads, fogging the glass, you trim Joel’s hair.

"Do you ever get scared?" you ask him, the shhhick of the scissors gliding across a chunk of his hair. "Do you ever go out on a job and think to yourself, What if I slip? What if this is it?"

Joel huffs. "It's not so much about myself as making sure the other guy goes down first."

“I think I’d be scared.” You twirl a lock of hair around your finger and let it fall over his forehead. “I don’t think I’d be able to look into someone’s eyes and take their life.”

He casts his eyes to his lap, flicking off some hair from his thigh. “One time, I thought it was over. I wasn’t quite seventeen yet, runnin’ drugs for some gangster. He sent me to El Sauzal to discreetly transport a couple kilos out of the city; someone had snitched and he didn’t want any rival gangs to find his stash. But the people there, they… They didn’t know any better. There were mothers, kids. Innocent people, y’know? Just strays. I decided I’d come back for ‘em.”

Your stomach twists. “What happened?”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I was too late. By the time I got back, the whole goddamn city was on fire. The people were either dead in the streets or close to it. They didn’t do anythin’ wrong. They didn’t ask for any of it. But they were weaker, slower. I couldn’t walk ten feet without seein’ some kid wrapped up his mother’s arms, burned to a fucking crisp. So, I came back with weapons, marched into the gang’s territory, and I killed ‘em all.”

Days ago, you’d be afraid of the man whose back warms your belly where you stand just behind him. You would hesitate to reach out and put your hand on his shoulder the way you do now. But you curl your fingers over the muscled curve of his arm and his head falls back against you, spidering open, his gooey molten centre bared for you.

Joel. Just Joel.

“Did you see the painting?” you ask him quietly.

“I see everything you do,” he says. “It's beautiful, baby.”

You drop your gaze from his face in the mirror and set down the scissors on the vanity. “I can't pretend to understand what you've been through, Joel, and that makes things even harder. All I've ever wanted is to love you, to take your pain, and all this time there's been so much I never even knew about. And I’m sorry.”

Joel’s hand comes to cover yours, clasping your fingers. They’re warm, rough, but you do not sense the phantom blood. “If I’d told you from the beginning,” he says, “maybe I never would've hurt you in the first place. All those years I thought I was protecting you from myself, I was hurting you—the one thing I swore I would never fuckin’ do.”

“Joel…”

“Baby, don't apologise to me,” he says firmly, putting his lips to your knuckles. “Never apologise to me. And don't you let me off easy.”

“Have I ever?” you say with a halfhearted smile.

“Yeah,” he says, “the day you let me marry you.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Wedding planning was hell on earth for you.”

“Just because I didn't like the photographer—”

“You didn't not like the photographer, Joel. You wanted to draw and quarter the photographer.”

He huffs like an angry dog, frowning at you in the mirror. “He kept puttin’ his goddamn hands on you.”

You laugh, brushing your thumb over the patch in his beard to indicate you're finished. “He was posing us, cowboy.”

Joel rises to his feet and closes the scissors away inside the drawer. “Posin’ you, sure.”

“He was afraid to touch you. Probably thought you’d take off his hand. And the pictures turned out great.”

“Yeah,” he says, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Way the sunlight caught in your hair, your eyes… I don't know. Beautiful.”

He was so shy the first time you kissed him. Cheeks flushed, eyes cast toward the ground, the wind ruffling his curls where it blew over the water. He was made in an artist’s image, you thought that night, the details pored over like paperwork, the sparkle in his eyes something the painter covets. But the portrait has never wilted in the years you've known him. It's grown older, sure, but it is not old. He's still shy sometimes; he still looks down when he smiles, and he still turns his cheek when you tell him he's beautiful.

“Do you…” He rubs his palms over his thighs, looking up at you through his lashes. “Do you wish you could go back?”

It's your turn to sit. You drop into his chair, your arms curling over the back of the seat, and watch him on his journey to his knees. “I don't know, Joel,” you tell him. “I think about that day and part of me wants the magic of it back. I want the breeze and the sun and the white canopy and I want you sliding this ring on my finger. But knowing what I know now…”

“You wouldn't have married me,” he says like it's the only answer. His eyes are wet and sad and they sparkle so bright in the day.

“I wish I’d known,” you say plainly, bringing his hand to your cheek and resting it over the cool wedding band. “I wish you would have told me everything. I wish you didn't make me question your love, even for a second. I wish you could have spared me all this anger I have—all this pain.”

He’s stone-still, a figure in a portrait, and you brush your fingers across his cheek. “But killing isn't what you are, Joel. It’s what you do. And I’m so tired of being angry.”

You say it fiercely, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth, your throat tightening. You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and meet your husband’s eye. “I love you more than my anger and my hurt have room for. And if I can love you this hard, if I can feel all this pain and still be that same girl who fell for the guy from the restaurant, then I can let myself get hurt all over again.”

Joel shakes his head, cupping your face in his hands as his eyes brim with tears. “Oh, baby…”

“I know it's never been an easy marriage,” you say, your voice breaking, “and I’m always travelling, and I know that I can get snippy and we bicker, but I wouldn't go back to that day, Joel, because I wouldn't change anything. Even if I have to feel all of this again, I wouldn't take it all back.”

His inhale shudders through him and your heart lurches out of your chest. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek, catching a tear that falls. “I’ve hurt you too much to ever be worthy of what you've given me, sweetheart. I ain't a good man, or even a decent one. But fuck, if I can be good for you, I’ll pray to whatever God they want me to. I’ll scrape my knees and put my hands together and fake it ‘til I’m someone you want. I swear it, baby.”

“Joel.” You gently pry his hands away. “The life you've lived, the things you've been through… I can't change any of it. I can't be what you need all the time, and fuck, I want to be. I do, Joel. But this life is something you have to figure out yourself. Nobody should force you to believe in something that's only ever caused you pain.”

He never told you about the tattoo; you had to find it yourself. Shucking the hem of his shirt up over his head, two weeks separating the last time you’d been able to indulge in his body, you trailed your fingers up his back and paused at the sound of him hissing through his teeth.

“Easy, cowboy,” you cooed. “Are you all right?”

Wordlessly, he turned, taking your hand and lifting it to the reddish skin around the black ink. You gasped, your fingers jolting backward as if struck by a feeler of lightning.

“Joel,” you said tremulously, “please don't tell me you were drunk and this was an impulse decision.”

“Guys in the Marines would get tattoos that meant somethin’ to them. Easier to carry around with you when you're away.” Joel met your gaze again, your tearful eyes, and brought your knuckles to his mouth. “Tell me you want it gone, and it's gone.”

You shook your head, a laugh snaking past the lump in your throat. “Selfishly, I think it’s very sexy.”

He chuckled, kissing the breath from your lungs.

The memory is heavy in your stomach. It's something you'll have to roll around in your mouth a thousand times before the taste begins to dissolve.

“I need time, Joel,” you tell him. “I need to wrap my head around things. I… I can't be the girl you want right now.”

Joel brushes his thumb over your chin. “You have always been the girl I want,” he says. “If you need time, you have it. If you need a warm body, you have it. I’m whoever you want me to be. And if it ain't a husband, then… then that's okay. But I can’t promise you that I won't stop tryin’ to get my wife back. That’s not who I am.”

You sniffle, twirling the ring on his finger. “You’ll get sick of it. The waiting.”

He smiles so softly that you can feel a bud begin to bloom in the core of you, nourished by the way he keeps his hand on your thigh, absently rubbing the sore muscles there. “I waited my whole life for someone like you to come along—someone who could give me the purpose I’d been lookin’ for. I can wait another lifetime. I can wait a thousand.”

“You’ll resent me. You’ll start to hate me.” You don't know why it comes pouring out of you, but the gates are brittle wood and they snapped in the torrent. “I’m an angry drunk. I smell like paint half the time. I travel for work.”

Joel just studies your face, some inexplicable calm etching out the agony. “You take your coffee with milk and sugar and you can't stand it black, but you make it that way for me anyway. You sleep until noon when you're jet lagged and I sit up in bed just to watch you dream. You lie in my arms on the couch at home and ask me about my day even when you're noddin’ off. You dreamed about love when you were a little girl, the way it happens in books. You told me in your wedding vows that you'd found it with me. You think I could resent a girl like that?”

He smiles like it hurts and heals all at once, like it's a foregone conclusion, like you were meant to be loved by him.

“Time doesn't mean a goddamn thing. I know the girl I see in front of me now. Time won't change how much I love her.”

Flipping through the list of potential venues, Joel tucked into your side, you said, “We’ll have an outdoor ceremony. No churches.”

“Baby, I won't burst into flames if I step inside a church.” Joel playfully flicked his tongue over your nipple, obscured by his T-shirt. “Tommy, on the other hand… things he's done…”

You laughed, gently pushing at his head. “No churches,” you said again. “I don't care how much more we’ll have to pay or travel to get around it. You're my husband. You're my comfort, and I want to be what's comfortable for you. Understood?”

He looked up at you, his lips parted as if on the precipice of speech. You beamed, bringing his face to yours and kissing him deeply.

“But if the wind knocks over the gazebo, you're not getting your dick inside me on our wedding night,” you said against his mouth. Joel shook his head, yanking you on top of him and tearing the shirt from your body. Your binder landed with a flutter of loose pages to the floor.

“You didn't kill Cabrera.”

Joel lowers his eyes. “No. He got away.”

“So there's still a contract on your head.”

“For now.”

“So,” you say with a sigh, crossing the room and digging through your bag, “you have to go.”

“I have to go,” he echoes, following you like a shadow. “No matter what… I’m finishing it. Tonight.”

You pull the switchblade from your bag, open Joel’s fist, and place the cool wood hilt in his palm.

“Goddammit, Tommy,” he says under his breath. “He shouldn't have…”

“But he did,” you say. “He said I should be the one to have it. I think it should be yours.”

He curls his fingers over the hilt and flicks open the blade. It's light, but it seems to weigh him down. You rest your hand over his.

“Do what you need to do.”

He drops his forehead to yours and closes his eyes, soaking in this final breath exchanged between your silent bodies, dipping his fingers in the sanctified waters and coming out unscalded.

Bill calls Joel not a moment after he steps onto the street outside the Continental.

“That's a heavy price on your head.”

“Yeah, Bill, I know.” He breathes in the cool air, like cigarette smoke, his nostrils stinging. Trash and a new, fresh breeze carried into the city. Nothing that stays here ever thrives. “Stayed alive so far.”

“So I hear,” grunts the Manager, “and leaving behind a hell of a lot of cleanup.”

“I won't stick you with the check,” says Joel. “It's my business.”

“I don't conduct business inside this hotel,” says Bill, “which is why I won't tell you that a certain helicopter at a certain helipad is refuelling as we speak.”

Joel smirks, flicking out his cuff to check the time. “Any reason why you aren't tellin’ me this?”

“I like you, Joel. Despite myself.”

Silent, he waits for more.

“Besides,” Bill continues, “we live and die by honour. And you've saved my ass more than once.”

Joel snorts. “Which time are you thankin’ me for?”

“Just take my goddamn advice and leave this world. For good this time.”

“I will,” says Joel. “One way or another. Thanks, Bill.”

High above the ground, sitting in the alcove by the window, you watch storm clouds gather over the city, darkening the sky, the sun, and your Joel, so far away, slouching calmly toward whatever end he will choose.

It's raining.

The first time you kissed him, a downpour suddenly swept up the both of you and you'd scrambled underneath a bridge by the water. You both laughed until your ribs were sore, holding hands as you ran, a soaking wet playbill above each of your heads for cover.

“At least the show was good,” you shouted over the roar of the rainfall.

Joel was mesmerised into stillness by the colours of the traffic lights in your eyes, how they shifted over the planes of your face. Starting to think like an artist, you'd tease, and he'd lean into it, a planet circling its sun.

“It was all right,” he said, taking the playbill from your hand. “You could catch a cold. We should get a cab.”

“Always my hero.” You grinned up at him, your eyes scanning his face in that particular way they did, as if ingesting the sight of him to later put the lines to a canvas. “Did you have a good time, Joel? I mean, really. You won't offend me.”

He grimaced. “I, uh… well, see, I’m not the best judge, and… I guess—”

“Joel.”

There was a gleam in your eyes that could have been amusement or could have been hunger. He doesn't remember. He only saw you tilt your chin and lower your eyes to his mouth, to that one place the Sisters always called vulgar, obscene, a place meant only for His word—

“Can I kiss you, Joel Miller, or will you keep being all heroic?”

It was soft, gentle, exploratory. Your mouth opened his like a wound, setting the scorching blade of your lips to the gash, staunching the blood. You healed and burned him, one hand on his back beneath his jacket, the other cupping his face. It reminded him of the statue that lived in the theatre underneath the church where all the boys and girls trained. An angel cast in white marble, cradling the face of Saint Eustace. The statue was chipped where his eye was meant to be.

He remembers the way he shuddered when you touched him like that. He remembers the chill that started in his feet and crept up his spine. Something like coming alive, settling back into his own body—no longer a spirit haunting the shell of a home but a man.

You pulled back, but Joel curled his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you again, deeper, maybe a little too eager, too inexperienced—but you gasped, fingers curling in his hair, your body curving into his. Your noses bumped when you separated, and he remembers laughing.

The rain is nothing like that night. It's the lash of a whip across his face, seeping colour from the world instead of infusing it with light and movement. The water by the docks slaps against the concrete and boats rock and groan against their mooring. The lights of the city are distant now.

Joel steps out of the car.

He marches toward his target, cocking the pistol in his hand, and calls out a name. It gets lost in the roll of thunder across the sky and lodges in his chest.

Cabrera waits on the landing pad, looking wraithlike in a long black coat and a pair of leather gloves. His pilot fuels the helicopter nearby. Neither of them hear Joel’s voice in the air. The rising sun is what gives him away—or maybe the gunshot, as he lifts his arm and pulls the trigger.

It does not pierce flesh. It ricochets off one of the rotor blades. He had aimed slightly to the left.

The pilot scampers off into hiding, but the slash of the bullet through the rainfall is enough to get the attention Joel wants. Cabrera reaches inside the lining of his jacket and fires a single shot. Joel can feel it tear through skin and muscle, but it doesn't hurt.

“Joel,” greets Cabrera.

“Manuel.”

His chest heaves, his jacket soaked through, the cold sinking bone-deep.

“Let's finish this.”

The glimmer in those depthless black eyes is the panther at the hunt, relentless in its hunger, licking its chops at the sight of a challenge. For all the coward’s blood in his veins, it still pulses at the prospect of winning.

“Like men,” says Cabrera, tossing his gun aside at the same time Joel does. “With honour. No more guns.”

And it's laughable: the thought that there is any honour left in a world like this. A world where children are beaten and lashed and trained to hold a weapon too big for their hands. A world that burns villages, butchers families, and still claims that without rules, we live with the animals.

A world as unruly as this cannot be ruled. He never truly considered it until he saw the sad gleam in your eye, felt the empathetic touch of your hand on his face, and began to realise that maybe he should be furious.

But because he already knows he's going to win, Joel lets his opponent land the first blow.

The blood is tangy, near-sweet, as he swipes his forearm over his mouth and smears crimson on his shirtsleeve. It tingles faintly on his lips and crackles, warm as the melt from a late-winter snow. He feels it settle in the grooves of his palms, the hairs of his beard. He’s drowning in it.

Cabrera hits hard, but he’s slow. He’ll take five punches in the time it takes to wind up for one. Joel brings his arm up to block the next and delivers a blow to the sternum with his knee as his opponent’s guard drops. Wide open, Cabrera stumbles a few steps back, choking down the telltale wheeze of being winded. Joel marches forward, relentless in his crusade, grasping him by the scruff of his neck, teeth bared like a mad wild dog, and bears his skull down on the side of the railing. Around them, the wind howls and lashes at his clothes, but he still hears the pained scream as if it were poured into his ears.

Cabrera drops to his knees, and Joel grabs him again, bashing his head repeatedly against the steel bar, the lapel of an Italian leather coat bunching between his fingers, tainted by rainwater and the fist of the man who's come to take his life.

And fuck, Joel wants to make it last.

But there's a knife in his opponent’s hand, conjured from the darkness of his coat pocket, and Joel must release him to avoid the lethal slash of the blade. Blinking blood and lashing rain from his eyes, the man lunges with a snarl, and Joel recovers from his lost victory, stopping him with his fingers curled around his opponent’s wrist. He brings his hand to the crook of Cabrera’s elbow and uses his leverage to snap the bone.

Yowling, Cabrera drops to his haunches, the knife clattering to the ground. Joel, chest heaving, stands over him, flexing his fingers as he readies his fist for the killing blow.

His name leaves Cabrera’s bloodied mouth, accompanied by a mouthful of crimson-tainted saliva spat on the ground at Joel’s feet.

“Joel…” He lifts his head, cradling his broken arm, and sneers. There’s a chilling glow of satisfaction in it. “Did you get your perfect life, Joel? Do you really think you’ve won? It won’t ever stop. Not after you’ve killed me, not after you’ve killed all of them. Is that what you’re going to do? Kill them all?”

He could. He has done far worse. He has spilled blood for gold coins and superficial alliances and someone else's revenge. He has stalked, stolen, lied, killed, and he could finish this now, so easily, with the flick of a blade.

But the song of death does not call to him now.

For so long he had trudged, unmoored, through heavy crimson blood. Like pulling at the seams of velvet, he'd sewn more lives into the sea of red and he never looked behind him to see the souls trying to pull him down at the ankles. He didn't know purpose until he saw the way the candlelight flickered in your eyes, until he tilted his head to the side and realised your smile was a new kind of beautiful from each angle.

The rain sticks to his lashes and he thinks of an old song of prayer the Sisters used to chant. He remembers curling his fingers around one of the rosaries that hung from the large cross in the cathedral and wincing in anticipation. He thought he would burn—that the metal would leave a red stain on his palm. It never did.

Maybe that's why he never believed. Surely, if there was a God, Joel Miller would have burned by now.

He thinks of shopping for furniture and date nights and lazy mornings, tangled in bedsheets. Your mouth, smiling against his, whispering I love you across the breakfast table. Dancing—or swaying, more like—under the kitchen light. Loving easily, never feeling as if he must grab hold of the cross and burn himself upon it just to feel.

Joel turns the switchblade in his hand, lurches forward, and plunges the knife into Cabrera’s chest.

There is no noise but a faint gurgle from his mouth, his hand weakly rising to grasp the hilt. Joel drops to his knees and fishes Cabrera’s cell phone from his pocket.

“The blade is stuck in your aorta,” he says. “If you pull it out, you’ll bleed out and die.” He puts the rain-slick screen in front of Cabrera’s face. “Pull the contract.”

A few feeble taps are all it takes, and Joel Miller is no longer a target. His name glares back at him on the screen, from two million to nothing, not the boogeyman any longer but something akin to a civilian. Joel tosses the phone into the water and turns to leave.

“See you in hell, Joel,” Cabrera chokes, still grasping the shiny wooden hilt of the blade.

He barely hauls himself into the car, which chokes to a rumbling start. There's blood seeping through his shirt where Cabrera shot him, and his fingers shake as they pull away from the wound, the red so bright, so alive. Joel grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut.

If there’s a God, he thinks, I hope you fucking hear me now.

Tell me that we don’t get what we deserve. Because there is nothing I deserve in this world if I cannot keep what I’ve found.

His fingers trembling, smearing blood across the screen, he makes a call.

And your voice on the line, soft, sticky with sleep, whispering his name—just his name: Joel?—is what wrenches the first sob from his throat.

Joel, you say, like it means something, like it's precious. A jewel pressed from dusty black coal. Come back to me. Come home.

So he does.

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fic #john wick au

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jksprincess10 · 1 year

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Meeting Pedro at the Oscar’s after party 👀 maybe he invites you back for drunk food hehe, a dream.

Hope this fits your vision !! I loved writing more Pedro, being a CONSENT KING here.

CW: Age gap, drinking, making out, sexual tension.

The night had felt like a fever dream, especially when you got to the after party and you got even closer to all these celebrities. Your movie hadn’t won, but you were still thankful to be there as a young and upcoming actress. You felt loved.

The lights were colorful, the music was loud. The bodies danced, the glitter of their dresses and the striking white of their shirts shining through the dim lighting. You had come with your costar, but had somehow lost her in the crowd.

A man you didn’t recognize at first waved at you. He had greying curly hair, a patchy beard and wore thick black glasses. When your vision finally adjusted, you recognized Pedro Pascal. You had talked to him a few times, as you had found yourselves in the same parties in the last months.

You went up to him with a smile and pulled him for a tight hug. His big hands rested on your shoulders; he was always so respectful.

“Congrats on the nomination, you must be so proud.” He had to talk pretty close to your ear and pretty loud for you to hear it.

“I still can’t believe it. You did great when you presented tonight!”

“I was so fucking nervous…” He admitted, stroking the back of his head. “Can I get you a drink? Do you need to sit down?”

“Yes and yes. Those heels are killing me. And I can’t wait to take off that dress.”

You were wearing a beautiful black dress. The long skirt was made of fluffy tulle and the top was a corset, the bottom of it made of mesh with beautiful embroidery. You had gold heels that matched your jewelry.

He laughed. “Go sit there, darling, I’ll get you a drink.”

You took a seat and took off your heels to massage your red feet as you waited for Pedro. He was such a gentleman, you didn’t mind spending more time with him. He came back with two red wine glasses, that you drank over a conversation.

Maybe the third glass was too much for you to handle. Pedro was also tispy, but you were far worse than him. Maybe you had danced close to him. Maybe you had shaken your butt against him. You weren’t sure if you had dreamed it in your drunken state.

“Was thinking of heading home and ordering food, you in?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” You winked clumsily, which made him laugh.

Once at his place, you two ordered junk food and waited in his living room.

“Take off your dress, I’ll give you spare clothes.”

“Jeez, take me to dinner first, Pedro.”

He laughed, cheeks red, before he held your hand and brought you to his room. He pulled out an oversized t-shirt from his drawers and gave it to you. You turned around to let him help you undo your corset that was crushing your ribs. You felt his fingers brush the skin of your back lightly as he pushed your hair out of the way, which made you shiver.

“I’ll give you some space and change elsewhere.”

Your blurred mind wanted to tell him to stay, but you managed to keep your mouth shut.

You stepped off your dress when he closed the door behind him and replaced it with an oversized Lakers shirt. It stopped at your thighs.

When you went back to the living room, Pedro was already sitting on the couch, wearing more laid-back clothes. He managed not to stare at your thighs and your body, but all failed when you climbed on his lap. There was barely any fabric between your two bodies.

He put his strong hands on your shoulders, like to keep you away. You pouted.

“You’re very drunk. And I’m very old.”

“Also very hot. ”

Maybe the strength of his arm had gave in or maybe his willpower to push you away disappeared. He wanted this; he couldn’t lie to himself. His body was reacting to the attention you were giving him.

Your mouth met his in a hungry kiss. His hands rested on your waist, resisting the urge to pull at the fabric you were wearing. You rested your hands on his rough cheeks as you deepened the kiss. You were heating up, and you clearly felt his arousal through the thin pajama pants he was wearing.

“Okay okay, let’s calm down, food’s coming…” He said between kisses and drunken giggles.

You let go of his mouth finally, but instead, your red painted lips found his throat, where tension was making a vein pop out more. You felt him breathe heavily under you.

His phone rang, indicating that your food was at the front. You finally had to let go, letting your clumsy body slump on his couch. You weren’t hungry for food anymore.

You watched as Pedro got out to get the pizza you ordered. When he came back, he laid the pizza on the table in the kitchen and joined you at your initial spot, sitting beside you when you gave him some space.

“You want pizza?”

“M’not really hungry for food anymore.”

He was trying really hard to be good about this.

“Look, honey… Let’s wait until you’re not drunk and see if you still want this.” The actor spoke softly, not trying to look like he was rejecting you.

“Okay…”

“We’ll eat and get you to sleep.”

The next morning, you had woken up in Pedro’s bed, still all dressed up in his clothes. When he felt you move, he turned around to look at you with a sleepy smile and tired, soft eyes.

“You still want this?” He asked, voice raspy from sleep.

As an answer, you threw one of your legs around him to bring him closer, your lips trapping his in a passionate kiss.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x actress ! reader #pedro pascal x actress!reader #pedro pascal x yn #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x you #writing requests

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saintbleeding · 9 months

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[ID: Four digital drawings of Basira, Martin, and Jon from S5 of TMA. Basira is a tall, fat woman with brown skin and curly dark brown hair. Martin is a short, fat white man with greying brown hair, a scraggly beard, and glasses. Jon is tallest and thin with silver, curly hair in a bun, a patchy beard, glasses, and scars across his body. All three are caked in dried blood and miscellaneous grime. In the first drawing, Basira stands with a gun pointed at Martin, with Jon standing nonchalantly behind him with a red glowing halo above him. Basira says “Prove you’re really Martin Blackwood”, Martin asks “How?” and Jon says “You could do a poem. >:3c” In the second, Basira looks on judgmentally as Jon and Martin embrace. Basira says “You done?” with a scribbly aromantic flag below her speech text, and Jon replies “Can we not have a moment?” In the third drawing, the three are walking side by side, Martin and Jon holding hands. Martin says “He needs to do it, and if he doesn’t…”, Basira offers “He gets constipated?” which Jon interrupts “Hardly.” Martin concedes “… actually yeah basically.” In the last, the three of them are seemingly asleep sitting up. Martin has one arm around Jon’s shoulder, his cheek smooshed against the top of Jon’s head. Basira leans against Martin’s other side. Both Martin and Basira look restless. Jon’s eyes are open, bloodshot, and leaking a suspiciously bloody substance as they glow red in the darkness. There is a red glow around all three of them. End ID.]

mlm/wlw hostility my beloved

#the magnus archives #tma #tma s5 #basira hussain #jon sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #magpod #my #saint draws #gun #blood #eyes #eye horror #OUGUUUGUGUH IM SO SLEEPY…….. idek if it’s appreciation week anymore #that was. sorta why i finished this today but. eh. here it #drops it on ur doorstep. runs away

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crit20art · 1 year

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[ID: two black and white digital drawings of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood from The Magnus Archives. Jon is depicted as a short, thin, British-Pakistani man with dark, scar-covered skin. He has long greying hair and a short beard. Martin is depicted as a tall, fat, Vietnamese-Polish man with freckles and a medium skin tone. He has short dark hair and patchy stubble.

In the first drawing, they kneel on a nondescript surface, and Martin has both arms wrapped around Jon, gathering him close. Martin’s expression is content and slightly determined as he presses a kiss to the back of Jon’s neck. Jon looks somewhat overwhelmed, as if he is so pleased that he almost can’t stand it, his eyebrows looking distressed even as he smiles slightly. He grips his own shoulder with one hand, and the other has fallen limply into his lap.

In the second drawing, Martin is shown from the shoulders up, presumably seated, and Jon bends down from behind to kiss Martin’s forehead. Martin’s eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open, and he blushes profusely as small exclamation points and a question mark float around his head. A book of John Keats poems is partially visible at the bottom of the frame, as if Martin was reading but the forehead kiss rendered him unable to hold up the book. End ID]

area man menaces boyfriend with endless affection, then gets utterly obliterated by one (1) forehead kiss

More kissing/touch prompts!! @roatmeal suggested a forehead kiss, anon suggested Martin hugging Jon while kissing the back of his neck, and the galaxy-brained @babyyodablackwood suggested Martin being overwhelmed by small displays of affection 😭😭😭 my king WILL learn to be loved i stg

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jmart #tma fanart #the magnus archives fanart #the magnus pod #magpod #jonathan sims #the archivist #martin k blackwood #Martin blackwood #seriously you may think this is an excessive number of tags but. tumblr has suggested all of these to me #teaholding #is that a popular one #idk anymore <3

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clown-paws · 6 months

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(ID in caption and alt text)

> domestic husbands in scotland :']

[Image Description: A traditional pencil drawing of Jon Sims and Martin Blackwood from The Magnus Archives. It cuts off at the top of their thighs, showing Jon's front, Martin's back and their side profiles. They are standing in a doorway to the kitchen, kissing. Image 2 is a closeup of the kiss.

Jon has dark, freckled skin and worm-scars, with a knife scar across his throat. He has a beard and mustache and a short, greying afro. He is wearing rectangular glasses, a light jumper with rolled-up sleeves and dark sweatpants. One hand is hidden apart from his thumb, holding the doorframe, and the other is resting on Martin's shoulder.

Martin has light, freckled skin. He has a patchy beard and mustache and shoulder-length, tied back hair. He is wearing semicircular glasses, a black jumper with leather elbows, tucked into a light pair of jeans with a belt. his arm is wrapped around Jon's waist, pulling him into the kiss, eith his other arm hidden.

In the background is the kitchen. there are two sets of cupboard doors and handles visible, one below the counter and one on the wall, along with a painting of a cottage in a field with a fence. End ID.]

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fanart #jonathan sims #jon sims #martin blackwood #jmart #jonmartin #doods art #id included #id in caption #id in alt text #sketchbook

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alltheirdamn · 1 month

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Dark!Preacher!Joel x f!reader

Summary: You indulge in the voice of the Devil for one fateful night. Rating: 18+ Explicit MDNI Caution/TW: DUBIOUS CONSENT Word Count: 3.6k Warnings: NONCON ELEMENTS, no outbreak AU, undisclosed age gap (joel is 56 and reader is in her late 20's), infidelity, religion!kink, degredation!kink, humiliation!kink, praise!kink, choking, slapping, forced oral (m receiving), deepthroating, rough hair pulling, boot licking, light fingering, pain!kink, noncon unprotected piv sex, pet names (little one, good girl), degrading terms (bitch, whore, slut), dirty/filthy language, rough sex, forced orgasm, noncon creampie, no aftercare A/N: this is WAYYY out of my comfort zone to write, but something about the idea of Preacher!Joel just did it for me. I figured I'd test out the waters & see where it gets me... anyway, enjoy and PLEASE READ THE TAGS/WARNINGS

Masterlist

You weren’t oblivious to Preacher Joel's sidelong glances and lingering stares. Every Sunday, you sat in the second row of the church, watching him preach the Lord’s gospel with a baleful smile only meant for you, while your husband, Adam, sat beside you blissfully unaware. So, when you proposed the idea of taking a pie over to his home—alone—Adam didn’t even bat an eye.

“Are you taking over a cherry pie?” Adam had asked from the living room.

You were bent over the oven, pulling the hot pie dish onto a trivet with shaky hands. Sunday service that morning had been your breaking point; the communion dish made its rounds through the pews, and you found Joel’s eyes tracking your mouth as you brought the grape wine to your lips. Your resolve snapped, and the desire to feed into temptation blurred any and all judgment you had since maintained.

“Do you think he’ll like it?” You hollered back at Adam, wrapping the pie in a terrycloth.

“I’m sure he will, honey.”

Untieing the canvas apron from around your waist, you smoothed down your white church dress and shuffled the pie dish into your arms. Crossing into the living room, you kissed the crown of Adam’s head softly before saying goodbye. He didn’t look up once.

The benefit of living in a small town was that all the homes were fairly close together, meaning it was a short walk to the preacher’s home, which resided behind the town’s church. It was far past supper time, and most of the town had tucked into bed by now, leaving you alone with the wind between the trees and a man who could be your undoing. The only sounds echoing around you were your feet crunching along the dirt road and the howls of stray dogs in the distance. Clutching the pie closer to your chest, you continued walking toward his home with the Devil on your shoulder.

Preacher Joel’s home was modest and small; the white paint on the wood structure chipped away from years of weathering. His black pickup truck was parked on the side of the house, the wheels dirty and the paint smeared with mud. The closer you got to his front porch steps, the more rapidly your heart pounded inside your chest. You didn’t know what to expect, but you knew every muscle drawing your body closer to his home was being fueled by the Devil. Under the flickering front porch light, you brushed your knuckles against the door and held your breath.

Heavy footfall sounded on the other side of the door before it opened, revealing the man that plagued every thought in your mind. Joel stood before you with his dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing the dark chest hair that spattered across his tan chest. His patchy grey beard was well-trimmed as if he had just refreshed it, and a lascivious grin broke across his face as his eyes raked over you.

“This is a mighty nice surprise,” he whistled.

“I—I wanted to bring over a pie,” you stuttered. “As a thank you.”

“For what?” He quirked a thick eyebrow, his piercing brown eyes staring down at you.

“It was just on my heart to do something nice,” you lied.

Joel reached out for the pie dish, his warm hands brushing over yours as he took it. You weren’t sure what to do with your empty hands, so you found yourself fidgeting with the gold cross dangling around your neck.

“Come in,” he said, sidestepping to welcome you in.

The second your feet walked over the threshold, you knew temptation had sunk its teeth into you.

“This is a lovely home,” you commented, following him to the kitchen.

The living room was surrounded by dark wooden walls, with a beige loveseat in the center and a TV box pressed against the opposite wall. There were remnants of him in every corner of the room: a half-drank glass of whiskey, a newspaper folded on the coffee table, and his black leather Bible resting on the arm of the sofa. The kitchen was just as simple, with a gas stove and small white fridge nestled against wooden cabinetry.

Joel set the pie dish on the granite countertop, turning to the cabinets to retrieve a small plate, a fork, and a knife. You fixated on the way he worked at rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, the veins in his forearms flexing with each fold of the fabric. He let out a small chuckle, forcing your eyes to tear away from his hands and back to his deep brown eyes.

“Y’make this yourself?” He asked, cutting himself a slice.

“I did,” you nodded. “It’s cherry.”

“Mmhm, my favorite,” he hummed.

He dug his fork into the pie, the crust crumbling onto the plate as he lifted it to his mouth. You watched as his mouth wrapped around the utensil, a low groan escaping his throat as he tasted the cherry filling you had made by scratch. Under thick eyebrows, his eyes closed while he savored the taste, and you felt the swell of pride stirring inside you.

“It’s good?” You asked.

“S’delicious,” he mumbled, digging into it for a second bite.

Instead of bringing the next bite to his lips, he offered it to you, urging you to lean over the countertop and meet him halfway. How were you to deny the preacher of something he wanted? Opening your mouth, you welcomed the sweet taste onto your tongue, meeting his eyes as you wrapped your lips around the fork.

“Delicious, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” you whispered as he pulled the fork from your mouth.

Joel’s eyes dilated with a surge of lust. You never saw that look on your husband, but it was unmistakable when you looked into those dark eyes now. A sudden thrum of warmth ran through your body the longer studied you, forcing you to squirm in place. He must have taken notice of it when he decided to round the countertop and swarm you with his broad frame. His finger curled under the chain of your necklace, tugging at it until you lifted your eyes to his.

“You’re a temptation, little one,” he drawled. “Just look at you.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me during your sermons,” you confessed.

He cocked his head to the side in amusement; his plush lips quirked up in a smile. His finger coiled around the chain tighter, pulling you a step closer. You inhaled the scent of whiskey and smoke that lingered on his shirt as it brushed against your chest. The thin fabric of your dress wasn’t enough to hide the shiver that ran over your spine. Joel tucked a stray hair behind your ear, bending down to brush his lips over the shell of your ear.

“Y’sure you ain’t seein’ the Devil?”

His hand released your necklace, only to wrap around your throat in a tight grasp. You struggled for air under his grip, your nails raking down his bare forearms. There was an uncanny wildness lighting up his eyes as he watched you gasping under the forceful pressure of his fingers.

“Just a naughty thing lookin’ for corruption.”

“Please,” you choked.

“Ain’t this what you wanted, little one? Look at you, just drippin’ in sin,” he whispered.

“I—I can’t breathe,” you thrashed against him, tears pooling in your eyes.

He shoved you backward until you were doubled over and heaving for air. There was a deep laugh swirling through your fogged mind, and you blinked back tears before you attempted to make eye contact again. Something about this felt wrong.

Joel stood with his arms folded over his chest, waiting for you to recompose yourself. You staggered back, your body hitting the wall of the kitchen, and you coughed violently, trying to grasp back onto reality. He curled a finger to beckon you forward, and despite your reluctance, your body moved on its own accord. With a fist full of your hair, he forced you to your knees, making you cry out at the impact of your knees hitting the tile floor.

“I should make you pray for forgiveness before I ruin you,” he growled.

You whimpered, humiliated at the way arousal pooled between your legs with every word he said. Adam never spoke to you in such a vile way; he only ever took you in the marital way, with you on your back and him above you. But something told you that the preacher would be far from that familiarity, and it electrified you. You wanted to know how far you could take it and how rough he could be. If the Devil was beckoning you, who were you to deny him the pleasure?

With defiance in your eyes and a proud grin on your face, you started to mouth a prayer to the Lord, knowing He wouldn’t be listening. Whatever you did in this small home was between you and the preacher.

“Louder,” he ordered.

You repeated the prayer, never breaking eye contact with him as his jaw clenched with each word you spoke. His hand was still twisted into your hair at the roots, holding you firmly in place. Your eyes traveled down his broad torso, settling on the growing bulge beneath his trousers. You wet your lips, imagining what his cock looked like and how it feel inside of you. Joel must have taken notice of your fixation and brought his other hand down to deliver a sharp slap against your cheek. Your head whipped to the side, the sting of his hand lingering on your face as you gathered your bearings.

“Filthy lil thing just beggin’ to be fucked, huh?”

You worked your jaw open and closed, trying to relieve the pain that radiated down your neck.

“Answer me, little one,” he snapped.

“Y–Yes,” you muttered.

Another jarring hit came across your face, your ears ringing from the impact.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered.

Satisfied with your answer, he worked at undoing his belt buckle, tugging his trousers and underwear down his hips. Your mouth went dry at the sight of his cock; the thickness of it was enough to wrack your already shaking nerves. Adam never asked you to pleasure him this way, but your body reacted differently when you were kneeling at the feet of a corrupt preacher.

His fingers wrapped around the shaft of his cock, his hand pumping it slowly as it grazed over your parted lips. You wanted to take the plunge and wrap your lips around it; you wanted to savor every inch of it and watch him fall apart.

“Droolin’ like a bitch in heat, fucking pathetic,” he taunted.

He smacked the weeping head of his cock against your lips, precum smearing across your mouth and chin. You obediently opened your mouth for him, the immediate salty taste falling against your tongue. He gave you a moment to stretch your jaw to adjust to the girth of his cock before rocking deeper into your mouth. The tip of his cock tapped the back of your throat, forcing you to sputter around him. Tears soaked your cheeks as he picked up a steady pace, each thrust reaching your soft palate.

“That’s it, little one,” he groaned. “Takin’ my cock so fuckin’ well. Can’t cry out for God when you're full of me.”

You moaned around him, the vibration sending him into a frenzy as he brutalized your throat. You could only bare your weight against the floor and take every inch he gave, the drool and tears mixing together as they rolled down your chin. Joel’s head tilted back, his eyes fixated on the ceiling as you dragged your tongue along the underside of his cock. Your gag reflex kicked in as he struck the back of your throat before he pulled out and leveled you with a heavy stare.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, tapping your cheek lightly before unwinding his fingers from your scalp.

He gathered the drool dripping from your chin and smeared it over your face, the taste of him invading your nostrils with each swipe of his hand. It was dehumanizing and disgusting…but some fucked up part of you loved it.

“Thank you, sir,” you preened, smiling through the mess he had made of you.

“Don’t go thankin’ me yet, little one. Better clean your drool off my fuckin’ boots.”

Your smile faded as your eyes flicked between him and his shoes, which were visibly covered in a pool of your saliva. You shook your head in protest, but he was quick to shove you down toward the floor. You thrashed against his grip on the back of your neck, your nose brushing against the worn work boots adorning his feet.

“Lick,” he demanded. “Clean your fuckin’ mess.”

You swallowed thickly before you allowed your tongue to dart out and lap up the remnants of your saliva. You held back a retch as your tongue grazed over the leather material, the dryness under your mess painful against your throbbing tongue. You peered up at him in hopes that he was satisfied, but you were only met with a cocked brow and an unamused stare.

“Missed a spot,” he huffed, toeing his boot against your mouth.

You cringed as you continued working your tongue over his other shoe, the taste of it unbearable. He was shamelessly minimizing you down into the worst version of yourself, and there was no one to blame but you and your naivety.

Joel slammed his shoe back against the tile with pursed lips, and he tsked at you.

“Pathetic,” he mumbled. “Bedroom s’down the hall. I want you in there and spread out on my bed.”

You nodded and wiped away the tears bursting from your eyes. A firm hand gripped your shoulder as you tried to rise to your feet, forcing you back down. You gave him a weary look, waiting for his next command. Crouching down to eye level, Joel took your chin into his hand with a forceful grip.

“Crawl,” he ordered. “Go on.”

He straightened to his full height and loomed over you as you planted yourself on all fours. Turning toward the walkway of the kitchen, you started crawling, the heat of his stare on your backside enough to ignite another wave of pleasure inside your stomach. You could feel your dress hiking up over your thighs, putting your cotton underwear on display for him with each progressive move you made. The heat of his stare lingered on you as you scrapped your knees across the carpet, the bedroom door at the end of the hallway calling out to you through the voice of the Devil. He reached over your body to open the door, guiding you into the dark room. There was a wooden wardrobe propped against the wall and a matching side table next to the large bed that sat in the center. Flipping on the overhead light, he pointed to the bed, silently instructing you to climb onto the flannel bedspread.

You laid back on the bed, your white dress pooled around your body as he crawled over you. Caging you between his muscular biceps, he dipped his head into the crook of your neck and dragged his tongue against the pulse throbbing under your skin. The need growing between your legs was becoming too unbearable to handle, but you were afraid to beg him for release. He had made it apparent he controlled every second of this interaction, from how much you breathed to the way you moved.

“Let’s see how soaked these pretty lil panties are,” he whispered, snaking his hand down your abdomen.

Flipping your dress up, his fingers delved under the waistband of your cotton underwear, a hum of approval rumbling his chest as he found your thighs slick with arousal. Thick fingers worked their way through your wet folds, teasing your entrance before he plunged two fingers in without warning. You arched into his touch, the curl of his fingers against the soft spot inside you jolting you upwards.

“Fuck!” You cried, your fingers digging into his arms.

His free hand shot out to cover your mouth as he pressed his forehead to yours, rage simmering in his brown eyes as he stared you down.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, little one,” he warned. “I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ peep, you understand?”

Your response was muffled under his hand, and he shifted his weight so that his fingers dug further inside you. You swallowed back pitiful moans as he worked his fingers in and out of you. A slow-burning sensation rolled through your stomach, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of your climax. You were fluttering around him as it bubbled to the surface, only to be met by the absence of his fingers as he pulled them away at the last second. You wailed in protest, feeling a hollowness inside of you without them there.

Ripping your underwear down your legs, Joel hauled you onto your stomach, positioning your hips upward in the way he desired. You had no choice but to take anything he gave you. The clanking sound of the belt around his pants was the only warning you were granted before wedged between your thinks and sunk into you. Your vision faded out at the blinding pain of him stretching you open, every inch of him tearing you apart beyond compare.

“It’s too much. I—I can’t. It hurts!” you cried.

His only response was to grind his hips harder against yours, the pain radiating up your spine.

“Shut up,” he bit out, pulling out and driving back into you. “You’re gonna take my cock like the filthy lil slut I know you are, and you’re gonna thank me. Understand?”

Your face fell into the pillows as you muffled a scream. His hand wound around your neck, yanking you from the bed and forcing you to bend back and meet his vicious stare. With his teeth barred and cock buried inside you, there was nothing to do but give yourself fully to him.

“Yes, sir!" You wailed. “ Thank you, sir.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he crooned.

He set a steady pace, the lewd sound of his hips smacking against yours echoing throughout the room. He was brutalizing you, defiling you, completely ruining you into oblivion. The voice of temptation had led you here, and now you were paying the price for your sins. No amount of prayer or forgiveness could wash you clean.

“Such a perfect and obedient whore,” he grunted with his fingers bruising your hipbones. “You fuckin’ love havin’ this tight cunt wrecked by the preacher—shit—just dyin’ to have my cum inside you.”

The sobs wracked through your body as the need to climax tore you apart. He yanked your hips even higher, pistoning his cock into you at an angle that set your body alight. You had no control over the pleasure burning deep within you, and suddenly you were tensing around his cock with the name of God falling off your lips.

“God can’t save you now, little one. This unholy cunt is mine.”

Fizzles of your ebbing climax simmered through your body, carrying you back down to the present, only to be met by another onslaught of violent thrusts from the man behind you. He was relentless as he took…and took…and took. By the time he was done with you, there would be nothing left.

“Please—stop!” The words left your mouth broken and strained.

You were clawing at the bedsheets, begging for him to release you. He only laughed at each one of your protests, his pace unrelenting and forceful with every drive of his cock inside you. His fingers flexed against your skin, and you felt the shift in his rhythm, alerting you that he was about to climax.

“Don’t—God—please don’t!” You begged.

“Quiet,” he snarled, pulling you by the throat so that you were flush against his chest.

“Please,” you sobbed, barely choking out the word.

“Gonna send you back to your husband with my cum leakin’ out of you,” he snarled.

Before you could even attempt to escape his hold, Joel was slamming into you one final time, a carnal groan deafening your ears as he filled you with his release. He tossed you back onto the bed carelessly, leaving you aching and stretched open on the ruined sheets. You lay there motionless, staring at the chipping paint along the doors of his wardrobe. Joel rolled off the bed, muttering a slew of derogatory words your way, before vanishing into the bathroom down the hall. The silence swirling around you was the only comfort in the aftermath, the pain radiating inside you fading away the longer you sunk into the mattress.

The sound of footsteps flooded the room, and you flinched away as Joel’s hand roamed up your bare thigh. His fingers prodded against your throbbing entrance, teasing you until you squirmed out of reach.

“Take yourself home, little one,” he instructed.

You winced as you rose from the bed, not daring to make eye contact as you gathered your underwear and fled down the hallway. The slap of the cross necklace against your chest was a burning reminder of the sins you had committed. You staggered out the front door, barely making it down the first step of the porch before you burst into tears. Joel’s presence loomed behind you, and you looked back one final time to see him watching you leave with a sinister smile breaking across his face. With scuffed knees and his cum trickling down your thighs, you barreled home, knowing you had just met the Devil.

#dark!joel x reader #dark!preacher!joel #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller one shot #dubious consent #tlou fanfiction #joel tlou #no outbreak au #dub con #non con #religion!kink

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 3 months

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Frankie isn't afraid of growing old [Frankie x gn!reader]

My Frankie Morales masterlist

Read on Ao3

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Ship: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x you (I think it’s gn!reader, correct me if I’m wrong).

Warnings: Implied sex at the end, but this is just short and sweet and sfw.

Summary: You like Frankie's hair and beard and body? Idek.

Words: 788

You stop on the threshold to the bathroom, and lean on the door frame, admiring the view before you.

Frankie’s just out of the shower, towel hanging low on his narrow hips, his pudgy belly protruding over the edge of the cotton. Long, strong legs, thick thighs (now hidden by the towel), broad shoulders, arms muscular by physical labor, not lifting weights. A bit of a double chin forming, round cheeks when he smiles – which he does often. Facial hair growing out of order, silver scattered among the dark bristles. His hair echoes that salt and pepper, and newly washed, towel-dried… Good lord, those curls.

Your man is a hot piece of ass, there’s no other way of putting it.

He glances over at you, a little smile playing in the corner of his mouth as he reaches for the shaving cream.

”What?”

”You know what,” you smile back.

”I don’t.”

”Yes you do, stud. You’re so fucking sexy.”

His ears turn pink, and he hurries to lather his face with shaving cream.

”Thanks.” His voice is demure, but warm, and his long lashes are cast down as he picks up his razor, before looking up in the mirror.

”Why the shaving?” you ask, now entering the bathroom. He raises a brow at you, razor at the ready.

”Honey, I look like Hugh Jackman in X-Men.”

”You say that like it’s a bad thing…”

”It’s beginning to look unkempt.”

You grab a towel from the rack, and dab a little at his face. ”Just a little touch-up? I like your facial hair.”

”It’s getting itchy.”

”That’s because you’re not using the products I got you,” you roll your eyes and give Frankie a ”told you so” look. He smiles back, sheepishly, and puts down the razor. You take that as an invitation to wet the towel, and start to wipe the cream off his face. A lock of hair falls down his forehead, and you brush it to the side, letting your fingers run through the damp curls. Frankie releases a small sigh, as do you.

God, how you love that he’s just who he is. He’s not ashamed of his body, doesn’t sweat it that he’s going grey (you almost spit out your drink the first time you saw Benjamin with his newly colored hair – there’s a guy who refuses to grow old), and doesn’t care if you shave your body hair or not.

Frankie just isn’t afraid of growing old. He welcomes it with open arms, now that he’s out of the military, alive and spending the rest of his life with you.

”Just a little trim?” you now suggest, and Frankie agrees. You take the electric razor from its dock, check the setting, then go over your man’s mustache and patchy beard. When you’re done, you change the setting again, and touch up the edges. Finally, you take out the beard oil, and carefully massage it onto his face. All the time, Frankie’s eyes are fixed on yours, half closed like those of a cat enjoying itself in a patch of sunlight.

”There,” you finally nod, patting his cheek. ”Pretty as a pony.”

Frankie chuckles, now tearing his gaze from you, and checking himself in the mirror. He runs his palms over his cheeks, turns his face this way and that to check all the angles.

”Thanks,” he finally says, looking happy. He may not be that interested in trying to look young, but he does want to look good with what he has. ”It’s much better.”

”You’re very welcome,” you smile, equally happy with the result. Frankie draws his fingers through his hair.

”I think I’ll see if the barber has an opening tomorrow.”

”Noooo,” you protest, taking his hands away from his hair, and running your own fingers through the curls that you love so much. ”No touchy!”

”Honestly, baby, I’m beginning to think that you won’t love me anymore if I were to turn bald!”

”I wouldn’t,” you tell him cruelly. ”You wouldn’t be the same without the hair.”

”You’re breaking my heart,” he mock sobs dramatically. ”You’re only with me because I look good.”

”Well, duh.”

You lean in, smelling the beard oil and body wash on him. Tentatively, your lips brush over his.

”I’ll tell you a secret,” you whisper, your hands sneaking around his waist, pulling him in close, his big warm belly pressing up against you.

”Yeah?” He nips at your lips, hands coming to just above your ass.

”I don’t like the idea of someone else touching your hair.”

”Jealousy is a good look on you…”

”Everything looks good on me.”

”True.”

You untie the towel around his hips, and Frankie presses his grinning lips to yours.

#frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfic #my fic #x reader

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orderforbrian · 26 days

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@jonmartinweek Day 3 - nightmare | hair care

my hc is that jon kept his long hair during s4 (then cut is off before they set off in s5) so you know martin was giving him every hairstyle imaginable when they were staying at the safehouse -- jon attempts to return the favor but alas..........

[Start ID: Two drawings of Jon and Martin from The Magnus Archives in green hues. Jon is a thin Persian man with long, dark curly hair (interspersed with greys) and a beard. He has multiple pock mark scars on his body, a burn mark on his right hand, and a scar on his neck. He wears a simple sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Martin is a fat mixed Korean/Polish man with shaggy, dark hair (one streak of white), several beauty marks, and a patchy beard. He wears brow-line glasses and a short sleeve t-shirt. 1st image: Martin stands behind Jon with casual focus, braiding his hair while Jon washes dishes. The background is the safehouse kitchen with a tile backsplash, cabinets, kitchen sink, paper towel holder, drying rack, and kettle. Jon smiles calmly and asks, "Where did you learn to do this again?". Martin replies, "Grandad's farm. Had two horses, Ginger and Clyde. Would get to style their hair after combing." Jon smirks, "So, I'm like a horse to you right now?". Martin says, "Dunno, why the long face?". 2nd image: Jon stands behind Martin with both hands splayed out in a "ta-da" pose. With an unconfident smile, he shakily chimes, "t-ta....da...". Martin sits in front of him looking in the mirror at his hair, which has been terribly put into three pigtails, and reacts with an awkward smile, very aware it looks terrible but also doesn't blame Jon because his hair is much shorter. Maybe it was revenge for the horse joke. End ID.]

#jonmartinweek2024 #jmart #jonmartin #teaholding #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #martin combing jon's hair like 'you have so many looks....'#order up! art tag #the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod

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thefrogdalorian · 4 months

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Dincember Day 25: Holiday

Word Count: 1498 Rating: General Summary: Waking up before Din on Life Day gives you the opportunity to admire all the little details and features of the man you love so much. Content Warnings: Just some smooching :) Author's Note: This was so soft and I loved writing this for the last entry. Just reader simping for Din Djarin, what a mood. It also leads into Day 6 - Gifts. Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed my contribution to Dincember I'm a little stunned I managed to make it through but very proud of myself. Thanks to anyone who has engaged with my entries, it really means the world! Merry Christmas everyone!🎄♡

Link to read on AO3 | My Dincember Masterlist

The cabin was entirely silent, except for the soft snores coming from the man whose arms you were lying in. You could tell from the light drifting underneath the blinds that it was early morning; the light was pale and weak and still a bright white, which indicated that the deep frost that the surface of Nevarro had been covered in had not entirely thawed yet. It would make the holiday all the more exciting.

Life Day was finally here. It was the first time you would celebrate it with Din and Grogu in your little cabin here on Nevarro, and the first time that Din would celebrate it altogether. You were so excited for the day that lay ahead for many reasons, but mostly you were excited to witness Din's reaction to the carefully-selected gift that you had secured for him.

Your gift was from his home world and you knew that it would mean a great deal to him. It was a cut of fabric called Aq Vetina Carmine that an incredible vendor at the market had been able to source for you. You were excited to see what gifts Din had for you, but you were even more excited to see his reaction to the red fabric that was sure to bring back so many memories for him.

But that was all to come later in the day. For now, you were simply enjoying the stillness and tranquillity of the moment, cuddled up to the man you loved, in your little home together. Din’s arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you, his large hands splayed out across your stomach. You felt so protected and warm in his arms, when Din held you like this you had never felt safer. His rhythmic breathing as he slept was tickling the back of your neck slightly, not in an unpleasant way, but it was a funny sensation. Mostly, it was a pleasant reminder that he was something tangible, not a figment of your imagination. Din was such a wonderful partner that sometimes you wondered if in your loneliness on your home planet, you had dreamt him up. But no, he was really here, holding you tightly in his arms.

Mercifully, Grogu was seemingly still sleeping peacefully, giving you the opportunity to enjoy this moment. He had not burst into the room with excitement and hauled you and Din out of bed so he could tear into the mountain of gifts that you had carefully wrapped for him. You and Din had both vowed not to spoil Grogu too much. After all, wherever he went in the galaxy he was spoiled by everyone he encountered, even without you and Din. People just found him too adorable to resist; you couldn’t blame any of them, you also thought that Grogu was the cutest baby in the galaxy. Plus, it was Life Day. He was allowed to be a little extra spoiled for one day.

You sighed and shifted in Din’s embrace carefully, turning over to face him, your head on the pillow next to his so you could admire his handsome features while he slept. His hair was tousled from sleep, the dark brown curls sticking up at odd angles. You noticed the flecks of grey that were beginning to appear more prominently in his curls. Rather than making him look older, you thought about how distinguished he looked. His tan skin was practically glowing in the pale light of the morning. Your eyes travelled down towards his facial hair, the grey flecks mixed in with the darker brown that most of his moustache and patchy beard was in colour. The wrinkles around his eyes and that lined his forehead were evidence of both the stressful life he had led and the many times he had smiled or laughed in joy. An emotion that had been so rare for him until he had found you and Grogu. Now, those same wrinkles were relaxed and smoothed out in slumber. All except for the permanent wrinkle that rested on Din’s forehead, just above his nose between Din’s dark brown eyebrows. It was a feature that you found particularly adorable, another stunning detail of the expressive face you loved so much.

Your gaze stayed admiring that part of Din’s face, around his eyes. You noticed his dark, impossibly long eyelashes were touching on his closed eyes. You were enthralled by him, so many details that comprised the man you loved. Even asleep, Din Djarin was mesmerising. Your heart constricted briefly as you noticed the small scab near his temple, evidence of the tumble he had taken while ice skating the previous day. He had given you such a fright afterwards as you were worried that he would not be able to enjoy Life Day. But fortunately, it seemed after Din had made it back to the cabin and had lain down for a while, he was not too badly affected, just a little shaken. Which was understandable, the apologetic man had hurtled into him at quite a speed. Although Din had complained of a headache last night, you hoped that a good night’s sleep would have alleviated the pain. It certainly seemed as though that was the case, given how restful he appeared in slumber.

You weren't sure for how long you remained lying there in your quiet reverence, admiring every inch, every crevice and tiny detail of Din’s face. It could have been hours or it could have been minutes, but but however long: it was never enough. You could easily spend the rest of your life admiring Din Djarin like this.

Your appreciative glances at the man you loved came to an abrupt end, when the eyelashes that you had just been admiring moved as Din's eyes flickered open. You smiled as the brown eyes you loved to gaze into so much were right there, sparkling in the early morning light. Din blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to his surroundings and the light. But eventually his gaze locked with yours. The eye contact took your breath away. How lucky were you that this thoroughly gorgeous man looked at you in this way, with so much love in his eyes?

“Good morning,” You whispered, your hand coming up to cup Din’s chin and stroke his cheek with your thumb, the grey and brown stubble there was scratchy underneath your touch.

“Good morning, cyare,” Din replied, leaning in to kiss you softly. Din hummed happily at the contact, then added “Happy Life Day.”

“Happy Life Day, Din,” You murmured. “I hope you enjoy your first time celebrating it. I can’t wait to exchange gifts and eat some good food with you.”

“Me neither,” Din smiled happily. “And I’m sure I will. You’ve introduced me to so many traditions and we’ve had so much fun already together… I can’t believe we still get to celebrate the actual holiday.”

“Well, now you’ll get to see what everything was building up to,” You grinned. “How are you feeling now?” You asked, in reference to the ice skating catastrophe of the previous day.

“My head feels much better, thank you,” Din reassured you. You had been pretty upset the previous night, worrying that he would not be in a fit condition to fully celebrate Life Day in the way you had planned.

“Oh, Din. I’m so glad to hear that,” You breathed, before you pressed a soft kiss to the little scab on his temple. “Probably need to keep kissing you, though. Just to make sure your head heals.”

“Oh yeah?” Din said, raising one eyebrow questioningly.

“Yeah,” You breathed, closing the gap between you. You pressed a small kiss to the spot where his tumble onto the ice had left a physical mark. Then you aimed for his lips, kissing him softly.

The kisses started off gentle, but something between you shifted and the gentle kisses gradually became more and more needy. Din captured your lips desperately, one hand held the back of your head and the other the side of your jaw as his teeth grazed against your bottom lip. It was as though he suddenly had an overwhelming need for you, he was totally overcome with want. You grinned into the kiss, your lips curling into a smile against his facial hair. Din pulled away and buried his face against your shoulder.

“Love you so much, mesh’la,” Din growled into your neck.

“I love you too, Din,” Your reply was cut short, you gasped as Din began kissing the side of your neck.

You were stunned by Din’s sudden desperation, but you weren't going to complain. It seemed that perhaps the festive spirit had manifested in a somewhat surprising way for Din: it had ignited a need for you that you were more than happy to oblige. You sighed happily as Din continued pressing hot kisses onto your neck, now adding teeth to the equation.

It was the perfect way to start the holiday.

#dincember 2023 #din djarin #din djarin fluff #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal characters #my fics #ANNNNND THAT'S A WRAP!!#i will miss dincember so much #had so much fun <3

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sofiaispunk · 11 months

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Hot priest Morales. Thats it. that's the request

btw love your dbf series!

Sacred Temptations

pairings: priest!Francisco Morales x Reader AU

a/n: Thank you so much, beautiful! fuck YESSS hot priest Morales is making me feel all kind of things rn. I immediately pictured him as Pedro at the Oscars with his white slutty little buttonup. Thank you for your request! I really appreciate you and I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think and if I should make a part 2 maybe?

words: 2k

warnings: religion, smut, flirting, forbidden romance, bratty reader, blasphemy, inappropriate behavior, 18+

You reluctantly followed your parents' lead as they made their way to the local church for Sunday mass. Your outfit for the day reflected your style and individuality, a short blush dress, which barely covered your body. The dress had delicate ruffles along the hemline, adding a touch of femininity to your attire. You paired it with a light cardigan, casually draped over your shoulders, providing at least a bit modesty.

Throughout your life, you had never been particularly fond of churches. The rigid traditions, the solemn rituals - they had always felt foreign to your free-spirited nature. Sunday mornings were often spent indulging in your own pursuits, watching Netflix, brunching with friends or lazily laying in bed, far removed from the pews and hymns.

However, as you returned from college for the summer, something within you had shifted.

Perhaps it was the newfound sense of maturity or maybe it was the desire to reconnect with your roots and understand your own beliefs better. Whatever the reason, you made a conscious decision to join your parents on their weekly visit to church.

As you entered the church, your eyes scanned the surroundings, taking in the ornate stained glass windows, the flickering candlelight, and the peaceful atmosphere. Amidst the congregation, your gaze fell upon the priest, who stood at the pulpit, preparing to deliver the sermon.

You found yourself momentarily drawn to his presence, observing how he engaged with the congregation, his gestures emphasizing his words, and his voice carrying a soothing tone. His light brown hair, sleekly gelled back, added a touch of refinement to his overall look. However, scattered throughout his hair were subtle streaks of grey, hinting at the wisdom and experience he possessed.

A neatly trimmed, patchy beard adorned his face, accentuating his rugged charm. It framed his jawline, which was sharp and defined, lending him an air of strength and determination. His broad shoulders hinted at physical presence, giving him a commanding stance as he stood before the congregation.

Curiosity gnawing at you, you turned to your mother, who sat beside you , and leaned in to whisper a question. "Mom, who is the new priest? I don't think I've seen him before."

Your mother, engrossed in the beginning of the service, momentarily glanced at you and then followed your gaze toward the young priest. With a warm smile, she whispered back, "That's Father Francisco. He recently joined our parish. He is a lovely man. Father Francisco has been a guiding light for our community. He's been instrumental in organizing outreach programs, helping the less fortunate, and supporting charitable initiatives. The impact he's made on our community is truly inspiring and a true blessing.”

You nodded, taking in your mother's words. The intrigue surrounding Francisco only intensified as you listened to your mother's description.

As the Sunday service progressed, you couldn't help but feel a peculiar sensation, as if you were being watched. You shifted your gaze and found yourself locking eyes with Father Francisco. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as your gazes met, and an unspoken connection seemed to form.

Surprised by the intensity of the eye contact, a familiar heat rose in your core. However, instead of looking away, you felt an unexpected surge of boldness within you. Perhaps it was the curiosity sparked by your doubts, or the desire to seek answers, but you decided to seize the opportunity and act upon this newfound courage.

Determined to engage in a conversation with Father Francisco, you waited until the end of the service when the parishioners started dispersing. As people began to leave the pews, you approached the young priest, your steps deliberate and your mind racing with desire.

With a deep breath, you stood before Father Francisco, and mustered the courage to initiate a conversation.

"Father Francisco," you began, your voice steady and lower as usual. “I was hoping you could spare a moment of your time.”

“Of course, my child. What can I do for you? I believe we have never met before.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you challenged Father Francisco's claim of not seeing you before.

“Father, are you truly suggesting that you haven't laid eyes on me in this sacred space until now? I find that hard to believe. Perhaps I simply didn't catch your attention until today.” you laid it on thick, making sure to flutter your eyelashes innocently.

“My apologies for not giving you the attention you deserve. It seems I'll have to make amends for that oversight. But I assure you, I am honored to make your acquaintance now.” The corners of his mouth curved into a gentle smile, his eyes mirroring the twinkle of your own.

You leaned in in slightly, the playful tone never leaving your voice. “Well, Father, it appears that divine intervention has finally led you to notice my presence. I must say, it's quite flattering to have captured the attention of such a captivating priest.”

“Ah, I don‘t think flattery will get you anywhere. But what is it you wanted to talk to me about, my child?“ he smiled at you, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

“There’s something plaquing my mind lately, something I haven't experienced in a long time. I'm not familiar with the process of confession. And I was wondering if you could help me, confess my sins?“ you asked innocently, your teeth grazing your bottom lip while your fingers played with the hem of your dress.

“I see. Come to the confessional after next week's mass. We can sit down and discuss the things that weigh heavily on your heart.” As he began to respond, your conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by a line of people forming, seeking his guidance and counsel. You, understanding the demands on the priest's time, gracefully stepped back.

“Well, Father, it seems you are a man in demand. I won't keep you from attending to the needs of your flock. I’ll see you next week, then.”

You offered a playful wink before making your way out of the church, subtly swaying your hips.

Surprising your parents, who had grown accustomed to your reluctance to attend church voluntarily, you made your way to the church the following Sunday. Feeling bold and sexy you opted for a green two-piece lingerie set adorned with subtle lace details, which flattered your skin tone perfectly. You threw on a modest high neck white dress on top which made you appear extra innocent.

Seating yourself in the front row, like a diligent Christian, you eagerly awaited the arrival of Father Francisco.

The Sunday mass took place as usual, without any noteworthy incidents.

Midway through the service, though, you uncrossed your legs, inadvertently capturing Father Francisco's attention, causing a faint blush to color his cheeks. His words momentarily faltered, a subtle indication that your presence had made an impact.

Father Francisco regained his composure, seamlessly continuing the service with his priestly duties. Though his gaze occasionally drifted towards you, he maintained his professionalism, determined to carry out his responsibilities.

You, too, were aware of the effect you had on the priest. A playful smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you observed his momentary distraction.

After the last strains of the closing hymn faded away, and the majority of the parishioners left the church, you seized the opportunity to approach the confessional. With each step, your heart beat a little faster, a mix of nervousness and anticipation filling you.

The confessional stood at the back of the church, tucked away in a quiet corner. Its wooden structure, weathered with time, carried an air of solemnity and reverence.

You approached the confessional, noticing the ornately carved wooden door adorned with intricate religious symbols. You reached out, your hand trembling slightly, and gently pushing it open. The door creaked softly, as if welcoming you into its sacred confines.

Inside, the confessional revealed two compartments separated by a latticed screen—a space for the penitent and a space for the priest. Soft, golden light filtered through stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns onto the wooden panels.

Taking a seat on the worn cushioned bench, you found yourself enveloped in a sense of hushed tranquility.

In the dimly lit space, you could make out the faint silhouette of the priest's side.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. That’s what I am supposed to say, right?” you said, your voice hushed, almost sensual.

“Lately, my thoughts have wandered to someone who is unattainable. Someone who is meant to inspire and guide, yet remains just out of reach. But I can’t help it, I can’t seem to stop thinking about him at night, think about his big hands and how they would feel on me. About how his big cock would feel deep inside of me. These impure thoughts plague me at night, but they plaque you too, don’t they, daddy?“

Your breathing became heavier as you continue. “Tell me, do you think about me? About your big dick filling up my tight little cunt. Putting your big hands in to my little panties, working me open with those thick fingers of yours. Tell me, Frankie, how badly you want to fuck me. “You shifted on your seat, your thighs rubbing together relieving some of the tension, your own words riling you up. “I can be your little good girl, you know. Just say the words.”

You sank deeper into the plush cushions, Slick arousal pooling in your panties at the thought of him being only a few inches away from you. The tension and the longing became too strong, and you slipped your hand under your already soaked panties. You let out a small whimper as you dragged your wetness up to your clit, rubbing small circles on it. “Oh, fuck Frankie. I am so wet for you. “ you let head fall back, moaning his name loudly. “Can you hear how wet I am? Just let me sit on your face, Frankie. I want to make your whole face wet with my juices. “ You pant, unable to believe that you are so close to cumming after such little time of playing with yourself.

In an act of playful audacity, you reached down and slid your now ruined panties down your legs. With a sly grin, you slipped the fabric through the narrow slit, allowing it to dangle enticingly between the little gate that separated you from the priest.

You held your breath, anticipation mingling with a hint of nervous excitement, hoping you didn’t go too far this time. Moments stretched into eternity as you waited for a response, your heart beat thundering louder with every passing second. Then, amidst the silence, you watched as the priest's hand reached through the small slit and carefully retrieved the green lacy piece you offered. A faint rustle accompanied the movement, and then, silence enveloped the confessional once more .

But it was not the quiet that captured your attention; it was the deep, audible inhale that followed, that made another flood of arousal coat your fingers.

Then, only mere moments later you could hear his sounds. Lustful groans filled the small space.

The furious slapping of his fist as he worked his cock made the tension coil in your own stomach. “Tell me what you want Frankie, you want me on my knees, huh, worshipping your cock?” another loud grunt. “Ahhh, yah that’s it. I wish my mouth was on that dick too, baby. I want to swirl my tongue around it. I bet your cock tastes fucking amazing. I’m going to drain every last ounce of cum out of you.”

“Oh, God,” he let out one final strangled sound that almost sounded like he was in pain, reaching his climax. You followed soon after, clenching down on your fingers hard, shouting out his his name.

As you both came down from your high, only your breaths were audible.

“I'm not quite familiar with how this whole confession thing works. Do I need to say a dozen "Hail Marys" or perform a few extra penances to make up for that?” you asked innocently, awaiting his answer, but you were only met with, once again, silence.

Suddenly the heavy wooden door separating you swung open, revealing Father Francisco standing before you. His gaze intense and focused solely on you, “No.” he growled, letting out a low, almost predatory laugh, “that’s only reserved for good girls.”

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jksprincess10 · 1 year

Text

Lucky for me, I run on spite and sweet revenge || Joel Miller x reader

A/N: I was horny after watching Joel get so violent in last night’s episode. That’s all.

CW: This is darker than everything I wrote before, reader beware. Reader does SW in exchange of supplies. Enemies to lovers. Rough hate fuck. Daddy kink. A bit of knife play. Consent unclear.

Part 2 here

“Do you have what I asked for?”

“Yes, sweetheart, but don’t forget your part of the deal. Y’know Joel will come after us or after you.”

“Of course, show me what you have first.” You said as you looked at him through your long lashes.

The bearded man opened the box he had brought with him. It had guns, munitions. Enough for you and your group. You felt your mouth salivating at the thought of everything you could do with these guns. But you weren’t done.

You dropped to your knees in front of the man and pleasured him. It was your part of the deal. It always was. You give a man what he wants, and he gives you the world, even if it would put dangerous people against him. Men were so fragile and predictable.

***

When the man finally left, you washed yourself. Even if you took your precautions, you always felt dirty afterwards. It was the price to pay. You spat in the sink after rinsing your mouth, still feeling the taste of him lingering on your tongue.

Suddenly, you heard a loud bang on the door. Your crew wasn’t supposed to come back this early, so you grabbed your knife from your leather chest harness and waited in front of the door.

“Open up, I know you’re here.”

Miller. That was fast. You sighed and opened the door, before backing away, hands in the air and knife in your mouth. As usual, he was pointing a gun at you. You liked his silly little games.

“Drop the knife.”

You spat the knife on the ground, and he bent down to take it from you. You sighed and dropped to the couch in what served as your group’s lounge room. He finally put his gun down as he saw you were unarmed and he slowly approached you, like he was approaching a hurt animal. You put your hands down and relaxed.

His body was towering over you, big and strong.

“You fucked up my deal. Again.”

You looked at him with innocent eyes, like you didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Oh no. Really? Which one?” You cooed.

“Stop fucking with me, girl.”

You laughed and got up to show him the box of guns and munitions.

“Oh, what, this?” You gestured at the box with a smile. “Sorry, big guy.”

He groaned between his teeth and pointed his gun at you again. You simply laughed. You knew he wouldn’t hurt you. It was always a dangerous dance, but he never crossed the line.

“What do you have that I don’t? Food, clothes, more supplies? Cars?”

“Oh… Joel…” You approached him and put a hand on his gun to lower it, your other hand coming up to his cheek, scratching his patchy greying beard. “You simply wouldn’t understand.” He flinched against your touch. You dropped the gun to the ground when he lost his concentration and placed your hand on his belt to bring him closer to you. “I have a mouth. An ass.”

He looked at you in disbelief and pushed you away.

“You’re selling yourself to these men? You’re fucking crazy.”

For a second, his words seemed to hurt you, but you regained your amused grin.

“I’ll do anything to make you mad, big guy.”

In reality, you did this to survive like anyone else. Men were more violent than ever, so if you didn’t give them what they wanted in exchange for some essentials, they would take it either way.

“So, are you here to negotiate? Or just to talk? Because I can make you a drink if you’re here to talk.” You finally asked. You went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine that dated from before the outbreak. Another deal you got behind Miller’s back.

When you came back, Joel was sitting comfortably on the couch, thighs spread. You looked at him for a few seconds, admiring the way his jeans tightened around his strong thighs. You bent in front of him to put the two glasses down. He followed you with his hardened gaze.

“So, what d’you want? Hm?”

“Half. It was my deal.”

You laughed and sat beside him.

“What do I get in exchange?”

He turned to look at you.

“Any drug you want.”

“I’m not interested in drugs, big guy.”

“So, what do you fucking want, girl?” He became aggressive, annoyed as he grabbed you by your hair to bring you closer to him. You kept a whine in your throat. You spat on his face so he would let you go, and he did.

“I’ll take some of you. For 3 guns and 5 packs of bullets.” You licked a stipe up the older man’s cheek, cleaning the unsightly shiny stain you previously left. He groaned and pushed you away once again, trying to ignore the growing bulge in his pants. But you saw right through him.

“Give me a sign when you’re actually serious, girl.” He said as he got up, before drinking the wine in one go.

“But I am.”

He sighed and left you, leaving your knife on the ground and banging the door closed behind him.

That night, he would fuck his fist while thinking about you, while you were celebrating your small victory.

***

The next night, after working on some deals all day, you found a note under your bedroom door. You had no idea how it got there.

Meet me at my place with the stuff. Be silent and discreet. Don’t tell anyone and don’t try to trick me.

-JM.

So, men were really all the same. You took what you had proposed to him from a secret compartment you hid from the others. You strapped a spare gun and a knife to your harness, before leaving silently in the night. It was a short walk. You knew the way around the creaking stairs, up to his place.

You opened the unlocked door, and he trapped you, strong arms grabbing you and strapping you to a chair. You let Joel do anything he wanted. You were simply amused by the situation and watched him as he went through your bag.

“Didn’t know you were into kinky shit, Miller.”

He rolled his eyes. He counted silently what you owed him.

“It’s just a precaution so you don’t try to rob me or attack me.”

“I would never.”

He put his knees on the creaking floor in front of you as he undid your harness, hands brushing against you and making you shiver. He was incredibly soft even though you he had just tied you to a chair. His calloused hands patted down your body to make sure you didn’t have anything else on you. You wanted his hands all over you. The thought made your thighs close together, which he tried to ignore.

“You’re clear.” He said.

“Are you gonna untie me or you’re just going to watch like a pervert?”

He stopped for a second, before a hand grabbed your hair and pulled your head back. You couldn’t help but moan in his touch.

“Tell me if your offer was serious.”

“I-It was, Miller. And I know you thought about it all night and all day.” You smiled as you looked up at his serious face.

“Why would you sacrifice munitions for sex?”

“Because you wanting me is my ultimate revenge.” You smiled.

He groaned and went behind you to untie you.

“Get up.” He ordered.

You obliged even though your knees felt weak. He grabbed a knife and put it against your neck as he guided you to the couch. You laid down for him, eyes looking up at him as he straddled your hips with his strong thighs.

“You don’t have to force me, you know. I want this as much as you do.”

You slowly took the knife from his hands and threw it to the ground, your eyes still locked with him. Finally, he caved in and crashed his lips against yours. It was unlike anything you experienced before. It was sloppy, yes, but it only made you feel how much he really wanted you. Your hands trailed down his shirt to unbutton it. He broke the kiss to take his shirt off and your t-shirt with it. You barely had time to look at his chest covered in scars.

“I fucking hate you.” He groaned as he went down to kiss your breasts covered by your bra.

You put your fingers into the man’s greying hair, pushing his head closer to you.

“You don’t.” You breathed. “You wanted this.”

Your fingers undid his belt and freed him from his jeans and his briefs in one swipe. He was way bigger than any man you had been with. You were equally terrified and aroused. He bit down on the sensitive skin of your breasts, before sucking a dark bruise. You whined softly and helped him undo your bra, before kissing him again. You felt his tongue slide against your bottom lip, and you allowed him any access he wanted.

He undid your pants and left them somewhere on the ground with the mess of your other clothes. Your hand found its way to his member, stroking him slowly and collecting his pre-cum. He was ridiculously hard already. He seemed to let go of his control for a moment, groaning softly against your soft mouth, before you reminded him:

“It’s my deal, Miller. You have to please me too.”

Without a warning, big fingers ripped your panties before inserting themselves into your hole, without any preparations. You stretched slowly around the two fingers as you bit down his shoulder to silence yourself. His free hand pulled on your hair to see your face and keep you in place as his fingers fucked roughly into you.

“Wanna see you. Wanna hear you.”

God. This man would be the death of you. You tightened against him as you moaned softly. His thumb pressed against your swollen bud, while two fingers became three. It was painful, yes, but you didn’t know where the pain ended and the pleasure started.

“Relax, sweet girl… I know you’ve done this many times before.” His thumbed circled deliciously your clit as you squirmed against him.

“Y…Your fingers are so…so big.” You whined.

“I know, sweet girl. I know. You can take it.” He said softly as he fucked you recklessly with three fingers.

You tried to relax, fighting the urge to close your legs as the pleasure was washing over your body.

“There you go. Good girl.” He praised in a low voice as you melted into his touch, your orgasm making your legs shake, your mouth opened in a silent scream. He kept playing with your clit, only to tease you as you were already sensitive.

Finally, you felt emptiness as he pulled his fingers away from you. You looked up to him. He looked beautiful like this, forehead glistening with sweat and his hand stroking himself softly.

“I thought about you all night while I was fucking my fist.” He groaned.

“I think about you every night, Miller.” You admitted.

“Fuck. Open your dirty little mouth for daddy, hm?”

You happily obliged; lips parted as your eyes sparkling with lust looked up at him. Without a warning, he spat in your mouth.

“Keep it here. Be a good girl.”

You nodded softly. His thighs met with the top of your body as he inserted his throbbing member between your lips. Every part of him was heavy. Joel kept stroking himself in a mixture of both of your saliva, before you closed your lips against him and took the lead. Your hand covered what your mouth couldn’t reach, stroking him in your mouth as you sucked in your cheeks. Joel was a mess on top of you. He didn’t look so strong after all with all his moans.

“Fuck. Won’t last long if you keep going. I’m too old for this shit. And I want to fuck you, so bad.” He groaned between lewd moans.

You gave him a few more strokes, before letting him go with a soft “pop”. He groaned as the soft air caressed his cock. Finally, you swallowed both of your spit as he positioned himself at your entrance after using a condom that was laying on the table. Strong arms lifted you up so you would sit on his lap, while he was also resting on his knees. He held you against him, before slipping you down on his throbbing member. You whined and scratched his back as he was stretching you deliciously and painfully.

“F… Joel…”

“Shh. It’s okay sweet girl, I got you. I know it hurts. I’ll be slow.”

Fucking liar. You almost gave in to him and believed him, until he started moving into you at a fast space. You almost lost foot, but your hand held the couch behind you as he was fucking you roughly.

“I fucking hate you.” You said between moans.

He buried his face in your tits as his hands kept pushing your ass up and down to meet his throbbing cock, going down to the base before making you empty. When the pain finally left you, you moved your hips against his to accelerate.

“You needy dirty little thing.” He said as he bit softly on your neck.

“Please, Joel.” You whined and your back fell on the couch, changing the angle for both of you. He held down your hips as he came out of you completely, before going back in roughly, making you scream every time. Your hand came down to your heat to pleasure yourself even more. You were drunk in pleasure, taking every drop of it you could get. Your fingers circled your clit lazily as he fucked you dumb, rough and fast paced.

Finally, you felt the man’s hips stutter roughly in a few last thrusts, before he came heavily. He kept moving with you to let you have another orgasm – how nice of him.

Finally, a heavy body dropped on you and you put your arms around him to hold him close.

“I think we can learn to work together.” He finally said as he planted a kiss to your forehead.

“I think so too.” You agreed with a smile. “Now, give me more.” You pulled on his hair to kiss him. “Please.”

“You’re gonna kill me, girl.” He smiled as he gave you another kiss.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x yn #joel miller x y/n

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